Stone Jackson Sez

changing fluids in the dark

2009-03-01T09:43:00.000-08:00

so NOT what you think...

A few weeks ago, and after months of prompting from the spousal unit, I decided to check on the fluid levels of my red 2004 PT Cruiser. I noted that the oil was low and that I was out of windshield wiper fluid. It was getting dark fast and as I did not have sufficient exterior lighting, I took an educated guess. This dipstick was clearly for oil, this cap is for the powersteering, WELL, the windshield wiper fluid is traditionally on the top right side when you are looking at the engine block, that MUST be it. I beamed with pride as I took care of my sacred MAN duty of maintaining my jelopy whose secret name was SEX MACHINE . My wife can pretend the car's name is Otis (Redding) all she likes. Anyhow, I tested the windshield wiper fluid the next day as it was raining and I needed to clear the detritus and scum from off my glass. I pulled on the lever and nothing. A flaccid stream of cleaning fluid dribbled out weakly. "Son of a bitch," I exclaimed ! Hmmm. Perhaps its a little cold this morning and the fluid is somewhat frozen at the nozzle opening. Yes, that's the ticket... Friday, I finally got around to putting more oil in the car as it was bone dry. The car chugged 2 pints of oil and licked its lips begging for more. In the light of day I was able to see much more clearly at the gauges and meters. Here's the oil, power steering, windshield wiper fluid container on the LEFT hand side. Hold the phone... I flipped open the cap in which I had put the wiper fluid and noted that it was bracking brown and smelled of oil and Windex. The cap on the container had an admonition to clean the cap before putting it back on. I make a mad dash for my glove box where the Warranty and Owner's manual resides, flip the pages and come to realize that I put wiper fluid on the BRAKE container. I quickly called up my neighbor and mechanic Jimmy James . "Jimbo Baby? This is Stone Jackson. Well, it looks like I've done a boneheads thing and need your help. Don't worry nothing ILLEGAL, mind you..."

Jimbo laughs. I tell what I did and ask him if its something I should be worried about. He said, "well, it ain't good. You need to get that stuff out there and replace the brake fluid. Have your brakes been feeling kind of spongy?"

I retorted that they did feel spongy and that I had been driving 34 miles to Redmond each way and back to get to work. Well, thanks to this boy genius, I need to drop of the Cruiser this morning at 11 am so that they can hoist up on his hydraulics set up to bleed the fluid that's in the brake lines. Keeping the wiper fluid in there can lead to corroded lines and brake failure, which=death.

So, kids, remember when its time to change fluids, make sure you have enough light, m kay? There's no rush. Do it right the first time.

Bitch Tits

2009-01-22T09:24:00.000-08:00

That's right, Bitch Tits. No pithy title. No tongue in cheek, or tongue on boob, as it were. Just. Pure. Natural. Bitch Tits.

For guys, there is no harsher diss in the English language than this phrase.

We all age. It's true. I have seen the evidence. We lose our muscle tone. In men, our hair recedes - a "reverse flanking maneuver" (as they say in the military), our stomachs becoming enlarged - beer gut, our asses flatten to 2 dimensions, like a thinly pounded phone book. We can deal with these things, it's the loss of our amazing pectorals that reduces us to tears, like ladies watching a Steel Magnolias marathon. Manly tears, mind you, but tears nonetheless.

Case in point, look at the examples below.

"How's it going cue ball?"
"Who loves ya baby?!?"

"Jesus, Bob! What's with the kegger you're carrying in front of you?"
"I'm so fit! I have me here a TWELVE PACK, Son!"

"Your wife being chewing your ass out again, Frank? 'Coz you have none left!"
"Tell me about it brother! When I take the bus, I HAVE TO stand up ..."

Now, the difference below.

Two dodes* are in the locker room after a game. They are both getting dressed when one turns to the other and says. "Damn!!! Nice bitch tits you got there!"

The proverbial record skips. The silence is deafening.

"What did you just say?"
It is ON! A crowd quickly gathers. A cobbler starts building bleachers so that all can attend this throwdown .

