Right Minded Online

Right Minded is still on summer vacation today. We went to the mother-in-law’s for barbecue and swimming this morning. It has been so cool at night that the water was chilly, but the little guy and I went on in and got ourselves used to it. The ladies came out a little later. We came home in the afternoon, stopped by Starbucks for a second time in the day, and watched a little baseball and the Steve McNair episode.

We stopped buying fireworks years ago. We live in a subdivision, and have several neighbors who are serious about their fireworks. So we usually just go outside and watch theirs. (I can’t believe some of this stuff is even legal.)

It stormed earlier this evening, but cleared out long enough for our neighbors to start lighting their matches. Our backyard isn’t very large. We have it fenced in, and beyond that is a creek and some woods. On the other side of the woods, a hundred yards or so, is another subdivision with more serious fireworks fanatics.

Just before it became totally dark, the three of us and the dog went out back to watch the show. We turned off all the outside lights. It looked like the firebombing of Dresden out there. Another round of storms was approaching and it began to lightning and thunder and rain lightly. There was also a light fog out back, due in part to all the smoke. It was a perfect moment. The dog was scared, so we couldn’t put him down. But he was content with Mrs. Right Minded holding him.

The rain became a little heavier, so we backed up against the rear wall, where there is a narrow overhang. But then we decided to adjourn to the front porch, which is covered, and sat on our bench. The rain grew steadily heavier, and you could tell that those who were shooting fireworks doubled up their load to get it all done before the storm.

The gust front hit and began to blow the rain inside the porch, so we fetched a blanket and covered up. The wind was rather strong for several seconds, and it was about that time our neighbors reached their grand finale. You couldn’t tell what was lightning and what was fireworks. We continued to sit outside with the dog, our hair and our feet getting wet, wondering how in the world our neighbors were managing to keep the fireworks dry enough to ignite.

Finally, the rain was so heavy that the fireworks ended, and we, too, surrendered to the storm, retreated indoors, and put on a pot of coffee.

Happy Fourth of July, everyone.

The little guy and I went to see the Phillies play at Turner Field in Atlanta last night. We left Mrs. Right Minded at the hotel, as we were able to find two front row seats one section over from the Phillies dugout. The little guy managed to weasel his way into a crowd of autograph seekers right before the game and got Ryan Howard’s signature on a baseball.

The Phillies lost a game they seemed destined to win, having led three different times, only to blow it each time, ultimately losing 5-4 in 10 innings. There were lots of lost opportunities, and also three errors, with Jayson Werth having myriad troubles in the right-field corner. The Phillies hit three home runs, but none of them with men on base. There were lots of stranded runners, plus a lethargic performance from shortshop Jimmy Rollins, who was back in the leadoff hole after a 4-day break. He was hitless in 5 at bats.

We’ll be back at Turner Field tonight, this time with Mrs. Right Minded in attendance, this time with Phillies ace Cole Hamels on the mound.

The Roses have planned their big summer trip to Atlanta in a week-and-a-half. Baseball tickets for two games, a hotel for three nights, enough cash for meals, stadium concessions, a daily Starbucks run, and other incidentals, and these things add up fast.

So we were thankful to be able to also work in a low-budget side trip to Gatlinburg, and just got back home earlier today. For those of you who have never been  — probably very few of you — Gatlinburg is the ultimate tourist trap. It’s a lovely town just outside the entrance to the Great Smoky Mountain National Park, but it is also very crowded, and it doesn’t matter what time of year you go.

We go because we enjoy Dollywood. My wife and I used to love Opryland, but they tore Opryland down almost 12 years ago. We’re still sore over that. So Dollywood is the best amusement park that’s left in the great state of Tennessee. We buy season’s passes most every year. You more than pay for a season’s pass in just two visits.

