When in Rome, Do What the Tourists Do

Hope everyone had a memorial weekend. My Pregnant Wife and I shared a lovely B&B in a town called Bolivar, OH, so we could get up early, have the latter B, and head up I-77 a spell to visit the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton. Since this was our third anniversary (celebrated), and the traditional gift is leather, I figured this was the best I could do with a vegetarian, save buying a sportscar with leather interior, and we're a little short on the cashflow these days.

The museum was fantastic; tons of memorabilia, great history, and right-in-your-face displays. Ainsley said I wasn't supposed to touch the jerseys, but if it were really discouraged, there'd be an electric fence or something, no? They also had a section on the NFL at war, from Pat Tillman back to WWII when some teams had to combine rosters since so many players had gone to fight.

All in all, a great visit--we'd highly recommend it. Not too big, not too small. Gandered about in about 3 and a half hours.
The bizarro thing was that five minutes after we got there, I spotted a guy walking up the center ramp who worked with me in Colorado Springs a year ago. He was on his way to Maryland for his next job, and just decided to take a detour to the Hall of Fame. So we had a much-welcome third wheel to join us on our tour. Small little oblong planet we've got spinning here.


A spaceship's landed on my museum and I'm mad as hell!

Googlable

Lindsay Kitay.

Happy?

Someone's got a stem on the apple

My Pregnant Wife went to her 18-week checkup today and had sound waves professionally zapped through her stomach to determine that her tenant is sporting a harpoon.

She had a feeling that she was building us a male of the species*, and the doctor was able to confirm it. No ifs, ands, or breasts. And apparently, junior, as guys do, was having a grand ol' time shaking hands with said common denominator.

Not a lot to do in there, it seems. My wife doesn't watch a lot of TV, so he has to do something to keep himself busy for the next five months.

*homo major erectus

We truly, honestly, had no preference as to which way the determination went. With all the horror stories the military doctors threw at us about the dangers of "advanced maternal age", we're more excited that all the prenatal tests are pointing to a normal, healthy baby. Who likes Monty Python.

Now granted: it's nice that this will be the first male Gottrich born since...well, me. So genealogically, we have done our part to continue the line. And I'm really not sure I would have been comfortable with a daughter with boobs bringing home punk-ass boobwatching boyfriends.

A son! No longer a "blob" or a "peanut". And NO, we haven't come up with a name yet. Let me get through Statistical Management or whatever the hell first.

Last night I had dinner with the family of a guy in my AFIT class I've known since 1993, and it was interesting to watch the 5-yr old and 11-month old and think that this was going to be me pretty soon. The older one called me "Mr. Gottrich", which was weird since I thought the going teaching was to say "Mr. Dan." And the 11-month old kept putting his hand in daddy's water glass, sloshing the ice around and grabbing a cube, then pulling it out and crying because his hand had gotten cold, then daddy warming it up, and then baby putting it right back in the glass. 4 times, this happened. Fascinating to watch the learning process try to break through that soft little sweetpotato-stained head.

This'll be cool.

You think?

Here you go, Big O -- from Today's "Dayton Daily News":

MAN REPEATEDLY RUN OVER IN PARKING LOT

A man was run over by a vehicle perhaps as many as three times in a parking lot on Wednesday, an attack that left the man injured.

It may not be the New York Times, but right there's some insightful reporting.

Busy as a beaver

....well, one that only works on his dam two days a week, anyway.

I just got my class schedule for the summer quarter. In June, I have refresher courses in math, writing, and computer skills every day from 8 to 3. Starting June 27th, here's my class schedule:

• Monday: 4 classes between 8 and 4.
• Tuesday: Not a dan thing.
• Wednesday: See "Monday:
• Thursday: See "Tuesday". With occasional guest lectures from 11-1.
• Friday: One class, 11-12.

These courses were assigned to me, and I'm required to register for them with no changes; once the Fall starts, I'll be able to pick some of my own courses and times. I have to admit the Friday schedule is pretty cool, though I would have rather had these classes spread out over several days rather than all bunched up on Monday and Wednesday, allowing me to do school work in between classes. Now I'll have to do it at home at night or drive somewhere else (or pay parking fees) on the Tuesdays or Thursdays. Of course, I have no right to complain when most of my compatriots work 60+ hours a week or worse.

