'Nuff Said...
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Friday, February 03, 2006
Hey...All You Towel Heads...Listen Up...
Add My Name To Your Jihad List
I've heard that there is a bit of a stir going on over in Europe and the Middle east over some political cartoons depicting the Muslim Prophet Muhammed. The towel heads (table cloth heads, dune goons, et. al.) have their thongs in a bunch because they say that it is blasphemy to depict their holiest prophet in any way in drawing.
Since their beloved original "Weird Beard" died before there were any Polaroid cameras, I guess that we can only speculate as to what he looked like.
Is this him?
If you're offended, then please feel free to add ME to your personal Jihad list, and come on down here to St. Simons Island. I have a couple of 30-06 rifle rounds I'd like to personally deliver to you.
Be sure to bring your catcher's mitt (and possibly some body armor,) because they'll be moving rather quickly...
I've heard that there is a bit of a stir going on over in Europe and the Middle east over some political cartoons depicting the Muslim Prophet Muhammed. The towel heads (table cloth heads, dune goons, et. al.) have their thongs in a bunch because they say that it is blasphemy to depict their holiest prophet in any way in drawing.
Since their beloved original "Weird Beard" died before there were any Polaroid cameras, I guess that we can only speculate as to what he looked like.
Is this him?
If you're offended, then please feel free to add ME to your personal Jihad list, and come on down here to St. Simons Island. I have a couple of 30-06 rifle rounds I'd like to personally deliver to you.
Be sure to bring your catcher's mitt (and possibly some body armor,) because they'll be moving rather quickly...
Thursday, February 02, 2006
In Memory Of My (Former) Co-workers...
Yes, I'm sometimes a mean, pompus, uncaring bastard...
(and I'm prone to calling a spade a spade)
On The Third Day…Instead Of Rising From The Dead
I Went Home Early...
OK, after taking yesterday off, I decided to go back into the “Valley of the Shadow of Death” and follow up on some loose ends to my “Day Labor” story. As I previously mentioned, I had serious concerns about the safety factors involved in this jobsite in their rush to make an impossible deadline, and today my worst fears were realized.
After making the early morning trek across the causeway again, I found myself dispatched on a “high paying” ($7.00/hr) concrete chipper job working with an electrical contractor. So good so far—higher pay for standing in a few places all day making dust and concrete chips.
Due to circumstances that occurred on Tuesday relating to being responsible for a bunch of “crack heads” and otherwise unsavory non-voters, I elected to drive myself back to SSI and catch the bus solo to the Cloister jobsite.
I got lucky and almost stepped on the little guy that was my boss as soon as I walked into the building. After identifying myself, I was then “towed” around the building as he went about his morning rounds, watched him deliver a good “butt chewing” to five foremen, and finally he unceremoniously delivered me to a position outside the front entrance of the hotel where I was expected to spend the next 8 hours.
The “rocket scientist” (and I use that term loosely) that was in charge of my life and my paycheck today insulted me and my lunch within the first fifteen seconds I was in position to go to work.
The first words out of his mouth were something to the effect of “hey you, climb up here”—the words being delivered from a rack of scaffolding six feet off of the ground. He was impatient as I looked for somewhere to stash my lunch bag, and once I had climbed up on the scaffolding he proceeded to point to a line drawn with a magic marker on a raw concrete wall and said something like “chisel this out 1” wide…1” deep.” Then he pointed to an “X” on the adjacent wall and said to drill a 1” hole here, all the way through (about 22” of concrete.)
He then climbed down off of the platform and disappeared as another guy uncoiled an extension cord and thrust a 30 pound electric chipper onto my scaffolding board. For those non-construction “laymen” and “laywomen” (no pun intended) out there, by an “electric concrete chipper” I actually mean a small handheld “jackhammer.” It consists of a big electric motor with an 18” chisel “bit” sticking out of the front end of it.
The idea is to hold the “chipper” against the solid concrete wall and push on it with your body weight and arms while it eats away at the hard material. I am pleased to admit that I made it through the cutting of a 1” wide x 1” deep trench in my concrete beam about three feet long in about 45 minutes. I am sorry to admit that I am now deaf in my right ear and have concrete coated lungs and sinuses as a bonus prize.
I was elated.
My hearing will probably return to it’s normal poor levels, but I will probably die of silicosis next year, because my highly paid employers did not have hearing protection and a respirator mask available for use by their two low paid “day laborers.”
This situation is actually against the law based on OSHA regulations, but I’m probably one of three people on the entire jobsite that actually cares about or even knows this fact.
While I was making cement dust, my fellow “day laborer” was supposed to be hoisting a 30 pound heavy duty electric drill with an 18” long, 1” diameter concrete bit over his head and drilling through an adjacent 20” thick concrete beam. This amazing feat was supposed to be accomplished while standing atop a 10’ fiberglass ladder.
My co-worker gave up before I did this morning, since the giant drill kept trying to toss him off of the aforementioned ladder while in the heat of drilling about 2” deep into the concrete over a period of one half hour.
When my co-worker complained about the difficulty of his task and his safety concerns, our so-called “supervisor” suggested that he ask me to do the drilling, thereby risking my life and safety rather than his own. Meanwhile, I was freaking out working on my personal rickety scaffolding since I only had one 24” wide scaffolding board to stand on.
I also took command of the giant drill and managed to force the bit about 4" into my designated piece of concrete before I realized that it was going to twist my arms into a human knot if I didn't get a more stable place on which to stand while conducting my drilling operations.
When break time came at 9:15 AM, I waited for a half hour to speak with our “boss man”, but when he never showed up in the work area I made an executive decision (something usually outside the scope of responsibilities of average "day laborers")and excused myself for the day's employment, had a security guard call a shuttle bus, and I carried my Redneck Ass home for the day.
On my way out of the property, I had to wait a half hour due to a traffic delay relating to an Ambulance and Fire Truck that had responded to help some poor slob that had broken his ankle in a fall.
"There go I, but for the grace of God," I thought to myself.
You see, “Safety” isn’t just a slogan, and good safety isn’t had by “accident.”
Safety is a conscious decision to look at what you are trying to accomplish, and spend the time and money to get the manpower, equipment, and training to do the task.
Macho combined with ignorance equal death and injury. I prefer "mucho" dinero for "minimal" macho--something apparently not found in the "day labor" business.
When it is all said and done, throwing cheep labor, insufficient tools, and lack of supervision at a given project just ends up injuring or killing people, breaking materials and tools, and ruining someone’s Mother’s day.
I, personally, like it when my Mother is happy at the end of the day.
OK, after taking yesterday off, I decided to go back into the “Valley of the Shadow of Death” and follow up on some loose ends to my “Day Labor” story. As I previously mentioned, I had serious concerns about the safety factors involved in this jobsite in their rush to make an impossible deadline, and today my worst fears were realized.
After making the early morning trek across the causeway again, I found myself dispatched on a “high paying” ($7.00/hr) concrete chipper job working with an electrical contractor. So good so far—higher pay for standing in a few places all day making dust and concrete chips.
Due to circumstances that occurred on Tuesday relating to being responsible for a bunch of “crack heads” and otherwise unsavory non-voters, I elected to drive myself back to SSI and catch the bus solo to the Cloister jobsite.
I got lucky and almost stepped on the little guy that was my boss as soon as I walked into the building. After identifying myself, I was then “towed” around the building as he went about his morning rounds, watched him deliver a good “butt chewing” to five foremen, and finally he unceremoniously delivered me to a position outside the front entrance of the hotel where I was expected to spend the next 8 hours.
The “rocket scientist” (and I use that term loosely) that was in charge of my life and my paycheck today insulted me and my lunch within the first fifteen seconds I was in position to go to work.
The first words out of his mouth were something to the effect of “hey you, climb up here”—the words being delivered from a rack of scaffolding six feet off of the ground. He was impatient as I looked for somewhere to stash my lunch bag, and once I had climbed up on the scaffolding he proceeded to point to a line drawn with a magic marker on a raw concrete wall and said something like “chisel this out 1” wide…1” deep.” Then he pointed to an “X” on the adjacent wall and said to drill a 1” hole here, all the way through (about 22” of concrete.)
He then climbed down off of the platform and disappeared as another guy uncoiled an extension cord and thrust a 30 pound electric chipper onto my scaffolding board. For those non-construction “laymen” and “laywomen” (no pun intended) out there, by an “electric concrete chipper” I actually mean a small handheld “jackhammer.” It consists of a big electric motor with an 18” chisel “bit” sticking out of the front end of it.
The idea is to hold the “chipper” against the solid concrete wall and push on it with your body weight and arms while it eats away at the hard material. I am pleased to admit that I made it through the cutting of a 1” wide x 1” deep trench in my concrete beam about three feet long in about 45 minutes. I am sorry to admit that I am now deaf in my right ear and have concrete coated lungs and sinuses as a bonus prize.
