Grackle of the Apocalypse

I'm dipping out...

2005-08-05T06:01:00.000-07:00

...for a couple of days. I've got a deadline coming up and x amount of work x 0 willpower = 0 dollars for Rob. Can't have that, so I'm unplugging from the blogsphere till next week.

Check you cyber-cats out when I get back.

Canker Relapse (or Fark the Police)

2005-07-29T14:52:00.000-07:00

I've had two more visits from the Department of Agriculture.

The first was a poor guy up from Fort Lauderdale. I didn't even let him finish knocking.

"The tree is a lemon tree...northeast corner of the lot. Take it."

He wouldn't take it. What he wanted instead was directions to my property management company so he could find out what happened to the paperwork allowing the DOA to take the tree.

Those of you who have read my blog know the mistake I made. I submitted. I didn't kick and scream like I said I was going to. My plan was to cry out and chain myself to the tree so the agent felt more at home with what he was doing. The outrage would be familiar. A comfort.

Two days later, I got the paper you see at the top of this post. This is the same type of form I've already brought to my landlords twice. The same one they (allegedly) have turned in to the DOA.

It's enough to turn a guy into a Republican.

I could do something SIMPLE. I could sign the form myself and mail it in. Never mind that it isn't really my tree. Never mind that they have most likely lost similar forms already.

I could do something CLEVER like cut down the tree myself and claim ignorance whenever they show up again. "Citrus tree? I don't have no stinking citrus tree!"

Instead, let's do something PETTY! Below is the same form, which I have now farked. See if you can take the clean form above and do something better. Email your submission to rmccaffrey2@cfl.rr.com and I'll post the best ones later to this blog.

And I'll mail the winner into the DOA.

Let's see them lose that one.

Hmm...sounds like last summer.

2005-07-25T14:49:00.000-07:00

Who knew the Second Level of Hell would have so much in common with Central Florida after a hurricane?

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Second Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	Moderate
Level 2 (Lustful)	Very High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	Moderate
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	Very Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	Low
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	Low
Level 7 (Violent)	Moderate
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	High
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	Moderate

"You have come to a place mute of all light, where the wind bellows as the sea does in a tempest. This is the realm where the lustful spend eternity. Here, sinners are blown around endlessly by the unforgiving winds of unquenchable desire as punishment for their transgressions. The infernal hurricane that never rests hurtles the spirits onward in its rapine, whirling them round, and smiting, it molests them. You have betrayed reason at the behest of your appetite for pleasure, and so here you are doomed to remain. Cleopatra and Helen of Troy are two that share in your fate."

Well, sure. Just check out the blogs I visit.

Wanna see where you end up?

Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test

A cat haiku

2005-07-19T10:52:00.000-07:00

In honor of a new blog I found, Egan's Poetry Corner, I will share a haiku my wife and I wrote for one of our cats. The cat wore a bell and had a nasty habit of slashing at my bare feet from under the bed. His name was Trash.

Hear the bell of death.
Jingle, jingle, jingle...OW!
Cat, I'll beat your ass.

I pick on someone younger than me...

2005-07-19T09:21:00.000-07:00

Jodi has a life-long friend who lives in Indiana and we have a blast playing around with her daughters (it's like being grandparents...all of the fun...none of the work!)

The oldest is going to be a teenager soon and has discovered the world of blogging. She put up a list of questions on her blog for visitors to answer. Posted below are the questions and my replies. I'm either hilarious or else I no longer have any respect for how hard life is at twelve years old.

