Why is it that everytime I decide to do a thorough cleaning of a room, it just makes another room even more cluttered and messy? Annie and I didn't quite finish getting her room organized (essentially getting rid of the stuff she has out grown). Now the living room is disaster central, and these things seldom get taken care of during the week. I should just move, and let someone else deal with the left overs!

Clutter-brained

Well, after a rather rough day: irritated friend, trouble with work, Annie telling me with tears in her eyes that I spend too much time at work even when some people at work don't think I'm doing enough, I thought I'd make myself feel better by telling a story on myself that makes me chuckle.

About six years ago (has it been that long?), I was working on a research project that involved a number of experimental processor modules that were constructed for me. These modules were the same form factor of a set of modules that were in high demand at the time. Many people I worked closely with had machines that could use these modules, and I had the latest and greatest, because I was in charge of the modules for our discipline. This was before relationships or children for me, so I was working long, long hours (nothing else to do).

After working very late one night, I took a couple of days off of that project (some people call it the weekend). When I returned to the project, I was missing two modules. I was furious. I scoured the entire area that I was working. No modules. Convinced that someone came along and thought "hey, look, spare modules", I wrote a fairly scathing e-mail to the group. Whatever moron confiscated my modules was going to pay. I continued working with the modules I had, steam pouring out of my ears. A few hours later, I decided to raid the refrigerator for a drink. Before the market crash, we would at times stock the closet with snacks and soft drinks for when we worked late hours. I opened the refrigerator with what I'm sure was an irritated yank to find my missing modules. Oh yeah. Late the previous night of working, I had wondered if the temperature of the modules might impact their emissions, and put them in the refrigerator.

Chagrined, I removed the modules (by the way, the temperature had no measurable impact... in case you were wondering). I would like to think that I generally admit when I'm wrong, so I sent another e-mail apologizing for my offensive e-mail, and admitted my wrong doing, and even described what had happened. Perhaps that was a mistake. For the past six years, this has been a common joke in my group. Anytime someone loses something, either someone else asks if they checked the refrigerator, or they comment that they checked the refrigerator. The last time this came up, I asked if this was going to follow me should I ever leave Sun. The answer? Absolutely...

Keep checking the refrigerator, but my sanity isn't there...

My folks live on one of the many lakes found in Southwest Missouri. They sent me this picture of a not-uncommon scene in front of their house.

If you’ve never heard a Tom Turkey of that size take off to fly (yes, they can get airborne), it’s sort of hard to describe. Have you ever heard an Apache Helicopter?

The only turkey at my house...

Yes. I have rodents. As the rain comes down, the rodents look for cover. They have made a mistake, though. I opened the cupboard below the sink, and found that there had been an intrusion. The rodents had decided to chew into whatever was there. One of the things they dug into, though, was rat poison. Chow down, my anti-friends, get your fill.

Apparently, the poison wasn't enough. I walked into the kitchen to throw something away, and opened the cupboard where the trash is located. I opened the trash, and what did I see? I didn't see a cute rabbit, or a squirrel, or a cat... not, it was a rat. It hid at the bottom of the trash, and I was prepared to kill.

I suddenly had a flashback from my childhood. We were installing the hog-operation, and there was a very large rat in a water tank. My Dad told me I had to kill it. With tears in my eyes, I drew a bead, and took care of it. I know that my Dad was trying to make me realize the responsibilities of being an adult, but I had great difficulty taking the life of another animal.

So? I reached into the trash, and grabbed the rat behind the shoulders, where it couldn't bite me. I showed it to Lilo and Sandy. The started a conversation with the rat. "So, how's it going? Must suck being in your situation. I left you some food on the floor, did you get it? Life is good, I hope you come out on top of this situation. Maybe, you should consider twisting and biting him..." They obviously didn't give a Rat's butt (yes, I meant that).

I walked outside determined to put an end to this rodent, and couldn't do it. I'm a wuss. I chucked it into the grass, and hoped that it would find a way of life that didn't involve my house. Granted, I'm fine with laying out the poison to protect the house. I have enough phone lines that don't work anymore as a result of their influence. Unfortunately, I'm hypocritcal enough that I can't seem to do it with my own hands...
A bit Ratty...