I was elated.
My hearing will probably return to it’s normal poor levels, but I will probably die of silicosis next year, because my highly paid employers did not have hearing protection and a respirator mask available for use by their two low paid “day laborers.”
This situation is actually against the law based on OSHA regulations, but I’m probably one of three people on the entire jobsite that actually cares about or even knows this fact.
While I was making cement dust, my fellow “day laborer” was supposed to be hoisting a 30 pound heavy duty electric drill with an 18” long, 1” diameter concrete bit over his head and drilling through an adjacent 20” thick concrete beam. This amazing feat was supposed to be accomplished while standing atop a 10’ fiberglass ladder.
My co-worker gave up before I did this morning, since the giant drill kept trying to toss him off of the aforementioned ladder while in the heat of drilling about 2” deep into the concrete over a period of one half hour.
When my co-worker complained about the difficulty of his task and his safety concerns, our so-called “supervisor” suggested that he ask me to do the drilling, thereby risking my life and safety rather than his own. Meanwhile, I was freaking out working on my personal rickety scaffolding since I only had one 24” wide scaffolding board to stand on.
I also took command of the giant drill and managed to force the bit about 4" into my designated piece of concrete before I realized that it was going to twist my arms into a human knot if I didn't get a more stable place on which to stand while conducting my drilling operations.
When break time came at 9:15 AM, I waited for a half hour to speak with our “boss man”, but when he never showed up in the work area I made an executive decision (something usually outside the scope of responsibilities of average "day laborers")and excused myself for the day's employment, had a security guard call a shuttle bus, and I carried my Redneck Ass home for the day.
On my way out of the property, I had to wait a half hour due to a traffic delay relating to an Ambulance and Fire Truck that had responded to help some poor slob that had broken his ankle in a fall.
"There go I, but for the grace of God," I thought to myself.
You see, “Safety” isn’t just a slogan, and good safety isn’t had by “accident.”
Safety is a conscious decision to look at what you are trying to accomplish, and spend the time and money to get the manpower, equipment, and training to do the task.
Macho combined with ignorance equal death and injury. I prefer "mucho" dinero for "minimal" macho--something apparently not found in the "day labor" business.
When it is all said and done, throwing cheep labor, insufficient tools, and lack of supervision at a given project just ends up injuring or killing people, breaking materials and tools, and ruining someone’s Mother’s day.
I, personally, like it when my Mother is happy at the end of the day.
The Plot Thickens
I Just Can’t Leave “Well Enough” Alone
My recent work as a “Day Laborer” has been a very interesting experience—AND, it has given me an idea. Follow along with me for a few minutes, if you will, while I tell you about it.
Last spring I had the grand idea of doing a story on the issue of “Port Security.” To this end I made an online application for a permit to do sub-contractor work at the Port of Brunswick, Georgia, using the PROPOSED name of a new construction company I had reserved with the Georgia Secretary of State.
Notice that I said “PROPOSED company”, because I hadn’t actually incorporated the company—I have just reserved the name for future use.
Any way…I filled out the form, and low and behold within a couple of days I received an E-Mail confirming my authorization to enter the Port of Brunswick premises. All I had to do to start standing around within inches of ships and their shipments was stop by the guard shack with my photo ID and get my own identification badge made.
WHAT A JOKE!
My company doesn’t actually exist, yet I have approval to enter the Port of Brunswick.
SO MUCH FOR HOMELAND SECURITY.
Now fast forward to my adventures this week.
You would not BELIEVE the number of private security personnel that they have on the new Cloister Hotel Complex jobsite. There are security people everywhere—outside--wandering around directing delivery truck traffic and acting like they are watching out for malcontents and misbehavior.
There is, however, a simple flaw in their security effort, and I have to digress to make my explanation. This hotel facility is a replacement for a building originally built in the early 1900’s.
A whole bunch of famous, and sometimes even really important people have stayed at the Cloister over the years. Former President George HW Bush and his wife Barbara Honeymooned there back in the dark ages, and celebrities of every genre continue to call Sea island home for days if not months every year.
Now here is my fragile security angle.
All a terrorist has to do TODAY is work a few days as a “day laborer,” paying attention to what is going on regarding security like I have. Once they have learned the security procedures, then they can march right into this complex wearing a hard hat and safety glasses and have complete, unfettered access to almost any space in the building—carrying a toolbox full of radio controlled pipe bombs or Anthrax or almost any other thing they care to bring into the building.
The hotel is scheduled to open next month, but I say that they are actually looking at May or June, and rumor has it that they are sold out at $700 minimum per night for the next two years. Mr. Jones (the owner) would freak over one minor incident caused by some solo malcontent, and an organized effort could actually cause an international incident.
As a result, it is frightening to me that there is no identification requirements to enter this jobsite. All you have to do is show up in the contractor parking lot looking like a contractor and the Sea Island bus will pick you up and deliver you to the front door of the hotel construction site--AT NO CHARGE!
As a comparison, almost every single major industrial jobsite I have worked on in the past required that you qualify for and display a parking permit for your vehicle if you parked on their property and more importantly, that you receive and at all times wear a special photo identification while working.
You could not walk or drive onto their property without your ID, and all they were usually worried about was industrial espionage and the resulting theft of trade secrets, not terrorism.
No such measures are required at Sea Island’s Cloister complex.
I’m thinking about pissing everyone off and doing some further writing about these issues and delivering the results to the local newspapers.
Talk about stirring up a hornet’s nest…but I'm afraid that I can't resist the opportunity to stir the pot up here a little more...
(look for the film on the eleven o'clock news)
My recent work as a “Day Laborer” has been a very interesting experience—AND, it has given me an idea. Follow along with me for a few minutes, if you will, while I tell you about it.
Last spring I had the grand idea of doing a story on the issue of “Port Security.” To this end I made an online application for a permit to do sub-contractor work at the Port of Brunswick, Georgia, using the PROPOSED name of a new construction company I had reserved with the Georgia Secretary of State.
Notice that I said “PROPOSED company”, because I hadn’t actually incorporated the company—I have just reserved the name for future use.
Any way…I filled out the form, and low and behold within a couple of days I received an E-Mail confirming my authorization to enter the Port of Brunswick premises. All I had to do to start standing around within inches of ships and their shipments was stop by the guard shack with my photo ID and get my own identification badge made.
WHAT A JOKE!
My company doesn’t actually exist, yet I have approval to enter the Port of Brunswick.
SO MUCH FOR HOMELAND SECURITY.
Now fast forward to my adventures this week.
You would not BELIEVE the number of private security personnel that they have on the new Cloister Hotel Complex jobsite. There are security people everywhere—outside--wandering around directing delivery truck traffic and acting like they are watching out for malcontents and misbehavior.
There is, however, a simple flaw in their security effort, and I have to digress to make my explanation. This hotel facility is a replacement for a building originally built in the early 1900’s.
A whole bunch of famous, and sometimes even really important people have stayed at the Cloister over the years. Former President George HW Bush and his wife Barbara Honeymooned there back in the dark ages, and celebrities of every genre continue to call Sea island home for days if not months every year.
Now here is my fragile security angle.
All a terrorist has to do TODAY is work a few days as a “day laborer,” paying attention to what is going on regarding security like I have. Once they have learned the security procedures, then they can march right into this complex wearing a hard hat and safety glasses and have complete, unfettered access to almost any space in the building—carrying a toolbox full of radio controlled pipe bombs or Anthrax or almost any other thing they care to bring into the building.
The hotel is scheduled to open next month, but I say that they are actually looking at May or June, and rumor has it that they are sold out at $700 minimum per night for the next two years. Mr. Jones (the owner) would freak over one minor incident caused by some solo malcontent, and an organized effort could actually cause an international incident.
As a result, it is frightening to me that there is no identification requirements to enter this jobsite. All you have to do is show up in the contractor parking lot looking like a contractor and the Sea Island bus will pick you up and deliver you to the front door of the hotel construction site--AT NO CHARGE!
As a comparison, almost every single major industrial jobsite I have worked on in the past required that you qualify for and display a parking permit for your vehicle if you parked on their property and more importantly, that you receive and at all times wear a special photo identification while working.
You could not walk or drive onto their property without your ID, and all they were usually worried about was industrial espionage and the resulting theft of trade secrets, not terrorism.
No such measures are required at Sea Island’s Cloister complex.
I’m thinking about pissing everyone off and doing some further writing about these issues and delivering the results to the local newspapers.
Talk about stirring up a hornet’s nest…but I'm afraid that I can't resist the opportunity to stir the pot up here a little more...
(look for the film on the eleven o'clock news)
Even More Government Stupidity
If the Opossum Fits…Let Them Wear It
Check out this story:
OWEGO, NY--Possessing a possum without a permit puts people at peril.
That's according to New York's environmental conservation laws, which say it's illegal to possess wild animals without a state permit.
