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June 29, 2009
Hangover Cures
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Posted by Eric G. at 09:32 PM
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June 26, 2009
I'm NOT Leaving PCMag
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Posted by Eric G. at 11:02 PM
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June 25, 2009
In the Office
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Posted by Eric G. at 10:45 PM
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June 24, 2009
A Request to the Big Apple
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Posted by Eric G. at 11:03 PM
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June 23, 2009
Proofing
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Posted by Eric G. at 10:32 PM
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June 22, 2009
Red vs. Blue
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Posted by Eric G. at 10:33 PM
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June 21, 2009
Ceiling Wax and Other Fancy Stuff
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Posted by Eric G. at 10:33 PM
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Stuff About My Dad
It's Father's Day. One of the people who complains that my blog is now nothing but tweets that he can't understand is my dad ("Let me know when you put something up on your blog in English," he says). So, I'm going to write me an old-timey-fashioned bit of bloggeral just for him. About him. Then he'll be sorry. 1) My dad is so nice, he doesn't understand road rage. Which is weird because you could say he spent most of his professional life as a driver. In fact, as a kid, I never referred to his job as Emergency Medical Technician, I always said "My dad is an ambulance driver." And despite logging thousands of hours behind the wheel, arguable most of them transporting patients from Hornell to Strong Memorial Hospital in Rochester, he apparently never got angry at another driver. He could never understand why anyone would bother. 2) The one time he told me a story about a driver that did annoy him was a person followed the ambulance to Rochester on Interstate 390. a family member of the patient. The family member tailgated the ambulance for a long while, putting both vehicles at risk. Dad simply got on the radio, called a cop, and a state trooper pulled the family member over until the ambulance could get a decent head start. 3) Dad was into gadgets of any kind when I was growing up. He had a nice little collection of electronics like the first micro-cassette recorder I ever saw (and don't get me started on the tools), but he decided with the advent of the personal computer he couldn't handle technology. I think he's just psyched himself out. Still not sure he wasn't kidding the two times I've explained to him what the Enter key does. ("It's just like the return key on the typewriter.") Despite that, we video chat on Skype all the time now. Go figure. 4) When he drove my brother and I around when we were kids (first in the VW bus, later in a series of pickup trucks) Dad would sing. A lot. We always screamed for him to stop, like it hurt our ears. But had a great, deep voice. His favorite bit to sing was one stanza from a folksong about the railroad -- a fact I did not know until this morning when I looked it up on the Internet. The song is called "The Wreck of the old '97" and the verse he sang over and over again until it stuck in my head for my entire life was:
That's not exactly how it goes in the original song, but he personalized it for the three of us, a father and his two boys, to be all scalded to death together. 5) Dad made up a story for my brother and me to tell at bed time about a motorcycle rider named Zoomer Boomer, probably because there were some toys out with that name in the early 70s, though the toys were cars. Anyway, I wish that story was still in my head like the death-by-steam song. 6) The only time my grandfather, his dad, ever swore in front of me was to say my dad drank "too much damn Coke!" Ah, the 70s, when Coca-Cola was bad, but cigarettes were okay. 7) Few people outside of Saint Nick himself are as obsessed with gift giving as my dad. I've inherited that gene too. Trying to break it, but it's hard; I find that I want to show someone means something to me, the first place my mind goes is to narrowing down the perfect gift to buy them. While that works great in my family, it's been a learning curve to find not every family is like that. Some families actually only give ONE gift to a person at Xmas, for example. (My dad could probably understand this mindset even less than road rage.) Here's a picture of him with his two favorite things, his grandsons: There's a thousand more things I can say about Mr. Gerald Kay Griffith, but I'll end with this: he's great. My dad probably couldn't beat up your dad... but my dad is still better. Happy Father's Day.
Posted by Eric G. at 10:29 AM
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June 19, 2009
A Dog Made of Ash
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Posted by Eric G. at 10:33 PM
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June 18, 2009
Five GUYS!
