Debit Card Hell

Technology.
It'll get us all in the end.

Like most of you(I'm assuming), I've come to rely upon the simplicity and ease of the bank debit card.
I use it all the time, and haven't ordered a box of checks in nearly four years... and I still have 1/2 of those left over.
Never thought I'd see the day when a box of 200 checks would last longer than the new home I had just bought... but whatever...

With online banking (and I was slow to adapt to it) and debit cards, access to money is just too easy anymore.
So easy, one can take it for granted.

Last week, on the way home from work with a gas tank nearly near 'E', I pulled off at my usual for a fill up.
Debit card declined.
OK, probably got a glitch in their system. It happens pretty regular...

The next stop, same thing: Debit card declined.
OK, try it as a credit card.
Still... Declined.
What the hell?
I know there is money in there...

By this time I had managed to make it home with not enough gas in the tank to go anywhere else.

I called the bank.
WTF????? I asked...

It appears, according to them, that my debit card had been 'compromised'. She did not elaborate, and could not when queried...

But they sent me a new, replacement card two weeks ago.

I never received it.

"Well, your card expired yesterday. We sent you a new card two weeks ago. We allow fifteen days on the old card to give you time to receive your new card."

OK, so by design... you allow a compromised card two weeks of further compromising by the compromisors... yet, you have failed to notify the card holder of the situation?
How does that make sense?

"Sir, we mailed you a new card."

No, you did not.

"Yes, Sir. Our records show that it was mailed on July 1st."

Do you have records showing that I had received said card, or even a phone call pertaining to it? You have my number? Why didn't you use it?

"I do not know if we called you...."

Straight up, NO YOU DID NOT.

"Well, sir... I am sending you out a new card right away."

Right now, I need gas in my car to get to work in the morning. I can't wait two weeks.

"Sir, you can go to your local branch..."

It's 15 miles away, and I have no gas, remember?

"Sir, you should receive your new card in 3-5 business days."

Yeah, sure... Just like the last one, right?

Damn Bastards.

Amazing how I allowed a little sheet of plastic to cripple my life...

Oh, Canada!

Canadians Now Richer Than Americans

And the huntin and fishin is better up there, too...

A family member had to put down a beloved pet today.
This occurred within the usual circumstances for our society-at-large: irreparably sick and suffering animal is brought to the vet, who agrees/diagnoses said pet's irreparablness and obvious suffering... and informs/confirms to the pet owner that "It's the best thing to do."
For a large fee, of course.

I dealt with a pet hospice situation a little over three years ago while saying 'The Long Goodbye' to my beloved Scooter.
I knew that our days would eventually end, and I had sworn in my heart that I was going to protect and defend her from all unnecessary discomfort.
"Unnecessary Discomfort": I took these words literally. They included, among the final needle prick... a sense of fright.

Fright: It's different for prey animals, such as cats, or any other animal really...
Cats (or those suckie, lower beings... much, much lower, that we call 'Dogs'...) live a life that is fear based. (Dogs also live a life that is 'suck-ass' based: just wanting to please... like the suck asses they are.)
Survival is their drive, before all else.

So yeah... Scooter would never see a vet, or a needle, that was not contributive to her overall health, happiness and well being.
I'm loyal like that.

In her final days I had already set in my mind that her end would come, if necessary, at my own hand.
There would not be the final morning of fear and trepidation that would accompany a trip to the vet:
When she would be placed into a scarrier...
The ride in the car...
Arrival at a strange place where all the comfort smells were absent...
To be set upon a cold, stainless steel table...
Prodded and poked by a hand she knew not...
The final prick of the needle...
Into her fearfully scared little body...

NO! Fucking way...

My girl would know only love, My love, in her final moments.
She earned it, was entitled to it, and I was duty-bound to deliver it.

As it came... her end was peacefully 'in my arms' so to speak.
She felt my hands as I stroked her fur...
I whispered to her...
Comforted her as she took her final breaths...

Sure, were she in any obvious pain, I was prepared for that, too, and like I said, felt duty-bound to 'do her right' should it be.
I had a loaded .22... at the ready.
In a moments notice, she'd have gotten the shot.
I was prepared for it, if need be, should she start to show any obvious pain or discomfort.

People ask: you would have killed your own cat? Where is the love in that?
They just don't understand.

To them I ask:
Where is the love in the alternative?
In that alternative, I do see not love, but weakness.
A weakness that causes pain to those who deserve better.
Where is the love in that?

That'll Leave A Mark

OK, so I've been hard at work (when I'm not at work ) playing this game of Beat The Clock... er... Calender... with the 'old' house.
Still trying to get the place cleared out, being as I've been almost there for over a month.
It's hard to get it done when things at the mill pick up, finding myself working 13hr shifts, 6 days a week...

Wrapping it up last night, the last heavy item was a washer/dryer combo. This was in the upstairs laundry room. Word to the wise: Avoid upstairs laundries.