A Binghamton-area couple found that out after they had rescued a baby opossum they found in their back yard.
Tina and John Laskowski of Owego were hauled into court after a state conservation officer was tipped off that the couple had adopted the tiny marsupial a few months ago.
They named the injured opossum Webster and nursed him back to health.
Webster was turned over to an animal rehabilitator when the couple was charged with possession of small game without a permit.
A town justice found the animal-lovers guilty and sentenced them to an unconditional discharge.
State wildlife officials say wild animals can carry diseases and even little critters can become aggressive as they grow older.
I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but I have to say that this is a perfect example of how our government, at a local, state, and national level, is COMPLETELY off of track and has lost their bearings in the sea of life.
WHAT BUSINESS IS IT OF THE GOVERNMENT THAT THESE PEOPLE FOUND A BABY OPOSSUM IN THEIR BACK YARD AND DECIDED TO KEEP IT, RATHER THAN LETTING IT DIE SO THAT THE NEIGHBORHOOD CATS OR THE ANTS COULD EAT IT?
I say that the Government should butt the Hell out of these situations.
We had this cat when I was a kid—her name was Twinkle. She was an excellent kitty, but she did what kitty’s did and lurked around the yard and caught things like Chipmunks and other stuff.
The thing about Twinkle was that she just caught the little critters and played with them. She didn’t quite have the instinct to actually kill them upon capture. We would see her with her latest “toy” animal and just take it away from her and release it most of the time.
I remember this one time when we caught her after she had wrestled a Chipmunk around and hurt its leg and so we took her hostage away from her and kept it in a box in our garage until it recovered from the encounter, then we let it go.
We didn’t actually try to handle it or keep it in our bedrooms or pants pockets, we just let it rest and when it started bouncing off of the walls we let it go.
Under NY law, the police could have come to my parent’s home and wrote them a ticket or even hauled my father off to jail over saving a little Chipmunk’s life.
Fortunately, when I was a kid in our little town in southern Alabama, we went to church with the local Sheriff and I know that when he wasn’t hunting and fishing, he was out looking for real criminals instead of screwing around worrying about people coming to the rescue of so-called “dangerous” wild animals.
Would everyone in New York and New England please get a grip on life?
Please?
Check out this story:
OWEGO, NY--Possessing a possum without a permit puts people at peril.
That's according to New York's environmental conservation laws, which say it's illegal to possess wild animals without a state permit.
A Binghamton-area couple found that out after they had rescued a baby opossum they found in their back yard.
Tina and John Laskowski of Owego were hauled into court after a state conservation officer was tipped off that the couple had adopted the tiny marsupial a few months ago.
They named the injured opossum Webster and nursed him back to health.
Webster was turned over to an animal rehabilitator when the couple was charged with possession of small game without a permit.
A town justice found the animal-lovers guilty and sentenced them to an unconditional discharge.
State wildlife officials say wild animals can carry diseases and even little critters can become aggressive as they grow older.
I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but I have to say that this is a perfect example of how our government, at a local, state, and national level, is COMPLETELY off of track and has lost their bearings in the sea of life.
WHAT BUSINESS IS IT OF THE GOVERNMENT THAT THESE PEOPLE FOUND A BABY OPOSSUM IN THEIR BACK YARD AND DECIDED TO KEEP IT, RATHER THAN LETTING IT DIE SO THAT THE NEIGHBORHOOD CATS OR THE ANTS COULD EAT IT?
I say that the Government should butt the Hell out of these situations.
We had this cat when I was a kid—her name was Twinkle. She was an excellent kitty, but she did what kitty’s did and lurked around the yard and caught things like Chipmunks and other stuff.
The thing about Twinkle was that she just caught the little critters and played with them. She didn’t quite have the instinct to actually kill them upon capture. We would see her with her latest “toy” animal and just take it away from her and release it most of the time.
I remember this one time when we caught her after she had wrestled a Chipmunk around and hurt its leg and so we took her hostage away from her and kept it in a box in our garage until it recovered from the encounter, then we let it go.
We didn’t actually try to handle it or keep it in our bedrooms or pants pockets, we just let it rest and when it started bouncing off of the walls we let it go.
Under NY law, the police could have come to my parent’s home and wrote them a ticket or even hauled my father off to jail over saving a little Chipmunk’s life.
Fortunately, when I was a kid in our little town in southern Alabama, we went to church with the local Sheriff and I know that when he wasn’t hunting and fishing, he was out looking for real criminals instead of screwing around worrying about people coming to the rescue of so-called “dangerous” wild animals.
Would everyone in New York and New England please get a grip on life?
Please?
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Second Day Laboring
This Is NO WAY To Make A Living…
I was out of the condo and back on the Torrez Causeway again early yesterday morning, but not quite as early as my first morning as a “Day Laborer.” You see, all of us “Day Laborers” lucky enough to get a “return ticket” enjoy the luxury of avoiding the 5:30 AM rush at the front door of the office, and this morning I’m one of those employees.
With a large cup of McDonald’s coffee in one hand and my lunch bag in the other, I walked in the door of the Day Labor office about 6:00 AM. My immediate reaction was one of panic, because none of the other three members of my previous day’s crew was present, even though we were all given the opportunity to return to the same Sea Island jobsite this morning.
By six fifteen, I find myself still sitting alone in the sea of other potential employees. I really was beginning to think that I had arrived late and the other three men had already been dispatched without me.
Oh my God, was I facing a day working in large seafood stained tanks?
Finally I saw a familiar face as one of my co-workers arrived, sleepy-eyed, at about twenty after six. One down—two to go, but at least I was going back to work for the cabinet company and not digging ditches or removing fish scales from some unidentified apparatus.
The previous day’s work had been tedious, but also extremely simple and not that physically demanding, so I was looking forward to mindlessly spending my time wandering from point to point to point while our supervisor struggled to keep us busy.
Due to the day’s high employment demand, there weren’t enough people to go around, but by 7:35 I was headed out the door with my three man group’s ticket one hand and my car keys in the other. I had been assigned only one new replacement employee instead of two, but in one day I had already graduated to group leader and driver. Then, at the last minute, as we were walking out the door, our fourth guy from the previous day arrived, so I got him added back to our ticket and we waited briefly while he received his hardhat and safety glasses.
The subsequent “four grown men in a Ford Mustang” trip back across the causeway was uneventful, as was the fifteen minute bus ride to the job site. We checked in with our employer by 7:15 AM, and by 9:30 I found myself having walked nearly a mile and having carried hundreds of pounds of material around the building.
What a difference a single day makes in the “Day Labor” business. It would seem that our supervisor, realizing that he had a good crew the previous day, had done a little planning on our behalf—with the idea of making up for the light work loading of the previous day.
All I can say is...I WORKED MY ASS OFF YESTERDAY.
From the third floor Presidential Suite to the basement wine cellar, we dismantled and relocated scaffolding, delivered giant wooden cabinets to the installing craftsmen, and generally huffed and puffed, grunted and groaned, and earned EVERY DAMN PENNY of the luxurious minimum wage we were being paid.
Perhaps the most fun part of the day was when, at about the two thirds point of loading an open 20’ trailer with surplus wood molding, our supervisors’ supervisor came out and had a “shit fit” when he discovered that a previous group of “day laborers” had intermixed needed materials with the surplus materials in the exercise of moving said materials outside the building.
Being cheep and assumed to be stupid, we were forced to partially unload the trailer as the Union professional spun around like a tornado in the middle of our neatly staked piles. Our previously neatly organized lumber looked like the makings of a good bonfire stack when he was finished, but at $5.75 per hour they apparently didn’t mind paying us to reorganize and reload everything once the suspect items were removed.
Being a middle aged former “office boy” and part time construction worker, needless to say that by noon I was tired, and by 3:00 PM I was ready to admit defeat and ask to be allowed to go home early.
But I didn’t, and my determination was rewarded when we were allowed to leave early, at 4:00 PM, with a two hour bonus on each of our paychecks. Whoop de doo--an extra eight bucks or something like that. This is a hard reality to swallow for a guy used to billing myself out to clients for $75 per hour in the "good old days."
When I finally managed to stumble back into the Day Labor office about 4:45, I couldn’t care less what I was paid, or even if I was paid, as long as I could be on the road back home by 5:00.
I walked in the door here at our condo at 5:30 with a check for an ENTIRE Forty Nine Dollars and fifty four cents in my hand--a magnificent ten hours pay for twelve total hours expended.
My feet hurt, my legs were tired, my shoulders ached, and I had two skinned knuckles and a bruised hand. I had also partially turned one ankle tripping over stone scraps discarded by a Mexican mason crew outside our back door.
My summary of my self-imposed, excellent Day labor adventure is as follows.
This is MOST DEFINITELY no way to make a living, BUT...I think that every high school Freshman should have to spend a couple of days doing what I've done the past two days.