However, the classes are: Strategic Information Management, Corporate Strategy and Policy, Applied Statistics, and Quantitative Decision Making. Which sounds a little less fun than poking a drum stick in my ear.

Which I've done, actually. So I'll have a valid comparison base.

Three Years Hence

With this ring, I thee sumpn-sumpn. A.k.a., the best day of my young life.

Kindergarten for Grownups

I miss grass.

I explored the mall this weekend and, crossing some streets, came across some grass that I tiptoed through with glee. Grass! Thick, crisp, well-cropped thistles of nature tickling my toes through my sandals.

In the movie "2010: The Year We Make Contact", where Americans and Soviet bastards team up to fly an eight-month trek to Jupiter, one of the scientists aboard comments about how he misses the color green.

My apartment is all whites and silvers, the town cold cement and industrial asphalt. I need to find a park or buy a plant or, as My Pregnant Wife would say, eat some vegetables.

...the Jupiter guys also missed hot dogs.


There were 245 of us in our blue uniforms in the hospital auditorium this morning (+3 Navy guys, 1 Marine, and 1 Air Force guy who didn't get the memo and showed up in his flight suit) for our mass in-processing briefs. Not only did the hospital collect our records, but we also received mandatory annual Alcohol/Drug Awareness and Equal Opportunity/Sexual Harrassment briefings. During the latter, the presenter mentioned a time when a base newspaper had been published with an article about transportation, with a seemingly harmless photo of a guy in a garage looking into a hood of his car. But someone had complained to the commander because, on the wall in the background of the photo, hung a calendar.

"And guess what was on that calendar?" he asked.

Silence.

I had to offer something:

"...kittens?"

Because it wouldn't be me if I were in a new place and someone hadn't called me a smartass by day 3.

The afternoon consisted of mulling around in long (1hr+) lines to turn in and pick up paperwork, with forced introductions to the people standing close by. Hopefully Pam and Chris will be my new best friends. The good news was that the 100 or so of us in the Management program (soon to be renamed as "Strategic Leadership"!! Take that, Donald Trump!) have been pre-deemed sufficiently unintelligent enough to not have to take the 3-hr math exam tomorrow, so if I didn't have a car to move/a meter to feed by 8 am, I could sleep the hell in.

My comfortable married pattern of living has quickly evaporated, as I don't know what to do without a wife. My average bed time the last week has been somewhere between 12 and 1am. Last night was an early 10:55. And I don't even have cable yet. It's just me getting the apartment situated and playing the guitar and reading.

Did you know right now my baby's sebaceous glands are producing sebum which mixes with skin cells to form the vernix?

Big Boys Don't Cry

Dover looking sad in his little blue bow tie as I drive away...

The Crap You Didn't Know, Volume 1

Dayton was founded April 1, 1796.
The city was named after Revolutionary War hero General Jonathan Dayton, the youngest signer of the U.S. Constitution and one of the first investors in the new town. The city was Incorporated February 12, 1805.
200 years ago! That's like France old!

Climate: Average High Temperature -- 60.3 degrees
Average Annual Precipitation -- 36.6 inches
Cultural Diversity: White -- 58 percent; African-American -- 40 percent; Other -- 2 percent

Top Ten Employers:

