The new home of "The Frank Report."

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  Going cheap on Ebay for $15 (plus S&H)
Item # 952199765.



posted at 2:20 PM

  (by Cherie Carter-Scott)

1. You will receive a body. You may like it or hate it, but will be yours for the entire period of this time around.
2. You will learn lessons. You are enrolled in a full-time formal school called LIFE> Each day in this school you will have the opportunity to learn lessons. You may like the lessons or think them irrelevant and stupid.
3. There are no mistakes, only lessons. Growth is a process of trial and error: Experimentation. The "failed" experiments are as much a part of the process as the experiment that ultimately "works".
4. A lesson is repeated until learned. A lesson will be presented to you in various forms until you have learned it. When you have learned it, you can go on to the next lesson.
5. Learning the lessons does not end. There is no part of life that does not contain it's lessons. If you are alive, there are lessons to be learned.
6. "There" is no better than "here." When your "there" has become a "here", you will simply obtain another "there" that will again look better than "here."
7. Others are merely a mirror of you. You cannot love or hate something about another person unless it reflects something that you love or hate about yourself.
8. What you make of your life is up to you. You have all the tools and resources you need. What you do with them is up to you. The choice is up to you.
9. Your answers lie inside you. The answers to life's questions lie inside you. All you need to do is look, listen and trust.
10. You will forget all of this.

Interesting. Given the choice between Buddhism, with all its complexities and mysticism, and this, which is basically a stripped-down version of Eastern wisdom, I'll take Buddhism. This is interesting, but I need my religion mixed with dogma the way a window needs curtains to look "just right."

posted at 2:12 PM

  After several years of waiting (and various irresponsible gamers losing the diskette) cheese box photos are officially posted on the web. (Scratch another item off Frank's goal list.) A hollow accomplishment really, all the significance and meaning of the drama has since dissipated.

To make a long story short, way back when, a courier arrived at the office and delivered a 3ft. by 2ft. box designed to look like an oversized Philadelphia Cream Cheese sleeve, to my boss. Inside was a 3ft. by 2ft. plastic bag filled with cream cheese; a gift for a particularly large bake sale that was coming up. In an odd moment of generosity, the boss gave me the box as a keepsake.

While I was reconsidering whether or not to rejoin OWBN and moments after I was given the box, I received a flurry of phone calls and e-mails about "new developments" in Maryland. (More of the same old/same old, actually.) I took the juxtaposition of cheese with cheese to be a sign from above and decided to stay away. Luckily for all concerned, I reconsidered several years later, and thus gave birth to Ligadier and Pedder. But I think the decision to stay away at that time was a very, very wise one (as fossilized drama records will confirm.)

Therefore, several years later, and divested of any dramatic angst, I now unveil for your viewing pleasure 3 of the original 18 cheese box photos.
posted at 12:36 PM

  I just deleted 12 outdated links. Considering that this blog has only been around for a month, that's a pretty poor track record.
Perhaps that Internet is changing/evolving faster than I expected....

I got my first catty comment today and considering the source, color me non-surprised. Details available upon request.
posted at 5:27 PM

  Talking about the cheese box got me thinking about "the good 'ol days," so on a lark, and since it's a slow day here, I did some cheese-related research on google.

If you'd like to give that special someone a cheese poster (probably as thwap upside the head)...
Had a particularly bad night? Try and catch a showing of "Attack of the Killer Cheese." Now showing in MD and IL....
Or if you're of an ironic bent, dress up your name badge with images of your favorite cheese brand.
Or maybe you'd like some more (Tremere) magical cheese? Or just an exhaustive list of every type of (Thaumaturgy) cheese there is?
Or assign cheese brands to particular styles and people?

Some people are obsessed with cheese in (game) real life....
And don't forget cheese as a (Council vote) organizational style....
Or maybe you'd like to tune into a cheese cam? (listserv)

I could go on but I won't. Ahhhh nostalgia...
posted at 1:23 PM

  "As for Mark (Florida Air Force guy) the Air Force gave him his tickets today for his flight to basic training. It just so happens they booked him on Continental, so Mark immedietly went to the Continental desk at Palm Beach airport and got upgraded to first class. Really now, who flies first class on their way to boot camp?" - courtesy of Modern Blog

posted at 12:55 PM

  I've just discovered and become a fan of Arnold Bocklin, a 19th century Symbolist painter. What he lacked in technique he more than made up for with classic imagery. More of his work can be found HERE. His self-portrait fits excellently as a Ligadier Truffaut portrait, so I've put that in my photo album. Look for the cheese box photos tonight.