1. who are you? Rob McCaffrey
2. Are we friends? you betcha
3. When and how did we meet? Your parents took Jodi and I in one winter.
4. How have i affected you? I'm pretty sure you gave me a cold that winter.
5. What do you think of me? I used to think you were this really sweet little midwestern girl, but you're morphing into some sort of hip-hop hollaback girl from East LA. OMG! LOL! JK!
; )
6. What's the fondest memory you have of me? do you think of me? It would have to be doing the "You Are LAME!" show.
7. How long do you think we will be friends? Always. Or until after lunch. Take your pick.
8. Do you love me? The FBI really disapproves of these types of online conversations.
9. Do you have a crush on me? No, it's more like a "Fanta."
10. Would you kiss me? Yes. Hello and goodbye. On the forehead.
11. Would you hug me? Did it.
12. Emotionally, what stands out? All those times I had to sit in a corner when I was bad. Why, mommy, why?!
13. Do you wish I was cooler? Why, do you have a fever?
14. On a scale of 1-10, how hot am I? What are these, degrees Celcius or Farenheit? Shouldn't you be at 98.6? If this is how you become cooler, STOP IT. It's bad for your health.
15. Give me a nickname and explain why you picked it. You are Jungblut, of course. I forget why. Old people have trouble with that sort of thing.
16. Am I loveable? Like a Care Bear.
17. How long have you known me? I don't know. It was winter...Clinton was president, I'd say....an hour?
18. Describe me in one word. LAME! (Sorry, couldn't resist and of course that's not true). It's been awhile since I've seen you, but I'm going to go with "Tall."
19. What was your first impression? Probably when I turned that corner too quickly and put a hole in the drywall.
20. Do you still think that way about me now? Oh, you mean impression of you! I can't remember back that far.
21. What do you think my weakness is? Red Kryptonite.
22. Do you think I'll get married? Probably next Saturday, at the rate you're going.
23. What makes me happy? Visits from Jodi and Rob!
24. What makes me sad? When Jodi and Rob have to leave!
25. What reminds you of me? Volleyballs...I don't know why.
26. If you could give me anything what would it be? If you were asking Jodi, it would be a full ride to one of the 7 sister's colleges.
27. How well do you know me? Completely. Who are you again?
28. When's the last time you saw me? I'm REALLY bad with numbers, also this list is killing me. I've filled out my taxes in less time. I'll say...3 years ago.
29. Ever wanted to tell me something but couldn't? Please take this gag off my mouth.
30. Do you think I could kill someone? Kid, you're killing ME with this list of questions!
31. Do you think our friendship is getting stronger/weaker/or staying the same? Stronger...kind of like Hurricane Emily.
32. Do you feel that you could talk to me about anything and I would listen? Ahh...I'm over here. Hello?! Of forget it.
33. Are you going to put this on your xanga and see what I say about you? Just did!
34. Do I have your phone number? Your mom probably has it in her purse. If you happen to find a $20 in there, write your number on the back of it and send it to Rob and Jodi.

Is that it?! I made it through? Oh thank, goodness! Nice blog. Keep it up. Hope you got a laugh from my answers.
THX!

Well? Have I earned a ticket to hell for that? I hope not.

But I should at least submit myself to the same potential punishment. Knock yourselves out.

1. who are you?
2. Are we friends?
3. When and how did we meet?
4. How have i affected you?
5. What do you think of me?
6. What's the fondest memory you have of me? do you think of me?
7. How long do you think we will be friends?
8. Do you love me?
9. Do you have a crush on me?
10. Would you kiss me?.
11. Would you hug me?
12. Emotionally, what stands out?
13. Do you wish I was cooler?
14. On a scale of 1-10, how hot am I?
15. Give me a nickname and explain why you picked it.
16. Am I loveable?
17. How long have you known me?
18. Describe me in one word.
19. What was your first impression?
20. Do you still think that way about me now?
21. What do you think my weakness is?
23. What makes me happy?
24. What makes me sad?
25. What reminds you of me?
26. If you could give me anything what would it be?
27. How well do you know me?
28. When's the last time you saw me?29. Ever wanted to tell me something but couldn't?
30. Do you think I could kill someone?
31. Do you think our friendship is getting stronger/weaker/or staying the same?
32. Do you feel that you could talk to me about anything and I would listen?
34. Do I have your phone number?

Canker is a disease of plants...

2005-07-16T05:08:00.000-07:00

...cancer one of animals.

That's from a movie or record...I don't remember which. (Record = CD kiddies.)

The canker police are running amok in Orlando. Most of the residential houses here have some sort of citrus tree in their yard. Oranges are the most common, but many folks also have white, pink and red grapefruits. Kumquats and mixtures like tangelos are also easy to find. There's a small lemon tree in my own backyard, which is why I'm telling this story.

