Eight Feet Deep

It has always been beyond me how people who work at a computer all day can hover over one at night. But ho and belold, here I am. Today I tried to finish my crash self-training course for my part-time job before I have to show up for real classes on Tuesday in Washington, D.C.

The self-study would have been okay if I had received the computer I will use for my job sometime before yesterday, which is when it finally arrived. Luckily, the computer didn’t produce any glitches but the course (actually there were two — another course came with the computer)appeared as if it had been put together in a fit of slobbering drunkenness. Oh well, at least someone had some fun.

But I do kind of look forward to the journey as I will be sleeping in a bed (I’m still living in my truck)in a relatively nice hotel in Maryland. And it’s cherry blossom time in DC. So we’ll see how that goes.

A lot of political shenanigans are going on in Washington as well. We seem to be steeped in the Alberto Gonzales controversy which, because of my abiding affection for the attorney general, I will hence name the controversy Weaselgate. I doubt that I’ll run into Al or Carl Levin or anyone well-known on the national scene. If I do, I might take a photo of them or have my photo made with them. Wouldn’t it be funny to have a photo of me and Attorney General Al “The Weasel” Gonzales? Well, it would be funny if you knew me. Or maybe it wouldn’t be. Until DC …

Don’t let the media pull your leg (or any other appendage)this April Fool’s Day, says “Slate” media critic Jack Shafer.

Ask me why I would like to give up living in my truck and go for something a bit more conventional, and I could give you any number of reasons. So I will leave the individual’s positions as to my surroundings and its appropriateness at bay.

One particular reason, many others — of course — exist, that I hope to soon find a place to live is not having to look over my shoulder frequently for a cop car. It may be some time before I ever describe exactly where I have been staying as one might understand.

But I can tell you that it has been in a parking lot which is seen most days by a decent number of people, especially those who work in an adjacent office building. And while I can’t tell you that I have the owner’s express permission to be staying there in my temporary state, it is assumed to be the case. (And “assume,” here, doesn’t necessarily mean making an “ass” out of “u” and “me.”)

A local cop approached me Sunday afternoon for the first time in which I have stayed at this particular location. I had pulled up beside a mostly unused minivan and was sitting there enjoying a few rays of sun by which to read and I heard the slow gravel crunch of an approaching gendarme cruiser.

This young police officer first approached me as I sat inside the cab and asked me for my license and proof of liability insurance. Although I complied promptly, the cop quickly requested that I exist my truck and put my hands on the tailgate of my pickup. He then began frisking me. He said that he did so because he saw a knife inside my truck. All I could think of at that moment was a little pocket knife that I keep in the boot of my gearshift. But I later saw that I had left my sizable Buck knife sitting in one of the mostly useless plastic orifices inside my Toy-coma pick-em-up.

I remember thinking while he frisked me that I didn’t like it very much at all. It was not the first time I had been involved in a pat-down search. Bur regardless, I was particularly irritated although I wisely kept my tongue civil for once. Another cop soon joined in the fun and the first cop then asked if he could search my truck. I had to hesitate for a minute.

I could have flatly said “no.” He may then have requested for the police dog to do a more thorough look or he might have just said: “The heck with it.” But I let him go for it.

It wasn’t that I was worried he would find any contraband other than the Buck knife and a lot of beach sand on the carpet. But I am one of those persons who doesn’t like the idea of a cop searching something of yours just because he can. Sorry, it goes against my views of what the Constitution of this great union is about.

The cops — who have that genetic trait of requiring they get the last word — eventually said before leaving that the neighborhood in which I was residing along with a fellow traveler is not the safest in the city. I told the two officers that I was clearly aware of that and that had I the money, I would not be where I was standing at that particular point in time.

Looking back, I bear no grudge against the cops pulling up to investigate my presence at that mostly empty car lot. The first officer said someone saw me pull in the driveway and not leave, thus reported this as suspicious activity. (They ought to see the suspicious activity to which guys are heading to and from crossing that property each night.) And I can also see his reason for physically searching me. But, I thought the officer’s examining the inside of my truck was a bit excessive. Oh well, oils wells that ends Wales, I like to say.

Hopefully, my version of life on the streets won’t be running much longer. I leave Monday for two weeks of training in our nation’s capital for my new part-time job and hope I can get a place soon after returning to Southeast Texas.