• National Cash Register (NCR) Corporation
• Miami Valley Hospital
• Delphi Automotive/General
• Reynolds & Reynolds
• University of Dayton
• Veterans Administration Hospital
• Good Samaritan Hospital
• United States Postal Service
• Daimler Chrysler Corporation
• Emery Air Freight

~~~~

I have opened up all my boxes and have put together the table and ensured the guitar still works. Been to Target twice in two days to pick up extra things I need, and once I get cable installed Thursday, it'll be somewhat of a temporary home.

There was an "Urban Living" night around Dayton tonight, with apartment complexes, restaurants, and shops open late to show off their stuff. It was cool to explore around town, and look into the oddly named "Fifth Third Field", home of the Dayton Dragons, losing 2-0 in the 4th, but the fans didn't seem to care. And I stopped in an art store and pet a cat for like ten minutes, so that was a good feeling. Nobody tell Tucker.

My nose is doing okay; it only hurts when I make my Angry Rocker Dude face, which I do more often than I thought.

It's no skin off my nose

Well, actually it was, but we'll come back to that.

The movers arrived a little after 11:30, and a little before the torrential rains. Despite the dampness, and them dropping my TV twice on its front, everything seems to be in one piece. Now it's just finding a home for everything. The kitchen cabinets are about as tall as a cereal box (but with a shelf in the middle), so I can foresee stacking a lot of things on top of them. Also, there's one drawer that I can't open unless the oven door is open. So we shan't enter the architects into the Designer of the Month competition.

It's just weird having one-tenth of my usual stuff. I have all I need, but don't have all I have, if that makes any sense. I miss my yard. I miss my towel rack. I miss having four toilets from which to choose. Tonight I got home after running out to Rite Aid for milk, so I can have tea in the morning, and I pulled off the little plastic ring...and didn't have a cat to throw it to.

My Pregnant Wife and I used the web cam for the first time here, and the dogs were all very confused about hearing me and maybe seeing some pixelated version of me. Any car in the cul de sac today had the possibility of being "Daddy". Poor things. But I see them in a month, and My Pregnant Wife in just eight days. Which is a good thing, because I just shouldn't be left alone....

The other thing I miss? Trash pick up at the end of the driveway. My building has a trash chute, but I asked the property managers what to do with my boxes when I'm done with them, and one showed me the dumpster at the bottom of the chute, or said I could take it down the hall behind the curtain, since "that's what John would have to do anyway." To be nice, I dragged my box and paper down to the one at the end of the hall. It was at an angle, so the door wouldn't stay open, so I had to balance it open a tad while quick-shoving the box up and over, jamming it through, only it got caught and the door wouldn't shut, so I lifted the other door and pushed the box around to get it to slide over, which it did. So of course that lid came crashing down. Onto my nose.

Blood immediately, trying to find a rag or towel in the laundromat, nothing, found a bathroom and grabbed some paper towels to hold to my nose to get back upstairs. Guy in the elevator: "You alright?" "Just lost a fight with the dumpster." "Dude. It doesn't look too bad. Got a piece of skin hanging down, though."
Thanks for the help, Quincy.

I had to cut the strip of skin off, but I have plenty to go round. It only bled for about twenty minutes, but since My Pregnant Wife had packed my bathroom supplies, she probably didn't think I'd need band-aids, let alone the first day, so I tried the next best thing: half a cotton ball and a Breathe-Rite strip.

Didn't work too well.

It's a good thing I'm cute. Since I seem to have left my brain in Virginia. 

The other side of the tracks

I got into the hotel elevator on the 11th floor, and an older gentleman was already in it. I pressed the button for the lobby, and noticed that there were two other buttons illuminated, 6 and 8. I glanced around again; one gentleman, me, 3 buttons. The car stopped at 8, and the doors opened. The gentlemen cricked his head forward a bit, looking one way down the hall, then the other, as if he wanted to convince me that someone else had actually managed to telekenetically push the 8 button way up on the 12th floor.

So I pushed him out.

That'll teach him to make a haphazard slap at the button panel next time.

I signed my lease for my apartment this afternoon, after signing in at Wright-Patterson AFB. I don't have to go back there until Tuesday, when orientation starts, which will give me some time to get my place set up, as my furniture n stuff will be delivered tomorrow, mid-morning.

