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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
I mentioned the monsoon that struck the Port Swiller Manor neighborhood the other day? Well, turns out it flooded Eldest Gel’s room down the basement fairly thoroughly. It also got into the main room of the basement, buckling a section of floor near the teevee.
Sigh. Regular friends of the decanter may recall that exactly the same damned thing happened last summah, and that ol’ Robbo spent considerable time and money getting the basement redone, including what was supposed to be a thorough waterproofing of the walls. (Pro tip: Do not put in Pergo where there is any danger of water seepage. Once the moisture gets under it, you’re doomed. I should have considered this, but I was so confidently informed by the contractor that the basement had been completely sealed that I ignored the danger.)
Well, as Ray Davies sang, here we go round again. The contractors were back out today ripping up the ruined Pergo and starting to dig holes in the walls to find the leaks.
This time we’re looking at putting in wood-like porcelain tile (something I did not even know existed) on the theory that even if it does get wet, it doesn’t matter very much. I believe this stuff is somewhat more expensive than Pergo, which leads to a delicate point: Clearly the latest damage was caused by the contractor not doing a proper job last summah, and I don’t think they’re going to squawk too much about covering the repairs. However, if we are effectively upgrading, who covers that additional cost?
It is here that I shamelessly turn the whole thing over to Mrs. R. Despite the fact that I’m a lawyer, I really hate to dicker about personal matters. Mrs. R, on the other hand, seems to enjoy it. That’s why I have come to leave all such matters – buying cars, negotiating home projects, etc. – in her capable hands.
UPDATE: Good news, every Juan! Turns out that the gel’s bedroom leak was the result of an overlooked pipe and easily fixable. The other leak was caused by a genuine new crack, but is fixable by a little judicious landscaping and drainage modification. Given this, we’ve decided to stick with the Pergo. Whole biznay much cheaper than I first feared.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Sorry, I don’t at the moment have anything particularly weighty to say after the recent seismic upheavals in the Body Politick other than “Dum spiro, spero“. Perhaps I will venture on some more substantive musings in the near future, perhaps not. I can tell you this: Teh Eldest Gel, who has become a keen follower of current events, noted earlier this evening that progressives don’t argue, they have temper tantrums. “It’s like they’re a bunch of goddam toddlers!” she said. Yep.
In the meantime, since his beloved Nationals aren’t playing this evening, ol’ Robbo is going to settle in for an “Arrested Development” festival. As I have said here before and, no doubt, will say again, it is my considered opinion that this was the single funniest program ever put on television.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Re an item in the post immediately below, no fencing for Port Swiller Manor today after all: It’s been raining steadily since last night, sometimes quite heavily. (In fact, looking at the radar, it appears the last big burst of the storm is going to hit us in a little while.)
I had been thinking before today’s monsoon struck that this might have been a good weekend to cut back the forsythia. Some years ago, I would have sallied forth to do so regardless of the weather. More recently, I would have refrained but fumed about it all day. Now? I simply said meh and have spent most of the day reading Evelyn Waugh.
Progress, I like to think.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Mrs. Robbo left this morning to go visit her parents for a couple days, teh younger gels are off at summah camp and I hardly ever see the eldest anymore, so this weekend is effectively just your host and his menagerie. Woo Hoo!
♦ Thanks to what was a pretty strong consensus here, I ordered a new set of headphones for my musickal evenings this morning. Thankee muchly for your recommendations. It only took me two months to get around to it. Procrastinate we much?
♦ Speaking of electronics, I find myself hating smartphones more and more. I especially despise the zombie-like way everyone seems to stare at them, oblivious to their surroundings.
♦ I see where Phil Austin, who played Nick Danger for Firesign Theater, died this week. My college roommate first put me on to these guys and I wound up buying a couple of their albums. True, it’s dirty hippy stream-of-consciousness drug humor, but it was still pretty durn funny. (I say “was” because I had cassette tapes, now long gone, and it must be close to twenty years since I last listened to them.)