In order to work this in, though, we had to forego our usual hotel (Clarion) for a cheaper one (Econo Lodge) that’s located on a side street, about half-a-block off the main strip, just up from Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Museum. It’s still not a bad location, and we were actually closer to the center of town than normal. This one cost us less for two nights than the Clarion costs for one. We decided to take the risk. It paid off. We don’t ask for much from a hotel. This one certainly isn’t as nice as our usual, but it was clean, and it was quiet. We slept better there than in hotels for which we paid a lot more money. Our second-floor room opened to a balcony out back. Traffic was not a factor. The air conditioner was reasonably quiet. The room even had a high, cabin-style ceiling. The pool was decent. The wireless Internet connection was a little shaky, but I guess you can’t have everything while operating on a shoestring budget.

On Wednesday evening, our first night there, the Phillies were on ESPN getting pounded, but right before dark, our son noticed through the window that the winds were picking up. And so we went outside on the balcony, and, sure enough, it began to thunder and lightning. Then the thunder got really close. Then the sky opened up, and it poured rain for probably two hours as one storm after another rolled through. It was a truly peaceful moment out there, temporarily soothing the pain of the Phillies getting pounded on ESPN.

We went to bed that night with the rain still falling on the roof, and slept until 9:00 yesterday morning. We never sleep that late. Never. Not even during summer. But we did yesterday, and it was blissful. Of course, it rained on us at Dollywood, but we still managed to pass more than 7 hours there, leaving around 6:30 because we were so tired.

And so we came back to the room, but the rain was gone this time. We went to bed a little earlier, and got up a little earlier this morning as a result.

My son and I like to pass the time on the interstate counting up license plates. We picked up 43 states during this trip, missing Hawaii, Montana, New Mexico, South Dakota, New Hampshire, Vermont, and Rhode Island. I think the most we ever got on one trip was 49 states during our trip to Colorado two summers ago.

So we came back home early this afternoon, where it was miserably hot. I much preferred it 48 hours ago, when we were standing on our balcony feeling the rain-cooled air on our faces. It’s amazing how much the weather can change in just 200 miles.

On the way out of Gatlinburg this morning, I pointed out a Best Western where my parents and I stayed back in the summer of 1978, only it wasn’t a Best Western then. Or maybe it was. I can’t remember. I was only 8. But I guess Gatlinburg hasn’t changed a great deal in 31 years. It has changed some, for sure, but it was just as crowded then as now.

At any rate, the sports fans were out to torment me this trip — lots of Kentucky and Tennessee apparel. There was even one guy at Dollywood wearing a Mets shirt. My son and I walked over to Lids last night where he bought a couple of Phillies hats. (The apple didn’t fall far from that tree.) Again, lots of UK and UT hats, but only one style of Memphis hat — one that he already had. That’s how it goes. If you want a decent Memphis hat, you can either jump on the Internet or physically drag yourself to Memphis. It’s total disrespect by the remainder of the sports world, but it is what it is.

We plan on going back perhaps next month for an even lower budget trip, and again during fall and/or Christmas break. Again, Gatlinburg is crowded no matter when you go.

Previous post: Gatlinburg

When I left the Navy in 1991, I still had three years obligated to the Naval Reserves. It was during that summer that I enrolled at the University of Memphis (Memphis State University back then), and I also signed up with a reserve unit in Millington, a few miles north of Memphis up Highway 51. So, I did my three years in the reserves while attending college. During that time, we took five separate weekend trips to naval facilities outside of Millington: San Diego CA, Brunswick ME, San Diego CA, Norfolk VA, and Suitland MD. That trip to Brunswick was probably my favorite. It was in August of 1992. I remember flying out of Memphis wearing shorts and shirt sleeves, only to walk off the plane at the Portland airport into a cold drizzle. At any rate, I took pictures that Saturday afternoon after we had driven to a coastal location to sightsee and eat seafood, and I’ve decided to turn that collection into today’s post.

The other night, I was walking with the dog out back. It was a cool night, sort of reminded me of October. Our backyard ends at a creek, and beyond that is a wooded area. It got me to thinking about all the nights as a kid that I set up the tent in the backyard and “camped out” overnight. It’s a practice I started when I was about ten years old. We lived in rural McNairy County at the time, and lived on a two-acre lot. It wasn’t long afterward that we moved to Bells, Tennessee. We weren’t living in the country anymore, but the practice continued nonetheless. It’s something I did until I was 11 or 12 years old.

