His outfit, as it turned out, matched nicely with the playground furniture although I assure you that was not the intention, but proves that he is photogenic even when seemingly camouflaged in his natural environment.

The lake was glass-calm and not a breeze bothered the leaves of the turning trees above our heads as we walked hand-in-hand with our little boy between us, crunching the leaves underneath the soles of his sneakers and pointing out the flowers (wa-wah!) and various bugs (beeee!).     I could feel myself disconnect from the world as a whole and sink into the serenity of the moment, even a little, as my heart surrounded my wife and my son and hugged it all closely, if only for a sunset.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2009. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

1.  Despite being a computer geek at heart, I am also a closet gearhead and rather enjoy doing my own car work.   So far, I have done oil changes, coolant changes, inner tie rod bushings, tire rotations, drum brakes, throttle body synch, and valve cover gaskets.   I drive a pretty wicked stick shift, too.

2.  Stories and commercials that depict Christmas toys that aren’t played with and are ignored in favor of something else flashier make me get weepy almost every single time without fail, even now.   (for instance, boy gets teddy bear until boy gets latest craze toy and tosses teddy bear aside).   As a child or teenager I’d burst out sobbing.

3.  I talk to myself all the time when I am alone.   I often sing songs to myself, under my breath, only barely making enough noise to hear myself subvocally.    If there is an interesting rhythm to the song, I’ll tap it out by clicking my teeth together.   I know that I am getting tired when a song gets stuck in my head and will not leave, no matter how many times I sing it through to the finish.   If I am not tired, I can usually get the song out of my head by “finishing” it.    If I am tired, this will not work, no matter how flamboyant I make the ending.

4.   I really wish I was a bass (vocally, not the fish).   I love trying to hit the notes even though I’ve been told it sounds something akin to a walrus orgasming.   That being said, I wouldn’t want the stigma that comes with being a bass, so I don’t mind my current talents….mostly.

5.  At home, I rarely use the restroom without picking up a book while doing so.    Even when I’m just taking a leak, I’m prone to have one hand on my junk and one hand on a novel.    After I’m finished, I’ve been known to stand in the bathroom, leaning up against the sink, and reading for up to an hour after, simply because I become so involved in the story.    Yes, I realize this borders on incredibly strange.   (for the record, I don’t mix up hands, so sanitation of my reading material isn’t an issue)

6.  I cannot stand the sensation of popsicle sticks or tongue depressors on my tongue.   The mere thought of it makes me cringe.   I have to be very careful when I get to the center of a popsicle or I’ll zing myself badly.

7.  I prefer to sleep with the covers pulled to my chin, inside flannel sheets, with several blankets on top, even in summer.   I’ll happily pay the electricity to have the room cold enough to pull this off.   I always sleep in just my skivvies so getting too hot usually isn’t a problem.    Thankfully, my wife likes sleeping like this, too.

There you go, seven things about me that you probably wish you didn’t know, but now you do, so you can’t erase it — kinda like watching a horror movie.     I sincerely doubt anyone that I tag will do this (because I’m not even sure they READ this thing, let alone will do it) but what the hell, I’ll try it…..I hereby tag Alynda, Bec, BillyGean, Shelley, Courtney, Lea, and Ben.   Good luck.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | One comment. One lonely comment looking for a friend. | Subscribe RSS

Here’s some things I do know:

- Without extremely strict guidance as to where funds are used in the corporations, they will be misused.     Period.    Clearly the folks couldn’t properly use their own money; what makes us think they’ll use loaned money any better?     To paraphrase Olbermann, piles of cash sitting around are a bad idea.

- There’s loans to hold your current business open and keep it running, and there’s loans to restructure it into something better.    Everyone says it’d be bad to let them go into bankruptcy, but for restructuring?   I think that’s exactly what they need.    Telling someone to stop being bad or hold a gun to their head and see which method gets more response.

- I really, really hate unions.   Always have — I think they’re fundamentally unnecessary in today’s modern market.    And now we are going to (probably) see a prime example of why they’re a bad idea when everyone has to go along with the negotiated terms.    UAW Suckers.

- Letting these companies die scares a lot of folks, and don’t get me wrong — it’s a big deal.   But to be honest, I’m leaning more and more towards letting them die.    Yes, it’ll be extremely painful, but in the long term I think we’ll end up with something better than we will if we limp things along.   It’s like a broken bone — if you snap a bone straight through, when it heals it’ll be very strong, stronger than it was before.   But a “green” fracture that only bends or frays the bone takes longer to heal and is never the same again.    I think that can be applied here, and as painful and traumatic as it is, a clean break may be our best bet.

I worry — a lot.   We’re struggling big-time to make it right now, but if I had my choice, I’d rather dive into a horrific couple of years to emerge victorious and more productive than ever before vs. limping a broken economy along for the next 10 years.

Your thoughts and discourse on these reflections and any others are appreciated.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 4 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Please change over your URLs, even though the old ones will work (for now), but this blog now has its very own domain!

www.philosyphia.com

And, for you with feed readers, my blog’s feed URL is here:

www.philosyphia.com/index.php/feed/

More postings to come this weekend/week; last week was full of sick me, wife, and kid, and tons of work, practice, and singing two concerts, so I went a bit slack on getting moving on these “Controversies”, but I’ll get back on that horse, honest!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | One comment. One lonely comment looking for a friend. | Subscribe RSS

I’m an extremely picky bastard when it comes to writing with something other than a keyboard, and I generally hate it as my handwriting is a drunken chicken stumbling about and while I can write nicely, I usually cannot be bothered to actually take the time and hand wringing to do so.   I doubt not that I would get better with practice, but…c’mon.   I’m a computer geek.   Do you really see me picking up the quill and papyrus on a regular basis?

I remember throughout my life I’ve gone through, “pen phases”, jumping from one brand to another in a never-ending love affair with a particular type.   I’ve done the rollerball phase, the internal fountain pen fiasco, the ultra-super-mega-fine pens, mediums, black, felt, fiber, blue.    Usually this would be caused by me finding a pen I really liked and then getting only that one until I can’t find it anymore.  I would pine, fret, and weep for awhile, longing for the pen that was no longer, then like a lamb to the slaughter I’d find a new love and off we’d trot down the long lane of college-ruled notebooks once again.

