KGB Report

Speaking of which, Misty, our bumper sticker model, rides inside to the vet this morning to get her sutures removed. Hurrah!

And here's the scoop on Romney's animal cruelty.

Categories: Bumper Stickers, Dogs, KGB Family

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Just returned from taking Misty to the emergency vet. She suddenly developed major problems in her right eye, the one being treated for secondary glaucoma. She'll probably have surgery later this morning. We're hoping she'll be home tomorrow night or Saturday at the latest.

No sense in trying to go to sleep at this point. I have a major project promised for tomorrow, and working helps to attenuate the worrying. A bit, anyway.

It's going to be a long day. Here's hoping it turns out well.

Categories: Dogs, KGB Family

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Ex-Marine, truck driver, and dog lover Raymond Francis Barkes (2/2/1924-10/9/1994) would have been 88 today and, I'm certain, still a hoot.

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The good news: the medications significantly reduced Misty's blood pressure, intraocular pressure, and inflammation to the point she apppears to be in little or no pain. The doctor deferred removing her eye today.

The bad news: Misty's secondary glaucoma may be caused by systemic hypertension, which in turn may be caused by kidney disease. More specific tests have been done and sent to the lab. It'll be a few days until we get the results.

But for now, at least, I have a warm, happy, pain-free Sheltie and her three pack mates snoring comfortably at my feet.

I'm officially declaring: that this a good day; that Misty is a very, very good girl; and that, at least for today, I'm one lucky fella.

Categories: Dogs, KGB Family

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Sasha Anne
2/28/2000-11/19/2010

Dogs' lives are too short.
Their only fault, really.
-Agnes Sligh

Categories: Dogs, KGB Family, Photo of the day, Quotes of the day

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Twenty years ago today, my family and I moved to our present house. It's the twelfth of 15 different places I've lived- permanently or temporarily- in my 57 years, but it's the place I think of when I think of "home."

Well, that's not entirely true. Home, I discovered several years ago, is that place in my memory where my grandmother cooks Thanksgiving dinner, my kids open their Christmas presents, my father watches the Pirates, and where there's always a dog or cat nearby. That's what's neat about home. It's not a physical place, it's a state of mind. You can be home just about anywhere. The house- or houses- provide a place in which to accumulate those experiences, but it's like the difference between a fine merlot and the container in which it's stored. We remember the wine, not the wine botle.

Happy 20th, house. Thanks for the memories. And I promise to get around to cleaning out your garage any day now.

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My granddaughter Leanna's new eyeglasses emphasize her exquisite taste and help project a certain je ne sais quoi uncommon in a third grader.

Of course, she's wearing them primarily to begin establishing the secret identity she'll need when she becomes a fearless superhero.

What hath Tina Fey wrought?

Categories: KGB Family, Photo of the day

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Déjà
February 15, 1997 - September 18, 2011

She possessed beauty without vanity;
dignity without pretentiousness;
intelligence without conceit;
strength without insolence;
loyalty without condition;
courage without ferocity;
love without reservation;
the virtues of humans
without their vices.

(Adapted from Lord Byron's epitaph for his dog)

Categories: Animals, Dogs, KGB Family, Passages

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I turned 57 yesterday. My favorite birthday-related quotation:

The older you get, the better you get. Unless you're a banana.

Categories: Birthdays, KGB Family, Quotes of the day

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Earle V. Wittpenn

(Originally published on September 10, 2010.)

Earle Wittpenn died last year on my birthday. I've tried to write about him a dozen times since then.

I've failed miserably.

The problem is that I can't talk about Earle without talking about myself. What should be a tribute to the man who rescued me from potential oblivion and gave my life drive and direction, ends up sounding like self-aggrandizing drivel.

I had graduated from high school at 16 as class salutatorian and was scheduled to enter Duquesne University's journalism school in the fall. It was an exciting time. I had something most of my contemporaries appeared to lack- an actual career goal- and a clear path to achieve it.

It was not to be.

My parents' personal demons made another of their cyclical visits. I found myself with no way to pay for college and no job prospects. My paternal grandparents, who always took me in when my mother and father found themselves incapable or unwilling to shoulder their parental responsibilities, again provided shelter and encouragement.

The mother of my high school english teacher, Mrs. H., was incensed when she heard a family member of mine say "He'll never amount to anything without college." She coerced one of her relatives to give me a job as a veterinary assistant.

On the day of what should have been my first semester in journalism school, I was restraining dogs and cats and checking stool speciments for worm eggs. I actually enjoyed the work and learned a great deal. It kept me busy, provided a minimum wage income, and, as Mrs. H. noted, "it'll keep you floating until your ship comes by again."

During one of our conversations, Mrs. H. said she had seen a classified ad in the Daily Messenger for a reporter/photographer. I dismissed it out of hand. "I'm not qualified for that," I told her. "You should apply anyway," she said. "They'll probably say no. They might say yes. It's worth asking."

My interview was with Ralph, the city editor, and I could tell he was less than impressed by my meager resume. My journalism background consisted of being editor of the high school newspaper and having three articles published in Model Rocketry magazine.