Canker is a citrus killer. I don't know the specifics, but a sick tree starts to lose leaves and eventually the fruit yield is severely reduced. Citrus is big business in Florida and the citrus farmers take canker seriously. Any infected tree is destroyed and any tree within 1900 feet of an infected tree is removed as a precaution. There is always a huge fight when this happens in residential areas. Many people are fond of the trees in their yard. My whole block is former orange grove...there are people getting ready to retire here that still have the trees that they use to pick fruit off of as kids.

So when canker was discovered at a house down the street, all hell broke loose. It's sad, but I have to admit that it's entertaining as well. Perfectly rational people start talking conspiracy...Department of Agriculture stooges carrying out clandestine operations designed to force locals to pay exorbitant fees for store-bought orange juice...dark citrus cartels trying to recover from Atkins-diet induced financial shortfalls by slaying the local residential supply. Huge signs spring up in people's yards, some simply to identify innocent, non-citrus trees, but most decrying the unfairness of it all. "DEA & BIG CITRUS - DON'T TOUCH MY TREES!!!"

I don't have a dog in the fight. I understand the need to protect a staple industry. I understand the wrath of private owners. I'm just laughing over the hard time the canker police seem to be having with me.

I mentioned I have a lemon tree in the back yard. The problem the DEA is having is it's not my tree. I rent. The tree belongs to the owner. I explained this to the nice DEA man who came to visit me. I took the releases he handed over. I promised him I'd inform the rental management company that the tree was to be removed. I dropped off the paperwork the same day I got it. The owner has already called Jodi and I to plan the planting of some non-citrus trees when the deed is done.

The problem is, the DEA doesn't seem to realize were OK with this. Someone, somewhere is not keeping track of the paperwork. I've had 3 more visits since the first one, all pretty much the same. A DEA rep shows up and tries to explain they have to take the tree; I cut them off and say, "Take it. It's out back."

They can't deal with that. You can see in their eyes that they are braced for all kinds of a fit. Someone telling them to take the tree throws them off. They fumble with their clipboard a bit and say they'll be back later. It's gotten to be like a bad mob film where every so often some mug comes around and threatens to break your knees if you don't pay up. They aren't TAKING the tree...they're just visiting every now and then to THREATEN to take the tree. The last guy to come caught me in the yard mowing and I decided I'd saw the damn tree down myself and give it to him. He took off in his truck before I could get back from the shed. Again, he couldn't take the thought of someone actually cutting down his own tree. That, or he's had too many people with yard tools come after him.

I have a new plan now. I have a length of chain that I used to hold my hammock up with before the hurricane knocked all our big trees down. When they finally do come for the lemon tree, I'm going to chain myself to it. I'll cry and scream and chant things like EARTH FIRST!

That should calm them down enough to be able to finally do their jobs and take it.

I'm here to buy a house...and I've brought my own Vaseline!

2005-07-16T04:12:00.000-07:00

OK, I can tell you now that the exclusive neighborhood was in Winter Park. I can tell you because Jo and I didn't get the house.

This was actually our first official offer on a property. We had one aborted attempt before this, but this was the first one that had a number figure on it with our name at the bottom.

I don't know what housing is like where you are, so I'll set the scene for you. Jodi and I are standing in a well-manicured yard of a charming 3/2. It's a shade under 1550 square feet. It has a two-car garage, which we want. It has a large kitchen, which we also want. It does not have a dining room...but we'll live with that. The neighborhood seems quiet. The house backs up to a tract of planned greenway that will never be developed.

The asking price is $236,500.

When the people in rural North Carolina get done laughing, I'll continue. I know you folks can buy a two-story, brick 4/3 for that price with true dens and foyers included...but it snows in Carolina, so you've got some built in suppression of the demand. I may be renting, but "winter" here is the week-and-a-half in January when the temperature drops down to the 50s.

Ahh...no more laughter, I see. Back to the story, then.

You may remember another couple was at the house as well. Jodi and I had to separate ourselves from the two sellers and the competition so we could talk. Pretending to look at the back yard, we slyly turned to each other and mouthed the words "$250."

"Wait a minute," you are probably saying. "Fourteen-and-a-half ABOVE the asking price? You people are confused. The goal is to start LOWER than the asking price and work your way up." Yeah, well...welcome to Orlando, bub.