Currently I’m using a Uniball Signo 0.7mm medium black gel ballpoint that I came to love at my previous employment and brought several with me to my new, where they do NOT supply the same pen.    So, I just found them online and ordered 20 so I had plenty to feed my habit for awhile.    It probably fosters more scribbling but is perfect for what I use handwriting for — notetaking, jotting down lists and variable names, making up to-dos for myself, and marking up copy.

I have always chewed on my pens which, to the untrained eye, seems to be be a bad oral fixation habit that borders on abhorrent.    However, to a like participant, the rattiness of a pen indicates the hours of musings, contemplations, and grinding of issues in one’s brain.    In short, it’s a percussive history of thought.    Plus, it almost always ensure that our pens don’t grow legs and go off wandering.

Pencils are a  different beast for me, as when I use them I often spend the majority of the time wondering why I’m not using a pen.   For writing, they drag so much against the paper that I feel sluggish, slowed-down, inhibited, and I can’t write with the flowing style I prefer.   That’s not to say that I don’t like pencils — I do, but for drawing and drafting, especially the harder leads that really make fine lines.   There’s nothing like the swish of a pencil across a blueprint, let me tell you.

But I do so little writing these days, preferring instead to whack the keys, where I can be both faster and more accurate.   Handwriting explicitly well has become something of a lost art due to those of the modern age, for certain.

What sort of tools best fit your writing needs and styles?    What do they say about you?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 6 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 8 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Our pilot, Captain Yolanda. Landa offered to drive there, which is terribly nice considering that at least half of route is exactly what I do every day for work and, contrary to local belief, it is BORING AS HELL.

Keston, as usual, had the best seat in the house, complete with front-view mirror, bottles of sustinence, and toys hanging from the ceiling. Unfortunately for him and us, he did not fall asleep until we were 5 minutes away from our destination. DOH!

Along the way, we stopped at the Charles City wind farm for a photo op. Aren’t they posing nicely?

Once we got to Decorah, we headed to Luther College’s campus, my alma mater, to explore a bit and try to meet up with my college roommate and his family. (Unfortunately for them, his youngest got stung by two bees and they had to take off early.) So, we wandered around for awhile and enjoyed the view.

We then headed to Dunning Springs, a local natural spring with some beautiful scenery.

You’d practically have to TRY to screw up a good photo at this location.

Yolanda and Keston looking happy that they are out, absorbing some good ol’ fashioned nature.

We stopped to pose a bit, too.

Keston was fascinated by the water and probably would have played in it had it not been the typical freezing temperature typical to springs.

Oh, for the want of an DSLR, but I tried my best to capture something interesting.

We then headed up to Phelps Park, a park and scenic overlook across the Oneota Valley and the lower part of Decorah. We stood for awhile, admiring the view, peoplewatching the couples making out in the niches and the artist drawing an incredibly detailed pencil sketch of the river.

We then got asked to take a picture of a couple girls, and they returned the favor for us.

Keston loved playing with the rocks that made up the walls, laid in a herringbone style.

What? I’m just playing!

We then headed downtown to check out some of the shops. We then tried to hit T-bock’s, a very popular local sports bar (where they serve the infamous peanut butter cheeseburger and Erma burger), but it was stuffed full, so we ended up at the 2nd best place, Mabe’s Pizza, where we had a large half-and-half chicken BBQ and Deluxe. It was lovely.

After finishing up with Mabe’s and hitting the Co-Op for some things for Kes (rice ice cream and rice cheese), we hit up the Whippy Dip, the best ice cream stand known to man, and had some sweets before heading home.


Thankfully, Keston fell asleep not 5 minutes after starting to drive and slept all the way home, so that was a big blessing. Yolanda and I spent the rest of the trip talking about religion and philosophy (have I said before that I love the dickens out of this woman?) and we got home without incident. All in all, not a bad day! Now on to the rest of vacation, which involves….WORK! More of that later!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 8 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Let’s be clear here; when I say something about “losing my religion”, I am speaking specifically of that dogmatic, biased, conservative film that was placed over my life and mind for so many years of my life.    I speak not of belief, which is unconnected with this (and which I’ve retained, just in a different form.)   Until I entered my college years, I was as much of your typical Bible-banger as the next and if I was still in that state I’d probably think that the sun shines out of McCain and Palin’s ass as much as the next Republican fundamentalist whacko.  Fortunately, that’s not the case.

Losing all that was a long process that I’m not entirely sure I am finished with.   The first formative years were very hard; like a harsh solvent contacting an old portrait, logic, critical thinking, doubt, and speculation cut through the years of the caked-on paint of religious indoctrination, something supplied by my parents, my church, and many of my activities, including summer church camp.   Finding myself dropped into a vat of searing new ideas, I screamed.    The removal process was painful, confusing, and incredibly depressing.    But as the old grime came away, I discovered that the restoration process was, in fact, a good thing.

I emerged from the living hell as a better person, both mentally and emotionally.   Now I am left mostly with whatever is left — a more truer me, a justifyable credo, and a newfound appreciation for everything outside of myself.    I am significantly less in substance due to eliminating a large amount of my history, but I’m more real.    However, somewhere along the way, I lost my profound emotions.

I do not know if you, dear reader, have ever been involved in the extreme psychological experiences that the various acts and rituals of religions can impose upon a person, but most of my highest highs derived directly from my experience with the church.     Singing just the right hymn in the right context used to bring me to tears; hearing trumpets on Easter morning had me leaping for joy; the slam of the book at the end of Good Friday service sent chills down my spine; Christmas Eve was full of warmth and happiness;  joining arms with fellow church campers and singing praises to a song played by guitar while staring at a mirror-encrusted cross in spotlights made me weep uncontrollably with joy.

I sincerely doubt you’d get me to react that way anymore in the same situation.   But I think I’m ok with that.