I'd also written a weekly high school news column for the Messenger during my senior year, for which I received ten cents per column inch and $2 per photo. I showed the check stubs to Ralph. "Technically, I've already written for the Messenger," I said, "so I do have daily newspaper experience."

I swear I heard crickets in the ten seconds of silence that followed.

Ralph was exceedingly friendly, thanked me for coming, and promised he'd get back to me. Even at 17, I was perceptive enough to know that my immediate future would still involve furry mammals and centrifuged feces.

On the way down the Messenger's seemingly endless flight of steps I bumped into the paper's editor, Earle Wittpenn. "Mr. Barkes!" he said, "How the hell are you? How's Duquesne?" I was stunned he remembered my name, let alone my college choice.

Earle had taken me to lunch at the H&H Restaurant on Eighth Avenue in Homestead shortly before my graduation. He thanked me for writing the high school news column. He said he was impressed that I was the only high school contributor who had never missed a deadline, and that I had always submitted at least two usable photos every week.

He was also amused that I managed to include the high school honor roll in my column, which was submitted two days before the paper received the official list from the district. "How'd you manage that?" he asked. "I have contacts," I replied, in my best pre-Woodward and Bernstein conspiratorial tone.

He laughed, and said he didn't mind paying me ten cents an inch for a list of names he could get for free a few days later. "We scooped The Daily News", he chuckled. "That's worth two bucks."

As Earle paid the check, I boldly asked if there were any part-time openings at the paper. He put his hand on my shoulder, shook my hand, and told me that at 16, I was a bit too young. "See me in a year," he said.

Anyway, I told Earle about my situation and that I had just put in my application with Ralph. "How old are you?" Earle asked. "Seventeen," I replied, somewhat timidly.

"Well, I started when I was 17 and it worked out ok," he laughed. "Give Ralph a call and let him know when you can come in."

The rest, as they say, is history.

One very important lesson Earle taught me was recognizing one's limitations. "There's always someone better than you," he said. "Someone who comes up with the right words for a situation. If you can't do better yourself, then use what that person wrote, but be sure to give them the credit."

At the memorial service, Earle's nephew, Matt Phillips, ended his transcendent eulogy with the lyrics from "For Good", a song written by Stephen Schwartz for the musical Wicked. His words are far better than any I could cobble together:

I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you.

It well may be
That we will never meet again
In this lifetime
So let me say before we part
So much of me
Is made of what I learned from you
You'll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart
And now whatever way our stories end
I know you have re-written mine
By being my friend.

As usual, Earle was right.

Categories: Earle V. Wittpenn, KGB Family, KGB Opinion

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Granddaughter Leanna says goodbye to Bella as she heads off for her first day of the new school year.

Categories: KGB Family, Photo of the day

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Granddaughter Leanna fishes the lake in Laurel Hill State Park, near Somerset, PA.

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Misty is 12 today. She's the elegant, Lauren Bacall-ish member of our Sheltie pack. Time for a belly rub and a piece of toast...

Categories: Animals, Birthdays, Dogs, KGB Family

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Well, really, my granddaughter Leanna and her dog, Bella. The resemblance is striking, though. Next time I see her, I'm going to check for fins.

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Don't you just hate doting grandparents who go on and on and on about their brilliant and beautiful grandchildren?

Tough. Deal with it.

Categories: KGB Family, Kids

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Cindy and I in a photo by LifeTouch. These guys must hate home computers and scanners. I include the link to help assuage the guilt induced by not buying anything from them.

Categories: KGB Family

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(You Tube Video)

Lucy (aka Lady Lucia), our 13-year-old Sheltie, is one tough little broad. Unlike the other lesser mammals in the house, she loves being vacuumed. In fact, you have to vacuum her first, before she'll give you access to the rug. It doesn't appear to be genetic; her offspring all remain terrified of vacuums. So at least one threat to humanity has been thwarted.

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I have a Sheltie in my pants.

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As allergy sufferers know, this season's been particularly bad. My daughter and I have been dosed by our respective physiscians with enough corticosteroids to dry up the Mississippi basin. Despite these heroic efforts, we're always "on the edge." One tiny challenge to our hair-trigger immune systems can easily bust a hole in our shaky pharmaceutical dykes.

My levee burst at about 4 am when Pumpkin, our evil cat, apparently decided she wanted to fall asleep on her favorite piece of endothermic furniture, namely me. She first sat on my head, providing my eyes, sinuses and upper respiratory system with a more than moderate dose of fur and dander. She then moved on to the only exposed human body part on the bed- my lower right leg. As she settled into place, I apparently startled her by sneezing. She attempted to maintain her stability in the cute way cats do, by extending her quasi-lethal, razor-like claws quite firmly into my calf.

My leg jerked upward in a powerful reflex action, catapulting the accursed feline into the bed's headboard, where her trajectory was modified in such a way that she was deposited into a mass of sleeping shelties Who Were Not Amused.

Somehow the rest of the household remained unconscious during the festivities, which involved nearly a half-dozen small furry mammals cascading down the steps in high dudgeon, accompanied by a greater mammal using the dark, unpleasant part of his vocabulary in an extended, hissed exhalation that thankfully did not involve the larnyx. In the meantime, my calf started erupting in hives and producing an itching sensation reminiscent of the chest-bursting scene in Alien.