Still, that is a hefty sum of money above what the owners said they wanted. This wound up being our downfall. Naturally, no one wants to spend more than they have to. No one wants to get taken for a sucker. In the day or so that followed, we talked ourselves down. We stopped listening to our gut and listened to our realtor, looked at the comps, forgot that we knew what we were talking about. We offered $240,500 and made sure our realtor told the sellers that if there was going to be a bidding war, we wanted in. That may seem like a stupid thing for a buyer to do, telling the seller "Hey, I'd LIKE to pay this, but really I'll pay a LOT more." What can I say? The rules stopped applying here months ago.

There was no bidding war. The sellers, for whatever reason...probably something as simple as not being mercenary, took an offer for $245K and stopped the madness.

What we take away from this experience:

-We've been doing this for at least 2 years now. We know what houses are worth, regardless of what a realtor or computer tells us.

-We're never going to hit the number right on the head. Sure, our offer of $250 would have been $5K more than the next highest offer, but really, how close can we hope to come to the ideal number? If I could predict human nature well enough to have offered $245,500...I'd already be making a killing in the stock market and could buy whatever flippin' house I wanted.

-We may have to start thinking even further outside the box than we currently are. Like finding a way to create a massive drop in demand for houses in Florida. Like creating sinkholes...no, wait. That's been done. A water shortage! No, currently being done...it has no effect.

Hmmm.....perhaps if I could find a way to make it snow.

Press or Say F*CK

2005-07-13T18:25:00.000-07:00

Communication technology has grown so sophisticated over the last 10 years. Search engines are a great example. When I got my first internet ready computer in 1994 (long ago, but WAY after the first wave of early adapters), you really couldn't count on search engines for much of anything. Altavista was OK for a time. Google was worthless. You'd look up "hot chicks," for instance, and the first 2300 hits would be something along the lines of "CHICKenS getting sHOT."

That's gotten a lot better. These days Google knows what I want before I finish typing it out. Mapquest starts off its directions to me with "From your desk, walk 3 paces northeast to the door of your den, turn left and walk seven yards to your front door..." It borders on spooky.

One of the downsides of this sophistication is the growing imperviability of voicemail. It's damn near iron-clad now. It used to be I could slip by if I pretended to still have a rotary phone. The VM would ask a few questions, I'd refuse to press "1" and eventually a real person showed up on the other end of the line to deal with me. Even if I goofed up and started pressing buttons, I could usually get out of a jam by ignoring all offered options and pressing "0" for an operator.

That's done. The electric gatekeepers talk and listen now. No more side stepping the digital man.

Tonight, I had to put a hold on a FEDEX package so I can pick it up tomorrow. I dialed 800 GOFEDEX and promptly received 5 options, none of which even remotely corresponded to what I had to do. I tried to opt out by pressing "0."

click....whirr..."I'm sorry. That is not a valid option. Please choose from the following options. To schedule a pickup, please press or say "1."

I'll bite. "One," I say.

whirr...click! "Please enter or say your 9-digit FEDEX account number."

"?," I think.

click...click..."I'm sorry. I didn't hear the account number. If you don't have an account number, please say "I don't have one."

Hoping I won't soon have to do the hokey pokey, I say "I don't have one."

click...grind..."You need a valid FEDEX account number to complete this..."

I don't listen to the rest. I'm ready to cut through the bull at this point. So I say the magic word. The one trick I have left in my arsenal. It's a new one, but it's been pretty solid for me.

"Representative!" I command.

grind...grind...grind...

I love that sound. That's the sound of me fixing the VMs little red wagon.

grind...grind...grind..."I'm sorry. I did not understand you. Please choose from the following options...."

What?! No! "Representative!!" I'm insistent.

"I'm sorry. I did not understand...

"Operator!!" I'm pleading.

"I'm sorry..."

"HELP!" That's got to do it. They had to have put some sort of response in for that simple, universal call.

"I'm having trouble understanding you..."

"MOTH--ER--FUCK-- ER!!!"

Silence. Then a human voice...female...polite, says

"I beg your pardon, sir?

I'd love to believe that was more than bad timing, if only to have the "f-bomb option" when I want to plow through the phone robots and talk to one of my fellow men. But that would be too good to be true. The options dwindle. I don't pass the test. I will stay in voicemail hell and remain Bobbie Mac.