I muse at these reactions that I used to have and their place in my life at that time, but then I also think of them in the context of what I know and believe now, and how they are so misplaced and misguided, they almost make me sick to think about it.    How could I have let myself get carried away like that?   It’s not only illogical, but is fully within the corruptive, rapturous behaviors that let groups of people whip themselves into a religious frenzy and do all sorts of crazy things devoid of thinking.

I think one of the greatest dangers of organized religion (amongst many others) is its ability to tap directly into that part of our brains which controls our unhindered emotional states and to trigger those extremes through use of a directed fantasy painted ontop of a base of suspended logic and glued together with dogmatic rituals and rites.   As we well know, emotional rollercoasters end up being very addicting, even those not enhanced by drugs or alcohol.   Some people live for the rushes, even if they come naturally.   Get enough religion under your belt and you have a constant source of high that doesn’t involve tying off and slapping your forearm or rolling up a roach.   How convenient.

Don’t get me wrong — I still have moments of extreme feelings in one direction or another, so it’s not like I’ve become a completely vapid creature.   Rather, many of the things that wind people up simply don’t affect me because I’m rationalizing my reaction.   Certain things still get me, however; particular performances of music, my wife, my son, specific writings, certain songs, some movies, the occasional commercial, etc.   I don’t know if these are illogical throwbacks and/or failings of my ability to intellectually handle all aspects of my life, or if they are expressions of my desire to, on ocassion, suspend my own reality in favor of another.   And on a moderate basis, I think that’s perfectly natural.

The question is, am I alone in my experiences?   Do the people who have religion automatically have a greater emotional range within them due to those extremes, or do they exist outside of the realm of belief?   Have I, by insisting that my life be directed by intelligent, rational, and calculated thought and conclusions, automatically excluded myself from ever truly achieving such profound emotional experiences?    It seems that the only way to truly reach those states is to suspend or deny reality so that they can be reached without the hindrances of thinking.

What of joy, oh heart?  Oh death, where is thy elation?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 8 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Being a very nice day (cool and only slightly rainy), we opted to stay for awhile and walk around the fair to enjoy it a bit.

My cousin’s daughter, Kennedy, is either trying to get my son to laugh or is amazed by how much he had grown. Either one may be applicable here.

We went to see a bunch of animals, including the pregnant-and-giving-birth-live display, which featured a cow complete with afterbirth still hanging out of her back end. Keston found the pen gates to be the most fascinating part of the entire experience, and quickly ‘climbed’ up one as I was holding him near. Monkey genes!

I don’t think Keston’s grandpa minded having him around, either.

Yours truly and Keston take a break from watching our relatives go on giant slings to smile at the camera.

The Pralles all lined up at the top of the Giant Slide and the girl at the top was nice enough to line us all up and let us go down like a Smurfs convention. Wheeeeeee!

All in all, a good day at the fair, and not bad for being 100 years old!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 3 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

The Good Bacon Fairy (thanks, Dad!) recently blessed us with two packages of the finest, homegrown pickled pork which we only let rest in the freezer for a day before the allure overcame us and we construed to toss together a brace of pancakes just to bolster the excuse that we were having, “breakfast for supper,” when in reality we didn’t want to have it look like we had a meal entirely consisting of carved swine belly.

This was Keston’s first foray into this delicacy and, despite the fact that the poor sod was horrifically berift with a cold, still had a great time mowing down on America’s favorite morning meat.   (We gave him only the lean bits, I assure you.)  I think he has a bright future in the breakfast food department.

See below for the evidence that a good time was had by all, even the meat itself, as it bubbled merrily on the griddle.    I am particularly fond of Yolanda’s, “Mmmm….bacon” face, which I think she does marvelously.

 

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 6 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

• 1 x $20 and 2 x $5 bills
• A receipt for an doctor’s office visit
• 3 debit cards
• 1 credit card
• IA Driver’s License
• Volunteer Blood Donor I.D. Card (O+, thank you, although I suck at giving because I pass out)
• Progressive Roadside Assistance Card
• American Red Cross Adult CPR/AED Certificate 5-7-2008
• Group Dental I.D. Card
• A card with Landa and Keston‘s SSNs on it
• Iowa Organ Donor Registry card
• Hunan Chinese Restaurant Buy 10 get 1 Free Card
• American Heart Association Heartsaver AED Certificate 4/23/2007
• Express Scripts Prescription ID Card
• A coupon for 20% off at any Sherwin-Williams store
• Barbershop Harmony Society Membership Card (expired because I’m a slackass)
• Blue Cross/Blue Shield of New Jersey Insurance Card
• About 20 Cambrex business cards

There.   Now that I’ve opened up my, er, wallet to the world, whatcha got?   Anything funky?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 8 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 6 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

“Yeah?” I said, groggily.

“You folks still there in one piece?” he asked. “Sure,” I replied, “why wouldn’t we be?”

Turns out it had rained quite a bit in the night and since the ground and assorted bodies of water are already sufficiently filled, it had proceeded to flood out quite a lot of places, including his basement. I trotted downstairs and checked out the scene, prancing about the house in my skivvies, until I was reasonably assured that nothing was overly wet and/or missing.

I was just looking up local weather and news when he called again. “They said on the radio that they are evacuating the nursing home and want volunteers to help. You might want to go help your grandma.”

I blinked. “Gotcha…I’ll toss on some clothes and get moving.” I grabbed myself a quick bowl of some generic cereal and headed to the shower, got primped in my best “dirties”, grabbed my shitkickers, and headed out the door.

Upon driving to the end of main street, I was stopped by a familiar face in a fireman’s uniform. “Hey, Jeff,” I said out the window. He asked where I was going, and I indicated that I had heard that they needed help. “Sure,” he replied, “but go to the high school; they’ll shuttle you down there, we don’t have room for all the cars.”

Upon parking and jumping onto the fire equipment truck with a bunch of other folks from around town, we headed on down. The sight that greeted me was impressive; water in every direction up to and starting to flow over the driveways of the nursing home, trucks, piles of sand, sandbags, and lots of people. This was going to be interesting.

The residents, as it turns out, were already evacuated to Ridgestone Golf Course, a local club with a rather sizable restaurant space. I smiled as I imagined my grandmother sitting up at the bar and ordering a cold one.