I belive that, given the experience, that 99% of the kids would stay in high school, and many might graduate from collage Summa Cum Laude as a result.
Speaking from experience, Day Labor can also be quite dangerous. Besides being physically demanding, the jobsite conditions I witnessed are fraught with hazards, not by design, but by the shear numbers of employees and disciplines of work that are occurring concurrently.
While the Day Labor administrators attempt to apply lip service to safety, as in all avocations the key to safety is up to the individual, and many if not most of the people employed in the Day Labor pool don’t have a clue.
When I first went in to fill out an application package a couple of weeks ago in anticipation of writing this story, I filled out six or eight pages of forms including medical and employment history, and then was asked to sign off on an infinite number of disclaimers and waivers—one indicating that I had received a Safety Manual.
As of today I’ve still never seen anything resembling a Safety Manual.
I never said a word, but I was horrified at the conditions in the ballroom on both days, with people working obliviously on the floor on projects while at the same time FOUR different scissors lifts motored around in our midst, holding workers forty feet in the air while they painted the ceiling of the room.
On the industrial jobsites that I’ve run in the past, I’m used to cordoning off the work area and FORBIDDING pedestrian traffic and work to be done on the ground under and adjacent to the overhead work.
Imagine the lift operators making a mistake, running into a chandelier or bumping into something on the floor, and causing the entire lift to overturn. Anyone on the ground in the path of the falling lift would be seriously injured or killed. Any items accidentally spilled or dropped from the lift could also cause injury, in spite of the hardhats and safety glasses worn by all employees.
Yesterday I almost had the fingers on my left hand broken (if not cut off) in the unorganized spastic haste of my supervisor and one of my co-workers while moving a mechanical materials-lift from an outside courtyard into the building. It was actually my own idea how to get it back in the building, but once I tendered the plan I then lost all control in the normal stampede and dust storm of activity typical of “day laborer” operations. A savings of five minutes nearly cost me my fingers, and what was even more hideous was that since I didn’t say anything, no one else even noticed.
What really killed me about working day labor wasn’t the low pay, but rather it was the assumption of stupidity and untrustworthiness (probably well deserved and earned by other less enthusiastic and capable workers other than myself) that I had to endure.
I’m used to being assigned a task in my work life, and then planning and executing the intricate details. In spite of knowing that I had signed up for the program, I found being directed from point to point, from task to task, by someone well intended, but yet quite my intellectual inferior, to be quite frustrating.
We were forced to redo fully 25% of the tasks we accomplished, simply because of poor planning, augmented by the low cost of our employment efforts.
Although I had previously managed half-million dollar construction contracts and dozens of employees and subcontractors, I personally had never resorted to hiring anyone from a day labor pool and as a result I had no idea what to expect from either side of the bargain.
Regarding the start of the second day, it was clear that virtually everyone had spent nearly every single penny they had earned the day before partying. One of my coworkers didn’t bother to show up at all, and the two that did show up admitted that they were both broke when they got there. One guy brought a home made lunch, while the other would have gone hungry if I hadn’t loaned him two dollars. His promise of paying me back at the end of the day turned into stalling tactics because he said that he couldn’t get his check cashed because he had left his ID at home.
I think that that's OK, however.
I know now that I’ve done my good deed for the week--feeding the hungry, sorta like Jesus did.
I was out of the condo and back on the Torrez Causeway again early yesterday morning, but not quite as early as my first morning as a “Day Laborer.” You see, all of us “Day Laborers” lucky enough to get a “return ticket” enjoy the luxury of avoiding the 5:30 AM rush at the front door of the office, and this morning I’m one of those employees.
With a large cup of McDonald’s coffee in one hand and my lunch bag in the other, I walked in the door of the Day Labor office about 6:00 AM. My immediate reaction was one of panic, because none of the other three members of my previous day’s crew was present, even though we were all given the opportunity to return to the same Sea Island jobsite this morning.
By six fifteen, I find myself still sitting alone in the sea of other potential employees. I really was beginning to think that I had arrived late and the other three men had already been dispatched without me.
Oh my God, was I facing a day working in large seafood stained tanks?
Finally I saw a familiar face as one of my co-workers arrived, sleepy-eyed, at about twenty after six. One down—two to go, but at least I was going back to work for the cabinet company and not digging ditches or removing fish scales from some unidentified apparatus.
The previous day’s work had been tedious, but also extremely simple and not that physically demanding, so I was looking forward to mindlessly spending my time wandering from point to point to point while our supervisor struggled to keep us busy.
Due to the day’s high employment demand, there weren’t enough people to go around, but by 7:35 I was headed out the door with my three man group’s ticket one hand and my car keys in the other. I had been assigned only one new replacement employee instead of two, but in one day I had already graduated to group leader and driver. Then, at the last minute, as we were walking out the door, our fourth guy from the previous day arrived, so I got him added back to our ticket and we waited briefly while he received his hardhat and safety glasses.
The subsequent “four grown men in a Ford Mustang” trip back across the causeway was uneventful, as was the fifteen minute bus ride to the job site. We checked in with our employer by 7:15 AM, and by 9:30 I found myself having walked nearly a mile and having carried hundreds of pounds of material around the building.
What a difference a single day makes in the “Day Labor” business. It would seem that our supervisor, realizing that he had a good crew the previous day, had done a little planning on our behalf—with the idea of making up for the light work loading of the previous day.
All I can say is...I WORKED MY ASS OFF YESTERDAY.
From the third floor Presidential Suite to the basement wine cellar, we dismantled and relocated scaffolding, delivered giant wooden cabinets to the installing craftsmen, and generally huffed and puffed, grunted and groaned, and earned EVERY DAMN PENNY of the luxurious minimum wage we were being paid.
Perhaps the most fun part of the day was when, at about the two thirds point of loading an open 20’ trailer with surplus wood molding, our supervisors’ supervisor came out and had a “shit fit” when he discovered that a previous group of “day laborers” had intermixed needed materials with the surplus materials in the exercise of moving said materials outside the building.
Being cheep and assumed to be stupid, we were forced to partially unload the trailer as the Union professional spun around like a tornado in the middle of our neatly staked piles. Our previously neatly organized lumber looked like the makings of a good bonfire stack when he was finished, but at $5.75 per hour they apparently didn’t mind paying us to reorganize and reload everything once the suspect items were removed.
Being a middle aged former “office boy” and part time construction worker, needless to say that by noon I was tired, and by 3:00 PM I was ready to admit defeat and ask to be allowed to go home early.
But I didn’t, and my determination was rewarded when we were allowed to leave early, at 4:00 PM, with a two hour bonus on each of our paychecks. Whoop de doo--an extra eight bucks or something like that. This is a hard reality to swallow for a guy used to billing myself out to clients for $75 per hour in the "good old days."
When I finally managed to stumble back into the Day Labor office about 4:45, I couldn’t care less what I was paid, or even if I was paid, as long as I could be on the road back home by 5:00.
I walked in the door here at our condo at 5:30 with a check for an ENTIRE Forty Nine Dollars and fifty four cents in my hand--a magnificent ten hours pay for twelve total hours expended.
My feet hurt, my legs were tired, my shoulders ached, and I had two skinned knuckles and a bruised hand. I had also partially turned one ankle tripping over stone scraps discarded by a Mexican mason crew outside our back door.
My summary of my self-imposed, excellent Day labor adventure is as follows.
This is MOST DEFINITELY no way to make a living, BUT...I think that every high school Freshman should have to spend a couple of days doing what I've done the past two days.
I belive that, given the experience, that 99% of the kids would stay in high school, and many might graduate from collage Summa Cum Laude as a result.
Speaking from experience, Day Labor can also be quite dangerous. Besides being physically demanding, the jobsite conditions I witnessed are fraught with hazards, not by design, but by the shear numbers of employees and disciplines of work that are occurring concurrently.
While the Day Labor administrators attempt to apply lip service to safety, as in all avocations the key to safety is up to the individual, and many if not most of the people employed in the Day Labor pool don’t have a clue.
When I first went in to fill out an application package a couple of weeks ago in anticipation of writing this story, I filled out six or eight pages of forms including medical and employment history, and then was asked to sign off on an infinite number of disclaimers and waivers—one indicating that I had received a Safety Manual.
As of today I’ve still never seen anything resembling a Safety Manual.
I never said a word, but I was horrified at the conditions in the ballroom on both days, with people working obliviously on the floor on projects while at the same time FOUR different scissors lifts motored around in our midst, holding workers forty feet in the air while they painted the ceiling of the room.
On the industrial jobsites that I’ve run in the past, I’m used to cordoning off the work area and FORBIDDING pedestrian traffic and work to be done on the ground under and adjacent to the overhead work.
Imagine the lift operators making a mistake, running into a chandelier or bumping into something on the floor, and causing the entire lift to overturn. Anyone on the ground in the path of the falling lift would be seriously injured or killed. Any items accidentally spilled or dropped from the lift could also cause injury, in spite of the hardhats and safety glasses worn by all employees.
