April 08, 2006

Scene of the crime

It's now going on about two years since I first started this blogging thing. You'll notice from the dates of entries here that I haven't been exactly steady at it.

Can't quite point to just one or even a handful of reasons why. I haven't been avoiding commentary, but due to health and family and laziness issues, I just haven't made many comments HERE.

Last time around it was the Grunge, a really vicious cough and overall nasty health situation that I had to wait out while it finally ran its course. Then the death of my uncle Lester, which hit me very hard, and a few months later the death of my father as well.

In there also were other interests, including other writing projects too long for even this blog --- more bad health --- and my general unwillingness to eat up bandwith here to warehouse items which ethically belong on my own site, the one I finally got back as my own --- but now can't link to THIS site except through a change on my main page THERE.

Sounds weird? You bet. I used to have www.weaselteeth.com, which used to be at a different host. But that host folded and I had to tough it out until a certain number of months had gone by and then I could put in a bid for my own web site URL, using a different host.

OK, so I did all that. And waited. And waited. And finally I got that site back, but GoDaddy.com screwed me absolutely silly by refusing to allow links to any search engines or blog registry services. I can write anything I want to at their site, at my original URL of http://weaselteeth.com, using substandard blogging software I wouldn't wish on a brain-dead goat. But none of the regular services can even find it. The TruthLaidBear for one must think I'm lying dead in a ditch some place, and I for one really can't blame them.

In short, one of the reasons I'm even writing this is to HOPE that someone sees this at all.

Kinda-sorta-maybe discourages anyone from putting in any effort at all (serious or unserious), if nobody reads what they say. (We'll discuss the ego thing at some length elsewhere, but any blogger though knows that audiences build writers enthusiasm. Symbiosis and all that sort of ten-dollar psychobabble.)

So it's a case of holding several loose ends in each hand, as I return here to the scene of the crime --- the last place I had a "legitimate" blog (although the name was required to change until I got back the old URL.

It also has Movable Type (which never thrilled me much, but at least the trackers could track it). Maybe, just maybe, they may even note this one post. And particularly note my repeated use of the phrase....

GoDaddy screwed me.
GoDaddy screwed me.
GoDaddy screwed me.

Thank you for allowing this screed to come into your computer. I'll get back to you on how to make comments, but for now I am closing all comments and trackbacks, after removing 800 of the former and 1300 of the latter. I do not want nor do I need Viagra, penis extenders, bestiality site links, or reminders that I too can become a millionaire if I only learn how to play Texas Hold-em (which I assume is a card game for touchy-feely poker fans).


Posted by Weaselteeth at 01:56 PM

March 09, 2005

A full life celebrated

I won’t pretend I have many, if any, answers for the way these last seven days have gone. All I know is that some events were very painful, some unfortunately necessary, and a few were both cathartic and also educational.

My uncle's vital organs had shut down in his final hours, and even if the surgeons could have restored them, there was honest doubt as to the quality of life he would have led. His family made the best decision possible, following his wishes to not be kept alive by protracted methods. They accepted that this man — who had devoted his life to the subject of final transitions — was completely ready to make his own.

From start to finish it was a relatively quick period of time. Four days, from admission to the hospital to his interment. No chance for protracted arguments, no second guesses, no lingering doubts. Four days was "about right," in the tempo of such things — a time for the rest of us to draw together and console the family, share our memories, and embrace our own mortality.

There was an 18-gun salute by the American Legion, at the graveside service. He’d been a member for 50 years. "Taps" was played. Prayers were said. And then we went back to the church in a record turn-out at what the funeral director called the “fellowship” gathering, but even us non-Irish call the wake. Lots of food and coffee and other church-safe beverages. A chance to see old friends and new, and gather with our own families, if only for a while.

My father's branch of the clan at a long banquet table, my father at one end and me at the other. Between us on both sides, my sister and her husband, her daughter and son and his wife, and my nephew’s mother-in-law — another in my graduating class, whom I hadn’t seen in years. My wife directly across from her, and me in between. A relative roar of conversation in the large room of tables jammed with people. Me focused on hearing from someone I knew but hadn’t really kept up with in the years since we grabbed our diplomas and ran.

More from our class were also there, at other tables. Lester's son and his wife. Gary, the funeral director as well. Here and there a few others, these classmates my frame of reference on a day where transitions were officially made.

