Where is Def Leprechaun when you need ’em?

I am a woodsman in that I am a man who lives in the woods.  I respect the right for private property ownership such that if we are all responsible stewards of the land we own, then our community benefits us, providing us good health, space for happiness and time to prosper.

I also believe that good fences, even virtual ones, make good neighbours — keep your eyes out of my business, including drones, network snooping/spying and next-door peeping Toms — in other words, I believe I can trust my neighbours to do the right thing, even when evidence points to the contrary, thus leaving room for education, instruction, advice and creative/constructive criticism to steer us toward being good neighbours, regardless of the past.

My next-door neighbours, Robert and Lauren Justice and their child, Olivia Grace Justice, like to keep their outdoor lights on at night — it adds an aesthetic value as well as provides a sense of security; however, when I sleep in the sunroom at night, their lights are disturbing, or, when I want to look at stars, planets and moons, their lights are a distraction.

Thus, I am led here, to this moment, where I begin documenting the privacy fence I’m constructing that simply blocks our back deck and sunroom from our neighbours, allowing both of us to use our private property as we please while leaving as much as the woods open between us.

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A few years ago, a subcontractor built a sunroom attached to our house.  During construction, I added a “French drain” under the sunroom to prevent water running off the hill behind our house from flooding our crawlspace.

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After they finished the sunroom, I built a new wood deck.  At that time, the lot next to ours was undeveloped so our deck extended out into the woods.

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Eventually, the lot next door was developed, making us feel crowded in by suburbia:

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Before our sunroom was built, I disassembled the old back deck where the sunroom would go, cutting down a tree to make room for the new back deck.  I piled the pieces of deck wood on the ground, eventually moving them to the side of the house, where they sat for almost ten years.

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Now it’s time to design the new privacy fence.  First, I need some architectural inspiration:

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Basically, I need a 12-foot tall fence.

 

So, the bottom six feet will be a louvered fence and the top six feet a type of trellis.

But I want a trellis design that reflects my background, but not overtly.  Some inspirations from Celtic crosses:

Celtic Presbyterian cross

First “cut” of the design:

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…followed by iterations…

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I have at least one stained glass piece to add to the fence:

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This is the final version I hope to achieve (taking into account the best-laid plans of mice and men, unlevel posts and all that, of course):

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The whole fence will be backed by reed fencing from Lowe’s:

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But first, time for a beer!  😉

Still no conclusive proof

Despite my attempts to the contrary, I can find no conclusive proof that these blog entries have any effect other than rearranging bits in what must be, probably is, computer servers out there somewhere.

Therefore, I am, as I imagined in my first thoughts as an infant, truly alone.

I walk, I breathe, I speak, I listen — those activities have greater impact upon the world than these bits and bytes.

Nothing I do here influences or impacts the [American] football coaches of the Southeastern Conference college teams so nothing I write in this space would cause them to want to make comments about the level of competition that the University of Tennessee coaches, trainers, staff, stadium/field, training facilities and players bring to the SEC.

They alone have to defend their job perks/pay scales and physical abuse of young men in order to instill teamwork and self-sacrifice into “student-athletes” aligned with the much-maligned NCAA just so universities can virtually destroy a few student-athletes in the name of commerce, yet claim it’s all about educational opportunities.

My habits are the result of my place in a tiny subculture in this great galaxy of ours — I do not qualify them with labels like “good” or “bad.”

For, you see, I have my own personal secret to success that prevents me from S everyday — I am waiting to die and every day until I die is a bonus I didn’t have when I contemplated S the day before — the only friend of mine when considering the big S is procrastination — there will always be time tomorrow to say hello to S and goodbye to the rest.

I never have been a very good team player.  I blame my parents, who brought a rival for their affection into this world — my sister — and I’ve been in a personal war against the world ever since.

From then on, it’s been a mental struggle to tell myself that the opposite sex is one part of two-gender trait of our species (to be honest, I’m still uncomfortable including LGBTXYZ in my universal view), that we should work together to make this planet a better place to live, etc.

I am an uptight dude, who never has felt comfortable relaxing in front of others, constantly switching personality masks to accommodate and please people around me so I can wall/fence them off from the parallel universe inside my thoughts, where I truly live, happy in my private misery and/or miserable in my private happiness.

Men are not my rivals — everything about them is some part of me, and they are what they are in their hairy, testosterone-driven imperfections.

Women are my rivals and always will be — there will never be a time when I can get back to those happy moments with my parents before my sister was conceived — whatever women do, I will compete against them; when they’re better than me at some task/skill, I will feel an immense jealousy/envy with which I will either find strength and choose to compete or feel deflated and concede defeat.