So, instead I busied myself by jumping in on the sandbagging, helping to offload bucketloads of completed bags and forming a chain of sandbags in a ring around the structure three deep. Three hours and some 1,500 bags later, we were not only done with the barrier for the care center but managed to fill the better part of the back of a dump truck with bags as well in preparation for coming weather. Dirty, soaked to the bone (it didn’t fail to piss down rain while we were working, of course), tired, but happily so, I headed back to my car and then home to shower and spend the rest of the day relaxing and getting minor things done.

Later in the afternoon, after most of the excitement had let off, we went for a small drive and collected a lot of pictures of the flooding. I post them below for your general enjoyment and amusement.

I’ve never really been involved in any sort of emergency assistance/recovery/prevention/whatever and I have to say that today was a wonderful experience, even given the circumstances. Seeing people from all sorts of statuses, creeds, backgrounds, and experiences come together simply because they were a community and, by god, we were not about to let a staple institution of our town get destroyed was nothing less than inspirational. It made me have some brief hope for humanity in general by seeing what a small but organized effort could accomplish given the opportunity.

Now — on to the pictures! (remember, you can click on the thumbnail to make them bigger)

The sidewalk leading north from our street to the city swimming pool park, and the poor schmuck’s backyard that suffered as well.

I don’t think this guy will be mowing lawn very soon.

This was, at one point, a corn field. I doubt the viability of it now.

This is an empty lot and in the background, Sukup Manufacturing, which also flooded out somewhat.

On Gilman Street (C-13) headed east and our first glimpse at the care center and the line of sandbags on the west side.

The south side of the care center and its front lawn, deeply under water. You can clearly see the sandbag line here. I didn’t personally work on this side; I was on the crew on the reverse (north) side, but the idea is the same. It’s not really rocket science — sand, in a bag, stacked. Kinda self-explanatory.

The eastern driveway into the nursing home and the east ditch. The brown gunk is floating, rotting corn stalks from last year; the water there is about 3′ deep at the bottom of the ditch and, as you can see, is already flowing over the concrete. You can also see the pile of reserve sandbags in the background by the line. We left several such piles in the case that something broke and/or had to be bolstered.

The parking lot of the Sheffield Vet Clinic, looking north.

Looking north along Highway 65, across Gilman Street.

Looking south along Hwy 65.

The pumps at Casey’s General Store (NE side under water) and the intersection of Gilman and Hwy 65, ditches full.

The north ditch by Hwy 65. The water here is probably 3′ deep at least.

The massive amount of suction at one of two culverts attempting to empty the ditch as fast as possible. The culverts are about a foot wide at the intake and I’ll bet the suction would rip the hair right off your leg or worse.

The output of the culvert above and the southern ditch. Given the speed of the water rushing through, you suddenly realize that this is a A Lot Of Water.

Looking west along Gilman Street and the south side of the Vet Clinic, ditch full and getting worse.

The front of the Vet Clinic. Hope those doggies remembered their boots!

A very wet, muddy, sandy, tired, but satisfied me after the adventure in the morning. Why is it that sand can get into the deepest of crevices with little or no effort? Yike!

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 7 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Brace yourself for a slew of short blog entries this week. I have a lot on my mind, but no time to draw any of them out in long postings, so you’ll get short, concentrated entries with lots of room for expansion in your fervent commentary. That is, if you comment. Which you should. I think.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | 2 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Personally, I think it has a lot to do with the art behind the shot — was it meant to simply twig someone in the audience or were you saying something with it? Did it fit the story or feel out of the fabric of the movie? Exploitation or enhancement?

For instance, Rachel McAdams in The Notebook was very tastefully done, and who doesn’t like a good makeout session in the rain and shagging like rabbits afterwards? Completely respectful, very much within the fabric of the story, excellent artistry. There weren’t any weird, lingering shots on the nakedness, it was just there as a part of the greater scene.


Kate Winslet in Titanic, however, is an example of a shot being done tastefully but not artfully as I felt it didn’t sit within the weft of the story at large. Sure, Rose is turning into a rebel girl thanks to her exposure to a common hobo but in an era of high necklines and erotic ankles, how likely is she to strip down and be drawn? I think most women of that era had sex with their clothes on anyway and medical emergencies involving genitalia and hoop skirts were common. A great scene (and a rack you’d be proud to hang on your wall) but unnecessary for the movie itself.


The German Oktoberfest girls in Beerfest who happened to conveniently have their shirts ripped off while involved in a fight during the infamous fall drinking holiday were simply there for the nudity and didn’t serve any audience but the men in the theatre. Not that I’m pooh-poohing it — after all, a beautiful chest is still a sight to behold in any context, but you notice that it wasn’t up for any Oscars for art production or…well, anything, really. We’re not too terribly upset about that.

The thing is, I don’t think it necessarily degrades an actress to bare her body to the camera provided she’s happy with how it went and doesn’t feel exploited. Serious moviefans will appreciate nudity for itself and not be critical of the person for pushing the envelope in the name of art. What do you think?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2008. | Permalink | One comment. One lonely comment looking for a friend. | Subscribe RSS

Today, for Humpday, I’m asking YOU, humble reader, to step forth and show your colors, or at least your written word, for my own sadistic pleasure and interest. You knew my intentions were anything less than honorable, didn’t you?

No, this is not a meme. I hate memes. If I get tagged by someone to do one, I usually avoid it, because I think most of them are corny or time-wasting. So, here is a list of questions that, if you choose, you can answer. I don’t care if you put down real answers or false ones, funny answers or serious. This is kind of up to you. Amuse me, make me think, annoy me, whatever.

BUT — I really would like to know who is in my current readership, so if you could at least drop a comment on this entry and say, “Yo! I’m here.”, that’d be ultra-groovy. Like a record. Or a Klingon’s head.

The Questions:

1. Hey — who are you? Give me a name. Or a nickname. Or a superhero name. Include a link to your homepage or blog if you want. Free advertising! Mmmm….

2. In a 5-word or less sentence, describe one: a) your conception of God or b) a grapefruit.   Points for making it ambiguous.