My own son is the same age I was then. There’s no way I’d let him do that now, not by himself, even though we live on a quiet street with a fenced-in backyard. Even though we are separated by only one generation, the world is a much different place. What our parents let us do we absolutely cannot safely allow our kids to do. On the one hand, I can’t believe my parents let me do what I did, but then, why shouldn’t they have? There wasn’t much reason to fear for my safety, unlike today, when the world is far less safe for children.

I guess he’ll just have to “rough it” indoors.

I guess I’m like most middle class Americans my age. I’m infatuated with gadgets. Technology really is awesome. Over time, I have acquired the usual suspects. There’s the cell phone with a built-in digital camera (so inexpensive now I got two free from our provider). I love music, and especially enjoy the iPod I got for Christmas. Laptops finally came down enough where I bought one four years ago, and when it blew up, I bought another one last year. There’s the digital camera/camcorder, which has been quite handy, because I also enjoy photography. And let’s not forget the satellite radio. The service and the radio were both dirt-cheap. (XM carries all Major League Baseball games, which is handy when you’re a Philadelphia Phillies fan living in Tennessee.)

In our home you will find those things you can find in just about everybody else’s home these days: televisions, DVD players, PC’s, an Xbox, etc. We’re definitely not unusual. Again, the stuff is cheap and plentiful.

I guess I’m not unlike other people who rely on technology for the convenience those little gadgets provide, and for the amazing things they can do. (Man, the iPod has to be the greatest invention ever, including the wheel and sliced bread.) And, fortunately, you don’t have to be wealthy to get the newest technology.

All that aside, it’s a little bothersome that cell phones and e-mail, and all those other things that entertain us and occupy our time seem to have slowly replaced our relationships with each other. Now, instead of going into someone’s office at work, we just shoot an e-mail, even though that person may be only twenty steps away. We learn how our other family members’ days went not at the dinner table, but over the cell phone. We spend time tinkering with our gadgets rather than interacting with other people. I’m just as guilty as everyone else.

And how many times have you tried to enjoy dinner at a restaurant, only to be distracted by someone’s obnoxious ring tone two tables away, followed by that person’s loud, detailed conversation right in the middle of the main course?

Gadgets are great, but gadgets are not people. You can’t have a relationship with a piece of electronics.

There are times when I do want to shove it all aside and go into retreat like Henry David Thoreau — just escape somewhere with a few good books. Of course, most of us have families and can’t very well abdicate our responsibilities by going the way of Thoreau. But there are times when I long to take a couple of days, leave the gadgets behind, and take my family off to the mountains for trail-blazing and lying under the stars. Imagine a few days without gadgets — no cell phones, or digital cameras, laptops, and even no iPods. Instead, there would be just the important people in our lives with no distractions.

Truth be known, my son would much rather go outside with me and throw around a $5 football than play with his Xbox. Similarly, I’d rather light up a fire out back some cool autumn evening, roast something gooey on a stick and read stories than sit around and watch some mundane TV show.

I enjoy reading early American history. I am fascinated by pioneers who went into uninhabited wilderness, cleared the land, built cabins, plowed fields, and started communities — all without the benefit of the machinery we use today. There’s a certain romance to that which I’ll never experience, which may be a blessing. I’m really a wimp when it comes to manual labor. To me, tilling the garden and spreading mulch are real accomplishments. But still, there’s a part of me that — impossibly — longs to experience those times before modern machinery. Those were much harder times for sure, but they were also times when all people had were each other, when families sat around lanterns or candles or fireplaces and read the Bible and entertained themselves without the aid of electronics. They were resilient.

We, on the other hand, are rendered helpless when the electricity goes out, or when we lose our wireless connections, our satellite signals, or the bars on our cell phones.

And so, I do want to escape for a couple of days to my own Walden Pond, take my family with me, and suck the marrow out of life. We’d go armed with no electronics, just a tent, some sleeping bags, a football, some fishing rods, and a book or two. Everything would be reduced to just the three of us, God, and our primitive surroundings. Doing so wouldn’t permanently disconnect us from our present-day responsibilities, but at least we wouldn’t forget how to relate to each other.

