Due to changes in personnel and the need for space, some of the band equipment has been relocated to a space closer to the classrooms. Namely, the percussion instruments. One might almost, almost, suspect that the orchestra teacher, Miss Strings, disliked trying to do Hayden over drum solos.
Thus, as I made my way to the workroom to fetch something caffeinated, enthusiastic percussion erupted from the now-band-room. Sister Scholastica [aka The Dean] and Mrs. Noun were coming from the other direction. We paused, carefully not congregating.
Me [glancing toward source of percussive eminations]: I have this strange urge to throw the door open and yell “More Cowbell.”
Mrs. Noun: [much muffled laughter]
Sr. Scholastica [eyes gleaming over her mask]: I fear you would then have to explain the reference.
Me: Alas, yes, Sister.
Someone having to call fire and rescue wasn’t funny. What came trundling up the sidewalk after the call was funny.
Some background. Over the past few years, there’s been a steady turn-over in the population in the neighborhood around Redquarters. Older people are moving out, and new families, often with several small children, are moving in. The area seems especially popular for families with at least three kids, and “Kid crossing” signs have started appearing in front of houses. This is very good, and I like having to look out for small herds of grade school and younger kids. Continue reading
The pre-season, er, annual start-of-school inservice training is underway via computer. I’m listening to Fr. Martial, our new headmaster, explaining some of the new procedures. He stops abruptly.
An animated dark grey hairball appears on one of the secondary screens and resolves into a Persian-something cat.
Mrs. Noun: No, Fido, stop that. Get down from there.
The grey visitor is removed. The meeting resumes.
Fr. Martial: And in concl— Woof Woof!
Voice from off-camera: I’m sorry Father! Dog, come back here! We’re fostering him for the service-dog program. I’m sorry.
A German shepherd-looking not-quite-puppy pops his head into view before being escorted out of the office.
Fr. Martial: Time for a break. We’ll resume in ten minutes.
********** Continue reading
Computers, and new gizmos, and new problems with new gizmos, and . . .
I’ve mentioned that Day Job is a little different this year. Not quite “Earth after the dino-killing asteroid” different (although, half way through Monday . . .) but different. One of these differences involves two computer programs and two new pieces of electronic equipment. All of which have to play nicely together, at the same time. Every time. Continue reading
Due to coin shortage, no one is allowed to put in their 2¢ anymore.
It’s a running joke that the answer is “just one more.” Or “one in each color, just in case,” or “N+1,” or something along those lines.
I was thinking about this when doing some inventory of materials and closet contents. In aviation, you want lots of altitude below you, runway ahead of you, and gas in the gas tanks*. I like to have a spare toner cartridge in my home office, because especially once Day Job (or tax season) kicks in, you just know that you’ll run out of toner in the middle of a job just as the office supply palace closes for the day. Continue reading
Note that I did not type “owner proof.” Depending on the owner, nothing can be made owner proof. I went through five different styles and materials of eyeglasses frames before I found some that were Alma resistant. I’ve been using those same frames for *coughcough* years now, and I weep for the day when it finally becomes impossible to find parts or fit lenses into them. Partly because the newest versions cost over $500/pair, plus lenses. Owch! Continue reading
Now, there’s a phrase heard rarely if at all nowadays. It means cover the topic completely but don’t focus on the details too much.
That’s why they were called the Dark Ages.
Bang poink. Bang poink. Bang-ity bang bink poink.
Ya know, revolvers don’t pelt other people with spent brass. Well, OK, they might, in which case the person holding the remains of the revolver needs rapid medical attention because something went terribly and loudly wrong, but in general, revolvers do not send hot brass flying all over the place.
At the moment, I have long fluffy hair, thanks to no hair cut since March and the humidity. Said hair, when worn in my usual “not at Day Job or gym” style, catches spent brass, keeping it out of my shirt collar. I had never had the opportunity to observe this before. Continue reading