When My Pregnant Wife and I came out in March to find a place to live, we'd decided on this loft complex rather than a typical apartment complex across the street from the base; I lived in that kind of place, a typical suburban strip-malled hell with a name like "Park Manor", as a Second Lieutenant already; we decided it would be better if, I dunno, acted like a grown-up or something, and tried something new and different. I've never lived in a real downtown before, and I'm right there: a block away from the Greyhound station; two blocks from the rails carrying cargo trains every hour or so. I'll walk to shops and restaurants and parks and the river and the theater and get away from base life at the end of the school day, and experience something other than bland crackerbox laundromatted Hardee's' backyard.

I've already been asked twice for spare change!

I can see my house from here.

Alohioha from the eleventh floor of the Crown Plaza in downtown Dayton. My apartment complex-to-be (as of tomorrow) is caddycorner north and west from me, just out my window. And eight stories down. It's a wee loft building.

The trip took about 8 hours, which was longer than I'd expected, but I wasn't exactly in a hurry. Usually when you take a long drive, you're looking forward to something on the other end. Friends, family, wagging dogs, WallyWorld, etc. But all I had was a hotel room, guaranteed late arrival. I took my time. Which made the trip fairly stress-free, especially the ten-minute stretch between Hancock and Cumberland, where 4 unmarked cop cars were nailing people, including one in a silver SUV.

I spent most of western Maryland going up and down long slopes, like a slow, boring roller coaster, which made me think about writing the Maryland Department of Transportation and introducing them to the concept of tunnels.

My Pregnant Wife said Dover the diminutive dog spent most of the day staring out to the street and whining, and around 6 o'clock, all three were out on the porch awaiting my arrival. Hopefully they'll temporarily get out of that habit. It was a rough good-bye, but we're just thinking of this has a series of extended TDYs, my Daytonexperience a temporary stopover before I can return home. And bend way over and pat Dover on the head and tell him he's a good boy.

My Last Night a Virgin...........ian

The Thunderbird is gassed up, the mandatory roadtrip bubblegum is bought, and my life is disappearing into little boxes that the cats like to crawl into and sleep. The dogs have eyed the suitcases with trepidation. My Pregnant Wife has pushed the last of the refrigerator's remaining meat products into my gullet. Tomorrow, after rush hour traffic has died down (har!), I'll take the packed car to the scales at Fort Belvoir, since I get paid for shipping a portion of my goods. Then it's 95 to 495 to 270 to 70 to 68 to 79 to 70 to 675 to 30 to 4th street and my hotel until the rest of my goods arrive.

I'll see you on the other side.

So I got gas at the WaWa. It's the cheapest around, and usually 15 cents less than anything up north, plus it's just fun to say. Usually I just pay at the pump, but I wanted to buy said gum, and some STP treatment to nurse the ol' fuel ignition thingy along a while longer. Got in line behind a guy with a six-pack, and when he put it up on the counter, he turned sideways and I got a look at his face. Man, he looks young, I thought. I glanced around for a sign that read "We Check ID if you look younger than Alan Greenspan" or something, but couldn't find one. The checkout girl, herself, looked maybe 16, and I wondered if she'd card the guy. She didn't; rang him up, put the MGD in a bag. Maybe I'm the one getting old. But instead of money, the guy tore off some perforated red card and handed it to the girl and walked out. She showed it to the other cashier in a whiny manner, and said, "But he looked old enough!". I don't know if it was a police sting, or a M.A.D.D. project, but I think it was pretty cool. Until the girl rang me up and still there, at the top of the screen, was a charge for a six-pack of MGD.

I always think of Chachi from Happy Days when I get gas there. "Wa, wa, wa," he'd say, in his slick italian punk-ass way. My Pregnant Wife just makes like a duck. Wa, Wa.

I really had a thing for Leather Tuscadero.

Right. See you on the other side.

Sgt Hulka, R.I.P.

As I am new to this blogacious world of wonder, let me figure out how to post photos. Tim, tell me if this works. <-- Or if you just have this stupid icon.

This has only taken thirty-eight minutes out of my day. Blogging's fun!

So Long, and Thanks for All the Schlitz

Actually, I had Yuengling, but that didn't fit.

America's oldest brewery. Since 1829. I hope I can get it in Ohio. If not, I am told it also has some fine local brew that may or may not taste like buckeye juice.