3. What’s the worst-designed website you visit on a regular basis? Include a link if you like. If it’s so bad, why do you keep going?

4. What one feature of the sex that attracts you (opposite or same as you like) do you really not give a crap about? Does size matter?

5. What is your bra size? If you don’t wear one, what size do you think you’d like if you could? Do you think Madonna should show hers off more often? Do you want to be buried in one?

6. Name the one typical household product that scares you the most. Do you have it in your house right now? Is it behind the door???

7. What profession do you think a daughter borne from the lusty coupling of Oprah Winfrey and Johnny Depp would have? How about eye color?

8. When you first walk into a party, what’s the first thing that you do? Is it really lame?

9. Name the most erotic animal you can think of. “Erotic” can mean anything you want it to mean. Why did you pick that one? Would you wear a coat made out of that animal?

10. If you could eat any one vegetable before being thrown from a 50-story building, what would be your choice? Steamed, boiled, fried, baked, broiled, poached, or grilled?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | 5 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

Wine? Why not?

Booze? Well….

I have long thought that America’s attitude towards alcoholic drinks is way out of whack with the rest of the world. CNN recently had an article about psychologist Stanton Peele‘s book, Addition-Proof Your Child, which talks about how introducing alcohol to your children at a young age and dispelling its mysterious, “adult” qualities helps them to form a better, healthier attitude about it and makes it less likely that they will end up binge drinking or otherwise “partying it up” with their friends when they can legally do so.

The fact is, Europe and other areas of the world have a much more relaxed attitude towards the entire issue and you see a lot less abuse of it than you do here in the U.S. Kids end up having their first drinks with their parents at a decent age instead of 18 beers in a cornfield under the cover of night, trying to chug as much as possible while not getting caught.

My wife and I have talked about this many times and our children will have exposure to alcohol, under our close and purposeful supervision, starting at an appropriate age. This may be as young as 6 or 8 or perhaps around 10 or 11, it will depend a lot on the emotional and psychological maturity of the child in question. We will teach respect, but not fear or mystery about it, as that leads them straight to it during their upcoming exploratory years, and that’s the last thing we want on their minds as something to be “rebellious” about.

Yolanda brings with her a lot of different viewpoints on alcohol due to her being Australian and the attitude being very different from America’s. Even I have experienced a much more relaxed attitude about it towards youth. Sure, there weren’t 12-year-olds stumbling down the street in a drunken stupor, but at the same time, nobody got bent out of place if a kid asked for a sip and a glass of wine during an event wasn’t uncommon. Alcohol simply wasn’t a skeleton in the closet, but a part of normal life.

Sadly, the societal attitude towards alcohol and children in this country is led and perpetuated by mis-informed groups who have completely missed the message that people like Peele and myself are trying to send to other parents. Their agendas break through and overpower any rational thought about alternative ideas being proposed to address problems like teen binging and alcohol abuse, because, as we all well know, it’s working so well.

A quote from the article has Calvina Fay, the executive director of the Drug Free America Foundation sounding like a complete twink:

“That’s ridiculous. By allowing teens to drink,” Fay says, “you are giving permission to your children to do harmful things.” Fay also says Stanton Peele doesn’t take into account other consequences of teen drinking, such as unsafe sex and drunken driving. “You don’t have to be addicted to be harmed or die because of drugs and alcohol.”

Despite her assertion that this is a call to have all parents haul their spawn out for a hazy night of bar-hopping and gawking at fishnets, the point of Peele’s book is to instill into children correct attitudes about alcohol use, not to give them permission to go off willy-nilly with a bottle in hand. It has Jack M. Squat to do with allowing teens to go off drinking on their own; instead, this is a plan to introduce your children to the ways and means of alcoholic drinks in a controlled, supervised, and managed environment before they are presented with the situation on their own and have to make the critical choice. I do not condone my children going off and drinking with their friends before they are 21 years old and they that do will quickly learn the feel of my foot in their ass. I do, however, want them to have the appropriate knowledge and tools to make the right choice at the right time.

I will provide my children with small, appropriate drinks, starting when they are younger in age, and including many, many discussions, learning opportunities, and instruction on the use and abuse of alcohol, its effects, pleasures, detriments, forms, appropriate and inappropriate uses alike. If we see a drunk at a party, it’ll be a learning opportunity for my kids. If I give them a drink, I’ll describe what it is, where it comes from, that it is alcoholic, is a drink usually enjoyed only by adults and why, and its possible effects. They will know that having a drink means having the maturity to handle it and its consequences, and they will learn that if they have that maturity, they may enjoy a drink infrequently with our supervision.

It’s all about attitude and knowledge, I think, and I plan to arm my offspring with the appropriate measures of both in this and many other areas of life. I can do no less as a parent.

How about you, my gentle reader? If you are a parent, or plan on it someday, what are your thoughts on this different way of looking at alcohol and your children?

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | 13 little comments jumping on the bed. | Subscribe RSS

The other night, in their continuing effort to educate me to the movies of the world (I am not very “well-watched”, if that is the right term), we had a viewing of the funky-footwear-as-a-business film, Kinky Boots. Keep your shoes on, here goes a review:

This book of erotic footwear starts out like any typical British movie does: Slowly. If you can make it past the first, say, 15 minutes, you’re golden. I now appreciate this style of filmmaking although that wasn’t always the case, as it was hard to keep my eyelids open that long when I was younger. Nowadays, I try to interpret what the director had in mind with those scenes dragging by.

Slight Spoilers Follow:

The story revolves around a son who inherits the family business from his old man — a shoe factory. Little does he know, however, that business is bad and eventually he’s forced to cut people from the shifts to save money and gets pretty knee-deep in despair about it.

Finding new shoes can be fun but also can be a hassle but everyone has to have great shoes. If you haven’t seen the new rocket dog shoes or steve madden shoes, check them out. There are also bridal shoes you can buy online too.

He ends up rescuing a drag queen being beaten up in the alley by some thugs one night and notices that his/her boots are broken; he notices that they don’t hold up to the weight of a man, so he proposes to make showy boots for men dressing like ladies.