At least I can Google "hot chicks" while I'm waiting.

Did you have papers? I want them to see we have papers.

2005-07-13T03:52:00.000-07:00

My wife and I are trying to buy a house. I've done things I've enjoyed more.

I've slipped on a wet boat trailer and cracked my skull hard enough to need stitches. I've fallen out of a tree and wound up with a splintered twig sticking out of my leg. I enjoyed both those things a lot more.

Every now and then, however, something hopeful happens. We saw a house last night that somehow met the mutually exclusive criteria of being in our price range and not making us want to barf. Even better than not making us want to barf, we LIKED it. We could envision ourselves happy living there.

But there was another couple looking at it as well. At best, you can have a sense of camaraderie about that. Hey, were all in the same boat. Too many dollars chasing too few houses. Sometimes you can joke about it. Soviet bread-line humor.

At worst, you have this sneaking suspicion that you are going to round a corner and see a jello pit.

"Since you're both qualified buyers," the grinning seller would say, "I'm going to have you guys wrestle for it. Hold on. Let me get the camera."

Sellers can do that. They have the power and the traditional bidding war thing must be getting boring by now. Jodi and I have been looking for a home for 2 years. If a jello smackdown is the last hurdle I have to face, bring it on.

"They're old," Jodi tells me later over coffee. "They could buy a condo somewhere else."

"So now it's come to telling other people where they should live?" I ask.

"They don't need that big house. We have to live and work in this community. They should go somewhere where rich people go to retire." she says.

I remind her we live in Florida, which last I checked, is where old, rich people go to retire.

"Yes, but they should go somewhere like (exclusive neighborhood).*

I point out the house is in (exclusive neighborhood).*

Her brow knits a bit over that. Then she suddenly brightens.

"Did you have our pre-approval letter out when we were looking at the house?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Good," she says, settling down. "I want them to know we're serious, too."

I love a hopeful moment like that.

We don't really hate the couple we saw. We just hate what they represent. We hate the fact that this house has been on the market for less than a week and the owners literally cannot keep their flyers stocked in the tube under the "For Sale" sign (they had gone through almost 100 in the 5 days since they put the sign up). We blame ourselves for not being smarter, not being richer. We feel inadequate. We can't do the math. Everyone seems to be able to do this but us.

Thankfully, we still have those quiet, sane moments where we realize it's going to be OK. We're not in any rush. Somehow, we're going to do it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to find my elbow pads. The jello pit awaits.

I hope it's cherry this time.

*(I'm keeping the neighborhood name under wraps on the outside chance the home owner reads blogs. If you're a home HUNTER, then the neighborhood is in....ahh.....KISSIMMEE! Yeah,....Kissimmee.)

Don't Sit So Close, It's Bad For Your Eyes

2005-07-12T05:39:00.000-07:00

That's what we would hear as kids if any of us got within 3 feet of the living room television. I'm sure mom meant well. There's no way she could have foreseen me spending my adult life 18 inches away from 2 computer screens and an NTSC monitor for 10 hours a day.

Now if Jodi and I have kids, should I take the opposite approach?

(Get closer to that screen, Bobby! Don't look away! You've only been at it 5 hours! You'll never get anywhere in life if you can't look at a screen for more than 5 measly hours!)

Storm Shadows

2005-07-09T08:37:00.000-07:00

As a young boy growing up in Miami in the early 70s, I used to pray to God to see a hurricane. They just seemed so damn cool. They were one of my book phases. I moved from dinosaur picture books to dinosaur word books to Nessie, Bigfoot, UFOs, the Bermuda Triangle and finally hurricanes. I knew Bigfoot was WAY cooler than hurricanes, but I had a suspicion even then that I would never see Bigfoot, but there was a good chance I'd get to see a hurricane.

I read everything I could about them. I'd fantasize about these monster storms...200 MPH winds...green skies at dawn...enough falling rain to liquefy the ground and wash Dade county into the sea. I visualized catastrophic experiments gone awry; government silver iodine cloud seedings meant to stop a storm leading instead to massive and unexpected intensifications. On summer afternoons I'd hang out under an old, fold-down dining table that stood on the back yard slab and watch the thunderstorms that came like clockwork at 3pm. In the lull after the rain I'd dream that I was in the eye of a hurricane, able to look up into a quiet spinning column of clouds and see stars.