Before my wife and I followed in my parents’ footsteps and bought season tickets for Univ. of TN football home games in 1991, we enjoyed weekend getaways to B&Bs around the country.

If the exploitative college football system didn’t exist, my wife and I would probably be traveling the world.

Instead, I have driven us six or seven times in the autumn of the year back to our parents’ places in order to schedule family time around trips to Neyland Stadium.

A week ago, my wife and I decided to change seats in the stadium, giving up our South End Zone, upper deck spots in Section LL, Row 9, Seats 14-15, that we have held since 1991, in order to move to the North End Zone upper deck, our “Annual Fund” (formerly the Volunteer Athletic Scholarship Fund) donation level staying the same.

We also took advantage of buying four tickets to the “away” game in Tuscaloosa for this year’s UT-Bama game, traditionally held on the third Saturday in October.

I have no idea who the players are or will be for either team but I’m pretty sure that they’ll be in the 17-23 year old age range, the youngest players being a third my age, remembered for decades by kids who’ll attend the games and cheer for their favourite players just like when I was a kid and cheered for the likes of Condredge Holloway, a young man from Huntsville, Alabama, who ended up playing quarterback for University of Tennessee because the University of Alabama head football coach, Paul “Bear” Bryant, told Condredge that he’d never be a quarterback for Bama because his skin was the wrong colour for the times.   Probably still is in the heart of Dixie.

Doesn’t matter to me how many national championship trophies that the University of Alabama football team claims to have because I’ll always remember a fellow male, George Wallace, standing on the university campus barring people with dark skin from attending classes.

How many national championship caliber quarterbacks for Bama have not been white?

When will the first national championship college football team have a woman on the first team, let alone at quarterback?

These are questions I can wait until the day I die to see answered outside of this blog because I’ve already seen them played out in the parallel universe of my thoughts.

In a few months, I’ll watch traditional male-dominated football teams hold a controlled fight/wrestling match while women and men cheer on the sideline, knowing, despite increased ticket prices and major stadium seating capacity upgrades, nothing has changed in 50 years:

I’m still a set of states of energy alone in my thoughts, committed to my marriage and my family, but otherwise not much of a team player when I don’t want to be, never that happy-but-apprehensive-of-the-big-wide-world one-year old ever again.

The Contrarian’s Contrarian

Poiu spent all morning in observation of a snail glide across the backyard, grass blade to grass blade, minidirtclod to minidirtclod,  and onto the sidewalk where, in the heat of the sun, it retracted into its shell and waited for the cool of evening to return.

The armadillo passed by both of them without noticing their odd relationship.

The scientist and the experiment.

Question: does an observed snail change its behaviour?

Experiment: Pick up snail from sidewalk, move it to starting position.  Observe and record its behaviour as it heads toward sidewalk.  Return snail to starting position.  Does snail’s path deviate when unobserved the next day?  Return at end of next day and see where it ended up, check its movements.

Poiu shook his head.  Why did his parents decide to name him after a row of English letters on a QWERTY keyboard?  What were they thinking?

Poiu looked at the list of assumptions in his experiment.

At age two, his thought-t0-text rate was slower than his older sister’s but his reasoning powers were more advanced despite his mother’s measured intelligence and intellectual output greater than his father’s.

From those thoughts alone, he deduced that gender was not directly related to intelligence, given the same number of inputs and genetic propensity for logical rather than emotional thought development.

Poiu looked at the embedded display screen woven into his optic nerve and glanced at the report detailing the results of the experiment being edited by his onboard computer assistant.

The assumptions were wide-ranging, from the lack of predators to the slight change in the snail’s body weight because of growth and/or water loss to the availability of nutrition between starting point and sidewalk to the number of unseen parasites and snail pests.

What about prevailing winds or UV radiation spikes?

A snail’s central nervous system can’t be too complicated but an outdoor environment can.

Poiu proceeded with publishing the preliminary experiment results.

Within microseconds, Poiu’s playmates provided valuable criticism of the report, some he had thought of and some he would never have guessed.

Back to the drawing board, as they said in the 21st century!

More about Dava Newman’s BioSuit

History is historic.

To put it in perspective, the goal is to combine a viable space suit and prosthetics to reduce the need for a fully biological human to participate in space exploration missions.

Thus, the bombs at the end of the Boston Marathon are part of the greater mission.

Putting the blame on some person or persons is a secondary function required to give Earthlings a feeling of justice served.

Anything else — fertilizer factory fires, earthquakes, etc — is a diversion to feed the various subpopulations their needs and wants — emotional attachment, hero worship, and so on.