Spoilers End

The movie was really very well done; nothing terribly unique in the storyline, but the acting was quite good and the dialogue was well done. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen both Joel Edgerton and Chiwetel Ejiofor in something else before, but I can’t think of what, and their bios on IMDB don’t give me any clues. Probably just, “around”, who knows. Sarah-Jane Potts was pretty cute, however.

On a scale of 1-to-10, I’d give it an 8.3 for a movie that’s very entertaining and good for a watch when you want a good movie without special effects pushing it along.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2007. | Permalink | No comments....YET! Make one! | Subscribe RSS

After calling Yolanda in and watching him for a while, we decided that our fears were probably confirmed: He was plugged up again.

See, our fuzzy feline friend has this medical condition that has plagued him ever since he marched himself into our house and sat down 2 years ago. We suspect that if he was a house cat before, this may have been the reason that he became a stray, or he got damaged while outside. Every so often (about once every 8 months or so it seems), he gets crystals forming in his urinary tract and they eventually block it darn near solid, disabling him from peeing at all. In the past this required a trip to the vet to have him catheterized to break out the crystals and then flush him clean. If we didn’t catch it in time, or let it go, he proceeded to pee all over the house and chuck everywhere and generally not be in a good condition. So much joy, so little time. <sigh>

Of course, this happens at 9:30pm, the best time to try to go to the vet with a sick pet. We spent a good 15 minutes ‘hrm’ing and ‘haw’ing about whether or not to call someone and eventually elected to call the Sheffield vet. “Thank you for calling *blah blah*, Mike is unavailable until the 20th, if this is an emergency, please call *blah blah* “Oh, LOVELY. The bloody vet is on vacation! Perfect.

So, we look up and call his secretary at home — hey, this is small town Iowa, right? You can do this sort of shit. I could probably call up our doctor at home and get a consultation over the phone. Ring up the school cook and she’d probably lead you through the recipe for something crappy made out of government meat. it’s that sort of place.

Anywho, we got the secretary on the phone and explained the situation and asked for advice, and she recommended calling the emergency vet, so we did. Got him on the phone, explained, and he said to meet him at his office in Allison. Now, Allison is 30 minutes away, or so, so we had some trucking to do.

Thoroughly ticked that we had to shoulder yet another bill for this mouser, I rushed around the house, gathered duct tape, a box, and my keys and so forth. Grabbed the furball and put him in the box, taped it shut, and got on our way. Not having a regular driving habit to Allison (and unsure of the exact time it took to get there), I decided to take back roads and move it along. We settled into a nice, 80mph whiz through the blackened landscape of rural Iowa, hoping to hell that the deer were off playing 500 or something.

It seems that the wildlife (minus the one possum that we gave a horrific, life-shortening swerve around) were indeed occupied with things other than ritualistic, auto-assisted suicide, as we arrived in Allison sans antlers in the grille and blew down into main street to park and wait for 15 minutes while the vet arrived.

The vet arrives after 10 minutes or so and ushers us into his office. He proceeds to poke and prod our cat a bit, trying to feel for his bladder. After a bit, he asks if he’s ever successfully recovered without a cath and we say no, so he gets his equipment ready. We’re curious and we’re there, so we stick around to help and to watch.

He first shoots him up with a half dose of some anesthetic as he busied himself with getting out tools. I petted Leo as he got more and more relaxed. He looked up once or twice and you could just tell that he was going, “Ooooh…. pretty colors….” as his pupils got bigger and bigger. Eventually the cat was face-planting into the surgery table, so we laid him down on his side. The vet came over and squirted some gooey gel into the cat’s eyes so they wouldn’t dry out since they’d be open during most of the surgery.

Then he set up several things and extracted very thin (maybe 1 mm or so) plastic tubing from a package — the catheter. We then flipped the sleepy cat over on his back and as Landa and I held his legs, the vet squeezed his lower section to get his penis to stick out.

All I can say about that is that I am not jealous of my cat. He’s hung like a grain of rice. Really — it’s about that big.

Have you ever tried to find a hole in the middle of a grain of rice?

That’s exactly what the vet had to do — removed his glasses and squinted in the glare of the huge operating light to try to thread the catheter into the cat’s dick, during which Leo, though sedated, was still growling and so forth, so you know it couldn’t have been a very pleasant sensation. I have a feeling that if he tried it while he was awake, we’d all be stripped down to the bones in about a second and he’d be in orbit around Mars.

Eventually he got it started and was stopped several times by crystals that he had to push through — probably 4 times or so. Eventually he got it threaded all the way in, and then it started to weep out a blood and urine mixture. He shot in some saline in after and let that drip out, just to wash out the area.

Then he proceeded to pull a stitching needle (those funky curved ones) and suture thread from the cleaning bowl — I was a bit confused, but then he went and used it to sew the cath to Leo’s skin, essentially. The cath has little wings on either side with holes so he could thread the stitches through and sew it down.

After that, he hooked up an IV and stabbed Leo in the back with it and proceeded to load, subcutaneously, saline into his skin until it expanded out like a big water balloon inside the cat’s back. This was to force tons of fluid into the cat such that his kidneys would have to flush him out violently.

He packed up his stuff and said that he’d keep him overnight at least, maybe for a few days, to make sure that he was opened up properly and flushed and so forth. We talked about antibiotics and so forth and then left.

As of today (Wed), he’s still at the vet’s — the vet thought he’d probably be there through Thursday or so as he wants to observe him and make sure that he’s really cleared out before releasing him.

It’s a bit strange to not have the little furball waiting for me when I wake up or come home from work. It’s a pity he’s such a great cat when he’s here — if he was a shithead and had this problem, I’d probably just have him put down or something, but he’s probably the best housecat I’ve ever met, so I guess we’ll be taking it up the ass for him again. I hope he appreciates it in some sort of manner.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2006. | Permalink | One comment. One lonely comment looking for a friend. | Subscribe RSS

I’m going to review both movies together since they flow so very well as a whole story. In fact, that’s probably the very first of my comments. Very few sequels flow from one to the next without having issues, and the Bournes did very well at this. There wasn’t any blaring discrepancies that I could detect, and that’s important when doing a series like this.