♦ I also see where the Vegas odds-makers are betting Robbo’s beloved Nationals are going to win it all this year. I dunno, but since we just got done sweeping both the Bucs and the Braves, I’m starting to get excited. [Insert obligatory “Great kid, but don’t get cocky” here.] We’re supposed to start a series against the despicable Phillies this evening, but I don’t know if the weather is going to cooperate.
♦ Fence guy is coming tomorrow to slap up some wire on the fence in the Port Swiller backyard, thereby allowing us to literally let Daisy off the leash on occasion (under supervision, of course, in case she proves a digger). We decided against the whole Invisible Fence thing because of the price and the complexity and because I’m unwilling to try training her on it when she’s already so skittish around me. The squirrels and the woodchucks are in for a nasty surprise.
♦ Speaking of the back yard, ol’ Robbo demonstrated his apparent genius for stumbling across yellow jacket nests yet again the other evening. I was throwing up a tarp against a corner of the house where we think water is getting into the basement again and thumped down a paving stone literally within two inches of one of their burrows. Fortunately, a storm was rolling in and it was already quite dark, so even though I disturbed them, they only came out sluggishly and I got away without being stung this time.
Well, also speaking of the back yard, time to go mow it before the rain rolls in. Whatever terrible nooz comes out today, I’m not going to let it ruin things for me. Don’t you let it, either.
UPDATE: Done and done. Everything’s mown, trimmed and blown so it can rain now ’til its eyes bubble for all I care. And, Eldest Gel, who has been working all week at her church’s vacation bible school, is bringing me home an egg, cheese and bagel sammich. FTW!
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
This evening, ol’ Robbo popped over to the devil’s website and bought himself the 7oth Anniversary Edition of “Gone With The Wind”. Why? Because he fears that, if some people have their way, the movie will be disappeared from public view as suddenly have been all Confederate-relatated symbols at National Park gift stores, major retailers and on-line game producers, and as some hope will be at various national memorials, statues and monuments.
Not that I hold any particular brief for displaying the Confederate Battle Flag. I certainly wouldn’t want one. After all, my people were Scots Presbyterian Abolitionists who ran a stop on the Underground Railroad in southern Ohio, and my great, great grandfather was a Union artillery officer who fought in the Atlanta Campaign. But I tolerate the right of others to display the CBF much as I’m asked to tolerate things like crucifixes in jars of wee-wee or Illinois Nazis (I hate Illinois Nazis) or Che or Mao t-shirts, and I fear and detest this kind of digital Jacobin airbrushing.
Anyhoo, this allows me to trot out a story I’m sure I’ve told here before: Mrs. R had a classmate in college whose grandmother knew Margaret Mitchell back in the day and who attended the world premier of GWTW in Atlanta. A year or two after we were married, we dropped in on this classmate for a visit and got taken to meet her grandmother at brunch. As I recall, teh woman was aged and petite but ramrod-straight.
When the classmate introduced us to her grandmother, the woman’s first question was, “Wheyah are you from?”
“Well, we live just outside Dee Cee in teh Virginia suburbs,” I answered.
“No, no,” she said, “Wheyah are yor people from?”
“Erm…,” I replied, “Well, my family has roots in Ohio and Upstate New York, and Mrs. R is from Long Island.”
“Oh,” she sniffed, and I could tell exactly what she was thinking: “Dayum Yankees!”
UPDATE: Whoops! Catching up on the comments to posts below, I see that I, in fact, told this same story within the past 48 hours. Sorry about that. Know what else I’ve done two days straight? Accidentally left my wallet at the office.
I thought I had a few years before Alzheimers’s set in. Guess not.
UPDATE DEUX: Prof. Mondo has thoughts on the vainglory and moral preening behind the airbrush movement.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
As I mentioned immediately below, Mrs. R spent the day yesterday running the younger gels up to their summah camp, carpooling with a friend of ours and her son. It was only upon her return to Port Swiller Manor rayther late in the evening that I learned the party had got somewhat lost on the way there.
“How on earth did that happen?” I asked.
“Well,” said Mrs. R, “the GPS steered us to the wrong highway and then it took a while for us to realize it and get back going in the right direction.”