So, at 4:10 am, I'm downing prednisone pills like M&Ms, slathering hydrocortisone cream on my leg, giving myself an albuterol treatment and squirting naphazoline in my eyes. The dogs are under my desk, alternately cowering in fear and growling at the cat, who, given the supremely narcissistic tendencies of her species, is lying on the spare office chair, staring at me in dull curiosity through drooping eyelids.

Going to church won't be of any help. I recently joined the Unitarians, so I can no longer invoke the wrath of some supernatural being to rain down flaming justice on those who afflict me.

I'll just have to settle for extreme grumpiness for the balance of the day.

And wheezing.

You've been warned.

Categories: Allergies, Animals, Cats, Dogs, KGB, KGB Family

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My daughter's first listing as an honest-to-goodness Realtor®.

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Our oldest Sheltie, Déjà Vu, had a touch of insomnia last night and decided to roam the house every hour or so.

Déjà's our Queen Mum and behaves accordingly. As de facto Equerry to The Queen, it is my responsibility to insure her nocturnal excursions are without incident.

Obstacles must be removed from her royal, impromptu itinerary. A cat sleeping at the top of the cellar stairs, blocking Her Majesty's path? It must be physically moved out of Her way, a potentially hazardous chore and one that typically elicits a succint feline opinion on the validity of canine royalty.

A sheltie of lesser rank in a potential napping area? Verbal orders are generally sufficient. The younger ones move quickly, without comment. The older ladies grumble under their breath. Especially Lady Lucia, just a year younger then Déjà and a down-to-earth old girl with the swagger of a bordello madame and an attitude to match. She moves out of the Queen's way resentfully, a hint of a snarl on her lips. "Pretentious old bitch," Lucy mutters in a Scottish canine dialect that is surprisingly easy for even a human to understand.

In the midst of this Dance of the Lesser Mammals, I sneaked into the refrigerator and snagged a piece of cold pizza, which I ate quickly to avoid being sacked by the five Furballs of the Apocalypse. Double pepperoni and a bit spicy, I knew I would pay later.

At dawn, Déjà was still asleep, but the others wanted to begin their morning constitutionals. I let them out, then stared blankly though the screen door. My stomach rumbled, starting a chain reaction that began a relentless, gaseous descent.

Then it hit, a truly impressive, multi-second burst of trumpeting flatulence that stopped the shelties dead in their tracks, even though they had wandered to the far end of the yard.

A minute later, the electronic shrieking began.

I first thought it was a smoke alarm, but remembered I had pulled the one in my office while I was replacing some suspended ceiling panels. This sound was coming from the corner of the laundry room, on the shelving unit that held old paint cans, assorted hardware, and... the carbon monoxide/ natural gas alarm.

I was appalled and impressed, at both myself and the alarm.

Finally silencing the unit, I went back to the cellar door to find four shelties quizically staring up at me. I let them in. They circled me warily, nostrils flared, then headed back upstairs.

All except Lucy, who sat at my feet, giving me the same sneer she had given Déjà a few hours earlier. "If you had shared the pizza, you wouldn't have this problem," she growled/grumbled.

The gas detector gave a last condescending chirp. With a final "grrplegrrpleruff," Lucy sauntered out of the laundry room and headed for the dog bed under my desk.

Another rumble from my stomach. Another growl from under the desk.

It's going to be that kind of day.

Categories: Dogs, KGB Family

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The most obvious situation is the slow transmogrification of western Pennsylvania into a rain forest. My back yard is now almost impenetrable and on the verge of being declared a wildlife refuge. A hike to the storage shed at the back of the property was accompanied by the sounds of wee beasties scurrying through the grass, and I'm not talking about the shelties. Who, by the way, won't venture past the swing set at the partially cleared top half of the yard, probably because the vegetation is now taller than they are. There's stuff back there straight out of a Star Trek episode. And it's adapting to the marsh-like conditions. I think I saw a stink bug wearing scuba gear.

The other problem with the above Weather Channel prediction is that their ten-day forecast contains only nine days. I'm going to attribute that to an HTML/database extraction error. Unless TWC knows something about the Rapture that Harold and his gang have missed.

Categories: Animals, Apocalypse, Climate Change, Dogs, Environment, KGB, KGB Family, Rapture, The Weather Channel, Weather

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Granddaughter Leanna knows how to celebrate a birthday.

Categories: Birthdays, KGB Family

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Pumpkin notices the new aquarium contains more than air bubbles.

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Happy birthday to Sassy, the youngest of our pack of Shetland Sheepdogs.

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Riley is the second youngest of the pack, but is, I believe, the oldest soul. Look in those eyes and tell me there isn't a person in there. (By the way, I don't believe in reincarnation. But in a previous life, I did.)

Categories: Birthdays, Dogs, KGB Family

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Déjà Vu, who turns 14 today, is the oldest of our sheltie pack and the undisputed "Queen Mum." She is reserved and dignified- except when she rolls on her back in the snow and bounces on her front legs at dinner time like a low rider. I like to thing of her and Lucy as the canine version of the Banger sisters.