Identity definately had the better “mysterious” edge in it what with the whole “lost identity” angle. But both of them had plenty of the good old spy movie content.

Identity and Supremacy had, nicely enough, a great supporting role by Julia Stiles, one of my favorite actresses ever and a darn cute one. Her role was definately different for her, smaller and more supporting, and I’m still unsure as to how her acting was during some of the more “routine” scenes where she was acting as support for the CIA foreign agents. There were a few moments where you could tell she was slightly out of her element, I think. All in all, however, she did pretty well.

The movies are full of action and spy mystery and intrigue. As Paul commented, on Supremacy they ended up using a different camera technique during the fight scenes that ends up being more realistic but ends up jumping the camera around a lot. I guess it was ok but definately was “too much” at certain points when the viewer just got sick instead of feeling like they were in the action. That’s like The Blair Witch Project where they used that camera technique to make it seem like it was ACTUALLY taken by the kids in the woods, but at points it overshadowed the movie and instead of concentrating on the story, you were just saying, “Ugh…would they PLEASE stop shaking it.” Anything that breaks that fourth wall is wrong, wrong, wrong.

All in all, two excellent movies that I’m sorry I missed the first time around but am very glad I picked up this time.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2006. | Permalink | No comments....YET! Make one! | Subscribe RSS

(Note to the reader: That was my wife’s introduction, composed by her while lying next to me in bed while I flew fingers over they keyboard and she cackled madly. I think she’s severely deprived of sleep and/or on a nutty streak. Time will tell.)

At any rate, my friend Paul and I sat down and watched The Saint. Yes, I know it was a 1997 movie, but as previously noted, my repetoire when it comes to film and screen is not what you would call noteworthy. Thus, I’m finally JUST getting around to this one.

My Review:
First of all, who knew that Elisabeth Shue was so hot? Honestly, where has this woman been hiding all this time? Wow. I was impressed just from the fact that she is such a nice, natural looking, pretty woman. I also thought her acting was pretty darn good.

Val Kilmer — who, honestly, names their little boy “Val”? He absolutely had to get his nuts kicked in when he was in school for that one, which probably explains why he now looks like he was trying out for Mr. Universe for the past 6 years. His acting in this one was very odd — it wasn’t bad, as such, I just didn’t always know exactly what role he was playing at all times. Since his character is always impersonating someone else, it was very hard to discern when he was faking it and when it was genuine. And to be honest, maybe that was the full intention of the director – to make this dichotomy so prevelant that you couldn’t tell because HE couldn’t necessarily tell when he was being “himself” and when he was being a character.

The movie itself was very good, I thought. Good action, decent acting, interesting premise. I rather enjoyed how they started out by showing the place and then going, “…Yesterday” for the flashback and then “Moscow…Tomorrow” for the present time. It gave an interesting quirk to the film.

I especially liked the Russian scenery and the people. I’ve always found myself fascinated by the Russian/Slavic peoples. Their architecture, way of life, how they look, their language – I probably should have taken Russian when I was in college or something. Russian women are usually quite lovely, Russian men have a deep air of seriousness or grimness about them. I think the environment and the economics of the area shapes a lot of that. I shall definately have to visit it sometime.

All in all, I rather liked The Saint. I recommend it to anyone who hasn’t seen it…it won’t be a waste of your time.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2006. | Permalink | No comments....YET! Make one! | Subscribe RSS

Ridley Scott has attempted to take the novel, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick and turn it into a blockbuster, but in my opinion, it lacks a lot of things from the original novel.

First, I was very surprised at the darkness of the film — the entire environment was very dark; although, when I thought about it, it reminds me of almost every single film around that time period (1982 is the date of the movie) that deals with futuristic times. Dark times have fallen on the Earth and it can’t reach its beer.

Secondly, it was very, very slow. There were huge parts of just scenery shots and not much else. The dialog was pretty sparse, given that the novel has a goodly portion of speaking and much that lends to the story, I’m not sure of Scott’s motivation on this one. Harrison Ford plays Decker, the main character, but I was unimpressed. While Decker in the book is a clever, forward-thinking, alert fellow, always watching his back and suspicious of anyone and anything, Ford played the character like a guy who just woke up from an afternoon nap and had to give a history exam to a bunch of squealing cheerleaders. The role was hurting him, I believe, which is rather unlike him and certainly not like the original Dick character.

Ford also fudged the dichotomy of the man whose job it was to kill the Replicants and the guy who started to have feelings for them (in particular, the girl who was cute). The scene where he holds her and tells her to beg him to kiss her was just —– forced. That’s the best word for it. I’ve seen more passion in a grapefruit.

Rutger Hauer played the Replicant Roy, supposedly a military-issue combat-ready robot. While he played the part lovely throughout the movie, there were points at which he showed emotion that was, frankly, shocking. I wouldn’t have expected it out of his particular character, as it was painfully cold in the worst of times but suddenly he got emotional about killing his maker and about dying himself. I’m still not sure whether to cheer for the interesting twist on the story or to boo at the interpretation of the character itself. Undecided.

One last criticism — there wasn’t nearly enough philosophy in it. I’m a guy who loves it when the director takes the pending philosophical angles of a situation in a movie and exploits them for all the mind-twisting he can, and Scott just didn’t. Dick comes up with all sorts of questions in the novel, but Scott doesn’t hit many. Some he touches but only barely, not really scraping their surface until they bleed nicely. A pity; it was like Matrix II and III — the first one hit the issues nicely, the others just died into a heap of kung fu and other action shitola.

Now, after all this, you would probably think that I hated the movie, but that isn’t true. I liked it quite a bit, but for reasons other than what I stated above. First, although the extreme darkness went against what I feel Dick was going for in the novel, I loved it nonetheless. The oppressive depth of despair that everything seems to be shoved into it just glittering in its own, sadistic sort of way. Secondly, as Paul iterated, the scenery is very, very detailed. Scott spent an awful lot of time getting everything in this futuristic world to line up and look great, and that is much appreciated.