“Eh, whaaaa…..?” I said. “Never mind the fact that the camp directions specifically say not to rely on GPS to get there. We’ve been running the gels up to that camp and back for something better than eight years now. Do you mean to tell me that you still don’t know the way?”
“Well,” she said, “You know I’m not very good with directions.”
“But, but….,” I said, “amongst the five of you in the car, you must have made that trip fifty times in the aggregate. Are you telling me nobody knew how to get there?”
“Well, no,” she answered.
At this there was much eye-rolling and hair-pulling by your host. Jesus. Mary. Joseph. Ol’ Robbo is a complete shark for geography, directions and what might be summed up as general self-orientation/awareness and it absolutely flabbergasts me that the people around me can be so…. cavalier about such things and also so increasingly dependent on technology to tell them where to go. Regular friends of the decanter will know that I speak the truth when I say that I have been on about this for years and years. As sure as Shire-talk, this is part of Skynet’s plan: condition people to become utterly dependent on their GPS systems and then, on Judgement Day, steer them straight into pre-arranged ambushes.
Do not tell me I didn’t warn you.
Grrrrrr…..
I also mentioned in the post below that teh Eldest Gel and a friend took a jaunt down to King’s Dominion yesterday. Apparently head-swollen by her successful completion of this trip, she announced today that she wished to drive down by herself to Virginia Beach this coming weekend in order to meet up with her godmother and attend some sort of Sweet Briar College celebratory do.
Mrs. R hemmed and hawed about it, but when I learned of said Eldest’s plan, my one-word response was NYET!
Honest to God: A 17 year old novice driver trying to negotiate the worst beach traffic in the Mid-Atlanatic alone? I. Don’t. Think. So. Hell, I hate making that run and do everything I can to avoid it.
Teh Eldest and I spoke about the biznay this evening.
“Daughter,” I said, “You know I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do this. Period.”
“You mean you won’t let me do this, not that you can’t, DAD. You’re the lawyer, DAD. Be clear about your word choice, DAD.”
“Can’t, won’t. Whatever floats your boat. Bottom line is that it isn’t happening.”
“Hmmph!” she said, stalking off to her room, “You’re awful, DAD.”
“Yes,” I replied, “I’m a mean old man.”**
And there it ended.
As for battle honors, I knew based on her relatively token protest and her resorting to semantics that she knew I was right about this one. But really, it was a no-brainer.
**Spot the quote.
UPDATE: Sheesh, you guys! It’s Mal Reynolds from the pilot episode of “Firefly“:
Kaylee: [sounding weak, but cheery] Oh, don’t you worry none. Doc fixed me up… pretty. He’s nice.
Mal: Don’t go working too hard on that crush, mei-mei. Doc won’t be with us for long.
Kaylee: [big smile] You’re nice, too.
Mal: [smiles] No, I’m not. I’m a mean old man.
Now I know there are Browncoats among the friends of the decanter, because I’ve talked here before about the fact that Joss Whedon was a classmate of mine in college and how amazed I am that such a typical Hippy Progressive Fascist could have turned out such a Libertarian teevee show.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers and happy Fathers’ Day!
Ironically enough, what with Mrs. R taking teh younger gels to camp today and teh eldest jaunting down to King’s Dominion, after Mass ol’ Robbo spent most of the day more or less just mooching around Port Swiller Manor on his own. One can argue that a break from teenagers can be a rayther nice Fathers’ Day gift in and of itself, but it also wears pretty thin pretty fast.
Anyhoo, somebody recently asked me, “Tom, how go things with teh new doggeh?”
Well, she certainly doesn’t avoid me anymore but at the same time she does not seem to have gained complete trust and confidence in me as she has the female members of the Port Swiller family. Indeed, she reminds me at this point very much of Ben Bolt’s Alice:
DON’T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt,—
Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,
Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
And trembled with fear at your frown?
She likes it when I pet her (indeed, she seeks it out), but she mostly still goes stock-still when I do so. Also, if I so much as look at her squiggle-eyed, she…well, what the poem says.
It’s a shame, really, and makes me wonder what kind of Alpha Male she had to deal with in her earlier life. Sooner or later, I’m sure she’ll come round.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers and OH, HELLZ YEAH!!!