"Um..."
"Yeah, that's what I thought you said. I'll have you know. I was in Nam! I took shrapnel in my heart, my lungs, and my spleen! The doctor's never thought I would recover. The metal tore through my organs and muscles. My life was spared, but I can never regenerate the muscle in my chest again..."
"Frank, you're 29 years old ! You weren't even born when Nam ended."
"Oh, now you calling me a liar?"
"Yeah..."
"Did I say Nam? I meant, um. Desert Storm! Back in 1991 !"
"Dude, don't you mean Dessert Storm. Pass the ice cream Sundaes and the Jello trough. More Cheetohs for all my men! I gots me an appetite. Nevermind that you would have been 11 years old at the time. Want to try again?"
Barely held back tears. Deep breath. "You know you crossed the line right? I mean there are RULES? Yes?"
Stop. Pause. "You're right Frank. Never again. I was way out of line. I'm sorry. Shake on it?"
Frank finishes getting dressed. He walks over and they shake.
"Ok. We're good, baldy!"
"Make it so Number 1 !"

*Curtain Falls.

See. Women, have it easy. With the magic of botox, hair weaves, extensions, toners, that there Pilates, or was that Pirates of Pains Ass? Anyway, women have options. Getting older and don't like how your boobs look? Get implants! The gents will be more attentive and you will be the envy of all your girlfriends (who will secretly plot against you and try to get a bigger cup size when they go for their puppy implants). Dudes don't have that option. We either hit the gym or hide our heads in shame under a XXX Giants sweatshirt.

Bitch tits indeed...

The only man that has been able to get away with Bitch Tits in recent history. Is Ric "Nature Boy" Flair. And those be Tits of Power!

dode - an over abundance of dudes . As in, "let's jet. This party has too many dodes in it!"

Nerdfinger

2009-01-06T10:34:00.000-08:00

Recently, the wife and I were discussing our strategy for my upcoming 35th Birthday Party, this coming Saturday, January 10th at Rancho de Stone Jackson (Bring presents) .

She turns and says to me, "You know, I can't recall the last time we had an adult shindig at our house."

"You're right," I say. "I'm not sure we ever held one at our old place in West Seattle." I do the math and, not counting family events, it's been 9 years or so since we have hosted an event for adult friends.

"I used to host parties all the time, back in my studio (in San Francisco) when I was single," Mrs. Jackson intones with a wistful look in her eye.

"Yeah, back when you were young and cool!" I snort like one of the eponymous zeros from my childhood.

"I was until you got your NERDFINGER on me!"

I stop. I rear my head back and laugh hysterically. What the hell?

"NERDfinger, eh? You're probably right..."

I'm like the dude below, but more Nerdy ...

Nerdfinger.
He's the man, the man with the geek touch.
A dork's touch.
Such a cold finger.
Beckons you to enter his web of sin
But don't go in.

Nerdy words he will pour in your ear,
But his lies can't disguise what you fear,
For a nerdened girl knows when he's kissed her,
It's the kiss of death from

Mister Nerdfinger.
Pretty girl beware of this heart of Nerd
This heart is word.

Nerdy words he will pour in your ear,
But his lies can't disguise what you fear,
For a nerdened girl knows when he's kissed her,
It's the kiss of death from

Mister Nerdfinger.
Pretty girl beware of this heart of nerd
This heart is word.

He loves only nerds,
Only nerds.
He loves nerds.
He loves only nerds,
Only nerds.
He loves nerds.

waterlogged (on and off)

2008-12-16T14:47:00.000-08:00

Woke up this morning to the sound of Stone Jackson Jr. plodding into my room my like the proverbial bull in the china shop. This here is what little man likes to do when it's 6:30 on the dot! He comes in and makes all sorts of noise, hoping to wake one of us up so that we give him the green signal to "Go on, git! Go watch some television you varmint!"

I always know when he is about to come in as I hear the hinges on his bedroom door swing wide open every morning. My wife keeps telling me to WD-40 those bad boys, but I refuse. I like the advanced warning that it gives me! Cheap and effective. It's all about preventing an unknown interloper from attacking you in your home.

Anyhow, my son comes in and I peep my eyes shut tighter pretending to be asleep. A few moments later, my boy dumps an entire glass full of water off of my wife's nightstand. I'm thankful that I recently had stopped piling up my library books on the ground there, as they would have been destroyed. Grumbling my wife gets up, grabs a towel, and dries up the table and carpet the best that she can.

A minute later, I turn to grab the cup of water on my "nightstand" and in the darkness proceed to dump the entire damn thing on my laptop that is sitting on top of the desk. I kick off my covers, my wife directing me from her side of the bed, 2 piles of laundry smack dab in the middle acting as a border between Nueva Jacksonia and Stonetown. "Grab a towel! Turn on the bathroom light! Grab the laptop! Brush your teeth! Put the seat down!"