Gary had worked for Lester for years before ultimately buying the business. This service for this man was his supreme challenge of professionalism, and he met it with total competence. Cosmetology and casket arrangements were perfect. Masonic lodge apron and cap carefully placed, along with Lester's military ribbons and the coveted Paul Harris Fellow award from Rotary. The folded American flag, reminder of Lester’s time with the Army Air Corps in Africa. Everything simple — direct. Not one thing awry. I’d seen hundreds of funerals and Gary knew I wasn’t speaking just to fill time. I meant it when I told him he’d done damn good work.

But that morning, Gary made a remark to me about a topic I can’t now recall, and ended it with, “like us old farts.” An hour after that, Marisa, Lester’s granddaughter, up at the podium, reading one of the funniest, truest funeral addresses I’ve heard from anyone of any age. I sat marveling at how much more self-assured she was, compared to what I would have been in the same situation.

Continuity. A full life celebrated for its many successes, but quiet assurance this is not the end but only a bookmark on a continuum. Lester’s grandchildren, with their lives still ahead — reminders that 39 years have passed since I was about their age, or Kevin’s, my wife’s son seated at this same table.

Us old farts had a lot to think about, talking to old friends, from the magic years of our own youth, when everyone but Lester’s clan (and those like me who worked for them) all thought we would live forever.

Posted by Weaselteeth at 10:57 PM | Comments (3)

March 03, 2005

Uncle Les

Back on February 20, my favorite aunt and uncle celebrated their birthdays with a group of about 30 family members and friends. There was a mix of hard sleeting rain and snow going on, outside, and so everyone agreed it was a terrific turn-out for that sort of weather. But then, they were that sort of people. Same birthdate, she at 88 and he at 87.

Lucy was a distant relative to the May Department Store family, and Lester was a young funeral director in the days when they still called themselves undertakers. They moved around Michigan a few times but finally settled in what I still think of as my home town, Clinton, about 55 miles west of downtown Detroit. This put them about seven miles from their mother's house, in Manchester, where my own father and mother met, got married, and started their own life together.

Lester was the first of 12 kids to graduate from high school, and first to graduate from college. He was the only one of his siblings to have seen army service, in North Africa during the war, at the time a mortician without the formal background. He made up for that on the G.I. Bill, at Wayne State University, and by the mid-1950s or so had settled in Clinton, cater-corner from my father's house, in the funeral home I grew up thinking had “always” been his.

He was better than good at what he did. I worked for him in minor ways, off and on through my high school years, at more funerals than I can count. He was a perfectionist and thoroughly professional, and he expected and got my very best — and I was glad to give it. He was the one who undertook to keep his head and get things done, when so many around him were unable to be objective, overcome with grief. Even more than my own parents, he taught me right from wrong, a rigid unbending interpretation that has kept me out of more scrapes than anything else I can think of. (The scrapes I did get into were the ones where I forgot what he’d told me, but that’s a different entry.)

Years after I left Clinton, I spoke with the president of the Michigan Funeral Directors Association, who knew Lester very well. It’s a humbling thing to hear such praise heaped so knowledgably on a relative, from someone who was so obviously sincere about what he said. Lester was more than just a professional. He was an example, for others to follow in a profession so unjustly tarnished by Jessica Mitford and other critics.

My cousins, his three children, all understandably saw him from a different standpoint. I don’t dare speak for them, but I believe they'd agree he was hell on wheels as a taskmaster, and an impossible act to follow. I saw him as a wonderful insightful man who’d had the uncommon good sense to see his real life’s-mate when he found her, and between the two of them I had unofficial parents when my own folks were busy elsewhere.

A few months back, I finally got the opportunity to do something for them, when my father came to me and told me he’d had two gravesites set aside in a family plot, in the same cemetery where Lester had conducted so much of his life. Les and Lucy wanted to be buried beside family, and almost before my dad could ask me, I told him, go ahead and give him the two sites. At no charge, even if I have to pay you back myself for what they cost. That's just a given, the right thing to do because I owe both of these people so much, and always will. They were overjoyed at the news. I came away from that absolutely radiant. Not for me, but for them. Finally, a way to say, I love you two, I’ll do whatever it takes to remove what obstacles I can.

At that birthday party, 11 days ago, Lester was almost overcome with gratitude that so many people had made the effort to get there, including a second cousin and his son from my maternal grandmother’s side of the family (the first I’d ever met). His eyesight was just about gone in recent years, but he still navigated the room, saying hello to everyone.