Sweet Briar College will stay open next academic year under a mediation agreement announced today by the state attorney general’s office.
Sweet Briar’s embattled current president will resign as will at least 13 members of the college’s current board of directors under the agreement, which will be presented Monday to Bedford County Circuit Judge James Updike for approval.
The agreement requires Saving Sweet Briar Inc., the alumnae group that filed suit with the Amherst County attorney to block the closing, to deliver $12 million in donations to keep the college open. The first $2.5 million must be delivered by July 2.
Attorney General Mark Herring will agree to release restrictions on $16 million from the college’s endowment to support ongoing operations, according to the agreement.
The agreement represents a significant victory for Saving Sweet Briar and County Attorney Ellen Bowyer – at least 18 new members will be elected to a newly reconstituted board of directors from a list of candidates nominated by the group. The new directors would constitute a majority and control the board.
The new board will appoint Phillip Stone, the former president of Bridgewater College, to replace the college’s current president, James Jones. The change in leadership will occur seven business days after the court approves the settlement.
This is amazingly good news! We had heard yesterday that something big was about to come out, but I wasn’t expecting something quite this big…..
We’re still digesting the initial reports, but the important part is that the deal seems to neutralize the bad players in all this mess and allows Saving Sweet Briar a fighting chance to get the school back on the right track.
It’s still an uphill struggle, but I’ve every confidence that the Vixens can do it.
As you might imagine, both Mrs. Robbo, who as an alum has put in countless hours fighting for the Resistance this spring, as well as the Eldest Gel, who was planning to apply for early admission this fall, are ecstatic.
Bumpers all ’round, ladies and gentlemen, gunn’ls under and no heel taps! Here’s to Sweet Briar with three times three! Holla! Holla! Holla!
I may perhaps mention here that today is the 22nd anniversary of the day Mrs. R and I were first manacled together. I’ve been quietly chuckling over this clip all day long:
I keed, of course.
In fact, I brought home flowers and Mrs. R and I quietly shared a bottle of wine. That’s pretty damned good for a steamy Friday night in late June, especially just as school is breaking out and Mrs. R is finishing up running a short summah camp at St. Marie of the Blessed Educational Method.
Curiously, teh Eldest was indignant that we didn’t do any more that this.
“Geesh, Dad, you’re really romantic, aren’t you? Not!”
“Well, I used to be.”
“Yeah, right!”
“Serious. Where do you suppose you came from?”
“Yeah, right!” [Door slams.]
Heh.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo was going to stay completely off the topic of this week’s brutal mass-murder down in Charleston because the story line seemed so inevitable: psycho-monster slaughters innocents; vultures swoop in on still the warm corpses to push their various politickal agendas (race, guns, self-aggrandizement, etc.); street thugs take advantage of the situation to go wild; civilisation crumbles just a bit further.
I’ve seen this movie before.
However, what I didn’t expect was the complete awesomeness of teh victims’ families:
Relatives of the nine people shot down during a Bible study session inside their historic black church confronted the 21-year-old suspect Friday during his initial hearing. They described their pain and anger, but also spoke of love.
“I forgive you, my family forgives you,” said Anthony Thompson, whose relative Myra Thompson was killed. “We would like you to take this opportunity to repent. … Do that and you’ll be better off than you are right now.”
My friends, this is Christianity in action. First, the obvious nod to the Lord’s Prayer: “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” Second, though, note the plea that the killer repent. Repentance isn’t just an empty “Yeah, man, I’m sorry.” It also requires suitable penance. In this case, indeed, it may very well require submission to the full weight and penalty of the Law, i.e., a trip to teh Chair or whatever it is they use down in South Carolina these days. But if Stormdoor (or whatever his name is) actually does this sincerely, the relatives recognize that his soul can still be saved. These people are thinking the long game, not just our brief appearance here on Earth.
That, as I say, is a true understanding of Christian salvation. And I tell you truly that I’m not sure, given the same set of circumstances, that I could myself measure up to these brave folks.
God bless ’em.
The Port Stands At Your Elbow 
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