Once in 74 or 75 we actually had a close one and I had to call the whole prayer to God thing off because my mother was freaking out so much. (Dear God, I know I asked for this, but...)

Still, even after I grew up I'd find myself secretly rooting every year for disater to head my way. I actually considered a road trip from Tallahassee to Miami when it looked like Andrew was going to hit in 92 (if I had known ahead of time how much it was going to strengthen I would have made the trip). In 1995, I lied to the cops about a having a sick grandfather that needed help evacuating so I could get onto Hutchinson Island as Hurricane Erin approached. In 98, I helped put an entire film crew at risk by staying on a shoot at St. George's Island, even though the approaching storm (also named Georges) was doing a pretty damn good job of trying to knock the grip truck over.

None of this worked. I made it 36 years...most of them spent in Florida...and never got even got into so much as a stinking Category 1 Hurricane.

Until last year.

Like most people in the state, I got my fill and more in 2004. The worst part of the season was dealing with the troubles of my parents and wife's parents, all of whom live along the St. Lucie/Martin County line. They saw the eyes of both Frances and Jeanne in a span of 3 weeks. They are still waiting for repairs to be completed on their back porch and carport, respectively.

We had to deal with those storms in Orlando as well, but our real event of the year was Charley. Charley was my first...what I wanted my whole life...and also what cured me from wanting to see hurricanes again.

Before I go too far with this, I want to say it's not your typical "mother nature made me a believer" story. I didn't have to stay in a closet. My wife and I didn't lose our roof or cars. The worse part of the whole season for us was dealing with the loss of electricity (a total of about 21 days over the 3 months we dealt with Charley, Frances and Jeanne), and that actually got to be interesting in a perverse sort of way. And as bad as Charley was, it was practically nothing by the time it made it to Orlando. Very little rain. Winds in the 90 to 100 MPH range. Not my dream storm by any means.

No, my amazement comes from the fact that now that I've actually seen 100 MPH winds...I have no desire to see 120, let alone 200.

I already mentioned I didn't spend any time in a closet...but I THOUGHT about it. Jodi and I did spend part of the evening under the dining room table. Any the funny part was how jaded we were right up until the time the storm hit. I was somewhat jazzed...but ready to be disappointed. Hurricanes had always let me down before. Jodi was just pissed at the Weather Channel for doing what she considered fear mongering. She was sure the storm would be "nothing" as well. It was SUPPOSED to be nothing. It was supposed to graze Tampa 100 miles to the west of us. We left our house that day expecting the front quadrant squalls, but nothing worse.

Then Charley strengthen and turned.

Orlando went from "ho hum" in the AM to 'end of the world" mode by 12 noon. Curfews. OPEC-boycott-sized lines at every gas station. People suddenly discovering a desperate need for bleach and double A batteries. Jodi and I thought it was a joke. No way would the storm make it to us intact. Why the panic? (And secretly the whole time my old prayer was in the back of my mind...come on, hold together, come to papa).

By 8pm we were under the central dense overcast and it was nothing special. By 8:45, Jodi was throwing pieces of popcorn at the Weather Channel and cursing their name. There was a short pause to that at about 8:55 when the power went out. Then Jodi turned on a lantern and started throwing pieces of popcorn at the battery operated radio.

But shortly after 9pm, I finally got what I wanted.

When I think back on it now, what I recall from that night is more like a dream than a waking experience. Your mind knows what you saw...you just don't believe it in your heart.

There is small live oak in my front yard. It stands about 20 feet tall. I can just about wrap my hands all the way around the trunk if I choke it at shoulder height. If I throw my 6', 1" frame at it as hard as I can, like a linebacker making a tackle, the leaves will make a soft rustle all the way up the tree. If I rock it back and forth using all of my 200 lbs., eventually I'll get the top to sway just enough so that a squirrel might notice, if it already was paying attention.

The night of Charley, I watched that tree double over with each strong gust. The top branch...the one you would put a star or angel on if it were a Christmas tree...was punching holes in the lawn up to 2 feet deep, kicking up grass and sod every time it snapped back upright.