“I want you to come over and see us,” he whispered in my ear. “I want you to write my story. The things I’ve done aside from funerals.” I knew some of it already. I told him I’d get over when I could. Privately I knew it would be a lot of work — but he had done so much, and since I was the only other family member with military service, I thought I could do real justice to that part of telling his story.

Today, my father called me twice.

Yesterday, Lester was taken to the hospital and diagnosed with pneumonia. While there, he suffered a heart attack and was life-flighted to St. Joseph's Mercy Hospital, outside Ann Arbor. He died at roughly 5:00 p.m. this afternoon, surrounded by his family.

Now it is time for others to keep the clear heads and undertake to get done what must be. A fine man has died, and now it is time for all who knew him to grieve.

Posted by Weaselteeth at 08:28 PM | Comments (11)

January 10, 2005

Here's to treason

National Treasure with Nicholas Cage and Diane Kruger is part crime-caper, part Indiana Jones Meets Paul Revere, and it’s a lot of fun. This Jerry Bruckheimer action film slickly touches every chord. Treasure of the Knights Templar. Masonic plots by our Founding Fathers. Clues to unimaginable wealth and artifacts. Touches of romance, quick humor, unflagging sincerity, and fine casting.

What’s not to like about saving American treasure?

Cage was spot-on, in every single scene. A perfect mix of intelligence, sincerity, fanaticism, and courage. Jon Voight in a surprising return to real acting. Harvey Keitel as Harvey Keitel, having fun as an FBI man saying, “Somebody’s got to go to jail.”

Of course critics panned it.

Everybody having fun comparing it to The Da Vinci Code. Of that, Roger Ebert says:

This new Jerry Bruckheimer production is so similar in so many ways to the plot of the Dan Brown best seller that either (a) the filmmakers are the only citizens of the entertainment industry who have never heard of The Da Vinci Code, no, not even while countless people on the set must have been reading the book, or (b) they have ripped it off. My attorneys advise me that (a) is the prudent answer.

That I have read the book is not a cause for celebration. It is inelegant, pedestrian writing in service of a plot that sets up cliff-hangers like clockwork, resolves them with improbable escapes and leads us breathlessly to a disappointing anticlimax. I should read a potboiler like The Da Vinci Code every once in a while, just to remind myself that life is too short to read books like The Da Vinci Code.

Ebert didn't like the movie any better, but that putz has never understood real movie goers, which is why he writes down to them. Real Americans don’t mind seeing landmark monuments and stuff like that. It’s our Liberty Bell, you schmuck, let us look at it if we want to.

James Sanford at the Kalamazoo Gazette says the film isn't the North by Northwest of a new generation. It's just easy escapism. With Sean Bean as the villain, a role which he does quite well. Anyway, the film was fun, filled with action and scenery, and of course it was food for thought.

Nicholas Cage toasting champagne: "Here's to treason!" And aye, making history real to me, reminding us our Founding Fathers would have met terrible fates had they failed. Drawing and quartering. Hanging. Disembowelment. All that stuff you don't read about, from an age where evidently everybody made awesome speeches just before hanging.

“I regret that I have but one life to give for this country.”

That, friends and neighbors, is a True Patriot. Just another troublemaker that Brit troops hanged rather than deal with later. No quibbling about sentence. Just a defiant, now-historic reminder — this cause outweighs all sacrifices.

It’s nice to see folks reminded, nobody just handed this to us. The Founding Fathers and the troops suffered terribly. Some lost everything. But our nation survived, because of the one thing National Treasure pointedly overlooks.

The Declaration of Independence is our true national treasure.

We came mostly as indentured servants or other steerage, trailing the Mayflower folks who today still preen about that in their society circles. We were the laborers and farmers, the builders and inventors, the wives and daughters and sisters and mothers. We’re the real America which moved in while the self-styled gentry wasn’t looking.

Our melting pot built the nation’s churches and monuments, its homes and colleges and shops. Our children had children had children. We fought in more wars, one against ourselves. We are now incredibly more populated than our Founding Fathers could possibly have foreseen. Our clothing, language and way of life is changed, but at least we still share the American Dream.

Horatio Alger, Jr. said it best in a book title, Strive and Succeed. We come to do as well as we are able. We've been coming here for centuries now, and although the American system is not perfect, it still beats what’s way behind in second place.