The following item showed up in my inbox yesterday. I thought I’d share it with all of you.

Which is worse? 150 years of honest thought and endless testing to find the truth or 1000’s of years of religious brainwashing that has resulted in millions of humans with their head planted firmly in the sand?

Having read a few of your comments over the past year or so, it’s obvious you have never researched the many changes to those words in the Bible over many centuries. Add the personal wishes of the translators and we have what should be properly labeled a book of myths.

I know, I know. They are God’s exact words.

Funny you should bring up Noah. It is one of my favorite proofs of evolution. If we have not evolved and genes don’t mutate and we are as God created us, then Africans, Orientals, Eskimos, Aborigines, Pygmies, etc., must have snuck onto the ark when God and Noah, both Jewish, weren’t looking. Do those kinds of things really just fly over your head?

And the sacrifice of Jesus on our behalf because God loves us. Sacrificing a child or first born is right out of the pagan rule book. It’s a sick idea even if the intent is righteous.

In fact many of the practices in the Old Testament are also right out of the pagan rule book. It’s a dead give-a-way as to the mentality of those writing those words and how closely they were atuned to pagan practices.

I’d have to say Mark, in terms of arrogance, you’d get the top prize.

H.M.

Poor guy. I almost always respond to readers who take the time to e-mail me, even those who disagree. But I don’t see much benefit in responding to this. Judging by his level of hostility, H.M.’s problem isn’t with me so much as with God. Not to put H.M. down, but I’ve discovered over years of writing editorials and receiving occasional hate mail that those with God problems typically seethe with the most anger, for whatever reason. It’s sad, really, that there are children of God who respond to His infinite love with such hatred.

After going through at least half-a-dozen different themes here at Right Minded trying to find a look I could be comfortable with, I have found out from a reader that Right Minded currently doesn’t work on Safari web browsers, that the text color is the same as the background color. I don’t have Safari. I prefer good ‘ol Internet Explorer, so I don’t have a way of testing the various themes WordPress offers on other browsers. I debated changing to yet another theme, but I really like the one I’m using now, so if you use Safari exclusively, I’m sorry. But then, if you’re using Safari, you’re not able to read this post anyway, so why am I even writing this?

(The following post is an excerpt from My Italian Experience, and tells the story of my attending Christmas Eve mass at St. Peter’s Cathedral in the Vatican City on December 24-25, 1990. I spent three straight Christmases away from home during my time in the Navy, all of them in Italy, and my last one there, described below, was also the most memorable. This is about as good a Christmas as you can have while separated from your family.)

George and I attended Christmas Eve mass last night at the Vatican. Since my work schedule had prevented my attending the ceremony the previous two years, I seized the opportunity this time. The weather was perfect for a trip to Rome: raining, chilly, and quite dreary.

During the morning, George’s roommate offered to drive us to Stazione Centrale. We left more than an hour before our 12:10 train was scheduled to depart. Traffic was worse than I had ever seen it. By the time we entered downtown, still several blocks from the train station, we stopped, and waited. George and I became increasingly uneasy. By 11:45, not having moved in some twenty minutes, and still with a few blocks to go, George and I got out and walked the remaining half-mile (in the rain, of course).

We made our way briskly through the usual maze of pedestrians, sidewalk vendors, and mopeds. Along the way, we discovered the problem. At an intersection, three lanes of traffic, each heading its own direction, had converged. It appeared deadlock would prevail for some time. Of course, there were no traffic policemen present.

George and I arrived at the station a minute or two after noon, and had to stand in line for a couple of minutes to get tickets. After purchasing “due biglietti per Roma e ritorno” (two round-trip tickets to Rome) at Lit. 23,600 ($19) apiece, we ran downstairs and made it to binario (track) three just before the espresso from Salerno arrived as scheduled.

We scrambled to find a partially vacant compartment, then seated ourselves. The train followed the subway line through Naples and into Pozzuoli before turning north toward Rome. I had brought my camera and an excess of film along with my usual cache of paraphernalia: umbrella, walkman, tapes. I put on headphones and dozed for a good portion of the journey.