Categories: Birthdays, Dogs, KGB Family

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Lady Lucia (aka "Lucy" or "Lulu") is a feisty 13 today, which makes her either 91 or 68 in human years, depending upon whether you use the old or new human-dog years age equivalency tables.

Both are irrelevant to this saucy lady, whose personality is less like a Shetland sheepdog and more like the madame of a bordello. She's mouthy, fearless, and has an aggressive, determined gait, just like Spike the Bulldog in those old Warner Bros cartoons. Forget to let her out or feed her in a timely manner and she'll march right up to you and give you a piece of her mind.

She sleeps a bit more than she used to, but when she's awake, look out... when Lucy's on the move, you know it.

Lucy's big secret... she's a snuggle bunny. When no one else is around, she'll curl up next to you, kiss you senseless, then fall asleep and snore in your ear. The perfect lady, indeed.

Categories: Animals, Birthdays, Dogs, KGB Family, Photo of the day

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Misty, Sassy and Riley watch the latest snowstorm arrive.

Categories: Dogs, KGB Family, Snow, Video, YouTube

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I'm off to see Tron Legacy: An IMAX 3D Experience this morning with my kids and granddaughter.

This will my first real 3D movie- aside from the gimmick-laden theme park presentations like Captain Eo and Terminator 2:3D- and I'm a bit apprehensive.

My vision continues to decline as I age. My abysmal night vision limits my nocturnal wanderings to familiar, well-lit main roads within five miles or so of home. I'm a bit concerned that once I strap a set of polarizing lenses atop my existing eyewear, the effective photon throughput to my retinas will result in my having paid $11 to look at vague blobs of light accompanied by techno dance music.

And, assuming enough light penetrates my thick, Hubble-like lenses to provide usable data to my retinas, there's always the possibility my brain won't be able to merge the two images into 3D.

My right eye is significantly weaker than my left eye, so it requires additional magnification. This results in a smaller image, so that when I look at a page in a book with my left eye and then my right, the right eye registers the page as being slightly, but noticeably, smaller.

Under normal conditions, my brain so far has been able to compensate for each eye's size discrepancies, and can merge the two into a stereo image. But I'm right at the point where I could begin experiencing something called binocular rivalry. Instead of fusing the two images into a single 3D picture, my brain might allow me to see only one of the two images, or randomly alternate between them. If that's the case, then I'm out of luck.

Oddly enough, we had trouble viewing the original Tron back in 1982. But that was because the South Hills Drive-In's projectionist wanted to be home by 1 am, so he started the film ten minutes before sunset. It really didn't matter; we all still had a great time, and we're looking forward to recapturing that original experience.

Here's hoping the multiplex doesn't have some absurd policy banning pajamas and lawn chairs.

Categories: 3D, IMAX, KGB Family, Movies, Tron

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Christmas is a necessity. There has to be at least one day of the year to remind us that we're here for something else besides ourselves.
-Eric Sevareid

Merry Christmas!
 
Kevin and Cindy
Deja
Lucy
Misty
Sassy
Riley
and
Pumpkin and Chloe
as "the cats"

Categories: Charlie Brown, Christmas, KGB Family, Linus van Pelt, Quotes of the day, Video, YouTube

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So we took Cindy's four-year-old granddaughter, Jasmine, to the Galleria in Mount Lebanon for pictures with Santa. We'd been there a few weeks ago and had been impressed not only by the quality of Mr. Claus' appearance and demeanor, but by the charm and enthusiasm of the young ladies taking the photographs.

It took a half hour to make it to the head of the line, and, as expected, Jasmine was a bit shy in the presence of the big guy. Santa spoke softly and warmly, and just as she was starting to warm up to him, we heard a young man pronounce "I got this one!" and stride across Santa's platform.

Now this was not your typical run of the mill elf. This was a loud, six-foot tall fella who sort of resembled a young Howie Mandel, sporting a bizarre mohawk-yarmulke haircut, a pony tail, and a goatee.

And, he was color-blind. "Want to sit on this prety blue present?" he asked. "It's purple," Cindy corrected. "Purple," Santa chimed in. "We're teaching her colors," Cindy explained. Somewhat tersely.

Jasmine sat on the box, and just as she started overcoming her fear and shyness, Numbnuts, the Elf from Hell, starts blowing a stupid toy horn and crooning loudly, "Jasmine! Come on! Smile!"

It was all downhill from there.

"Maybe next year will be better," Cindy said as she led the tearful Jasmine away, as Numbnuts cackled in the background.

Oh, it will.

Next year, that elf is going down.

Ho ho ho.

Categories: Christmas, Holidays, KGB Family, Santa Claus, Video, YouTube

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What better way to start a snowy Monday morning than with a shaky Droid music video of some guy's daughter singing in church?

Eric Stark did the arrangement a couple years ago. My good friend Peter Stumpf is on piano, and the incredible Dave Haines is on guitar. That's my daughter Sara singing. Unfortunately, I forget the name of the guy whose bald spot dominates the shot.