Yesterday I almost had the fingers on my left hand broken (if not cut off) in the unorganized spastic haste of my supervisor and one of my co-workers while moving a mechanical materials-lift from an outside courtyard into the building. It was actually my own idea how to get it back in the building, but once I tendered the plan I then lost all control in the normal stampede and dust storm of activity typical of “day laborer” operations. A savings of five minutes nearly cost me my fingers, and what was even more hideous was that since I didn’t say anything, no one else even noticed.
What really killed me about working day labor wasn’t the low pay, but rather it was the assumption of stupidity and untrustworthiness (probably well deserved and earned by other less enthusiastic and capable workers other than myself) that I had to endure.
I’m used to being assigned a task in my work life, and then planning and executing the intricate details. In spite of knowing that I had signed up for the program, I found being directed from point to point, from task to task, by someone well intended, but yet quite my intellectual inferior, to be quite frustrating.
We were forced to redo fully 25% of the tasks we accomplished, simply because of poor planning, augmented by the low cost of our employment efforts.
Although I had previously managed half-million dollar construction contracts and dozens of employees and subcontractors, I personally had never resorted to hiring anyone from a day labor pool and as a result I had no idea what to expect from either side of the bargain.
Regarding the start of the second day, it was clear that virtually everyone had spent nearly every single penny they had earned the day before partying. One of my coworkers didn’t bother to show up at all, and the two that did show up admitted that they were both broke when they got there. One guy brought a home made lunch, while the other would have gone hungry if I hadn’t loaned him two dollars. His promise of paying me back at the end of the day turned into stalling tactics because he said that he couldn’t get his check cashed because he had left his ID at home.
I think that that's OK, however.
I know now that I’ve done my good deed for the week--feeding the hungry, sorta like Jesus did.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Day Laboring
My Own Social Experiment
The drive over the Torrez Causeway is very quiet at this hour on a Monday morning. It’s actually an almost solo adventure at 5 AM. The same is true of downtown Brunswick—the streets being strangely absent of pedestrians and vehicles.
Arriving downtown on the waterfront, I parked our Ford Mustang out of sight down Newcastle Street, hid my wallet under the passenger seat, and hurried along wearing what I call my “yard clothes” including my old steel toed work boots, a faded bandanna on my head, with only my ID, a credit card, and a few business cards in my jeans pocket.
I arrive in front of the Day Labor Temp office at 5:15 AM and a half-dozen men have already gathered, even though the doors don’t actually open until 5:30. As I slowly pace around the sidewalk surveying the crowd, various figures continue to emerge on bicycles and on foot from the gloomy shadows down the street, and a few individuals and groups drive up in autos to park along the curb out front.
About 5:30, as I’m peering through the glass front door of the office, a Blue pickup pulls up behind me and everyone suddenly scrambles to form a line at the front door, openly debating who arrived when and in what order. Surprised by the commotion, I casually wander out of the way of the stampede and drop into the line about where I belonged in the “arrival hierarchy.”
No one complained about my position.
The front door was unceremoniously unlocked and the men quietly filed into the building and formed lines in front of two windows—the “return” window for those working again for the same employer, and the “first time” window for those not lucky enough to be asked back to a jobsite and for people like me that hadn’t worked before.
I had intentionally not shaved for several days, left my flowing hair hanging shaggily out from underneath my bandanna, and I kept my mouth shut as I printed my name on the sign up sheet. I then took a position on one of the five home-made wooden benches in the lobby, leaned back against the wall, and watched as the events unfolded.
I was intent on experiencing a typical day in the life of someone working as a “day laborer.” (This posting is actually Part 1 of my first draft of a freelance human interest article I am writing for publication.)
Although the office opened at 5:30 AM, job assignments did not begin until 6 AM so the first 45 minutes are spent jostling for position in the process. Over the next thirty minutes after the doors open, more new prospective employees arrive, and just before the 6 AM milestone a flood of men and even a few women arrive, boisterously greeting each other and debating their prospects for the day.
To my surprise, almost half seemed to have return opportunities already lined up, even though some lamented that they did not want to be sent back to the same employer
Strangely absent were any Hispanics—the entire group was composed of African Americans and Whites. I found this detail odd since Glynn County has over 9,000 Hispanics in our 78,000 population. Perhaps I’ve tripped over an interesting demographic detail in my first hour “under cover?”
The 6:00 rush began with a half dozen regulars being assigned to a job working on the Colonel’s Island docks. Next came a flurry of assignments of small groups of three and four men going to various jobsites—all return opportunities.
By 6:15 the first non-return job calls are announced, and my name wasn’t among them. I already have an hour invested in the process, not to mention the commute time from St. Simons.
A group of women are sent to the hospital for a post construction clean up job and other groups of two men are dispatched with their assignment “sheets” in hand. One very large gentleman is sent to a local seafood company to work cleaning out the inside of large tanks. Besides wondering how he’ll ever fit through the manway entrance of a storage tank, I’m also desperately hoping that my new employment opportunity, if and when it comes, doesn’t involve uncooked seafood and the inside of any tanks containing same.
I’ll probably decline and go home if it does.
Finally, and much to my surprise, about 6:30 my name was called, along with that of three other men, and I was instructed to approach the window. “Would you mind working for a wood cabinet company out on Sea Island as a laborer today” she asked. Not yes, but HELL yes…I replied (OK, not really, but I was SO relieved that no seafood tanks were in my future.)
By 6:45 I was climbing into a little KIA 4-door with three total strangers and my loaned hard hat and safety glasses in preparation of blasting back across the Torrez Causeway to a construction employee parking area on St. Simons. I could just see my name in the newspaper in the accident description.
From there shuttle busses lumbered the additional four miles across Sea Island Causeway, past the Island’s guard shack, and onto the multi hundred million dollar construction site of the Jones family’s new five-star Cloister Resort complex.
We reported to work in the new hotel ballroom by 7:30 AM—total time invested 2-1/2 hours.
After some initial standing around while the foreman got his bearings with his crew that had arrived a half hour earlier, we were instructed to find brooms and go to work “sweeping” the bare concrete floor of the ballroom.
Reality sank in—I was employed as “grunt” for the minimum wage of $5.75 per hour.
I’ve never made minimum wage in my entire life, but they were paying me for my hands and back, not my brain--not exactly my strongest attributes.
My crew and I raised a dust storm for about two hours, having to live with only two brooms and one dustpan. We took turns sweeping and moving boxes and other crap out of the way, and we probably removed a half dozen bushel baskets of sawdust and other crap out the back door to the dumpster.
(I’m going to break away from my narrative of how the day went now to write about the ending…but let me tell you that I was “busted” by noon when my employer—the cabinet company foreman—figured out that I wasn’t the average day laborer. I’ll also spoil the ending and mention that the Union guys want to hire me as a full time employee…)
Jumping ahead…
We arrived back at the employment office about 3:30, and by 3:45 PM I emerged from the building in possession of a check for 9 hours of work—actually costing me 11.5 hours of my life by the time I returned home.
My total-take home earnings?
$43.65 after taxes.
The sad thing is that I’m luckier than many day laborers, because I have my own transportation if I need it and I have a bank account. None of my three co-workers had bank accounts, so they had to pay 5%-10% of their meager earnings to the liquor store or check cashing establishment conveniently located just down the street from the office.
Want to park your bicycle inside the storage room of the office rather than leaving it outside on the bike rack at risk of vandalism or theft? Pay a $2 fee.
Don’t have a car and need a ride to a job site? Pay a $5 fee each way.
Need a drug test for employment? Pay yet another fee.
And so goes another day in the life of a “Day Laborer.”
You can see how a person working truly in the “laborer” category can find themselves going home with only a little over $30 after giving up nearly 12 hours of your life each day.
My observations indicate that the day labor pool consists primarily of people that can’t or won’t bother to show up for work each day. Several obviously had substance abuse problems. A couple of people were down right frightening to look at.
These aren’t kids either.
Many, unfortunately, are in their thirty’s and forty’s—some even appeared to be in their 60’s—and most have virtually no marketable skills other than the desire to show up every now and then and slave away for eight or ten hours.
F.Y.I. I’m going to work a few more days this week “incognito” in order to gain more story background on my fellow workers and to see how the Union employment angle plays out. Then again, I may get busted out by the employment agency because they might not like me writing about their operations. I asked the Union guys to keep my secret after I admitted who I really was, but you never know...
Heck, I might just take them up on their offer and take a shot at doing some commercial woodwork just for fun and the experience since my Dad left us a wonderful woodshop that he built over in Alabama prior to his death in 1996.
Wish me luck…
The drive over the Torrez Causeway is very quiet at this hour on a Monday morning. It’s actually an almost solo adventure at 5 AM. The same is true of downtown Brunswick—the streets being strangely absent of pedestrians and vehicles.