The ride through the mountainous Italian countryside was serene, as usual, the dark clouds adding a touch of mystique. The rain was light but steady. We were taking an espresso, and there were no stops between Naples and Rome. The ride was enjoyable. During our journey, I visited the dining car, three cars from ours, for snacks, returning with cookies and drinks.

The ancient walls just outside the city gave the first indication of our imminent arrival. We rolled through the maze of tracks and pulled into the far left track, number twenty-six, at Roma Termini. It was a little after 2:00. We had arrived a couple of minutes early. The ride had taken two hours. We were in Rome. The weather had not changed. I was wearing my overcoat and a sweater, so the cool dampness did not affect me much.

Our initial endeavor was to visit a music store, one of several shops in the train station. We found nothing of interest, so we moved along.

We then decided to visit the USO, down the street from St. Peter’s Square, to get our tickets for mass. I had reserved them earlier in the week via telephone from Naples. They were free, but we had to get them by closing time, five o’clock.

George and I went down to the subway and purchased tickets (Lit. 700, or $0.60, apiece). We then headed for Line A (the other subway line in Rome being, of course, Line B), and awaited the next train. It soon arrived. Surprisingly, it wasn’t very crowded.

We traveled six stops westward to the end of the line. Boarding at Termini, we passed Repubblica, Barberini, Spagna, Flaminio, and Lepanto. We arrived at Ottaviano shortly, and made the half-mile walk south to St. Peter’s Square, then east to the USO. After obtaining the tickets, George attempted to telephone home, but the phone at the USO was out of order.

By now, we were thinking about food. We walked back to St. Peter’s Square, stopping briefly to admire the nativity scene and take pictures of each other with the cathedral as a backdrop, then walked back to the subway station.

We traveled two stops east to Flaminio. Walking through the underground tunnel, the street vendors and musicians had gathered en masse, open guitar cases catching a few coins. We ascended to the street near Piazza del Popolo. It was my idea to stop here for food. We walked around for perhaps fifteen minutes in search of a café where we could get a snack. By now it was four o’clock.

George and I found a nice, albeit small café in an underpass connecting Piazza del Popolo and a street leading to Villa Borghese. The neighborhood seemed familiar. I realized I had been here the year before, on August 2, when I had visited Villa Borghese.

Meanwhile, we sat down and enjoyed two small calzoni (folded pizzas) apiece and a coke. It was just something to hold us until dinner. We hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Most restaurants in Italy don’t open until seven or seven-thirty in the evening, so we had to eat something. After we finished, we walked into Piazza del Popolo, one of the most beautiful piazzas in all of Rome, with its Egyptian obelisk standing in the center. By now it was almost dark. A handful of people standing atop the Pincine Hill, accessible from the piazza, were looking across the piazza and the nightlit city. It must have been an awesome view with dusk now settling over Rome.

George suggested we return to the Vatican. We rode the subway, then began the casual walk toward St. Peter’s Square. In the meantime, we decided to stop in a bar for cappuccino and relax for a few minutes. We drank our cappuccino and even enjoyed gelato to go. We departed abruptly after the bartender wouldn’t allow us to sit. (Italians are very peculiar about this.)

We made our way back to St. Peter’s Square to once again admire the nativity scene, now lit, and the huge Christmas tree beside it. It was adorned with hundreds of lights. We both made a couple of photographs and departed.

As the time approached six o’clock, I made a stop at a pay telephone as George waited nearby. He had made a brief call earlier while in the Flaminio subway station just after we had eaten and were returning to the Vatican.

By now the rain had become intermittent. We craved a meal soon. George suggested L’Etrusco, an osteria near St. Peter’s, which he had frequented before. I had no reason to object. We walked around the neighborhood talking, window shopping, and trying to whittle away the time until seven. We circumnavigated the same city block several times, passing L’Etrusco, hungrily, each trip.

Thinking ahead, we were also trying to determine which buses, if any, would be able to take us to either Stazione Ostiense or Stazione Tiburtina, where trains would be leaving during the early morning for Naples. Stazione Termini would close at midnight. We had gotten some information at the USO, but an inquiry posed at a nearby information booth proved this invalid. We decided we would be forced to take a taxi to one of the stations. There would be no buses in the area after midnight.