This is just an interesting art site in general.
posted at 12:39 PM

  My cousin has a summer home in the west of Ireland.
Check it out.
I am shamrock-green with envy.
posted at 10:17 AM

  Jennifer Connolly is currently on the cover of Vanity Fair magazine. Back in the day, she used to be gorgeous: healthy, curvacious, very "girl next door." Now, she's given herself over to the Hollywood aesthetic: emaciated, plastic, chiseled.

Will the madness never end? What's the point in being a drop-dead, gorgeous movie star(let) if you can't see or appreciate your own beauty?

I am not the only one who has noticed this trend....
posted at 10:58 PM

  It's a long story which I won't be going into right now, but I've taken a second round of cheese box photos. Hope to have them up on the Frank photo page by tomorrow night. If you use, or have used cheese as a verb, you'll know what I'm talking about. Scratch another item off the master list: "Photograph the cheese box/Post photos on the web."

posted at 10:42 PM

  On my last trip, flying out of BWI to Nashville, I ran into two separate groups of Texans. They are, God luv 'em, a strange breed. Me, I'll go out of my way to avoid eye contact. Even when I've shared a bus shelter with a fellow human being in the middle of a blizzard, I won't talk to them unless they force themselves upon me. I'm not rude or unfriendly, I just like my space.

Texans, God luv 'em, are the exact opposite. We were riding a shuttle bus from the train depot to the airport and not only did the couple (young, blond, perfect) start up a conversation, but they actually shook my hand when we parted ways. Who does that anymore? These are the mean, gritty streets of Washington, DC. You're not supposed to be nice! You're not supposed to be polite or outgoing! You'll ruin it for the rest of us if you start bringing in your charming southern ways.

On the plane, I sat next to a (young, blond, perfect) buxom lass from a small Texas town. She proceeded to chat me up for the entire flight. The Frank would rather have needles inserted under his fingernails than chat with a stranger for two hours on a cramped plane. But there we were, talking about everything under the sun from the time we took off until the time we landed. And she was just "pleased as punch" to have met me.

It felt like the 15th round of the Grinch vs. Cindy Loo-Hoo. You know that scene where the Grinch's heart expands from sun-dried tomato size to pulsating Hallmark Valentine's Day icon? That's what it was like.

Texans, God luv 'em, they'll grow on you if you're not careful.

On the plane, the only people ordering drinks (doubles, not singles) were Texans. The only people making eye contact on the way out the door were Texans and the plane staff. Who are these people? They live in a desert. What right do they have to be walking around splashing bright colored paint on my mono-hued day?

posted at 10:40 PM

  The Frank Report now has the distinction of being ranked #33 when searching for the words "overseas women looking for a man." My apologies to all those overseas babes...I'm not the marrying type.

Addendum: I received a 19 second visit from nipr.mil which (based on google research) is the DoD's superfirewall point of access. Glad they didn't stay long. I can't imagine what I might have to attract their attention. Trip Reports? Quizzes? Walking Rules?
posted at 6:50 AM

  (This will mean nothing to the unenlightened.)
You answered "yes" to 50 of 100 questions, making you 50.0% wod pure (50.0% wod corrupt).

posted at 7:52 PM

  Answer? No.


Would you survive a horror movie? Find out @ She's Crafty
posted at 7:31 PM

  I just finished reading the latest issue of Loyola's Forum Magazine. All I can say is "ouch." Not because of the writing, which will improve with time, but for cluelessness. I feel sorry for all the untenured communications professors that had to wade through the students whining (unselfconsciously) about the misery of their wealthy lives.

Take this quote for instance: "Most Americans never buy the base-line model of a car, unless lack of funds restricts them. We want the deluxe, fully loaded SUV with a sunroof and a GPS mapping system; we want extra features, appealing design, high prestige: we crave image."

I imagine the untenured professor reading and grading this essay is more concerned about making rent payments. Most of the people I work with are concerned about repaying grad school loans or trying to sock away $20 a month for retirement. I know many people for whom a fully loaded SUV is the last thing on their minds.

I won't even get into the Catholic girl who quotes the Bible and then revels in her luxurious Puerto Rico vacation while she bemoans the boyfriend she didn't get to have pre-marital sex with. (!!!!) And let's not forget the high-achievement set: water-polo, women's rugby, golf club memberships. The only thing missing was the name "Winifred" or "Winthorp" and a personal pony.