Preparing to descend the staircase, I paused for a second to make sure everything was lined up, thinking I had gravity on my end... I let go of the dolly for just a split second.
Gravity does what it will, regardless of one's intentions...

This was about two hours after the buyers did their final inspection.

Needless to say, I'll be patching it up before the close of escrow.

Shout Out

Nothing serious, just a lot of much needed nonsense.


Welcome back to the real world, my friend.

Out Of Touch Aint Always A Bad Thing

Mexican activists are setting their sights on Anaheim

Community leaders and the American Civil Liberties Union on Thursday filed a lawsuit against Anaheim, saying the city in effect silences Latinos by shutting them out of the electoral process.

In Anaheim, the city's mayor and four council members are elected "at-large," meaning they can come from any part of the city. No Latino is currently on the council and four of the five council members live in Anaheim Hills.

Anaheim Hills ("The Hills") contains about 1/6 of the population of Anaheim. It is largely/entirely upper-income, and serves as home-turf to many pro-athletes, famous musicians, successful businessmen, etc... Not exactly the 1% Wall Street types, but you'd be hard pressed to find a box maker living there.

The remainder of Anaheim (The Flatland) is decidely blue-collar, working class and heavily of Mexican descent. The Flatland has been there since the mid 1800's, while the The Hills didn't begin to exist til the 1970's.

If you live in The Hills, you would rarely, if ever, visit/pass through/shop/ do business in the Flatlands. It's not just the cultural differences that divide. There is also topography. Such things as highways, canyons, thoroughfares, and closer proximity to other (and generally upper scale)business districts... are the real divide.

In short: Anaheim Hills has no credible reason to consider itself a part of Anaheim.
The Hills and The Flatland. Never the two shall meet... and they don't in any real-world sense.

In The Hills: 'Jesus' and 'Maria' do your yard and watch the kids.
In the Flatland: They live next door, and sell tamales in the Wal*Mart parking lot from the trunk of their car.

In The Hills: 'Mohamed' is the enemy on Fox News.
The Flatland: He's the smiling face behind the counter, ringing up cigarettes and Slurpees.

The Hills have El Pollo Loco.
The Flatlands already know that Zankou and Pollo Norteno both kick Loco ass.

The Hills have spoiled rich girls who send naked pics to their boyfriends with the iPhone Daddy pays for...
The Flatland has strip clubs and hookers.

The Hills has Disneyland Passports...
Yer typical Flatlander hasn't been there in 10yrs... maybe longer...
But they drive past it daily.

The Hills: Pho?
Flatlands: Pho!

It seems a little bit kinda not-right that a city council member is not likely to ever be stuck in traffic with those who elected him, that they can be so far removed from the people of the city.
Yet, in Anaheim, it is very much that way.

I kinda like it, though.
I don't need to have somebody 'in charge' who knows my issues and wants to step in with more bullshit programs, or micro-managing every little less-than-savory element of community life, or telling the smoke shop guy his signage is not pretty enough.
Just collect the trash, pave the streets, and keep the place orderly without harassing the indigenous, and the city will work just fine.

Buffalo Trace White Dog

Moving this blog on to more important things once again...

It's been nearly thirty years (1983) since I last played with the white liquor and I do remember some of it: the main memory is my buddy's mother throwing us out of the kitchen, and then told to exit the premises entirely... after somebody struck a lighter to some spillage... creating a three-foot trail of flame along her kitchen counter...
She was not amused.
That time, the magic potion was a bottle of Everclear that we had purchased after crossing the Mexican border and brought back. 192 proof, or something like that...
wicked stuff...
and tasted accordingly.

We tried shots (which didn't go down very well) before we decided to mix it into beer. After three of those it was like having a piano dropped on my head from three floors up...
Yeah, I was over and done for the night.

I've avoided the white liquor ever since, til now...

'White Dog' is the name given to un-aged, straight-from-the-still American whiskey before it goes into the oak barrels where it is aged into that beautiful substance we call Bourbon.

There are a few varieties to choose from at my local liquor store. My curiosity was on high this time around and reached for the bottle of un-aged Buffalo Trace distillate.

I chose the Buffalo Trace variety for two reasons:
--First: Buffalo Trace is a reputably solid offering of bourbon.
--Second: It was at a proof (125) that I thought I could handle.

Not much at all to look at with this stuff being clearer than water.
I was expecting an aroma similar to rubbing alcohol, but instead I got a faint combination of alcohol and sugar.

The real test is the taste, which is kinda yucky and pungent to the pallet; a lingering kind of yuck that stays a while, several minutes, and then some.
Due to the surgical event of 2008, I don't always feel much back there, but damn... I was feeling this like it was 2007.
Slight corn sweetness up front, but nothing to get all 'whoo-hoo' about.

Most impressive are the effects: akin to the subtle massage of a ball ping hammer  to the forehead.

Unless you feel the need to truly appreciate what oak barrels over time will do to distillate, avoid the White Dog.