Around a quarter before seven George and I decided to enter L’Etrusco to see if it was open. To our amazement, it was. It had opened early because of the midnight mass. We sat at a table near the door.

The dining area was characteristically small, perhaps a dozen or so tables. We were given menus, and soon ordered caprese for antipasto. For a first course, I enjoyed fettucini. We both ordered the white house wine.

As our food was being prepared, the restaurant began to fill. A half-hour after our arrival as the first guests, the dining room was full. We were joined by a mixture of Germans, Italians, Brits, and Americans.

George and I enjoyed a slow meal, even ordering a second liter of wine to help us pass the time. We also ordered third courses, then desserts. As the evening progressed, the osteria grew increasingly boisterous. Finally, a young man carrying a guitar entered from the street to exchange entertainment for coins. He must have played some popular Italian songs, for around half the patrons began singing along. We shook our heads in disbelief.

Shortly after nine o’clock, George and I decided to leave. We asked for the bill. It was surprisingly small, Lit. 43,500 ($35). We then made the short walk to St. Peter’s Square. There we waited in a long line to enter the cathedral. We met some Canadians who stood in front of us.

Following an hour wait, the line began to move. We walked up the steps of the cathedral where a group of Carabinieri were directing guests to the proper entrance. The tickets were color-coded as per language. George and I were directed to the north side of the cathedral where we entered through Porta Rezzonico. We were seated with other English-speaking folks.

Having entered the cathedral at ten-thirty, we had some ninety minutes before the commencement of the mass. An organist played one of the pipe organs. The sound was phenomenal. We passed a little time by taking a few photographs and skimming the programs given us as we had entered. Only a small portion was inscribed in English.

As midnight approached, the cathedral filled to capacity, some twenty thousand. The suspense was agonizing. A choir began singing a few minutes before midnight, and finally, at twelve, the lights brightened and the crowd stood as the papal court entered the enormous sanctuary. In fact, the court walked down the aisle to my immediate left. The ceremony had begun.

The mass was conducted in a multitude of languages, George and I understanding only a fraction. Unfortunately, we were not afforded the best of seats. In fact, we were several rows from the pope, some twenty-five meters away. Invariably, each time the pontiff turned toward our side, several people in front of us stood with their cameras.

The ceremony was scheduled to end at two o’clock. George and I grew increasingly tired and oblivious to the mass. We decided to leave a little early, walking out at a quarter past one.

Our first endeavor was to find a taxi. We walked out of St. Peter’s Square, turning north. With a mighty stroke of luck, a vacant white taxi turned south onto the street facing us. We stopped him and asked how much he would charge to take us to Ostiense. “Trenta mila,” he replied after conferring with the gentleman sitting beside him. That was reasonable. I then asked his price for driving us to Tiburtina. “Quaranta mila,” he replied. We therefore opted for the ride to Tiburtina. It was a little farther, and would therefore cost a little more, but the next train for Naples would depart there at two-thirty, vice three-thirty from Ostiense. We did not wish to wait in the cold an additional hour to save Lit. 10,000 ($8).

The taxi cruised the empty streets of Rome for the twenty-minute ride to Tiburtina. We arrived at two o’clock, paid the Lit. 40,000 ($32), and entered the station. It was deserted, less a handful of homeless. We checked the schedule for the track our train would use, then sauntered over to track two to await our train.

The train we would board had left from Milan earlier in the evening. It was headed for Palermo in Sicily. George and I reasoned it would be rather full. When it arrived, just after two-thirty, we were proven correct. We searched most of the train, composed mostly of sleeper cars, until finally discovering a compartment near the front with two empty seats.

This train was also an espresso, and it, too, made no stops between Rome and Naples. I listened to my walkman for most of the journey, nodding off occasionally. George slept most of the way. The train ride passed rather quickly as we pulled into Napoli Centrale at five o’clock Christmas morning. A short taxi ride back to Capodichino marked the end of our trip.