Bonus video: Dave, Eric, Peter and the group do Carol of the Bells. Listen to Dave get down about 2:20 into the song.

Categories: Christmas, KGB Family, Music, Video, YouTube

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If I hadn't missed the print deadline, this would have been this year's Christmas card.

For our Christian friends, the inside would have read:

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

The alternate version would have read:

Squirrels!

Categories: Animals, Atheism, Christians/Christianity, Christmas, Holidays, KGB Family, Photo of the day

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And Misty is dreaming of a white Christmas. Or probably enough snow to put down a couple Sheltie angels...

Categories: Animals, Dogs, KGB Family, Photo of the day, Snow, Weather

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I have sometimes thought of the final cause of dogs having such short lives and I am quite satisfied it is in compassion to the human race; for if we suffer so much in loving a dog after an acquaintance of ten or twelve years, what would it be if they were to live double that time?
-Sir Walter Scott

Sasha Anne
2000-2010

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... to my daughter, Sara, who's 33 today but still my little girl.

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Granddaughter Leanna amid the pumpkins at Trax Farms in 2010

... and in 2004.

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Granddaughter Leanna, photobombed by a horse at the Highland Games earlier this month.

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On September 16, 2000, my daughter Sara was married. As I told Brian, her groom, "giving away the bride is just a figure of speech. She'll always be my little girl."

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Earle V. Wittpenn

Earle Wittpenn died last year on my birthday. I've tried to write about him a dozen times since then.

I've failed miserably.

The problem is that I can't talk about Earle without talking about myself. What should be a tribute to the man who rescued me from potential oblivion and gave my life drive and direction, ends up sounding like self-aggrandizing drivel.

I had graduated from high school at 16 as class salutatorian and was scheduled to enter Duquesne University's journalism school in the fall. It was an exciting time. I had something most of my contemporaries appeared to lack- an actual career goal- and a clear path to achieve it.

It was not to be.

My parents' personal demons made another of their cyclical visits. I found myself with no way to pay for college and no job prospects. My paternal grandparents, who always took me in when my mother and father found themselves incapable or unwilling to shoulder their parental responsibilities, again provided shelter and encouragement.

The mother of my high school english teacher, Mrs. H., was incensed when she heard a family member of mine say "He'll never amount to anything without college." She coerced one of her relatives to give me a job as a veterinary assistant.

On the day of what should have been my first semester in journalism school, I was restraining dogs and cats and checking stool speciments for worm eggs. I actually enjoyed the work and learned a great deal. It kept me busy, provided a minimum wage income, and, as Mrs. H. noted, "it'll keep you floating until your ship comes by again."

During one of our conversations, Mrs. H. said she had seen a classified ad in the Daily Messenger for a reporter/photographer. I dismissed it out of hand. "I'm not qualified for that," I told her. "You should apply anyway," she said. "They'll probably say no. They might say yes. It's worth asking."

My interview was with Ralph, the city editor, and I could tell he was less than impressed by my meager resume. My journalism background consisted of being editor of the high school newspaper and having three articles published in Model Rocketry magazine.

I'd also written a weekly high school news column for the Messenger during my senior year, for which I received ten cents per column inch and $2 per photo. I showed the check stubs to Ralph. "Technically, I've already written for the Messenger," I said, "so I do have daily newspaper experience."

I swear I heard crickets in the ten seconds of silence that followed.

Ralph was exceedingly friendly, thanked me for coming, and promised he'd get back to me. Even at 17, I was perceptive enough to know that my immediate future would still involve furry mammals and centrifuged feces.

On the way down the Messenger's seemingly endless flight of steps I bumped into the paper's editor, Earle Wittpenn. "Mr. Barkes!" he said, "How the hell are you? How's Duquesne?" I was stunned he remembered my name, let alone my college choice.

Earle had taken me to lunch at the H&H Restaurant on Eighth Avenue in Homestead shortly before my graduation. He thanked me for writing the high school news column. He said he was impressed that I was the only high school contributor who had never missed a deadline, and that I had always submitted at least two usable photos every week.

He was also amused that I managed to include the high school honor roll in my column, which was submitted two days before the paper received the official list from the district. "How'd you manage that?" he asked. "I have contacts," I replied, in my best pre-Woodward and Bernstein conspiratorial tone.

He laughed, and said he didn't mind paying me ten cents an inch for a list of names he could get for free a few days later. "We scooped The Daily News", he chuckled. "That's worth two bucks."

As Earle paid the check, I boldly asked if there were any part-time openings at the paper. He put his hand on my shoulder, shook my hand, and told me that at 16, I was a bit too young. "See me in a year," he said.

Anyway, I told Earle about my situation and that I had just put in my application with Ralph. "How old are you?" Earle asked. "Seventeen," I replied, somewhat timidly.

"Well, I started when I was 17 and it worked out ok," he laughed. "Give Ralph a call and let him know when you can come in."

The rest, as they say, is history.

One very important lesson Earle taught me was recognizing one's limitations. "There's always someone better than you," he said. "Someone who comes up with the right words for a situation. If you can't do better yourself, then use what that person wrote, but be sure to give them the credit."