Events like a cop searching your car are not big ones over which one should get angry, pout, send a letter to the editor, or react in an outwardly negative way. It is merely a facet of life which I find unpleasant which goes along with my temporarily living conditions. It is all the more reason to find a “real” place around Beaumont, Texas, to reside. If you know of any good affordable rents, especially bargains, I would appreciate an e-mail. Until then I guess you will find me out on the city streets, just a homeless, part-time, bureaucrat-cum-freelance writer. It’s by no means the perfect life, but it beats shoveling horse stalls.

Obviously, any kind of toilet accident in space could be bad.

Nothing can be more unwelcome in the confusion of a night’s slumber — particularly after having downed a drink or three — than a catastrophic failure of a toilet tank. Such an occurrence becomes even more regrettable when the toilet that you are flushing and explodes, belongs to a friend who let you sleep on her couch. “Ouch,” I’d say if I was Dr. Seuss, but I’m not.

It is one of those situations which can lead to strained friendships. My friend was having a hard time with my explanation, before I left later that morning, that the toilet just disintegrated. She was concerned that her landlord would not accept such an explanation, which is understandable.

An examination I did of the tank later in the morning, rather than during the Niagra-like pandemonium of the moment the tank came apart, left me with only speculation of possible reasons for the tank failure. Try as I might, I haven’t been able to find any single explanation why the toilet, “seamlessly” came apart during the early morning hours of March 25, 2007.

The crack extended above and below the side-mounted handle and down the right side of the tank, underneath and up along the other side. That is how I remember it at least. I wasn’t wanting to tarry too long after waking as my friend began absorbing the shock of what happened to her relatively new toilet and how the situation would ultimately stabilize.

All I know is that I flushed the toilet and it was like watching in slow motion some old World War II movie about sappers destroying an enemy dam. And I will never know for sure what caused it.

A few possibilities include that the toilet possessed some sort of stress fracture from the factory. The handle was used quite a few times that night, but it might not have even made a difference. When a toilet flushes and refills, water is moving and as we all know from watching the television news, moving water can rain down all kinds of death and destruction. Moving the handle may have disturbed a tiny stress in the tank which, with much certainty, opened up so quickly that it would have had Moses searching for a life jacket.

Also, if you’ve ever seen on the Discovery Channel the shows in which aircraft disasters are reconstructed, you know that rarely is there only one cause. Rather a continuum of failures lead to the catastrophe.

Perhaps the problem in the tank could have occurred without any human intervention such as with a sudden surge of water pressure. And if something such as that took place while my friend was away on her upcoming vacation, then it could have been a more serious situation. The water would continue to spew and since she lives in an upstairs apartment, well, it just presents a thought which one would rather not perceive.

That doesn’t help what happened to my friend’s toilet, however. And I feel bad about what happened. I would feel better if I knew for certain that I was directly to blame for the colossal unpleasantness. But I can’t say with any certainty that I was. I can only offer my apologies, once again, for the episode itself and then hope we can move past this disturbing event.

For more about toilets behaving badly:
http://home.att.net/~toyletbowlbbs/toilets.htm

How easy it becomes to fault government policy when you think, or know, what is the blame because it is staring you in the face. Like a buddy told me the other day, Ray Charles can even see how the current administration is leading us down the road to hell through its arrogant folly of a foolish war. And as most of you know, Ray Charles is not only blind, but is also dead.

But invariably, someone occasionally comes along who can hammer your head back into reality. Such a person can inject a heavy dose of perspective, no matter how you feel about their political philosophy or on which side of the aisle they seat themselves in Congress.

An Esquire profile on maverick Republican Sen. Chuck Hagel of Nebraska serves up a reality check that should show even those with vision difficulties that political party is not the most overwhelmingly important ingredient in governing. Instead, says this excellent piece, it is the person and all of his or her combos of triumphs and hard knocks that ensure the nation will indeed be served by its government no matter how much we pout over the thought.

Among the reality as flashed through the seen-a-bad-moon-rising eyes of Chuck Hagel in Charles Pierce’s piece:

“He’s not accountable anymore,” says Hagel about Gee Dubya … You can impeach him, and before this is over, you might see calls for his impeachment. I don’t know. It depends how this goes.”

Hagel bluntly explains to his own in committee about hard decisions: “If you wanted a safe job,” Hagel said memorably, “go sell shoes.”

The portrait of Hagel is a fascinating one that explains his convictions as to why opposing a war isn’t the mark of cowardice or is not malice against one’s country. One who reads this profile may not be inclined to go right out and elect Hagel president. But, who knows? Perhaps reading about why Chuck Hagel is a conservative Republican who thinks the Iraq war is insane might just inspire a badly-needed bit of respect for those of us who have difficultly finding much to admire about many of our so-called nationals “leaders.”