I glare at my boy . I glare at her . I glare at the cat. I glare at the towel in my hand. I glare at the cup. I glare at the accursed computer for not been made of sturdier non water fearin' stuff.

!@#!@#!#@ and other unmentionable and undecypherable exclamations come from deep in my soul and to my tongue. It's like being full of the Lord in the middle of a Baptist Church, but much, less heavenly ...

I dry the bucket full of water off the chair, table, unplug and wipe off the laptop and set it on the kitchen table to dry. I remove the battery and jab a finger in its direction (no, not THAT one) and growl, "I'll deal with you later..."

I try to go back to sleep, but between the boy and my stomping, Little Princess is now awake. There is no going back now ... Damn! Sleep, is just a fading memory. Well, more like "Sleep" . As in, I didn't get any last night because baby girl kept kicking me in the face and kneeing me in the back, you know, the usual. That's her way of letting her daddy know how much she wants to snuggle up and loves him .

I call my wife later in the day while she is at work.
"Yup, I think the laptop is toast. I tried to plug it in and it made this weird sound like a cross between a drunk drowning in his own drink and a weak car horn underwater..."
"Why don't you just put the laptop in front of the fire place to dry it out?"
"Hmm. Okay. Roger Wilco little lady!"
I grab the laptop, take out the hard drive and plop that bad boy in front of my fireplace for about an hour. I sort of forgot about it for a while ... Come back and the thing is hot, hot like, Frodo's Ring on Mount Doom hot.

Arrrgggh! I curse to myself, "first I drown it, now I melt it, bloody hell!"

I wait for it to cool, I pop in the hard drive and battery, mutter a quick prayer, and wait. I'll be a coonhound's ass kicking uncle if that son of a bitch didn't fire right up. The laptop looked at me with a gleam in its cybernetic eye as if saying, "is that the worst you can do old man?"

Normally, I would have cut that bastard down to size, but figurin' that he had suffered enough in one day, I was magnanimous in my mercy and let him live... for now.

Stone Jackson's Guide to Christmas Tree Huntin', Wranglin', an' Choppin'

2008-12-09T12:34:00.000-08:00

or the day I almost died from exhaustion and destroyed the forest. True story.

Last Weekend the family and I made our yearly trek to the Christmas Tree lot to choose the ~~sacrificial~~,um, lucky bugger that had the honor of being chosen as the Stone Jackson family tree.

Our first stop was the Red Barn, a lovely place complete with , you guessed it, a Red Barn, working train, and many trees. The first thing on the agenda was to ride the train. It wasn't enough to ride in that bad boy, oh no, Stone Jackson Junior wanted to be one of the select few that got to ride in the caboose . This sort of thing is grand if you belong to the lollipop guild or are under the age of 10. Me, being the strappin' mountain of muscle and lean mass that I am, had to scrunch down and in, legs sticking out of either window as the train pulled away from the station. I saw more than one horrified mother trying to shield her child's eyes as she muttered, "it's not polite to stare at the abomination, Timmy."

One excruciating lap around the circuit and we pulled again into the main station. I shuddered trying not to feel too much like Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes as he is being Ape handled for transport and processing. Having done my penance for whatever it was that the Good Lord felt he needed to punish me for, I straightened up my Stetson, stretched my legs, and made my way to the free drink stand. My lovely bride scored herself a cup of coffee, while the kids and I slurped down our delicious mini chocolate milks. Having been enriched by the Vitamins A,D, and other nutrients, we made our way to the trees.

What proceeded next is a journey of epic proportions. We walked up down up down the rows of trees, trying to find the perfect specimen. "This one is too short... too dead ... to leafy ... too spotty ..." We started to sound like the pain in the ass bear from the children's story Old Hat\New Hat ...

After 2 hours of fruitless searching, we cut our losses and went to the next place.

"Sorry, my dear, but I am just not feeling it here. Let's not settle. Let's go elsewhere." What were these strange words coming from my lips?

The next stop was a placed called the Tree Wise Men . The 3 sage males mentioned in the ad were none other than Larry, Curly, and Moe. We hemmed and hawed, but after 45 minutes and 1 short brutal portapottie visit later, we moved on. Our tree quarry still eluded us.

In a funk, we steered the Stone Jackson Wagon home. Wait, did mine eyes deceive me? "Make that right up ahead. Now, woman!" A new tree lot had appeared next door and they were open. The hunt was still on!