Arriving downtown on the waterfront, I parked our Ford Mustang out of sight down Newcastle Street, hid my wallet under the passenger seat, and hurried along wearing what I call my “yard clothes” including my old steel toed work boots, a faded bandanna on my head, with only my ID, a credit card, and a few business cards in my jeans pocket.
I arrive in front of the Day Labor Temp office at 5:15 AM and a half-dozen men have already gathered, even though the doors don’t actually open until 5:30. As I slowly pace around the sidewalk surveying the crowd, various figures continue to emerge on bicycles and on foot from the gloomy shadows down the street, and a few individuals and groups drive up in autos to park along the curb out front.
About 5:30, as I’m peering through the glass front door of the office, a Blue pickup pulls up behind me and everyone suddenly scrambles to form a line at the front door, openly debating who arrived when and in what order. Surprised by the commotion, I casually wander out of the way of the stampede and drop into the line about where I belonged in the “arrival hierarchy.”
No one complained about my position.
The front door was unceremoniously unlocked and the men quietly filed into the building and formed lines in front of two windows—the “return” window for those working again for the same employer, and the “first time” window for those not lucky enough to be asked back to a jobsite and for people like me that hadn’t worked before.
I had intentionally not shaved for several days, left my flowing hair hanging shaggily out from underneath my bandanna, and I kept my mouth shut as I printed my name on the sign up sheet. I then took a position on one of the five home-made wooden benches in the lobby, leaned back against the wall, and watched as the events unfolded.
I was intent on experiencing a typical day in the life of someone working as a “day laborer.” (This posting is actually Part 1 of my first draft of a freelance human interest article I am writing for publication.)
Although the office opened at 5:30 AM, job assignments did not begin until 6 AM so the first 45 minutes are spent jostling for position in the process. Over the next thirty minutes after the doors open, more new prospective employees arrive, and just before the 6 AM milestone a flood of men and even a few women arrive, boisterously greeting each other and debating their prospects for the day.
To my surprise, almost half seemed to have return opportunities already lined up, even though some lamented that they did not want to be sent back to the same employer
Strangely absent were any Hispanics—the entire group was composed of African Americans and Whites. I found this detail odd since Glynn County has over 9,000 Hispanics in our 78,000 population. Perhaps I’ve tripped over an interesting demographic detail in my first hour “under cover?”
The 6:00 rush began with a half dozen regulars being assigned to a job working on the Colonel’s Island docks. Next came a flurry of assignments of small groups of three and four men going to various jobsites—all return opportunities.
By 6:15 the first non-return job calls are announced, and my name wasn’t among them. I already have an hour invested in the process, not to mention the commute time from St. Simons.
A group of women are sent to the hospital for a post construction clean up job and other groups of two men are dispatched with their assignment “sheets” in hand. One very large gentleman is sent to a local seafood company to work cleaning out the inside of large tanks. Besides wondering how he’ll ever fit through the manway entrance of a storage tank, I’m also desperately hoping that my new employment opportunity, if and when it comes, doesn’t involve uncooked seafood and the inside of any tanks containing same.
I’ll probably decline and go home if it does.
Finally, and much to my surprise, about 6:30 my name was called, along with that of three other men, and I was instructed to approach the window. “Would you mind working for a wood cabinet company out on Sea Island as a laborer today” she asked. Not yes, but HELL yes…I replied (OK, not really, but I was SO relieved that no seafood tanks were in my future.)
By 6:45 I was climbing into a little KIA 4-door with three total strangers and my loaned hard hat and safety glasses in preparation of blasting back across the Torrez Causeway to a construction employee parking area on St. Simons. I could just see my name in the newspaper in the accident description.
From there shuttle busses lumbered the additional four miles across Sea Island Causeway, past the Island’s guard shack, and onto the multi hundred million dollar construction site of the Jones family’s new five-star Cloister Resort complex.
We reported to work in the new hotel ballroom by 7:30 AM—total time invested 2-1/2 hours.
After some initial standing around while the foreman got his bearings with his crew that had arrived a half hour earlier, we were instructed to find brooms and go to work “sweeping” the bare concrete floor of the ballroom.
Reality sank in—I was employed as “grunt” for the minimum wage of $5.75 per hour.
I’ve never made minimum wage in my entire life, but they were paying me for my hands and back, not my brain--not exactly my strongest attributes.
My crew and I raised a dust storm for about two hours, having to live with only two brooms and one dustpan. We took turns sweeping and moving boxes and other crap out of the way, and we probably removed a half dozen bushel baskets of sawdust and other crap out the back door to the dumpster.
(I’m going to break away from my narrative of how the day went now to write about the ending…but let me tell you that I was “busted” by noon when my employer—the cabinet company foreman—figured out that I wasn’t the average day laborer. I’ll also spoil the ending and mention that the Union guys want to hire me as a full time employee…)
Jumping ahead…
We arrived back at the employment office about 3:30, and by 3:45 PM I emerged from the building in possession of a check for 9 hours of work—actually costing me 11.5 hours of my life by the time I returned home.
My total-take home earnings?
$43.65 after taxes.
The sad thing is that I’m luckier than many day laborers, because I have my own transportation if I need it and I have a bank account. None of my three co-workers had bank accounts, so they had to pay 5%-10% of their meager earnings to the liquor store or check cashing establishment conveniently located just down the street from the office.
Want to park your bicycle inside the storage room of the office rather than leaving it outside on the bike rack at risk of vandalism or theft? Pay a $2 fee.
Don’t have a car and need a ride to a job site? Pay a $5 fee each way.
Need a drug test for employment? Pay yet another fee.
And so goes another day in the life of a “Day Laborer.”
You can see how a person working truly in the “laborer” category can find themselves going home with only a little over $30 after giving up nearly 12 hours of your life each day.
My observations indicate that the day labor pool consists primarily of people that can’t or won’t bother to show up for work each day. Several obviously had substance abuse problems. A couple of people were down right frightening to look at.
These aren’t kids either.
Many, unfortunately, are in their thirty’s and forty’s—some even appeared to be in their 60’s—and most have virtually no marketable skills other than the desire to show up every now and then and slave away for eight or ten hours.
F.Y.I. I’m going to work a few more days this week “incognito” in order to gain more story background on my fellow workers and to see how the Union employment angle plays out. Then again, I may get busted out by the employment agency because they might not like me writing about their operations. I asked the Union guys to keep my secret after I admitted who I really was, but you never know...
Heck, I might just take them up on their offer and take a shot at doing some commercial woodwork just for fun and the experience since my Dad left us a wonderful woodshop that he built over in Alabama prior to his death in 1996.
Wish me luck…
Monday, January 30, 2006
I Want One
The MK-19 40 MM Grenade Launcher
All of you anti-gun freaks and gun control nuts need to hit your back button on your browser or close your eyes or squint or something because I'm gonna talk weapons for a minute here.
I watched FOX News "War Stories" segment featuring Col. Oliver North this evening, and I fell in love with one of these:
The only thing is that 350 grenades is a pretty good amount of tonnage for one minute of firing. I'd need a handtruck or a wheelbarrow or something to haul my ammunition in.
Better yet, I'd go out and get myself a new Ford Mustang, and after making a few modifications it would look like this...
That aught to solve my problem with the moronic drivers here on the island. I'd give you one warning shot, and if you keep it up acting like an asshole, then I'd personally see to it that your driving privileges were revoked...
PERMANENTLY
All of you anti-gun freaks and gun control nuts need to hit your back button on your browser or close your eyes or squint or something because I'm gonna talk weapons for a minute here.
I watched FOX News "War Stories" segment featuring Col. Oliver North this evening, and I fell in love with one of these:
after watching it expedite a few swarthy Terrorist Bastards on their way to visit with Allah and their hundred Virgins or whatever.
It's the MK-19 40 mm Grenade launcher, and I WANT ONE. It can fire up to 350 grenades per minute at ranges up to 2200 meters. Mounted on a swivel tripod or a swivel mount on a truck or Humvee, a knowledgable Marine operator can lay out a "spread pattern" of five or ten grenades that will make your life miserable if you manage to come into his sights.
Foomp Foomp Foomp Foomp Foomp = 5 grenades in the air.
Wham Wham Wham Wham Wham = those same 5 grenades exploding 200 yards away.
The targets in this evenings footage were three towel headed Iraqi "Insurgents" trying to light a truck bomb that failed to explode by tossing "molitov cocktails" into it. The poor bastards never had a chance, because they were dead Dead DEAD once the US Marines got a bead on their stupid Jihadist asses.
The only thing is that 350 grenades is a pretty good amount of tonnage for one minute of firing. I'd need a handtruck or a wheelbarrow or something to haul my ammunition in.
Better yet, I'd go out and get myself a new Ford Mustang, and after making a few modifications it would look like this...