The Declaration affirms our inalienable right to the pursuit of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It did not, nor does it now, promise this pursuit would be easy. What it says is, Here we are, world. America. You are free to come here and try to succeed.

So many took up that offer. So many will in the future.

Here we are, world. America. Land of opportunity.

Our British masters hanged Patrick Henry for believing in that.

Posted by Weaselteeth at 06:54 PM | Comments (4)

January 04, 2005

Park says patrons are wrong color

In England, Lake District National Park officials have announced plans to end free guided walks carried out by more than 100 volunteer rangers, The Daily Telegraph reports, “because they attract only ‘middle-aged, middle-class white people.’ ”

The Telegraph headline for this one reads, “Lakeland walkers ‘wrong colour’ .”

The scenic walks, which introduce thousands of tourists to the fells each year, are being scrapped as part of a three-year plan to bring more ethnic minorities, inner-city children and the disabled to the area.

Derek Tunstall, a Lake District National Park volunteer ranger: ‘We do this for the love of the fells’

The national park’s authority said it would be able to meet Government targets to attract minority groups and attract more funding.

It said it had also taken the “hard” decision to reduce significantly the services provided by the park’s 10 information centres.

Among activities facing the axe is a programme of 900 events run by 300 rangers. These include a magazine, informative talks, slide shows and children’s farm visits.

The decision has “astounded” volunteers who give up their time to carry out the walks.

They say the authority is obsessed with hitting targets and that the move smacks of political correctness.

We are, of course, astonished at how anyone might even think political correctness was behind this decision. And cor blimey, why should anyone be concerned if a bunch of unwanted white patrons get injured because the guides won’t be along to keep them from harm?

They also say that thousands of novice walkers among the 12 million tourists who visit the park every year could now be put in danger on unfamiliar terrain.

In a letter informing volunteers of the authority's decision, Paul Tiplady, national park officer, said more regional and EU funding would be attracted by refocusing on the “urban young, people from ethnic communities and disabled people”.

Mick Casey, a spokesman for the authority, said 30,000 people used the events programme and 4,500 took part in the walks each year.

“Our research shows that the majority who do the walks are white middle-class, middle-aged people.

“The Government is encouraging national parks to appeal to young people, to ethnic minorities and to people with disabilities.

“It is saying we ought to focus our activities on these kinds of groups.”

Mr Casey said the authority had no plans to replace the rangers and the events system.

Which raises the question, who will guide the handicapped visitors, to stave off any harm on unfamiliar terrain? And if this terrain is in fact so dangerous, then won’t it be terribly expensive to install handicapped-accessible means for these patrons to enjoy all park facilities — presuming any are still left after the cutbacks?

Posted by Weaselteeth at 10:57 AM

December 31, 2004

New Year, arriving

Tonight, as good conservatives gather to celebrate the lawful reelection of President George Walker Bush, they will tell many jokes, and play many games such as Pin the Cloven Hooves on the Democrat. A few may imbibe, and (one trusts) fewer still will imbibe too much. And I hope that their hosts will gently filch their car keys and call for a cab, because these are the ones we need more of. Not the overdrinkers, I mean, but conservatives.

What we won’t need are the Michael Moores and the George Soroses and the churlish little swine from Move On Out of Our Parents Basement, or the panty-sniffing sociopaths over at Demozombie Underbelly. I’m also hard-pressed to think of any earthly reason to keep the American Communist Loony Union around, or People for the Socialist Way. But most of them will continue to waste good oxygen, and that’s just the way it is. Bartender? Another round for the libs. Make it a double. And let them find their own way back to whatever hole they crawled from.

This is December 31, and with it the tradition that we all are enjoined to follow, enumerating our successes and assessing our shortfalls, and clearing our mental slates for the new year ahead.

At the end of this year, we saw justice triumph over evil not only at the ballot box but in the courthouse, though the appeals aren’t over for killer Scott Peterson, and probably won’t be until they drop the hammer on him and pump him full of pain-free death, so totally unlike what he dealt his victims.

Yasser Arafat got less than what he deserved, this year, but at least he got dead (and good riddance). Yeah, better late than never, but what can we say? The search is still on for the billion or so dollars Arafat stole from the Paleswineans, but at least his not-so-grieving widow can find solace in her millionaire digs outside of Paris. The poor of France so obviously need her money more than the PLO need Arafat’s.