A small scale Amtrak train model was out rusting in the elements. A weird post apocalyptic panorama like something out of Fallout 3 came to my head. “Get it together man!” I whispered to myself.

I introduced myself and my brood to the 2 old guys that were working in the place and exclaimed, “we’re here for a tree. An epic tree. One large and manly enough for my abode, yessiree bob!”

*blink* “We have trees that way.”

“Much obliged neighbor. Let’s go kids!" I snagged an underwhelming file saw that looked like something I’d use to pick my teeth after a good meal, and trudged down the mud.

We searched for that son of a bitch every which way. Up, down, left, right, sideways. I finally spotted one that I felt was impressive enough for my lovely wife. Bear in mind that we have 10 foot ceilings at our highest point only , yet my lovely bride had it stuck in her head that anything shorter of substratosphere height was not going to cut it this year.

“This is it,” I exclaimed excitedly.
A doubtful looked crossed her face. “I’m just not sure…”
I glared at her. As the tree was literally on the side of the road, it was covered in mud. Pete, one of the old guys that worked there ran over one of the lower branches as he drove by in a tractor looking for people and trees to pull back to base camp.

“He just ran over our tree!” she yelled.
Exhausted to the point of failure and like a punch drunk boxer late in the 12th round, I somehow stayed vertical. “Look here woman. THIS IS OUR TREE!”

That being that, I tossed my coat on the mud, got down on my knees and started to saw with all my might. Normally, all I would have had to do was to squint at the damn thing and the tree would have sawed itself and offered to turn any splinters into toothpicks for my pleasure. However, after 4 hours of tree hunting, I had reached my limit. I would have to go at this mano a mano. I can understand why tree farms don’t let wild eyed males run around their property with chain saws in their hands, but this rust covered gumless piece of shit hacksaw wasn’t sharp enough to shave the ass of a hog with. I gritted down and kept going.

“You want me to take over for you” my lovely wife asked . I pictured myself pistol whipping the manager of my local bank for some imagined misdeed against me as I did not want to quell her enthusiasm. “I’m good … thanks” I gritted in pain.

*hack hack hack hack* *cramp* *groan* *teeth grinding*

And here is where I segueway to tell you about my trademarked Stone Jackson technique for chopping down a tree. You make an incision with a saw at the base of the tree, once you get to about 5/6 of the way through and have dulled or destroyed all the teeth on the subpar saw that has been given to you, drop that piece of bent tin to the ground, take a wide sumo stance, legs akimbo, thrust out with each palm, and you push that son of a bitch over with gusto. Remember to yell “Timberrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” before you do so. The poor sap that is being smothered by that mammoth of a tree you just showed who is boss, just might appreciate the heads up!

“Don’t do it” my wife intones.
“Bah!” I am so tired, I am beyond caring. When this exhaustion hits. There is no God. There is nothing else. It’s you and IT and IT must fall. *Grunt*

*SNAP* I feel the reverb in my hands and look down . That satisfying snapping sound is a beauty to my ears. I look down, there is a huge, we’ll call it a bark like hang nail on my vic, er, tree. Damn it!

Pete comes around and he helps me to hoist my kill, um tree onto the back of the trailer.
“Want a ride?”
“Nah. I’ll walk!” I gingerly amble towards the front of the place to pay for the tree.

With a chagrined look on my face I ask the guys if they have a chainsaw on the premises to help me “square away” the base. They do. Zip, zip and we are done.

We hoist this massive timber on to my 1998 Jeep Grand Cherokee. I pray to the good lord that my 10 year old pusillanimous drive engine makes up the hill to my home. Somehow, it does.

The wife and I pull the thing down and try to impale it on our Christmas tree stand. That’s a negative Ghost Rider. This thing’s trunk has the diameter of a big honking leg of ham. I make the trek to Wal-Mart and get the biggest base they have. After much cursing and even MORE sawing we somehow get the base on. The next task is to hose the tree down to get rid of any extra dead needles. I dig through my cavernous shed and find a hose to reconnect to the spigot outside. I hose down the Green Ogre for a few minutes. My thoughts lost in the clouds, I let the hose go instead of gently putting it down on the ground. The damn thing lands on the handle and sprays me from face to toe. I have ice cold water dripping down my nose, barrel chest, groin, and legs. As if I wasn’t already freezing my nuts off. Son of a bitch ! I drag the tree back into the garage and let it dry overnight …

The next day while my wife is at work, I bring the tree up by myself and proudly hoist in its place of honor. That I was able to do so while avoiding a hernia is a testament to my prodigious strength and good luck. This is not so much a tree but something that a well oiled Scotsman would use for the Caber Toss in the Highlander Games …

My wife gets home and looks at it. She lifts a single branch and thousands of dead needles come to land at our feet. “Did you hose this off?”