That aught to solve my problem with the moronic drivers here on the island. I'd give you one warning shot, and if you keep it up acting like an asshole, then I'd personally see to it that your driving privileges were revoked...
PERMANENTLY
Sunday, January 29, 2006
They Can’t Be Serious
Stupid Is As Stupid Does…
As I’ve said many times before here on the blog, I don’t have any kids. Never have, never will.
I am, however, in my second childhood, and I’ve probably learned more in the past ten years than I did in the first thirty-six because my “education” taught me more about how to learn than it instilled in me a bunch of “facts and figures.”
That’s what is wrong with our education system today. Rather than teaching kids how to learn and where to look for information, the teachers and school systems are judged by their ability to teach our young citizens an ever shrinking database of information intended to allow them to pass a few tests on their way to a lifetime of mediocrity.
Then many of the products of our glorious public education system…you know…GOVERNMENT SCHOOLS…proceed to spend their days wallowing in ignorance and stupidity while voting themselves into positions on the public dole—positions including paid leave, retirement, medical benefits, and even higher wages while they actually are never putting in an honest days effort with any skills that their employers can use.
I guess that the Devil is in the details…
In the fall of 2004 I wrote about govenment teachers outlawing the use of RED INK in grading papers in the classroom—because the red ink affected the poor little school-children’s “self esteem.”
Instead they started using purple ink.
I think that I feel better already.
Now the Brit’s have had another epiphany…if the smart kids would just stop raising their hands in order to answer questions in class…all of those poor little red ink stained school children’s self esteem will be FURTHER ENHANCED.
I’m so happy for them all...
LONDON -- Pupils in an East London school have been banned from raising their hands to answer questions in class because their teachers fear it leads to feelings of victimization.
“No hands up" notices have been posted in every room at the Jo Richardson comprehensive school in Dagenham, as a reminder that the teachers will decide who should answer. The principal, Andrew Buck, said it is always the same children who wave their arms in the air, while the rest of the class sits back. When teachers try to involve less-adventurous pupils by choosing them instead, that leads to feelings of victimization.
Mr. Buck believes that it can also cause panic in children who are picked but do not know the answer while others around them are straining to give it. To spare the embarrassment of those who do not know the answer, the school uses a "phone a friend" system, allowing one child to nominate another to take the question instead.
God help us...
As I’ve said many times before here on the blog, I don’t have any kids. Never have, never will.
I am, however, in my second childhood, and I’ve probably learned more in the past ten years than I did in the first thirty-six because my “education” taught me more about how to learn than it instilled in me a bunch of “facts and figures.”
That’s what is wrong with our education system today. Rather than teaching kids how to learn and where to look for information, the teachers and school systems are judged by their ability to teach our young citizens an ever shrinking database of information intended to allow them to pass a few tests on their way to a lifetime of mediocrity.
Then many of the products of our glorious public education system…you know…GOVERNMENT SCHOOLS…proceed to spend their days wallowing in ignorance and stupidity while voting themselves into positions on the public dole—positions including paid leave, retirement, medical benefits, and even higher wages while they actually are never putting in an honest days effort with any skills that their employers can use.
I guess that the Devil is in the details…
In the fall of 2004 I wrote about govenment teachers outlawing the use of RED INK in grading papers in the classroom—because the red ink affected the poor little school-children’s “self esteem.”
Instead they started using purple ink.
I think that I feel better already.
Now the Brit’s have had another epiphany…if the smart kids would just stop raising their hands in order to answer questions in class…all of those poor little red ink stained school children’s self esteem will be FURTHER ENHANCED.
I’m so happy for them all...
LONDON -- Pupils in an East London school have been banned from raising their hands to answer questions in class because their teachers fear it leads to feelings of victimization.
“No hands up" notices have been posted in every room at the Jo Richardson comprehensive school in Dagenham, as a reminder that the teachers will decide who should answer. The principal, Andrew Buck, said it is always the same children who wave their arms in the air, while the rest of the class sits back. When teachers try to involve less-adventurous pupils by choosing them instead, that leads to feelings of victimization.
Mr. Buck believes that it can also cause panic in children who are picked but do not know the answer while others around them are straining to give it. To spare the embarrassment of those who do not know the answer, the school uses a "phone a friend" system, allowing one child to nominate another to take the question instead.
God help us...
You're Gonna Miss Us When We're Gone
I heard a sound bite on TV tonight that went right past me, finally soaking in after I looked up from the computer in shock.
It said something like that the United States was graduating 60,000 engineering students each year, while China and Korea were putting out 500,000 people with technical degrees.
THIS IS A BIG PROBLEM...AT LEAST IT COULD BE.
Take a look at this chart I found on the internet this morning:
Notice that nearly 40% of Korean grads are in Science and Enginerering?
Notice that nearly 1/3 of all Science and Engineering grads are WOMEN in these foreign countries?
Notice that the good ole' USA is fourth from last in the ranking, only coming in ahead of Hungary, Norway, and Poland?
Interestingly enough, China and India are omitted from this chart for some reason, but I'm sure that they would be near the top if listed.
This is a disgrace, in my considered Redneck opinion.
I know that these figures are based on percentages of graduates, not numbers of graduates, but I think that it is very telling that US college students prefer to study English and Journalism over "rocket science."
Being a professional "Rocket Scientist", and getting on up there in age and lacking motivation to solve the world's problems, I'm afraid if this trend continues, as my title says...
"You're Gonna Miss Us When We're Gone..."
It said something like that the United States was graduating 60,000 engineering students each year, while China and Korea were putting out 500,000 people with technical degrees.
THIS IS A BIG PROBLEM...AT LEAST IT COULD BE.
Take a look at this chart I found on the internet this morning:
Notice that nearly 40% of Korean grads are in Science and Enginerering?
Notice that nearly 1/3 of all Science and Engineering grads are WOMEN in these foreign countries?
Notice that the good ole' USA is fourth from last in the ranking, only coming in ahead of Hungary, Norway, and Poland?
Interestingly enough, China and India are omitted from this chart for some reason, but I'm sure that they would be near the top if listed.
This is a disgrace, in my considered Redneck opinion.
I know that these figures are based on percentages of graduates, not numbers of graduates, but I think that it is very telling that US college students prefer to study English and Journalism over "rocket science."
Being a professional "Rocket Scientist", and getting on up there in age and lacking motivation to solve the world's problems, I'm afraid if this trend continues, as my title says...
"You're Gonna Miss Us When We're Gone..."
Don’t Say I’m Not Fair And Balanced
At Least I Try To Be
Anyone that has spent any time reading this blog knows that I love to pick on the “dead tree” media.
You know—the legacy print newspapers like the NY Times and the LA Times which are some of my favorite targets. Both newspapers have suffered substantial losses in circulation in the past year and each have announced major reductions in their staff in recent weeks.
The NY Times apparently has become so aggravated with the attacks on their editorial writers by the Blogosphere that last year the resorted to hiding Paul Krugman, Maureen Dowd, and Thomas L Friedman behind a $50 subscription fee charged just to read their poorly formulated ramblings in the Times online edition.
My Blog Idol Captain Ed over at Captains Quarters stated that the “subscription fee” was equivalent to a “prescription fee” for him because by not wanting to pay the $50, he was able to avoid losing his mind, thereby avoiding insanity, while reading the nonsensical ravings of the Times far left liberal editorials.
I agree wholeheartedly.
You can imagine my surprise and shock when I actually AGREED with something printed in this morning’s edition of the LA Times.
I’m going to take the liberty of printing the entire editorial here because I believe that you need to read it.
Hitching a free ride with the U.S.
By Michael Mandelbaum, MICHAEL MANDELBAUM is the author of "The Case for Goliath: How America Acts as the World's Government in the 21st Century," from which this article is adapted.
THE WIDELY differing reactions to Iran's drive for nuclear weapons among the countries of the world present a paradox: Those in greatest jeopardy from such weapons seem willing to do the least to stop it. This apparently illogical situation illustrates the most important and least appreciated feature of 21st century international relations: the remarkable role of the United States.
It is the U.S. that has taken the lead in trying to block Iran's nuclear ambitions, calling attention to Tehran's violations of its nuclear agreements, insisting on referring these violations to the United Nations for sanctions and hinting that a U.S. military attack on Iran's nuclear facilities is a genuine possibility. Even if Iran does acquire nuclear weapons, however, it will not have the capacity to launch a direct attack on the U.S.
On the other hand, the governments of Iran's Arab neighbors, which the Iranian regime has termed illegitimate and has tried in the past to subvert, have remained virtually silent about Tehran's nuclear program.
The Western Europeans (whose territory Iran could strike), while expressing disappointment that their diplomatic efforts to rein in the Iranian nuclear program have failed, proclaim their opposition to the use of force for this purpose.