At the memorial service, Earle's nephew, Matt Phillips, ended his transcendent eulogy with the lyrics from "For Good", a song written by Stephen Schwartz for the musical Wicked. His words are far better than any I could cobble together:

I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you.

It well may be
That we will never meet again
In this lifetime
So let me say before we part
So much of me
Is made of what I learned from you
You'll be with me
Like a handprint on my heart
And now whatever way our stories end
I know you have re-written mine
By being my friend.

As usual, Earle was right.

Categories: Earle V. Wittpenn, KGB Family, KGB Opinion

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Granddaughter Leanna heads off to second grade. Her bestest friend, Bella, doesn't want to hear about it.

Categories: Dogs, KGB Family

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I had a small get-together last weekend, and decided to buy one of those pre-cooked shrimp rings at Giant Eagle. You know, one of those tasteful arrangements of deceased shellfish that resembles a SpongeBob Christmas wreath.

The shrimp were frozen solid and I only had a couple hours to thaw them out. I looked at the package label for direction, and it read:

"Do not thaw at room temperature. Do not thaw in microwave".

Wouldn't it be a bit more helpful to tell me how to thaw it, rather than how not to do it?

If they're going to take that bass-ackwards approach, they should at least try to be a bit more comprehensive. For example:

• Do not thaw at room temperature.
• Do not thaw in microwave.
• Do not thaw in washing machine, clothes dryer, or on top of your television.
• Do not thaw with flaming petroleum products.
• Do not thaw under armpits.
• Whatsoever hath no fins nor scales in the waters, that shall be an abomination unto you. (Oops. Wrong list.)
• Do not thaw in cat litter box.
• Do not thaw in toilet bowl.
• Do not thaw with windshield wiper fluid.
• Do not thaw with propane torch.
• Do not thaw with sunlight.
• Do not thaw with moonlight.
• Do not thaw with starlight.
• Do not thaw with Lite Brite.
• Do not thaw in Easy Bake Oven.
• Do not thaw with tiki torch.
• Do not thaw in geyser.
• Do not thaw in toe socks.
• Do not thaw with pyrokinesis.
• Do not thaw with fissionable nuclear material.

 
A quick internet search revealed the recommended method of defrosting frozen shrimp is to place it in the refrigerator or run it under cold water. The danger of thawing at room temperature is that as the surface temperature of the shrimp increases, nasty bacteria can multiply. Nuking in the microwave would probably kill all the bacteria, but mess up the shrimp's texture.

As a friend noted, the store's primary concern is not enhancing my shrimp comsumption experience, but rather to prevent the filing of food poisoning and rubbery shrimp-induced lawsuits.

And what is this "run under cold water" business? One assumes they're talking about the cold water tap of the kitchen sink, but it's August here in the northern temperate zone, and while the water temperature is lower than the kitchen's air temperature, it is the same as the temperature in my cellar which is, technically, a room. Which means the cold water is actually room temperature. As the great philosopher Steven Wright noted, "The temperature in any room is room temperature."

Whatever. I thawed them using the not-connected-to-the-water-heater tap of the kitchen sink and placed them on the table, where they were slowly consumed over the course of three hours.

We all survived, an indication of the efficiency and effectiveness of the human digestive and immune systems. Not to mention the secondary antiseptic qualities of vodka-enhanced cocktail sauce.

Tangentially related useless trivia:
For future reference, the eleven official shrimp sizes are:

• Extra Colossal
• Super Colossal
• Colossal
• Extra Jumbo
• Jumbo
• Extra Large
• Large
• Medium Large
• Medium
• Small
• Extra Small

 
At times like this, I really miss George Carlin.

Categories: Consumerism, Food, KGB Family, Lawsuits, Shellfish, Stupidity, Things That Make You Wonder, WTF?

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Granddaughter Lea is spending the day. Which is fun, but we have to keep her away from the ceiling fans.

Categories: KGB Family

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There's no dealing with a cat who knows you're awake.
-Brad Solomon

Pumpkin (aka The Demon Cat from Hell) has an appointment with the vet this morning.

I may be getting skin grafts later in the day.

Stay tuned.

Categories: Cats, KGB Family, Quotes of the day

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So I dropped my cell phone into the dogs' water bowl while chasing Cindy's cat Chloe, who escaped while I was letting out one of the dogs.

I caught the cat and retrieved the phone, both of which were acting erratically. The cat ran upstairs and took a dump at the bottom of the steps leading to our bedroom; the cell phone screen flashed a few times, then went dark.

Hey, no problem. I have Asurion insurance through my carrier, Verizon Wireless. A few minutes on their website filling out a simple claim form, and they said I'd have another phone by tomorrow (Tuesday).

I was a bit concerned when the website said it was sending me an Audiovox phone, when the model I have is actually an HTC. But the photo of the phone was correct, and a quick Google search confirmed the model number listed was indeed my device.

I reached the checkout screen where one provides the credit card info to pay the $50 deductible- and I discovered the charge was actually $89.

I keep everything. Every receipt, bill, correspondence and e-mail is either scanned or archived somewhere on my computer. A search quickly located the Asurion policy, which clearly stated the deductible amount as $50, not $89.