Try this one: "She took her second vows in October of my senior year, a week after Jeremy and I picked out an engagement ring." Who is shopping for wedding rings while still an undergrad? Who can *afford* a $2K+ hunk of rock while buying books and living as an underemployed undergrad?

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? WHAT PLANET ARE THEY LIVING ON?
posted at 7:16 PM

 
I purchased one of those positive motivation/relaxation tapes back in college when that sort of thing was in vogue. Somewhere between my 15 changes of address it got lost, or wore out from overuse, I can't remember. I have since spent the past 10 years trying to track it down. (As I have every nostalgic item that I've lost in the intervening years that has brought me great happiness.) Like classic cars, the tape was replaced by newer, flashier techniques and more famous psychologists as well as by the deluge of self-help books that swept through the 90's. But finally, sweet success, my search is at an end.

Optiliminals, narrated by Dennis Waitley, we meet again! Every inch of your recorded voice belongs to me.

This small accomplishment would not have been possible without my boss going on a lengthy vacation (leaving me with lots of unsupervised time at work), and the powers of the In-ter-net.

It may seem ridiculous to get so worked up over such a tiny item, but wanting it and not having it was like a nagging itch that I just...couldn't...reach. I suppose people who are heavily into collecting feel the same way. I've reduced the number of possessions that I absolutely have to have to two small footlockers. All other items, useful and essential though they are, I could easily replace and/or live without.

Hopefully the small scope of my materialism mitigates the sin. I'd confess to a priest, but for some strange reason, their moral judgements don't mean as much to me as they used to.

posted at 4:52 PM

  The phrases "apre moi, le deluge" and "lady riding naked through town on a horse" were just used in a brief snippet of high brow conversation here at the office and I realized, that will probably be the last time this year that I have a conversation with anyone that references either Marie Antoinette or Lady Godiva (or anyone else even remotely historical.) How sad.

The office plants get more nourishment than I do.

posted at 1:09 PM

  Catholic Church rejects evangelization of Jews, story from the Boston Globe.

posted at 7:59 AM

  Stolen shamelessly from David Brooks of the Weekly Standard:

When you've got your life together, you have mastered the complexities of the modern world so thoroughly that you can glide through your days without unpleasant distractions or tawdry failures. Instead, your hours are filled with self-affirming reminders of the control you have achieved over the elements. Your lawn is immaculate. Your DVD library is organized, and so is your walk-in closet. Your car is clean and vacuumed, your frequently dialed numbers are programmed into your cell phone, your telephone plan is suited to your needs, and your various gizmos interface without conflict. Your wife is effortlessly slender, your kids are unnaturally bright, your job is rewarding, your promotions are inevitable, and you look great in casual slacks.

(Would that it were so. ed.)


posted at 9:22 PM

  I was walking through the METRO today when I noticed with a sidewise glance the face of the man walking in front of me. His cheekbones stood out farther than his cheeks; the tissue surrounding his mouth more than his lips, his jaw more than his neck. As I nonchalantly continued my observation, I noticed that his forearms were covered with cuts - not unusual for men flexing their forearms - but in this case they were not. And by cuts, I mean, as if someone had carved up a whale carcass hauled up from the North Atlantic onto the deck of a whaling boat.

This is what fitness guru's mean by "2% bodyfat." It did not look at all healthy.

Although the man was obviously trim, I couldn't help but notice how his skin was torturously stretched over every bony protrusion in his face. "Is that what we look like," I wondered, "underneath all our layers of tissue and skin?" As I studied in more depth, I could see how with the right application of costume make-up, this man could decorate his face in bloody reds and crimsons to represent muscle tissue and it would look, for all intents and purposes, as if he had been skinned. (Ala Hannibal Lector in that famous scene from "Silence of the Lambs.") And when I say skinned, I mean right down to the cadaverous eye-sockets (Ala "They Live")

The cuts on his forearms were so deep, they would give any doctor pause. Were they self-inflicted? Yes, in a way. Were they a cry for help? Most definitely. Was it attempted suicide? Not as you and I define "suicide," - the living death of the torturously fit.

Many people talk therapeutically about their inner child. This man's inner child needed a cookie.

I thought of offering mister cover-of-Men's-Fitness a cookie, but no doubt he would have reacted like Superman to Kryptonite. Next to him I looked like the Michelin Man.

We became separated on the escalator, at which point I began contemplating the varicose veins of the obese elderly woman in front of me. Such are the travails on what passes for my daily commute.
posted at 6:39 PM

  Jimm, who is marrying Caroline and thus needs all our support, debunked my "Life in the 1500's" posting through most-excellent use of snopes.com. It was a hoax. Many apologies for being suckered yet again.

