Sunday morning: 4:50am, Pacific time . . .
Spring done sprang out here in the wild, wild west as well, Karen Sue. I noticed it particularly yesterday on the three or four occasions when I took Trixie out for her walkies. She's been frustrating me lately because we did have a system down where she would 'signal' when she wanted to go potty. She'd stand up on her hind legs and paw at my thigh, while I was seated at my desk. "Okay," sez me, "I'll take ya. Let's go." We would head out to the the bitterly unforgiving winds of approximately 10 mph, with soaring temperatures of 78-80 degrees . . . suitably attired in my blue terrycloth robe and my stunning Birkenstock sandals, casually holding her leash as she roamed around the front yard, exploring every gopher hole she could find. Lately, she has discivered a new diversion. Lizards. She loves to chase lizards. I rather like lizards and don't want her to catch them. I think lizards are kinda cute. Plus, I don't like to see anything killed, except for flies, mosquitoes, Gadaffi and Bin Laden. So, I jerk her leash and say "No!" She understands this word and cheerfully accepts my command and proceeds to the backyard, for which I am grateful. Here there is a nice, comfortable lawn chair where I may rest my weary bones after having trudged around for maybe 10 minutes with no result.
Of the three or four occasions I took her out, only once did she go tinkle. Once! And that is what frustrates me. She has abused the "signal" we had been using. I don't mind taking her out when she truly does have to go potty. But I don't like it when she takes me away from my work just to romp in the grass, chase gophers and lizards, and to just lie, stretched out, on the nice soft green grass, looking for all the world like a pup that is of regal status.
After about five minutes of this, I give her the infamous Davis glare and say, "okay, young lady, we're going back in the house. You did not do your duty!" Of course, if she has done her duty, then daddy praises the hell out of her. We return to the house, I take off her leash and she runs down the hall looking for mommy. She doesn't seem at all concerned that she has taken her daddy away from very important work, chronicling the great events of our time, while working steadily in my palatial office.
About 6pm last night, Evelyn asked me if I was planning on being the Hugh Hefner of Escondido.
"Why, no," sez me, "why do you ask?"
"Well," sez her, "you've been in your robe and sandals all day long. I figured you were either trying to portray Hugh Hefner, who lounges around the Playboy Mansion, night and day, in his robe. Or perhaps you were trying to emulate Jesus, who also was said to wear a robe and sandals."
I assured her everything was just fine, I was just growing a bit eccentric as I aged.
Shooting the Messenger:
Like many of us, I figured the "birthers" were mostly comprised of far right wing wackos. I had little time for them and I tired of receiving all the emails alleging that Obama was born under a bush somewhere in Kenya.
But then I received a note from a local patent attorney with an analysis of the long form certificate of live birth that had been released by the Associated Press, via the White House. He showed that the pdf file that displayed the form was, in fact, a series of layers that had been blended together. Several other correspondents forwarded me videos from strangers, but who were clearly very talented and knowledgeable graphic artists. They knew pdf's. They knew Photoshop. They knew how to assemble and disassemble photo art.
I have my own, very talented, Art Director, Troy Larson. I sent him the original pdf, and asked him to take a look at it and tell me what he thought. I posted his comments yesterday. He says, very clearly, that this document is not only a fake, it is a poor fake . . . badly done, easily recognized as a fake. He went so far as to say the person who put this document together should be fired for incompetence. Four people saying the same thing. Demonstrating the same thing, showing the different elements, showing how some of the numbers in the document were added as a new element to a pre-existing number. Of the four people, I knew two of them personally. Neither are far right wing wackos. They are highly trained, skilled technical talents.
Though I have thought the birthers were nuts .. . I am also a skeptic . . . and am beginning to have my own doubts about the authenticity of this document, based on the presentation of forensic evidence from two people I know and trust and two others I don't know from a door knob but appear to know whereof they speak.
I decided to share that information with many of my correspondents, seeking their comment and/or discussion.
To my great surprise, rather than accept the information I posted, and examine it to determine if it needed further investigation, one of my long time correspondents sought to shoot me down . . . suggesting, in so many words, that I had become a bit like Chicken Little and was running around in circles yelling that the world was coming to an end.
I was not. I was sharing information that I had received . . . seeking further discussion and/or investigation.
While I would not yet characterize myself as a "birther," I do find that I am a lot more skeptical as to the authenticity of the alleged certificate of birth based on forensic examination and evidence that suggests to me the document was tampered with.
While I am gravely, though not mortally, wounded by he who shot the messenger, I shall survive.
But I sure could use a young, attractive nurse to tend to my wounds.
And maybe to shine my shoes. Or sandals.
And, while she's at it, a good Omaha steak, medium rare, if you please.
At 5:20am, Pacific time, on a Sunday . . . this is me.
POOF! I am gone.