In the interest of actually using my sound recordings for something, here’s a new feature.
To begin playing Name That Sound, just click the play button.
When you think you know the answer, add your response.
Update: We have a winner! Think of a guess before you go on to the responses.
(Note: those reading “The Keys Are In It” may proceed to Part Fourteen, where we see a meeting of the minds.)
I already had written this post before finding this (update: this has been altered):
http://1000awesomethings.com/2008/10/14/918-when-youre-really-tired-and-about-to-fall-asleep-and-someone-throws-a-blanket-on-you/
It featured a picture of our son, that my wife took, used without permission. They linked back here in a bit of text separate from the rest of the post, which was how I knew it existed, but that’s not enough.
And I’m pretty sure I’ve had enough. *(see update at bottom of post)
I’m convinced that money buys elections but not loyal computer users. I don’t mean bribery, although that may happen, too. I’m referring to dollars spent on advertising.
Democrat presidential hopeful Barack Obama is throwing huge wads of cash into television commercials, even setting up a half-hour special, while Republican candidate John McCain has pulled advertising in at least five states. I’ve noticed an Obama channel on my DishNetwork guide, too. As the money dries up for McCain and Obama keeps adding his own face to more and more living room idiot boxes, the poll numbers show Obama pulling ahead by as much as 10 points.
Don’t worry, we’re getting to McCain’s iPod.
On our recent trip to Texas Hill Country, Shannon rummaged through our van’s glove compartment trying to ferret out anything we didn’t need. Maps of at least six different states somehow survived the cut.
The real keeper, however, was a note I had scrawled on a bright yellow Midas envelope. They had replaced a catalytic converter for me and I like to keep records of vehicle maintenance.
The words recounted a brief conversation Benjamin and I had on a trip to central Arkansas.
As I type this (7:45 p.m.) Benjamin sleeps in his bed and Shannon naps in ours. I eat Michel Angelo’s Lasagna with Meat Sauce (from the freezer section), and it’s delicious. No preservatives and only 320 calories per 8oz serving. Good stuff. Highly recommended.
But only once in a while, because 1/3 of those calories are from fat, and half of that is saturated.
Why shouldn’t I recommend foods I enjoy? Um… NFL, NHL, NBA. There? Is that manlier?
Do you use a social networking site? I’ve come to find that they’re for people of all ages, and not just places to brag about getting stupid drunk on alien secretions (that’s a real drink).
Others have found this out, too, as evidenced by Facebook’s recent explosion. I established my presence (but no presents, dang it!) in February, mostly at the behest of either my Great White North brother or his wife. Plus, even near Dallas it’s cold in February, so what else was I going to do? In the last few days, at least 40 folks I know have shown up and now 64 are on my Friends list. Some are old high school buddies, most of whom I’ve known since grade school, and others from college. Many I haven’t set eyes on in 20 years. It’s an online reunion, but not exclusive to those in my graduating class.
Several of the Facebook friends with whom I’ve reconnected live within 30 minutes of where I sit typing this right now (home, by the way). One I bumped into in person not long ago, and of course wrote about it in “The Two People You Meet at Discount Tire.”
My MySpace account hasn’t seen any action in a long time, and that’s fine by me. Facebook is superior in most ways for my use. For one thing, it e-mails the actual message someone sends instead of just a heads-up that you have something waiting if you’ll go log in. That’s a handy feature when I’m on a break at work, where I can’t even access social sites. Also, Facebook seems a bit more grown-up, if that makes sense. Profile pages don’t have all those gaudy and God-awful themes that people without any design sense apply to their MySpace accounts.
I’m pretty sure 64 profiles are far more than I can follow at a meaningful level. I suspect newcomers will slow down after the newness and sense of discovery (”Oh my gosh, that’s insert name here, no way!”) wear off. I know I will.
Despite that, however, I am glad I can communicate with some of those good friends from my past. Maybe I actually will.
Okay, I just wrote nearly 400 words discussing Facebook and MySpace. Somebody help me.
Sunday we attended church, where the minister’s voice broke and tears welled up each time he mentioned or was reminded of a 16-year-old boy who had died in a skateboarding accident. A told us later that the boy’s death had prompted friends who were not members of the congregation to meet with the minister. Helping people deal with death must be the hardest part of a preacher’s job.
Shannon knew that A and R wanted to attend the funeral, and had volunteered us to watch the kids while they paid their last respects. It was the least we could do. At first I was down with a headache — a rarity for me — so Shannon watched the kids.
They played mostly outside, taking turns behind the wheel of the two electric toy cars. I think the manufacturers of golf carts took all the noise out of their electric motors and put it into these kids’ toys. It was a treat for Benjamin, who pedals or pushes all his wheeled craft back home.
Shannon and her friend, A, met when they were seven years old and living in Little Rock, Arkansas. Their families lived within easy walking distance and the two girls were inseparable. When they were 12, A moved to Texas with her parents, but the two friends stayed in touch, participated in each other’s weddings, and had children of their own.
More than 25 years after Shannon and A first met, their children finally got to know one another. Sure, A had brought her older (and at that time, only) daughter for a visit three years before that, but at one-year-old, the little one probably didn’t retain anything about our son Benjamin. Although he was one year her senior, Ben didn’t remember her.
They got along great, and the weekend’s only bad moment had nothing to do with the kids.
The above picture is the result of editing the photo below using simple copy and paste and the cloning tool in Gimp (Gnu Image Manipulation Program).
Oh, yeah, three of our boys are in their third season playing on the same team together.
— mother of a boy on the most recent team to hand Benjamin’s team their heads on a platter
The quality of mercy is not strain’d.
– Shakespeare