“Yes, m’am. Nearly froze my nuts off doing so.”
“You sure? Look at these needles?”
There is no denying it. The suckers are everywhere.
I tip my hat back, “Well, m’am upon CLOSER inspection it seems this tree is half dead.”

I feed it water anyway and pray. Still undecided between putting a bed sheet over its head and giving it a GI party here on the premises or hoping it pulls through. I was tired of this damn tree.

The next day while the wife is at work, I plot. I scheme. I seethe. I start by using a little canister vacuum which quickly fills up. I then use a big ass wet dry vac to try to vacuum up all of the dead needles, but it does no good. Every time I nudge the tree a metric fuck ton more needles come tumbling down. I am also spending more time prying the vac hose off the plastic tarp than actually cleaning anything up.

I cave in and call her. “We need to take this thing back, give it away or something. This ain’t going to work. It’s like pushing on a string, it’s no good.”
“Okay,” she says.

My little lady gets home from work. We hoist the tree up on the roof of the Jeep and she takes off. I stay back as I have to get Junior from his bus stop after school.

My bride calls. “I hope you don’t hate it. I think it’s like 6 feet tall…”
“WHAT? We paid $80 for a 6 foot Pee Wee are you kidding me?”

As she pulls up in the driveway, I rush to the car, tape measure in hand. “Wait a minute, this is closer to 9 feet. It’s tall enough” I exclaim, relieved.

“We should take it back” she states.
“What? How can we take a tree back if we haven’t even looked at it for Pete’s sake?!” I responded, already back pedaling and just wanting the damn tree saga to be over.

We take it home and unfurl it. As it is a more demure size, it is able to fit into our old tree stand. I hose it down and take a look. It is a) not half dead b) does not weigh a metric fuck ton and c) is pretty nice.

Rejoice! I bring it inside the next morning and put it in the place of honor. I feed it water and pet it on the head. Good tree. Nice tree.

The following day I dip my hand in the base. Hmm. It hadn’t taken a single ounce of liquid.

“You do realize that it is a pre-cut tree which means you had to cut off a little bit of the base so it could drink up right?”

My face crashes hard and lands on the floor. My eyeballs went east while my mouth, nose, and ears, all split up like pirates trying to find the treasure. I recompose myself.

Hmmmm. I take the tree off of the stand and take the base ass hanging just outside my back deck and I go to town SANS lube. I take my JET GRIP shark tooth saw and hack hack hack hack hack cut the base so that it can drink up.

“You killed the tree” my woman wails. “You’re only supposed to take off an inch if that. How much did you remove?”

I show her the back end (smaller side) of what I cut off. “Tiny, you see!”
“Show me the other side!”
I do. It’s more like 4 inches.
“This tree is going to be runt” she laments.
“Nah. Trust me or my name isn’t Stone Jackson!”
“It’s N…”
“Shush, Woman! Don’t you believe in the Power of Christmas?”

I put the tree on the base, feed it more water, and take a step back.
She cocks her head to the side. “Now THAT is a tree. Tall, slender, green. Yes!”
Relieved, I go and get blind ass drunk. AFTER I make delicious chocolate covered pretzels to atone for my sins.

True Story.

Mr. Mom

2008-12-04T13:56:00.000-08:00

One of the side effects of me being unemployed at this time is that I get to spend more time with Sofia, my precocious 3 year old . On days that the wife is working and we don't have a babysitter, I am on duty. 8 am comes around and I look at the clock with terror, knowing that soon, it will just be she and I, my son already having been picked up by the bus, and my spouse running out the door.

"Mornin', Daddy. Can I watch Spongebob?"
"Sure, honey. Let's go potty, then we can watch Spongebob."

A few moments later "Whoooooooooo lives in a Pineapple Under the Seaaaaaaaaaaaa" blares from my Sony LCD in the living room .

This is our routine. It cannot be changed or deviated from. That square yellow sponge has a grip on my little girl's heart and my tv. Son of a bitch! I need to talk to some guys I know and get him taken care of...