In Ohio, George Bush is still the winner, though it cost millions of dollars to recount those ballots and they got fewer than 400 more for the treason artist and phony war hero, Hanoi John Kerry. But the system worked here, and Mr. Bush still won, so that’s all that really matters.

Despite a media which went to extreme lengths to prove its bias, the cowboy in the white hat won. Cue the cheerleaders. Halliburton, Halliburton, rah, rah, RAH!

Was there bad news? Of course. Almost a year to the day after the Bam, Iran earthquake, another came along, which will probably claim a million lives from disease as much as injuries. The nations which can do something are doing something — although the media is reporting it as some sort of macabre fundraising contest, and not the generous desire to help fellow human beings that it is. How many will we find still alive in the Maldives? Nobody knows. But it won’t be many and it won’t be soon enough, but no one nation can take any blame on that part because of the remoteness of those islands. CBS Evening News and the Jayson Blair Gazette will still surely try.

We sit here comfortable tonight, waiting for Regis to babble while the glitter-ball descends, and if things went well today (as they did for me) you too have seen a few friends and shaken a few hands and wished a Happy New Year. But what do you say when what amounts to an entire nation has been wiped out, all from a single unpreventable event? What will we say when we reach the Maldives? Not much. A million dead is unthinkable numbers, inescapably huge yet impossible to grapple with. So we stick to the safe subjects instead, feeling guilty if we do and fearful of jinxing 2005 if we don’t.

Are we being unreasonable to personalize this week, trying to find more good than bad in a year of phenomenal weirdness? If we're going to ignore the victims (as the leftists always do), does that mean we celebrate the killer — in this case the quake? No, of course not. Let the Dems feel sorry for the Saddam Husseins and the Fidel Castros and the other tyrants. Let the left forget those trenches of dead in Iraq, or those still being slaughtered in tribal genocide in Africa.

These were the same airheads braying that “Y2K” would bring us global ruination, five years ago this night. We’d be living in caves and hunting mastodon with stone-tipped spears, just watch, if they were deprived of the internet. The same gang who screamed about holes in the ozone layer giving us global warming were the same ones about twenty years ago who darkly predicted a new Ice Age. And they’re the ones who cheered when multiple felon Rodney King got a cash award (which he quickly spent), as they instantly forgot Reginald Denny. These are the humanitarians who want to run the relief effort after this tsunami. These are the ones who are a natural disaster.

No, forget those clowns. We have earned four more years without a Democrat in the White House, and there is so much to be positive about in the time immediately ahead.

Me, I’ll focus on the good side, thank you.

And no, I’m walking, so you may not get to take my keys.

Posted by Weaselteeth at 09:58 PM

December 24, 2004

Raisin a Christmas Memory

Maybe they still do this at Christmas where you live. Churches organize a big effort to help poor families in their area.

They’ll ask for canned goods and other necessities, and they’ll spend half a day sorting out how much food goes to how big a family, packing up boxes in the social area of the church. It’s a holiday tradition that some people never talk much about, they just come and do it—getting ready to visit the poor on Christmas Eve.

Besides the food, there’s also a lot of clothing. Hand-me-downs, or clothing donated by local merchants. We lived in a small town, and it was easy for church people to learn whose kids wore what sizes. After all—Christmas was coming, and we wanted to get it right.

At least, that’s how they did it here in Michigan, back in the late 1950s and early 1960s. No caroling, no showing-off. Just quiet trips out to wherever these families happened to live. We’d spend a few minutes at each place on our “rounds,” trying to help make people’s lives just a little better.

So one year (I think I was about 10 or 12), I was allowed to go out with the grown-ups as they made their holiday rounds. I learned about poverty and Christmas gift-giving—and I learned about Christmas raisins, all on that one unforgettable snowbound night.

Some of these families lived out in the country. That meant we had to stick to the main roads for as much of the trip as possible. That night there were three vehicles in our group—two cars and a big truck, fitted with a snow-plow. We needed that plow on the back roads, just clearing a way to the houses we were going to visit. And when we got there, we’d knock, ever so politely, and then we’d wait.

Even as a kid I could tell when the people inside just seemed to know who was out there, for three out of the four times someone called out, “Be with you in just a moment, Parson,” even though this year the preacher was back in town and we were doing these rounds without him.

Doors would come open and in most cases we’d wind up trying to avoid crying, because that was the expression we saw on the faces of those folks we came to visit.