Across the street from my house was a matriarch water oak, 60 feet high, 100 years old if it was a day. I'd seen speeding garbage trucks hit the lower branches of that tree and get stopped dead, pinned between the branches and the road. It was moving like it was rubber, like some mad puppeteer trying to control giant, unseen marionettes beneath its boughs.

The lightening was a deep, sea green. People tried to tell me afterwards that wasn't possible, that it had to be the transformers in the neighborhood blowing up. But if that's the case, there are enough transformers in my neighborhood to make the place look like free flash camera night at an Orlando Magic game.

By 10pm, it was over. Our "2nd disaster," the one where you get to deal with chainsaw mornings, generator nights and whether you'll actually see someone killed at the corner Panera over getting a hot cup of coffee was just beginning.

Frances and Jeanne made it to Orlando as well. Even Ivan circled back around quietly and got us as a tropical depression, dumping about 3 inches of rain on Jodi and me and thousands of people waiting on the steps of the TD Waterhouse to see John Kerry and John Edwards speak.

I got to see quirks with all of these storms. I understand now that the wind field isn't this massive rotating disc of air like I thought it was. It's more like thousands of flowing streams of air...like a giant, invisible plate of spaghetti. If you're outside of a stream things aren't so bad. There were times I stood in my yard, the leaves and grass on my side of the street moving no more than they would on a quiet summer morning, yet in the yard across the street oaks were falling down. I appreciate the whole "prepare for the worst and hope for the best" directives now in a way I didn't before and I didn't need to huddle under a mattress. I'm very lucky.

So, if you're in the same boat as I was, if you have some wish to expose yourself to potential danger with these storms, I hope this entry quells some of your curiosity. Barring that, I hope you have as exciting and easy a time of things as I did. Go slow. Cat 1? Cat 2? Fine. But try one of those first before you start wishing or praying or trying to get in front of any Cat 5 monsters.

Now...please God...may I see Bigfoot?

Older and Wiser...

2005-07-07T04:11:00.000-07:00

Seven of the eight Supreme Court justices have been appointed by Republican presidents, yet the court still isn't voting on issues the way many conservatives would like. It also seems like the longer a justice sits on the court, the more likely it becomes that they will cast a "liberal" vote. I call this process "growing wiser."

An old photo

2005-06-25T13:50:00.000-07:00

This is t a favorite of mine because it contains my friends Lorraine Portman (currently promoting her first feature film "Saving Sophie,") and Sam Beam, whom Iron and Wine fans might not recognize without his beard (yes, Sammy can do film as well as music...where do you think those cool Iron and Wine videos come from?)

I'm the paunchy guy with the camera.

Welcome to Gota.

2005-06-25T13:45:00.000-07:00

OK...the real deal. There is no Gota Pictures...yet. I simply was forced to create a blog in order to be able to comment on "Query Letters I Love," which is laugh out loud funny if you're a writer, producer or even just a lover of movies. I highly recommend visiting it.

My name is Robert McCaffrey and I'm a filmmaker. I also teach digital media at a community college in Orlando, FL. This often astounds me, since I don't recall ever learning about digital media myself. Still, I don't question it much. Say the word 'digital' often enough and somebody comes around and throws money at you. I'm currently asking for a 'digital' office chair.

I expect the grant for it will be about $65,000.

BTW, the nickname "Bobbie Mac" is my students' creation...that hip-ness has long passed me by.

As for Grackle of the Apocalypse:

A grackle is a dark, iridescent bird, a little smaller than crow-sized, that is a common sight in Florida. Very often you’ll see a lone, boat-tailed male perched high on some power pole looking like some harbinger of doom. A grackle of the apocalypse.

It’s been awhile since I’ve done any “above the line” work and I’ve decided that Gota will be the production company I create for the next project I own. I’ve probably been hanging around the students too long. Every semester I’m exposed to more outrageous production company names (Shady Lurker, Psycho Ninja, Death to Print and I Rule the World being real examples).

I really will update this blog when Gota finally gets created. I’ve got a short comedy I’m working on right now called “Digital Cooking.” I bet you can guess what it’s about.

I expect to get a three-picture deal out of it.

-RM