After allowing her to watch a few Tivo'd episodes, we move to breakfast, then play time in her room. Usually this involves me sitting on the floor, eyes crusted over, wearing my robe and slippers, while playing with a doll of some sort.

"You be the momma one and I'll be the baby one" she extols.
"Okay!"

I start pantomiming some giberrish.
"Noooooooooo! Cute talk! Like this! " her high pitched voice commands.

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth - "Wassaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap. Jojojojojojo dawg. Check out my bling holmesssssssssssssssss." My accent a cross between a thug gangsta and Lady something or other from Mr. Roger's Neighborhoood.

After 30 minutes of doing this, my legs are cramped and my ass feels flat, my ego has been shredded down to confetti. I look at the time.

"Jesus!" I think to myself, I need to get a job. I look around at the disarray in the house, piles of unfolded laundry on the bed, dishes piling up in the kitchen sink, the tornado of destruction in both kids' rooms. "Seriously, job. Now!"

I pry myself out of Sofia's room and sit at the computer.

"Daddy, I'm hungrryyyyyyyyyyyy!"
"But, it's, WHAT? it's noon already? Wow, um sure honey, let's make lunch!"

I always tell my wife that I am not the Mr. Mom type. I am not Mary Fucking Poppins
or Ty Pennington from Home Improvement. I am not going to remodel the kitchen, sew new drapes, have dinner at the table by 5 pm, whilst refining my perfect abs.

I really don't know how people stay at home to be full time parents and not lose it. I cringe remembering all those times I called my lovely bride on the phone during my allotted 2 minute "break" to give her shit about being an at home mom . You know, the usual schtick about watching Oprah and eating Bon Bons all day. Every time I do, I feel like kicking myself in the nuts repeatedly for being such a jerk. Of course, I meant it in total jest, but still. I also will refrain from getting annoyed that the bed is covered in clean laundry as now I see how the day can just get away from you. Being a stay at home parent is the equivalent of being under the influence of mind bending drugs 24/7. You are baffled, easily lose focus, can't remember what you are supposed to be doing, and Tom and Jerry start to make sense...

This summarizes it for me:
Jack Butler: You wanna beer?
Ron Richardson: It's 7 o'clock in the morning.
Jack Butler: Scotch?

Wow. I seriously need to get a job. STAT.

If you smell what Barack is Cookin'

2008-11-05T16:38:00.000-08:00

I am not sure that the internet will be able to stand up to the weight, the buzz, and anticipation from last night's Election. In many ways, this will be yet another blog entry celebrating the momentous occasion we witnessed.

Barack Hussein Obama - a mixed son of a Kenyan father and a white Kansan mother will be the next president of the United States of America. I always prayed that I would see a minority elected president, but always feared that it would be toward the end of a long life. Yesterday's results blew that assumption out of the water and for that, I am thankful.

To all the doubters, the pessimists, the extremists, the blind partisans, we as a people said "Yes, We Can!" .

Even though I lost my job yesterday, and I just found out today that my step mom got fired from hers too, I am hopeful. The fact that it happened on Election Day is doubly ironic. Undeterred, we will dust our shoulders off, look up with confidence AND belief - "Yes, We Can!"

Quick side note here, loyal readers - my stepmom is a naturalized citizen, she was born in El Salvador. My father, a Spaniard, is also a naturalized citizen and chose not to vote. My brother, who is 20 years old and in college is not even registered. I was baffled. Here is a woman, who does not even have a driver's license, who has toiled all her life, and saved and scrimped, and she took part in the process. My father and brother, HAVE NO EXCUSES. To say that I am dissappointed is an understatement. I am of the firm belief that if you don't care enough to take part of the process, shut your gob, as you have no right to complain.

I am excited. I am hopeful. I am confident. President Obama will have many challenges in the days and years ahead, but the American people will prevail. We will see our standing on the world stage restored, our good deeds noticed, and our light will shine once more.

Yes. We. Can.

How to Influence Others and be a Total Bastard

2008-10-31T10:55:00.000-07:00

So I am doing research for my next career and decided to do a search on behavior profiling.

1. Focus on You

In times of economic uncertainty, remember to focus on what you can control, not what you can't. In essence, this means focusing on yourself. Make time to take stock. There are many self-assessment tools available -- attainment tests, personality inventories, interests and motivations inventories, behavior profiling -- which can help you to develop a personal business vocabulary. "

Source: http://hotjobs.yahoo.com/career-articles-t

op_5_tips_to_weather_economic_uncertainty-383

I somehow came across this:

"So you want to control the minds of other people, to be able to persuade them to do the things you'd like them to do. You are not alone; the subject of mind control has fascinated people throughout history. The ability to give subliminal messages suggestions would be a powerful tool to have.