I rose at ten o’clock that morning so George and I could go to some friends’ home for the afternoon. We took the bus from Capodichino to Agnano, and were driven from there by car.

I’m done rebuilding Right Minded from my lockdown at the expense at Blogger back in early August. I’ve imported all the pictures, newspaper columns, other major writings, and news stories of note, but had to let a lot of stuff go, mainly links to news-of-the-day items that are no longer relevant and not worth importing, or other information that was later integrated into newspaper columns. I had just passed 6,000 posts when Google ate my blog. Right now, I’ve got over 2,500 here, but I believe I’ve got a pretty complete blog set up now for me to fully work with.

If I had it all to do again, I’d start off at WordPress. I began blogging on April 30, 2004, just writing things into a plain .html document. In January, 2005, I bought markarose.com, and began using MovableType on March 1 of that year. Things were going great until about October 15, 2006, when MovableType stopped working. Rather than try to resurrect it, I began using Blogger under gotigers.blogspot.com, but had Blogger ftp the files up to markarose.com. That worked great until March 29, 2007, when I somehow lost the capability of ftp-ing up to markarose.com, and so I just went with Blogger directly, and set up markarose.com to simply redirect over to gotigers.blogspot.com.

But I missed uploading to my own domain, and so on June 30, 2008, I registered markarose.net through Google so I could have everything under markarose.net. Then, on August 3, Blogger disabled my blog, and so I saved all the monthly archive files as .html documents so I wouldn’t lose all my work, set up rightmindedblog.wordpress.com, called up my old hosting company, and had markarose.com point to WordPress.

As Johnny Cash used to sing, I’ve been everywhere, man. In life you don’t get do-overs, so the best you can do is learn from mistakes. If I only knew then what I know now, I would have set up a WordPress account back on April 30, 2004. I would have saved myself a lot of time and frustration, and not lost any work. But I’m happy with things now, happy that I’ve been able to preserve and integrate most of my work here, and I’m very happy with WordPress, as it is far more versatile than Blogger. And the best thing is, you can back up all your work at WordPress, because you have the ability to save the entire blog in a single .xml file, which you can save on your own hard drive, so no more losing work, even in a disaster.

Since the time for Christmas shopping is upon us, could I beg those of you who shop online at Amazon.com use the link http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/redirect?tag=rightminded08-20 when logging onto Amazon.com? This will enable Right Minded to earn a share of the sales. And it doesn’t cost you anything extra.

Thank you in advance.

Right Minded turned 39 years old today.

I’m a little late in posting this, but the Roses went to Dollywood during fall break last month, the first time we’ve been there in three years. We used to go several times a year, but sort of grew tired of it after a while. Wouldn’t you know it, but it rained on us the second day, which did make for a sparse crowd and a quick turnaround on rides. To my knowledge, Dollywood is the only major amusement park left in Tennessee. We’ve always enjoyed going because of the pretty surroundings, the fact that it’s clean, and the ”old-timey” feel, although the traffic can sometimes be annoying. I used to be able to ride pretty much anything without any side effects, but as I get older, things that spin around rapidly tend to make me nauseous, and so my days of riding the big roller coasters are now just a memory. I’m pretty much a ferris wheel and bumper car customer now. Anyway, the following pictures were taken with my 1.3 MP camera phone, and are therefore not up to the usual quality that you see here.

I’m about to drop my hosting service for markarose.com and attempt to have it instead hosted by WordPress. These things are never easy for me. While I attempt to pull this off, in the event that markarose.com does not get you here, please use the direct URL http://rightmindedblog.wordpress.com. Also, instead of using mark-at-markarose.com for my e-mail address, I’m instead going to use mjwrose-at-yahoo.com to make sure I still get my e-mail in the meantime

I attended my 20-year high school reunion in Humboldt, Tennessee last night. It was important for me to go. I am an introvert, and don’t usually do well in crowds, and I sometimes have to force myself outside my shell. So I went with my wife. Our class was small — 172, I believe. And maybe 40% of the class was actually there. I slipped up and actually had a good time. My wife and I planned to spend only an hour or two at the reunion, but we both had fun and were there a little over three hours before the alcohol started to flow a little too freely, and only then did we split. It was a little after 10:00 p.m. by then.