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Posted by Eric G. at 10:50 PM
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June 16, 2009
Weird Al Sings
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Posted by Eric G. at 10:33 PM
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Utility Guide 2009
Posted by Eric G. at 08:25 AM
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June 15, 2009
The Day the Earth Got Shook Up AGAIN
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Posted by Eric G. at 09:33 PM
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June 13, 2009
Suck it, Other EGriffiths Out There
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Posted by Eric G. at 09:33 PM
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June 11, 2009
About Siren
Our landlords, who we adored, and they adored us back, said no when we asked for the okay to get a pup. They didn't want to take the risk of damage or stains or whatever. I guess I don't blame them. Besides, I was 26-years-old. I should have owned real estate by that age, right? So it was somewhat ironic that we found out our landlords' Labrador retriever, Sheba, was preggers. And they said we could have one of her puppies. We said, hell yes. The litter came April 12, and for the next seven weeks we waited, visited the nine pups (all chocolate and black) occasionally, and finally, Memorial Day weekend, we got our dog. This came after a three day dog-sitting session that was meant to give us time to make the pick of the litter. Except, at the end of the holiday, we still didn't know which pup we wanted. So I sat in the grass of the back yard and I watched this gaggle of seven-week-olds frolic, and I waited for one of them to come to me. That's how I found my Siren. She picked me.
We named her Siren because the first full day she had without her litter-mates, her first day in a crate, she howled like a banshee. Here's the evidence from day two: Of course, after that video was made, she never howled again. Ever. She was contrary like that.
She got the nickname "the poop-dog" early on, and variants: pooper, princess of poo, etc. Not that she was any more prone to poo than any other dog. We liked it because she was poop-colored. Her AKC name, which she needed to participate in agility trials, was "Griffith's No Cause for Alarm."
She was an agility champion after a somewhat rocky start; she got good enough that a photo of her in action (below) graced an agility calendar cover one year. She loved flyball, for a while, until we decided it was to much for her elbows. Despite lots of training, she was terrible on a leash. Off-leash, she was great. She never strayed far, and spent a lot of her time looking over her shoulder, as if to make sure the humans were in the proper place.
She had a sensitive stomach and threw up puddles of bile when her tum-tum was too empty. She didn't care much about other dogs, but she would play with her adoptive sister Kylie if provoked enough. This is her with Caper in 1999. Siren's overwhelming characteristic: that innate Retriever need to fetch things. Especially sticks (which she liked to also shred) and tennis balls. She'd dive off a wall into murky water without any regard for depth or personal safety to get one.
My friend Vikki said to me recently, "when I think of Siren, I always think of her staring you down, willing you to throw a tennis ball for her to chase down...[it's] that thing that kind of makes her Siren." And that's so exactly right. That was my baby girl to a T. Here's my favorite picture ever taken of her, called "the snot picture," which includes the stare:
Siren wasn't always a ray of sunshine. She was not into cuddling. Maybe if it was her idea, but otherwise she was happy to sit by herself. She did kiss the hell out of anyone she could, but it always came off as a bribe -- "I LOVE YOU now throw the damn ball" -- than actual affection. I took what I could get. She was remarkably healthy (especially for a dog with so many issues, from elbow dysplasia, the aforementioned stomach thing, and a penchant for reverse sneezes). Healthy until the last few years at least. When her age snuck up on her, and her thyroid acted up and her vertebrae fused and patches of her hair fell out and I don't know what else. Keeping her around this long was selfish and lazy of me. And I hope she never, ever held it against us. But she might have. She was a dog capable of a grudge, I firmly believe that. That said, I also don't think her final days were unhappy, despite her limits. At least I hope so. She got walks. She got stick. She got meat and ice cream and good pain meds. And one last time, she got to hold the true love of her life, a tennis ball. Now she's gone. So I'll say this to her here, like I hope I remember to say as she passed... For 13 years, Siren, I have loved you, and I will continue to do so for the rest of my life. Thank you for letting me be your guardian, your parent, and your friend.
Posted by Eric G. at 12:43 PM
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June 10, 2009
Go ahead, tase me, sonny-boy
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Posted by Eric G. at 10:43 PM
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June 09, 2009
The Laws of Instant Messaging
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Posted by Eric G. at 09:44 PM
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June 08, 2009
Another Day, Another iPhone
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Posted by Eric G. at 09:34 PM
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June 06, 2009
June 05, 2009
tweetily-deetily
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Posted by Eric G. at 10:41 PM
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tweetily-deetily
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Posted by Eric G. at 10:33 PM
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June 04, 2009
Deader than Kung Fu
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Posted by Eric G. at 09:33 PM
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June 03, 2009
High Tech or Fart Jokes?
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Posted by Eric G. at 09:33 PM
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June 02, 2009
PJs = No Work
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Posted by Eric G. at 09:33 PM
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June 01, 2009
Flying Start
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Posted by Eric G. at 09:32 PM
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