So, in the end, a classic movie to be enjoyed by hackers and other people of that sort, but falls short of the novel IMHO. Recommend you watch the movie first so you don’t get too disappointed in the end.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2006. | Permalink | No comments....YET! Make one! | Subscribe RSS

While the acting by Theron was quite excellent, and I can see where she got the Oscar, the movie was kind of a bomb. I mean, sure, it was interesting because it actually happened (based on a true story and all that), but…the storyline was draggy and didn’t move along. There were a ton of parts where they could have made it really profound but the director either skipped right over it or made an attempt at it and failed horribly. The highs weren’t high enough, etc.

It was one of those movies where you wanted desperately to identify with the Theron’s monstrous character despite her evilness, but in the end, your stomach just ended up turning and you didn’t really connect with her at all. You know, that whole, “Oh, but in a crazy world, her actions made sense — FOR LOVE.” Instead, you just sit there and shake your head and/or cringe.

Ricci was ok, but nothing great. I don’t think it was necessarily her fault for most of it (although there was one or two times where she was clearly NOT there for the scene — supposed to be a height of emotion, but who could tell?), but mostly she was working with a shoddy script that didn’t give her character the depth it deserved.

So….A for the acting of Theron, B- for Ricci, C- for the cinematography, D for the story.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2006. | Permalink | No comments....YET! Make one! | Subscribe RSS

I once was like many of you, watching Oprah and Montel and 20/20 and all the other talk shows, their episodes about how you might be missing the vital signs, how it can go on in your house right under your nose without you having a speck of a clue. I always said to myself, “That’s not us. That’s not this family. We’re not like that. Maybe the folks down the street, sure — I mean, look what they have for a car AND they eat Coco-Puffs. But not us. Never.”

A thought, however, kept creeping into my mind that I was dismissing the obvious. I was ignoring the elephant in the living room, and once I started to realize the painful truth, it stuck out like a sore thumb. And now I’m here to admit it, in full, without trepidation:

Our cat is on crack.

I know, I know, I can hear you gasping from here. I, too, was shocked. But it is clearly obvious that my cat, my dear, sweet, fluffy, orangey, mrowring Leo has been hitting the nose frosting, and a bit too frequently lately. Mom, please don’t cry.

I have evidence that he has been under the influence from his many, many instances of strange behavior:

• Running erratically around the main floor, desperately in search of Jack M. Squat, failing to find him, and then standing in the middle of nowhere, meowing in a confused manner for no apparent reason.
• Suddenly leaping forth in a crazed haze onto the back of the couch and perching there like a squirrel with a bladder problem and then, after a few minutes, calmly letting himself back down onto the seat and curling into a furry donut.
• Staring, for the entire length of a shower, at the concrete floor of the basement as if it was the most interesting thing in the entire world.
• Meowing as if in pain while I towel myself off from said shower. I swear he thinks the water is out to kill me.
• Proceeding to take a freshly vacuumed dark green carpet on the upstairs landing and spend the entire night ripping large wads of fur from his nether regions and spreading them in a seemingly random constellation on the pile.
• Attempting to leap onto the window sill but failing to realize that the window was closed, thus creating a feline billiard ball.
• Rubbing himself up against each and every person that walks through my door. I take that back, rubbing would be a kind word to use. Vigorously humping would probably be a better term. My cat doesn’t just scream for attention, he yodels and does a jig at the same time, all while in lederhosen.

And to think that I ignored it all!

I did, that was, until tonight. Tonight Leo was lazily stretching his claws on the bottom step of our stairs, which is usually a clue to his dumbass owner to flip over the cardboard scratchpad that we have in the corner for him.

Now, I don’t know if you have ever seen one of these things. They’re lovely. Completely made out of cardboard, they are a few feet long and are sprinkled liberally with dried catnip. They cost about $3000 less than new carpet and couches and last for a few months.

So, I did my best and flipped the pad over, exposing a new, fresh surface on which to sharpen (were they ever dull?) those little personal hypodermic needles of his. This exposed a large amount of hitherto unexplored catnip.

After about 10 minutes or so, the cat discovered the freshened implement and walked over to it. The next action convinced me that my cat was on smack:

He proceeded to EAT the catnip.

And I’m not talking about an experimental nibble or two. No, I’m talking about Going-To-Town-on-the-Downhill-Nuclear-Express-Bus. He sat ontop of the pad and systematically licked off the catnip from the top surface with a gusto that can only be approximated by some poor sap in a desert finding some sort of liquid refreshment sitting in the cleavage of a bikini-stropped blonde in a swimming pool at the end of the next sand dune.

“That’s it!” I exclaimed and snagged my deranged pet as he got a look of consternation on his fuzzy mug for interrupting his virulent activity.

“What the fuzzy FUCK are you doing!?” I yelled as I went face-to-face with him, shaking his paws. “Who gave you the crack? Hrm?? WHO!?!?” The cat proceeded to give me a wet noseprint on the glasses and then turn his attention elsewhere, which generally means, “You can let me down now OR your arms can approximate a garden sprinkler system. Your choice.” I decided to let him go for the moment.

Befuzzled, I sat back and tried to think where I went wrong as a pet owner. Was it the late night feedings just before bed? The ear-rubbings I had given copiously on the basement floor? The use of the cat as a mop on the hardwood? I just couldn’t think where this evil might have entered my house.

I checked his food, just in case I accidentally ordered the, “with crack” version of his Rat Kibbles & Private Bits (or whatever they sell at the vet center that keeps his pee stalactite-free and costs the GNP of a small country). Nope, definately the correct version. Perhaps his waterer? Maybe someone at a frat party (Alpha Kitty Alpha) had slipped something into it? No, it tested clear and fresh. Hrm…the litter box? EUREKA!

I am now convinced that the dust that arises from the litter box when I refill it is NOT baking soda as the container proclaims, but is indeed freshly-sauced Columbian baby powder. My cat has been getting a paw-to-bloodstream hit every time he buries his treasure. Those bastards.

No wonder he takes so many dumps.

© Nathan Pralle for PhilosYphia, 2005. | Permalink | No comments....YET! Make one! | Subscribe RSS