Some observations:

1. Those who are bums now were bums in high school, although there are quite a few reformed bums for whom I have a great deal of respect.

2. Those who worked hardest and achieved good grades are among the most accomplished now.

3. Those who were quiet and didn’t clamor for attention then seem to have become confident adults with steady families.

4. Those who sucked up all the oxygen still tend to do so today, usually to their detriment.

5. I tended to feel inferior when in high school. I now know that most of my classmates did, too. Looking around last night, I wonder why I felt inferior, not that I’m better than everybody else, but everybody else seems to be a lot like me.

6. Most of us have matured into responsible adults, some more so than others. However, a few don’t seem to have matured at all.

7. You know how high schools are and their cliques. They still exist. I gravited to my old friends, too, but still forced myself to talk to a few people I hardly knew in high school.

I didn’t watch the McCain-Obama debate Tuesday night. The kid is out of school for fall break, and so we decided to take our first trip to Gatlinburg in three years and went to Dollywood. (Gas is a bit cheaper in East Tennessee, by the way.) So we were in a hotel room Tuesday night, and I had no desire to do anything political. So I missed the debate entirely. Heck, I already know who I’m voting for, anyway.

There won’t be a Lebanon Democrat article posted today. The column I submitted did not run. Instead, the column that ran last week also ran today. Perhaps it was so brilliant that it deserved a second printing. I don’t know. I’ll hopefully get back in next Tuesday.

Eight days after losing control of my blogspot account, I have finally figured out how to get my markarose.net domain to point to my new WordPress blog. Thus, markarose.com, markarose.net, and gotigers.blogspot.com all get you here. All roads now lead to Right Minded. Woohoo!

Also, I have loaded up my old monthly archive files, so all my writings are now available here. They are not split into individual permalinks like before. I cannot stomach the thought of entering more than 6,000 individual posts all over again, but at least everything is here, less the pictures.

Ugh. I went in Sunday to delete my old e-mail address from by Blogger account, and it threw everything haywire. Next thing I know, my blog got disabled for my own “security,” and Blogger won’t give it back after multiple attempts on my part. My Picasa account gone, too. Kaput. So, here we are at yet another URL. I won’t let obstacles stop me from blogging. So I have to do what I have to do. Fortunately, I’ve got my monthly archive files backed up. I’m not letting go of 6,000+ blog posts so easily. The archives won’t be available for a while. I’ll get around to putting them back up over here. But I’m probably the only one that uses the archive files, anyway.

I’ve loved Blogger up to this point. I hate that you just can’t fill out a blank form, describe your problem, and interact with a real person. But I realize, too, that the web hosting is free, and that beggars can’t be choosers.

Anyway, I made a huge mistake trying to make a minor fix. I guess the moral to this story is: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. (Stop tinkering with things that already work, Mark!)

I’m done with Google. I have created this blog on WordPress. I have markarose.com pointing over here, so I’m asking everyone again to change links and bookmarks to markarose.com. I will probably get my hosting service to point the nameservers to WordPress, so don’t get used to the WordPress URL. Also, my e-mail address is back to mark-at-markarose.net I’ve also got to say goodbye to my domain markarose.net. I registered it with GoDaddy via Blogger. When I called GoDaddy to get them to point the nameservers over here, I was told I’d have to go through Google, as I don’t have an account with GoDaddy, even though they are my domain registrar. But you cannot call anyone at Google/Blogger, and you cannot contact them through customer support. Believe me, I’ve tried. So not only am I locked out of my own blog, I’m also locked out of my own domain. They’ve screwed me every way possible.

The biggest challenge at this point will be getting all those pictures into Flickr.

Those of you who were trying to access Right Minded last night and this morning using Internet Explorer 7 obviously had problems getting here. I thought at first the problem was with Blogger, but after reading through a discussion group, someone suggested removing SiteMeter. So I did, and it worked. I don’t like it when my readers can’t get here, so I am glad to have that problem resolved.