So I called Asurion, and the very polite gentleman asked me to hold while he checked my policy. Presently he confirmed that, yes, the deductible for my particular phone was indeed $89.

After a day of McDonalds-induced gastrointestinal pyrotechnics which left me with a pounding headache, a sensitive portal and a decided physical and psychological dependence on loperamide hydrochloride, I wasn't going to argue. I asked him to mail me a copy of the policy. The nice man apologized for the confusion and said I'd receive the paperwork in two or three days.

Now it's entirely possible I missed a notice from Verizon or Asurion about the deductible. I get so much marketing crap from Verizon Wireless in the mail that I may have thrown it out. But usually those types of things are clearly marked, and I routinely scan everything I get, so my inability to find the notice makes me skeptical.

It appears I have my moral imperative of the week.

But right now, I need to find a cork.

And that cat.

Categories: Asurion, Cats, Consumerism, KGB Family, Verizon Wireless

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Four years ago on Father's Day I did something I always wanted to do- accompany my daughter Sara as she sang. During my exile in Chicago from 2000-2005, a friend of mine sent me a guitar to help me pass the time, especially during those endlessly long and dark Chicago winter weekends. So I taught myself to play. More accurately, I taught myself to play four chords, which is pretty much all you need for most popular music produced in the 60s.

When I returned to Pittsburgh, I convinced Sara to do a solo during church, with just me on the guitar. Even though the song contained seven of the four chords I knew, I managed to get through it without any obvious mistakes. It was the first time I had played guitar in public- and, to date, the only time I did it without any royal screw-ups.

If you want to hear some really superb guitar, listen to the full praise band's version of Praise Adonai. The great bridge in the middle is performed by Dave Haines on acoustic, and Eric Stark on rhythm guitar.

Happy Father's Day, guys. And give your kids a hug.

Categories: KGB Family, Music, Video

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With the move, the rain, the damaged furniture, the missing boxes, the office rewiring, the spider bite, the mold allergy, the constant fatigue and the endless unpacking, there were times when I wondered whether it was worth moving back to South Park.

Yesterday was another non-stop marathon of struggling just to stay ahead of the chaos. Then after dinner, we rounded up our pack of shetland sheepdogs and headed down to the far end of the yard.

Shelties on the grass alas. With apologies to Pittsburgher Gertrude Stein.

Déjà Vu is 13, and our "Queen Mum." She is reserved and dignified- except when she rolls on her back in the grass and finally lies still in the warm sun, like a stuffed animal used to demonstrate the process of rigor mortis.

"The great pleasure of a dog is that you may make a fool of yourself with him and not only will he not scold you, he will make a fool of himself too."
-Samuel Butler (Misty likes being "wound up".)

Poor Sassy, the youngest, will be in a cast for the next four months until her ankle/wrist bones fuse due to a hyperextension injury (common in Shelties and Collies). Two days after surgery, she's still in pain- but here, the warm sun and the drugs finally kick in.

"Dogs are our link to paradise. They don't know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring. It was peace."
-Milan Kundera  
"I think the purpose of the dog is to provide an accessible example to the recondite concept of unconditional love."
-Me

Riley is the second youngest of the pack, but is, I believe, the oldest soul. Look in those eyes and tell me there isn't a person in there. By the way, I don't believe in reincarnation. But in a previous life, I did.

"A dog is the only thing on this earth that loves you more than he loves himself."
-Henry Wheeler Shaw

"That's the whole secret of life. Life is a series of dogs."
-George Carlin  
"Old age means realizing you will never own all the dogs you wanted to."
-Joe Gores

Categories: Dogs, KGB Family, Quotes of the day

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Sassy has decided she wants to recuperate in the dark, quiet den-like space under my workstation. Note the cast... the poor little girl will be wearing it for the next four months until the bones in her wrist/ankle fuse.

Categories: Dogs, KGB Family

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We took one of the dogs to the vet yesterday for what we thought would be arthroscopic surgery for a hyperextension injury to her foot. Turned out the damage was so bad she needed arthrodesis- fusing the bones in her wrist/ankle. 16 weeks in a cast and $3.5K for surgery and physical therapy, but this is supposedly the top specialist within 200 miles of Pittsburgh. We pick her up later this morning.

The moving company hasn't been returning our calls, so we called the credit card company. Turns out the amount they charged the card is different than the amount on the charge authorization we signed, so they'll put a hold on the payment until it's investigated. That should get their attention. (It appears their moving skills are exceeded only by their math abilities.)

And finally, I was bitten on the foot by a spider or something while in bed last night. The steroids and Benadryl took care of the swelling by this morning, but I'm in a drugged quasi-stupor and my toe is an interesting color. I may be making a trip to the doctor as well.

Otherwise, I'm happily ensconced in my office surrounded by the pups, snoozing after their morning constitutional, and waiting for the sensation to return to my foot...

Categories: KGB Family

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Reconstructing the KGB bridge following the move is proving to be quite a task. But we finally found the power supplies, and the computer mice will show up any day now...