Some believe the whole idea a fallacy, that there is no way you can put others in a trance right now, or influence them to do things they would normally not do. Yet history gives many examples of people who possess great influencing skills. If you are here because you imagine that you could have this skill, then let's examine what mind control really is.

What skills are needed and what powers you must possess to master mind control?

More than anything, you must have the ability to control your own mind. This is 90% of it. Really, unless you have a clear and congruent thought process, your past limitations will hold you back from mastering these and other people skills. All the techniques in the world will not assist you, until you make changes in yourself. You must:

Possess a high level of confidence - Beliefs in yourself will increase your success and there is no limit to what you can believe.

Live in a world of abundance - A poverty mind set, has you being needy and in fear, so remove your limitations

Be able to gain rapport with others - If people trust you, they will listen.

Possess charisma and a mastery of language - Learn to talk to people's emotions and they will take a high interest in what you want"

Who the hell wrote this Karl Rove?

Source:
http://www.designedthinking.com/Workshops/Mind_control/mind_control.html

Where in the World is Stone Jackson?

2008-10-06T08:29:00.000-07:00

Has it been almost a year since my last post? Great oogly moogly. Been very busy at work and at home with my little ones. Stayed up a little late to watch the Steelers beat the Jaguars. Excellent!

More posts to come.

Resistance is Futile

2007-11-08T08:15:00.000-08:00

Starting next week, my team will have to do 5 hours of mandatory over time due to Q4.

I average about 43 hours a week, so an extra 2 hours is not too bad. Honestly, I could use the money. What this means is that I will be getting up at 6 am to catch the 6:37 train to be in at work by 7:30. 7:30 am to 5 pm with 1/2 hour lunch = 9 hour day x5 = Victory.

And so begins another Q4 of work, have dinner, sleep, work. Good times. Good times.

Go Away, Busy Writing

2007-11-01T16:03:00.001-07:00

November 1st . Today marks the beginning of a new month, NBA season, and National Novel Writing Month. I am going to curtail my online activity to write this month.

The basic gist is that you write 50,000 words in 1 month. Don't edit. Don't correct. Write. You don't have time to make a profile. Shoot him in the head. Go. It's up to us ... (Inside Joke).

So, 50,000 words = app 1,700 words a day for 30 days = 175 pages = a novella length work. We will call it a novel, because novel sounds sexier. Novel sounds official.

For more details, go to:
http://www.nanowrimo.org/

The site is being redesigned and will be slow, so don't be surprised if it times out.

Also, show your love and support for my bud, Uppity:
http://www.uppityrib.com/

The Faerie Princess

2007-10-30T16:40:00.001-07:00

Undefeated

2007-10-29T08:23:00.000-07:00

That is my theme for the day.

As in, my son's soccer team went 6-0 and ended the season undefeated .
Full disclaimer, we don't keep "official" score for 6 and under soccer, but still.

I am going to miss coaching these kids. I was pretty emotional after the game Saturday.
The wife kept busting my chops about it.
*Sob* You don't understand!

There is always next fall to look forward to. Some of Gabriel's team mates go to the same school that he does, so I should be able to run into them here and there.

Undefeated...

Ho Ho Ho Happy Halloween

2007-10-25T11:35:00.001-07:00

My 2 year old daughter exclaimed, "Ho Ho Ho!!! Happy Halloween!" last night.

It was so cute that we all had a good chuckle about it.

However, we were a bit perturbed. Colleen turns to me and says, "this is what's wrong with our society. We are so over commercialized. It's not even Halloween yet and we are already hearing about Christmas."

You know. She's right. Let's skip Halloween and Thanksgiving and go straight for Q4 BUY BUY BUY SHOP TILL YOU DROP OMGWTFBBQ SALES!!!! X-Mass extravaganza.

This might be an ironic stance for me to take as I work for a major etailer, but still. I want to be able to enjoy Fall and Halloween, upcoming Birthdays (Gabe and my sister in law Amy), Thanksgiving before I have to worry about selling all my blood plasma to try to afford to buy presents for people, who already have everything that they NEED.

Trick or (Humbug) Treat everyone!