Hindsight says it was a powerful mixture of gratitude and anger—but at age 10 or 12 all I saw were the half-suppressed tears. We’d be invited to stay, to share a cup of coffee (“or whatever,” as one recipient put it). But no, thanks, my Dad and the other grown-ups said. We’ve got to be going, but we hope you all have a good holiday. And Merry Christmas to all, as we trooped out into the snow and back to the cars and the snow-truck.

So that year, there was one last stop in the country, just at the very edge of town.

This place was socked in with snow, not a single tire track and only a narrow path shoveled out between the ramshackle house and the first real outhouse I’d ever seen, back behind the house.

I remember standing there in snow up to my knees, grateful beyond words for the indoor plumbing at home, only about half a mile away. Compared to this place, our house was almost a palace—or so it seemed to a kid only 10 or 12 years old. My father knocked on the door to this house. “Be right there, Parson!” a voice called out inside.

These folks were now into their third generation here in the area. They’d come north from some place like Kentucky or Tennessee, back in the late 1920s or early 1930s. Like thousands of other folks from southern states, they’d come looking for jobs, at one of the auto plants opening up in Michigan. But for reasons known only to them, that dream never came true and they were too poor to move back south again.

And now here they were on Christmas Eve, trying not to look angry because people who meant well were standing in snow outside their door, waiting to give them something they could not give themselves.

The father finally opened the door, and there the family all sat, ramrod-straight, elbow to elbow at an ancient-looking dining table in the center of the room. They were eating their Christmas Eve supper in that room.

Oatmeal, with raisins on it. Not a turkey or goose or even a chicken in sight. It was like being in a foreign country, maybe—no sign at all this was supposed to be one of the happiest nights of the year.

We all trooped in, with our packages and smiles, trying not to notice there was just one small pot-belly stove for heat in this room. Even with the front door closed, it was cold enough to see your breath.

Like the other places we’d gone to, we were invited to stay. But my father was kind of the spokesman for our group, and he politely told them no. And I stood there beside him, trying not to have any expression on my face. One of these kids was only a year behind me in school, and I wasn’t sure what my face was supposed to be telling them, there as I counted the clouds of my own breath.

I stood there with a box of something in my arms, pressing the front of my jacket closer to my chest, hoping I’d warm up—somehow. And then I looked down at the nearest bowl of oatmeal, and one of the raisins began to move.

They'd been swatting houseflies and putting them on the oatmeal in place of raisins.

I must have made a noise of surprise, when that fly crawled up out of the oatmeal and then fell to the tabletop. The father of the family saw where I was looking, at the fly trying to beat its wings to escape. The anger came back to his face, just briefly, before he looked sad again.

Minutes later, we got out of there and went home to our own families. To the warmth, and the TV, and the palace of an indoor toilet.

This happened more than 40 years ago. And to this day, I will never forget the mixture of expressions on the faces of those we visited. Just as to this day, I still can’t eat oatmeal or raisins, no matter what time of year it may be.

Posted by Weaselteeth at 10:47 PM | Comments (3)

December 23, 2004

So where was I?

This will be my first post at the new site, and I'd forgotten how much hassle Movable Type has made it for non-technical types like myself, in just configuring a simple style sheet, or in working with the main index.

I started out trying to emulate the template I'd been working with, including background colors, dates and entry titles colors, etc., and after about three or four hours at that, I was ready to stick knives in someone. It appears at this time that the MT 3.1 style sheet is completely different in naming the various components, so I can't easily shift the sidebar to the left (or get the text to completely look the same for my Links section).

But at least I'm away from BlogHosts. The scar tissue from that one will probably take quite a while to heal -- if ever -- and I'm still not sure if I'll get back my original domain name. Just about the only thing that's the same (for now) is the banner image. Maybe at this stage it's the anchor for what will be a long transition period.

I've seen various people say that there will be problems for others who did link to specific posts in my old archives. Something about entry number mismatches. Chances are, those won't get sorted out until much later, after I'm more familiar with a few other things here.

For those of you who did have my old email address, you can consider that one dead. Delete the phrase NOSPAM from the following, and also convert the -at- to the conventional symbol....


And if any MT geeks see this, please tell me what I did wrong to get mixed fonts and sizes in my links.

Now to see how bad this thing looks on the final page.


Every bit of work I did was zeroed out and was returned to its original condition. Movable Type remains as badly designed and difficult to operate as always.

Posted by Weaselteeth at 05:52 AM | Comments (16)