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In that the beds are assembled, the refrigerator and microwave are working, and cable tv is on. It took 16 hours of intermittent wrangling to get Comcast's Arris modem and the Netgear router to talk to each other, but wireless Internet is now also up.

The move itself was horrendous. Aside from the subtropical rainforest weather conditions, the crew the moving company sent was comprised mainly of guys in their 20s Who Can Lift Heavy Things. They also could ram them into walls, get them stuck in doorways, and were incapable of following instructions. It was sort of like watching a National Geographic special on ants trying to get a large object into their nest, except the ants could eventually figure it out without intervention.

I'm really upset. Various family members and I have used this company without incident for the past 20 years. We used them just 20 months ago and the move was quick and painless.

Tomorrow's phone call is going to be interesting. I hate to name names, especially given such a long, successful relationship, but if they try to dodge the bullet, the hammer's coming down. Two clichéd metaphors in one sentence. You know I'm pissed.

Categories: KGB Family

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The movers will be here at 8 am Saturday morning, but in the meantime we have to pack up the rest of the house. The pups go to the kennel, the cable guy is scheduled to show up tomorrow, and the drugs still haven't kicked in. It's going to be a long couple of days.

Check back on Monday to see if we survived...

Categories: KGB Family

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(Warning: strong language.)

Fot the past couple weeks we've been preparing to move back to our house in South Park. The hardest part of the move? Getting rid of stuff.

And I mean a lot of stuff. Most of the house was cleared when we moved out here to Fayette City, but lots remained. Like a 24-year old, 32-inch, 250 pound non-functioning direct view CRT television, old toys, accumulated souvenirs and other debris- over 200 square feet, stacked two boxes high in some places.

For the past several days, I've been tackling the garage. We've hauled a ton and a hundred thousand of dollars worth of stuff that have accumulated over the past two decades. I'm talking original cost, of course; computer equipment depreciates like unrefrigerated milk. Roughly 20 obsolete computer systems, miles of cables, RS-232 25-pin connectors and switchboxes, and some items even I couldn't even identify. I hope the Goodwill computer center has an archaeologist on staff. I doubt any of them has ever seen an 8" hard-sectored Vydec floppy disk or a horizontal auto-loading 9-track 6250 bpi SCSI tape drive.

Getting rid of stuff is a liberating experience. Still, there were some items I just couldn't toss. My collection of DEC Professional and VAX Professional magazines. The acrylic lightbulb paperweight I've had for 37 years. Some yearbooks. Things the kids made for me when they were little.

That stuff is now tucked away in the storage compartment under the cellar steps, where someday someone will, undoubtedly, toss it into a dumpster without second thought.

Now we get to move, and fill up the garage again. Life is a circle, indeed.

Categories: George Carlin, KGB Family, Life

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My daughter now has business cards
to accompany her new real estate license!

Categories: KGB Family

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Significant births on this date:

William Shakespeare
William Penn
James Buchanan
Stephen A. Douglas
Max Planck
Janet Blair
Shirley Temple
Roy Orbison
Lee Majors
Sandra Dee
Michael Moore
Valerie Bertinelli
Melina Kanakaredes
Kal Penn
John Oliver

and my granddaughter, Leanna Renée Salopek, who's seven today.

I'm giving her an acute accent. Because she's-a cute.

Not only is she cute, she's a high honor student.

We know where she got the brains; it's the red hair that's the puzzlement.

Categories: KGB Family

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Categories: KGB Family

KGB recommends godaddy.com.

Oh, no. You can't fool me again. I'm not as blond as I used to be.
-Sara Kay Salopek

Categories: KGB Family, Quotes of the day

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I woke up Cindy while talking in my sleep last night and told her there are no dilithium crystals in Fayette City.

Mitch: You know, um, something strange happened to me this morning...

Chris Knight: Was it a dream where you see yourself standing in sort of sun-god robes on a pyramid with a thousand naked women screaming and throwing little pickles at you?

Mitch: No...

Chris Knight: Why am I the only one who has that dream?

(dialogue from Real Genius, 1985)

Categories: KGB Family, Life, Movies, Star Trek

KGB recommends godaddy.com.

 
Yeah, she's my girl. You got a problem with that?

Categories: Dogs, KGB Family

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The painter starts work today at the South Park place, and I was concerned about being stuck here without a broadband connection in the event I had to log on to the mothership back in Chicago for any customer emergencies.

I fired up the laptop about five minutes ago and was getting reading to try to tether it to my cell phone in order to connect to the net when 14(!) available wireless networks popped up. One had five bar signal strength, with wide-open security. Must be the next door neighbor, who splurged on Comcast's high-end broadband service... 15 megs down, 3 megs up. Compared to the tin can and string service we have with Atlantic Broadband, this is nirvana. It's about five times faster on download and 15 times faster on upload.

Well, at least I don't have to worry about being out of touch if I get stuck over here during the renovations.

And if you're questioning the legality/ethics of the connection, my neighbor is actually running off the "temporary" router and wireless link I supplied when he was having equipment problems. Two years ago.

Karma's a wonderful thing.

Categories: KGB Family, Technology, The Net

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