And Russia, which is also within striking distance of Iran and is fighting a Muslim insurgency in Chechnya — to which the Iranian regime, a notorious sponsor of terrorism, could some day supply nuclear materials — is balking at seeking a U.N. reprimand of Tehran.
The reason for this odd pattern of behavior is that the United States has come to assume wide responsibility for ensuring international security and global prosperity. In particular, it is the U.S. that has taken the lead in pursuing two goals that benefit all other countries and that the Iranian nuclear program threatens: limiting the spread of nuclear weapons and ensuring a steady supply of oil from the Middle East.
THESE ARE NOT the only tasks the United States carries out that benefit others. The U.S. military presence in Europe and Asia forestalls nuclear and conventional arms races between and among the countries there, and it creates the political confidence necessary for trade and investment to flourish. The American dollar is the world's most widely used currency. The United States supplies the largest and most open market for exports, access to which is vital for the well-being of other countries. In fact, the U.S. provides to other countries some, although not all, of the services that governments typically furnish to their own citizens. The U.S. has come to function as the world's government.
To be sure, the U.S. did not deliberately seek this role; it gradually grew out of American policies during the Cold War. Nor has the rest of the world ever officially approved this global American role. And the United States has never set out with the intention of furnishing benefits to others. The international initiatives it undertakes are designed to serve American interests. This they do — Iranian nuclear weapons would make the world a more dangerous place for the U.S., as well — but they also serve the interests of other countries.
Yet other countries do not acknowledge the benefits they receive from the United States because that could raise the question of why they don't pay more of the costs of supplying these benefits. No government would lightly abandon such a "free ride." So it is in the case of Iran's nuclear program.
Other governments know that the efforts to stop Iran from obtaining nuclear weapons may fail, and that in that case they will be less secure. Yet even this prospect is unlikely to induce them to pay higher costs and run greater risks to achieve this goal, and for a familiar reason. The Arabs, the Europeans and the Russians have a country they believe they can count on to contain a nuclear Iran should that be necessary: the United States.
Amen Brother…I couldn’t have said it better myself.
I've been saying all along that the liberal and socalist peacenicks in this country, along with the rest of the world community, have the luxury of bitching and complaining at every turn--criticizing everything we do--calling us bullys, while and the same time enjoying relative security and prosperity at OUR EXPENSE.
The dumbassed Canadians and the backward Mexicans have virtually no military, and as a result they have no EXPENSES associated with operating a military, because they know that the US will not tolerate any incursion into their borders because of the indirect threat to our own security.
Just let some insurrection break out involving something besides swords or pistols and see how much good the Canadian Mounties will do you in a pinch.
I pisses me off that Mexican President Fox stands idly by, even encouraging his residents (11 million of them to date) to violate our borders and enter our country illegally. He knows that his economy is going to need the cash and they can't produce the jobs domestically.
Meanwhile, the Canadians invade our little island and most of Florida every winter and the first thing they do is run to the doctor and dentist to obtain medical services that their lovely socialized medical program fails to deliver to them in their frozen homeland.
And yet John sKerry and sHrillary Clinton and most of the elite liberals continue to beat us over the head with the Canadian and European socialist models of government as being superior to our own REPUBLIC.
That's right...we're a REPUBLIC, not a Democracy, dammit, why don't any of you people remember that simple fact?
I'm ready for us to stop walking softly, and start carrying an even bigger stick around the world...
Anyone that has spent any time reading this blog knows that I love to pick on the “dead tree” media.
You know—the legacy print newspapers like the NY Times and the LA Times which are some of my favorite targets. Both newspapers have suffered substantial losses in circulation in the past year and each have announced major reductions in their staff in recent weeks.
The NY Times apparently has become so aggravated with the attacks on their editorial writers by the Blogosphere that last year the resorted to hiding Paul Krugman, Maureen Dowd, and Thomas L Friedman behind a $50 subscription fee charged just to read their poorly formulated ramblings in the Times online edition.
My Blog Idol Captain Ed over at Captains Quarters stated that the “subscription fee” was equivalent to a “prescription fee” for him because by not wanting to pay the $50, he was able to avoid losing his mind, thereby avoiding insanity, while reading the nonsensical ravings of the Times far left liberal editorials.
I agree wholeheartedly.
You can imagine my surprise and shock when I actually AGREED with something printed in this morning’s edition of the LA Times.
I’m going to take the liberty of printing the entire editorial here because I believe that you need to read it.
Hitching a free ride with the U.S.
By Michael Mandelbaum, MICHAEL MANDELBAUM is the author of "The Case for Goliath: How America Acts as the World's Government in the 21st Century," from which this article is adapted.
THE WIDELY differing reactions to Iran's drive for nuclear weapons among the countries of the world present a paradox: Those in greatest jeopardy from such weapons seem willing to do the least to stop it. This apparently illogical situation illustrates the most important and least appreciated feature of 21st century international relations: the remarkable role of the United States.
It is the U.S. that has taken the lead in trying to block Iran's nuclear ambitions, calling attention to Tehran's violations of its nuclear agreements, insisting on referring these violations to the United Nations for sanctions and hinting that a U.S. military attack on Iran's nuclear facilities is a genuine possibility. Even if Iran does acquire nuclear weapons, however, it will not have the capacity to launch a direct attack on the U.S.
On the other hand, the governments of Iran's Arab neighbors, which the Iranian regime has termed illegitimate and has tried in the past to subvert, have remained virtually silent about Tehran's nuclear program.
The Western Europeans (whose territory Iran could strike), while expressing disappointment that their diplomatic efforts to rein in the Iranian nuclear program have failed, proclaim their opposition to the use of force for this purpose.
And Russia, which is also within striking distance of Iran and is fighting a Muslim insurgency in Chechnya — to which the Iranian regime, a notorious sponsor of terrorism, could some day supply nuclear materials — is balking at seeking a U.N. reprimand of Tehran.
The reason for this odd pattern of behavior is that the United States has come to assume wide responsibility for ensuring international security and global prosperity. In particular, it is the U.S. that has taken the lead in pursuing two goals that benefit all other countries and that the Iranian nuclear program threatens: limiting the spread of nuclear weapons and ensuring a steady supply of oil from the Middle East.
THESE ARE NOT the only tasks the United States carries out that benefit others. The U.S. military presence in Europe and Asia forestalls nuclear and conventional arms races between and among the countries there, and it creates the political confidence necessary for trade and investment to flourish. The American dollar is the world's most widely used currency. The United States supplies the largest and most open market for exports, access to which is vital for the well-being of other countries. In fact, the U.S. provides to other countries some, although not all, of the services that governments typically furnish to their own citizens. The U.S. has come to function as the world's government.
To be sure, the U.S. did not deliberately seek this role; it gradually grew out of American policies during the Cold War. Nor has the rest of the world ever officially approved this global American role. And the United States has never set out with the intention of furnishing benefits to others. The international initiatives it undertakes are designed to serve American interests. This they do — Iranian nuclear weapons would make the world a more dangerous place for the U.S., as well — but they also serve the interests of other countries.
Yet other countries do not acknowledge the benefits they receive from the United States because that could raise the question of why they don't pay more of the costs of supplying these benefits. No government would lightly abandon such a "free ride." So it is in the case of Iran's nuclear program.
Other governments know that the efforts to stop Iran from obtaining nuclear weapons may fail, and that in that case they will be less secure. Yet even this prospect is unlikely to induce them to pay higher costs and run greater risks to achieve this goal, and for a familiar reason. The Arabs, the Europeans and the Russians have a country they believe they can count on to contain a nuclear Iran should that be necessary: the United States.
Amen Brother…I couldn’t have said it better myself.
I've been saying all along that the liberal and socalist peacenicks in this country, along with the rest of the world community, have the luxury of bitching and complaining at every turn--criticizing everything we do--calling us bullys, while and the same time enjoying relative security and prosperity at OUR EXPENSE.
The dumbassed Canadians and the backward Mexicans have virtually no military, and as a result they have no EXPENSES associated with operating a military, because they know that the US will not tolerate any incursion into their borders because of the indirect threat to our own security.
Just let some insurrection break out involving something besides swords or pistols and see how much good the Canadian Mounties will do you in a pinch.
I pisses me off that Mexican President Fox stands idly by, even encouraging his residents (11 million of them to date) to violate our borders and enter our country illegally. He knows that his economy is going to need the cash and they can't produce the jobs domestically.
Meanwhile, the Canadians invade our little island and most of Florida every winter and the first thing they do is run to the doctor and dentist to obtain medical services that their lovely socialized medical program fails to deliver to them in their frozen homeland.
And yet John sKerry and sHrillary Clinton and most of the elite liberals continue to beat us over the head with the Canadian and European socialist models of government as being superior to our own REPUBLIC.
That's right...we're a REPUBLIC, not a Democracy, dammit, why don't any of you people remember that simple fact?
I'm ready for us to stop walking softly, and start carrying an even bigger stick around the world...