Hopefully, you had the chance to have a warm and wonderful Easter with family and/or friends! Me? I'm looking forward to next year. Of course, that means that I won't have Annie here on Christmas, which I really, really like. But that is our life. I didn't create it, didn't do anything to get punished for, just have a habit of choosing ladies that don't have the word "commitment" in their dictionaries. It's ok, though. My beautiful angel is home again, and laying on the floor wrapped up in the Harley blanket. It's not the life I'd planned, but then it is what it is. If you haven't seen the movie Pleasantville, I'd highly recommend it. The first time I watched it, it was on some station or other, and as usual, I was doing other things while it was on. I was folding laundry, or some other such exciting thing, and was passing through the living room, when I heard this great line... Toby Maquire's character was talking to his mother (divorced with two kids), and she was crying. She said, "it's not supposed to be like this" (struggling with life as a divorced parent). Toby's character looked at her, and replied, "it's not supposed to be any way, it just is." I was stunned. It was one of the more remarkable things I've ever heard in a movie... and I love movies.

Strangely, I have realized the truth in this. On this Easter day, I'll say that I do believe in God. However, I don't believe that He has a "plan" for us. We are born with free will. Much like a parent who watches a child make a wrong decision, and suffer the consequences, I think God feels disappointment when we make a poor choice in life, but it isn't part of his doing. His impact is not directly on our lives, but simply a feeling of comfort when we do the right thing, sort of like a proud parent. My first wife was not punished for leaving me by being beaten by the guy she left me for. My second wife is not being rewarded with what I can only believe is her ultimate desire of a relationship for leaving me. I'm not being punished for some wrong-doing that I can't identify with my trials in life. It just is. The beauty of being a human lies in perseverance.

Our life is a jumble of decisions. I believe it was Sartre that said we were doomed to a life of responsibility. I disagree with him, but then I find him a pessimist. We are blessed with a life of responsibility. We are constantly being given the chance to do the right thing. (Honestly, I had no intention of going this direction when I started this post. But, what the heck? It's coming out, anyway.) Too many people I've met respond not to their conscious, but to other people's coments/impact. Instead of doing what they know is right, they respond to other people's comments on what is right. I find this sad.

However, this post has gone on long enough. I like philosophy, though, so maybe I'll continue on another post!
My daughter is home... all is right in the world.

It's a chilly morning, but it looks like it will warm up like it did yesterday. Yeah, I know... 40 degrees is not cold to my family and friends east of the Rockies...Nonetheless, it's cold to me sitting on the deck with my coffee and trusty notebook computer, watching the last of the sunrise. The birds are very active this morning, and there is even a mourning dove somewhere off in the trees that I can hear. And of course, there is the obligatory call to the day by the rooster. The only non nature sounds are my furnace, and the helicopter that just flew by. Helicopter noises are scary, because they usually indicate that someone has had a wreck in the mountains and has to be flown out. Gives me the shivers.

I'm making some progress on the bathroom, and should finish the last of the drywall today. I started cutting this one (has the most cutouts), and decided I was too tired last night to do a good job. So, I've waited until this morning to mess it up finish it. I wonder if 6:00 am is too early for me to start using the jigsaw...

With a little luck, I'll be able to report progress this evening.
Told you it was nothing' much

My insomnia had settled into a decent pattern of waking up at 1:00 am, and drifting in and out of sleep until about 4:30 am. This was achieved by forcing my mind not to focus on anything when I awoke. Last night looked like it was going to be the same. I floated off to sleep to find myself dreaming about living in a place on the ocean. I was looking out at a beautiful beach watching a spectacular sunrise. After watching nature's closing act for the day I returned to my home. In the wierd way that dreams work (or don't work), I accidentally walked into the wrong house. I excused myself, and in the dream this was apparently not the first time I'd done this. Instead of leaving the way I came in, I walked all the way through the house and out the other door. Now I was near my front door, and went in. All this seemed fairly mundane, and I probably would have remembered none of it, except it then took a turn. Although I remember it, I'll spare you the gory details. I haven't had this kind of dream in a long time.