My junior year of college at Indiana University, the student newspaper asked for new comic strip auditions, as two of the previous year's strips were written by folks who had graduated. I had been drawing stick figure cartoons, featuring a 6-year old smartass named Jethro, for my friends for a few years, so I thought I'd give it a shot. I drew five strips of a story that had Jethro, a prodigy who'd graduated high school at age 5, heading for his college of destiny (IU), chosen with a random dart from a list on the wall. The third strip had him driving through Ohio in a cab, with a sign on the side of the road that read, "Now Entering Ohio: Please Don't Laugh at the Cows."

That still tickles me.

Anyhoo, today was my going-away at work, where I was given a picture of the Pentagon signed by all my coworkers and my two generals in charge, which was nice, as got some lovely parting words by the boss and others. I thanked everyone for putting up with me for a short tour (only 11 months) and thanked them for being a great group of folks to see every day, which is true. Always easier to slog into work at 0darknothing when you enjoy the company of your coworkers. I was thinking how lucky I was, but it later occurred to me that I've never NOT had a great group of people to work with. From small, 12/15-person units to 100-man squadrons, though I've had some crappy jobs, I've always made great friends among the people I've worked with. Always. Life-long friend, come-to-the-wedding-type people. I wonder if this is a characteristic of the military as a whole, or me just being able to put up with people easier than others.

I already know five or six people going to the same school in Dayton, but there will be hundreds of others to get to know. I sort of feel like Jethro; a punk kid off on some random adventure, yet always willing to stop and smell the cows.

Funny little bastards.

Away in a Mayflower, two crates for my bed

Stayed home from work today and got to sleep in all the way until 7:12. The packers were due between 8 and 9 to start putting my Dayton life into little boxes. All things considered, the fact that they showed up at 9:10 was about the worst thing about them. Good crew, packed within a couple hours and loaded and gone by 12:30. I won't be able to play my guitar for over a week. But it's survived seventeen moves since 1989; it should be okay.

Spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning up files and organizing computer disks and other crap. I've been in a bad mood all day. Nothing about going to Dayton is good news. The assignment should be interesting, the apartment cool, and I have many friends going to school. But nothing about the leaving is good.

Even seeing "The Hitchiker's

is it Hitchiker's or Hitchhikers?

Huh. My old high school copy of the book says "Hitch-hikers" (no apostrophe), while the spine says "Hitch Hiker's" (no hyphen).

At any rate. Even seeing the movie didn't do much to cheer me up. It was very well done, if a little scattershod. But it's a hard book to put to film, and they capture the zaniness and special effects very very well. Particularly the planet factory.

Two more days of work, the weekend, then sign out from the Pentagon Monday morning. Where has 2005 gone?

Okay already

I am the second of two children born to Celestine and Stephen. Celestine does not like to be called Celestine, since most Americans pronounce it SealSteen or CeleryStyne or Keleston. She has called herself Sally since before I can remember, which consists of most of the fifties and sixties. She calls herself Sally and would implore that you do the same if I were to give out her phone number and you called and asked.

Stephen likes to be called Steve.

Anyhoo, the first of two children born to these crazy crosscontinental babyboomers has, as the chronology implies, always been first. First to lose a tooth. First to graduate. First to drive. First to wreck.
Now: while I have always leaned towards more aesthetical pursuits (i.e., eating, watching television, producing navel lint sculptures), my brother has always been one step ahead as far as technology goes. He'd write programs on a Commodore 64 while I played on the old Atari. He'd ask for a CD player for Christmas while I played tapes for years afterwards. Digital camera? Hell, I've got a pretty good Minolta and 35mm film to spare. And who needs a DVD player when the VCR I've owned for ten years has been veddy good to me? It's not like you can record shows on one.

Continuing the trend, my brother has had a blog for going on

hell, I don't know, I'd have to look. Maybe three years. But still:
First.
Again.
Of course, he's always been right*. CDs have replaced many of my cassette tapes. My DVD library is strong and powerful. I could not live without my digital camera(s) and the ability to communicate visually and letterily over the internet.

And now,
brother,

here I am.

I certainly hope you're proud of yourself.


*about technology stuff. I have many a sibling story consisting of wrongness on his part.