For whatever reason, I've always had some very disturbing nightmares. When I was fifteen, I learned how to control my dreams to the extent that my subconscious would let me (it's very stubborn about trying to play out what it wants). I still can do this to some extent. My nightmares became less frequent after that. This was a good thing. My most extreme nightmares are the kind of thing that would make Stephen King flinch. There are demons and devils, and all sorts of awful creatures from literature's most frightening stories. For the first time in a couple of years, last night's nightmares were like that. They are always very descriptive and involved, and if I had a talent for writing, I could probably do well compiling a book of short horror stories.

When the battle was going decidedly badly, I awoke in a sweat trying to restablish a link to reality. I slowed my breathing, listening to all the sounds of the house, sure that one of the more terrible creatures was stalking my family. After I calmed down, I drifted off to sleep, certain that the nightmare was over. Strangely, as I started dreaming, I was back at the beach. The house structure had changed a little, and I continued on with the more pleasant part of the dream. Predictably, after a short period, the sky darkened, and the battle continued. This went on for four different sleep intervals, and the journey took me from the beach, to Italy, and to Germany. Fortunately, my subconscious got tired of torturing me, and I managed to have a relatively decent sleep.

About 6:30 am, I began to wake (in a normal fashion). I hadn't opened my eyes, but figured it must be morning. Recalling my nightmares, I suddenly had a feeling that I was being watched. If you've never had that feeling, it is very strange: to actually feel that someone is watching you. I opened my eyes to see a beautiful little blonde-haired girl staring at me... from three inches away. Fortunately, I had regained a hold on reality, and didn't freak.

Annie dreams a lot. I hear her talking in her sleep, and hope that this is not a genetic thing. So far, so good. Yesterday morning, I think she actually woke herself up by talking in her sleep. I was laughing at it a bit, because even in her dreams she is apparently quite bossy. Although the words were unclear (until the end), I could tell by the pattern that she was irritated and informing some poor soul what to do. It must not have been going well, because suddenly she yelled, "I. Mean. NOW!" Then she was awake.

Battle fatigued from sleep

I just had a call from a wonderful, true friend talking about Soren. You see, my dog Soren passed away one year ago. If you haven't read my previous posts on him, he was my best friend. He died in my arms, trying one last time to make me happy. He had been ill for a year, and had finally given out physically. He couldn't go on.

The most difficult times in my life, he was there. Twice, I went through difficulties that left me kneeling at my bed, praying and crying to God to give me the strength and understanding to fix these most terrible conflicts in my life. As I knelt over the bed, I had a huge head nudge me. My beloved Great Dane was giving me strength. He spent his life like that. He constantly gave me strength and never asked for anything in return. At the end of his life, he still tried to do what was necessary to help me, with no regard for himself.

He died in my arms. One last attempt to make me happy. I carried him up to the stairs with tears in my eyes. I knew that this was our last trip. When we reached the truck, I asked him to get in. He put his front paws in. He was panting terribly. You would never have known that this was the dog that used to run over twelve miles a day. He pulled himself into the truck... for me. As we put himself into the truck, he gave out. He died before leaving our home. The most dedicated friend I've ever known. I don't have much confidence in God. But, there had better be a heaven. For Soren. He's better have found a Heaven that leaves him spending his days on the Gasconade River switching his tail over minnows in the water. He spends his other "day" time at the side of Saint Peter. When someone comes to the gates, they see this splendid dog by his side staring at them with concern. His eyes show a sense of intelligence that indicate that lying is not an option. His dedication is worthy of God alone. He was a great friend. Better than most people I've known.

My eyes are blurred on the fact that I had forgotten that it has been a year since his passing. Soren Kierkegaard Hockanson was the best dog that this world has ever known. He was the epitome of dedication, intelligence, love, and consideration. There has never been another dog in this world that exemplified what it is to be a human being... let alone a dog.

God take care of you, Soren. In my view of heaven, I'll be with you when I can, and we will fish the river forever.

Sometimes dogs are human

I've discovered why at 35 years old I still think I'm a kid. It's a simple matter of perspective. No, I don't mean some deep philosophical thing, it has to do with flatulence. If you find yourself one of those that is above the base humor that comes from this particular human requirement, you'd better stop reading now.

It dawned on me the other day as I was in the office. I had to use the restroom, and was in a stall, quietly handling my business. I heard the door open, and some anonymous person walked in to use a urinal. From the moment he crossed the bathroom threshold, he begain cutting them loose. He floated five air biscuits before he ever made it to the urinal. I was in the stall in tears trying not to laugh out load or say "good one".

My family seems to have a central humor thing about this, also. A great story involving one of my dad's brothers, Uncle Max, involved him standing in line at a grocery store. The lady in front of him had a lot of groceries and was conservatively putting everything on the counter. At this time, Uncle Max couldn't hold back anymore, and ... um... stepped on a dog... Apparently it was loud and smelly. He looked at the lady and said "Good God, lady!". Even though she didn't do anything, she was so embarrassed she left her stuff on the belt, and exited the store.

In 1986, at Thanksgiving dinner at our house, my brother-in-law placed a whoopie cushion in the chair that my prankster uncle was going to be sitting in. As we sat down to dinner, the novelty item did its job, and my late-80's great-great-aunt (Annie's namesake), simply and elegantly said "oh, my".

When I was a Resident Assistant, a number of my residents took great pride in being able to make fart sounds without actually going through the activity. Being a good leader, I also practiced this valuable skill, so I would be seen as not only a role model, but one of the guys. One time my folks and I were at a Shoney's for breakfast. As we were leaving, my dad decided to use the restroom (we were far from our destination). After he went in, I felt like it would be a good idea to do the same. No one was in the bathroom, except my dad in a stall. I walked up to do my business and started faking all sorts of Barking Spiders. I quietly left, and waited by the car with my mom. Dad came out with his eyes watering. He was trying not to laugh out hysterically. In a break from character, my dad began telling the story of how some guy was just in the John cutting the cheese every which way but loose. I made the noise, and told him it was me messing with him. He had been dying to say something to the person...

Another time, while at a conference and having dinner, over which we were supposed to discuss research, a friend of mine couldn't contain himself. There were 15 people at the table: professionals, professors, etc. The smell was abysmal. At one point a professor looked down the table, and another friend leaned back in his chair to suggest "nope, not me". The culprit excused himself, and swore that his colon was broken after that night...


And don't think that it's just a guy thing. Guys are in general far more proud of the power of the colon, but women are disgusted in an effort to cover up their lack of colon power. My ex would always look disgusted by it, but when she was pregnant with Annie, she was very proud of her expulsions. I'll not talk about the other women I know who are proud of their colons, but they know who they are...

So, I admit that I may have started something that could backfire. Annie goes to great lengths to share her ... um... rubbing the duck. She will run clear across the house to get me to pull her finger. She ruffles the covers after breaking wind in bed, and laughs hysterically. We have an agreement that she can't do this at school, but at home, it's a free-for-all. Hey, there was a reason her mother named her Stinky-Farts-Hockanson when she was a baby...


I even have a friend that begins to stink when he gets too hungry. Try dealing with that when confined to lab work for a day...

This post is long enough, but I assure you there are many more instances of crying due to laughter as a result of venting the colon colliape (thanks to Flanders for that one in particular). I'll not comment on my mother or ex-mother-in-law, although my ex-father-in-law is probably going to be upset that he wasn't included as an example. Yes, you've made my eyes water.


It's a necessity for your body to expel this stuff. Deal with it. Laugh with the rest of us degenerates...
Still get a chuckle out of the baser things

Annie has just informed me that Lilo has poop on his bottom. I wonder how many places he has been in the house?

I'm pleased to say he is cleaning it now...

Wondering anew why it is so hard to keep the house clean