For those of you who were interested in, but did not get your own personalized copy of the Glamorous Toreador Fashion Photo (capitalization unnecessary) it is now in the Frank Photo Directory on Yahoo among the right-hand links. If "toreador fashion photo" means nothing to you, then all is well in your universe.

posted at 10:31 PM

  ...but so darn satisfying. Get your "western culture" lifestyle accessories, while they're still in stock. Thanks to campus nonsense for the link (listed on right.)
posted at 10:17 PM

  just beautiful. I am greened with envy.
posted at 9:55 PM

  Compared to my experiences with firearms, my trip up to Baltimore to watch the Baltimore Ravens play the Detroit Lions pales in comparison. (Scratch more items off the goal list: "see professional football game, see sports game in a Baltimore stadium, see game from good seats.") I didn't get the full experience by having a pre-game tailgate party, but hey, can't have everything.

We started off with 2-for-a-dollar hot dogs and two-dollar beers. If you're gonna go middlebrow, go middlebrow all the way, baby! After $20 bucks worth of beer, it was off to the stadium.

Now as many of you know, I have high tolerance for sensible post 9/11 security precautions: search my bag at work, metal detectors, under car and trunk searches when parking at federal facilities are all fine with me. What I have a real problem with is the nation's new crusade against backpacks. (see my previous rant about Gettysburg.) The Baltimore Ravens, for whatever reason, have a big problem with backpacks. Not a problem that can be solved by offering to have my bag searched, not a problem that can be solved by having lockers where backpacks can be stored (safely out of blast range of the stadium; the Ravens have a zero tolerance problem. So despite the fact that I was almost yellow with $20 worth of unprocessed beer, it was hiking back to the bar for us.....

...after a quick break, we sat down and decided to watch the game on TV instead of hiking back to the stadium. And more beers! Come half-time (and several bathroom breaks later) it was back to the stadium to actually see the game in person.

We got our seats, called up some friends on the cell who had nosebleed seats, and invited them down to take the empty seats next to us. And that's the way I spent the second half of the Ravens-Lions game, which the Ravens won 12 to 6.

Afterwards it was lots of "I love you man" type boozy conversation with a bud I now consider the brother I never had, some time to sober up spent in (of all places) a strip joint, a trip around town to swap cars, and then down to the I-95 rest stop where I had a peaceful nap from 3 to 6 am. (I've lost track of how many mornings I've spent sleeping at the I-95 reststop. Too awake to stay in Baltimore, too tired to make it to Virginia.)

From there it was a mad dash back home to change clothes and brush my teeth and then on to pistol training.....Continued in Chapter 2: Bullseye!

posted at 9:03 PM

  I had already taken a 4-hour training course sufficient to qualify for my concealed carry permit, but I thought it important that I actually have some experience firing a weapon, before I apply for a permit to carry one around. So I signed up for the "Basic Pistol" class offered by the NRA and taught by one of their certified instructors. As expected there are a gazillion NRA instructors in Virginia, presumably because NRA HQ, the center of all evil is located in Manassas, VA.

Our instructor, Dave, said he was from southwestern Virginia, but I would have sworn his accent was pure Georgia. The class, 14 in all, were as expected, predominantly male. Only two women, one in her twenties, one in her teens with her father. Despite that ratio, we received more than enough detail on the particular needs of women shooters. Chalk one up for the women's movement, ladyfolk.

The men, were mostly young - just out of college and ranged from dubious rave/drug-dealer types looking to get certified for a concealed weapons permit, to towering slabs o' beef (who clearly needed a permit for their own hands) looking to join the US Marshals. During lunch, I scoped out who was driving what vehicle and all these young boys were fronting some fly sets o' wheels. (Grumble, grumble.) And in case you haven't noticed, today is my day to use "apostrophe-o" instead of "of."

One of the guys, brought his own package of homemade trail mix to the class - presumably because it was healthy, carb balanced, blah, blah, blah. Who the h*ll brings trail mix to a firearms class? Who has time to make and bag their own nutritional/calorie balanced meal? Me, I'm lucky if I have time to grab a pop tart or slip some bread into the toaster. Mainly, I just eat my own toothpaste backwash. I'm all for diet and fitness, but come on, if you're going to be that anal about your self-mortification, just flagellate yourself for the greater glory of God ("mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa") and get it over with.

The class was good, very solid, covered all aspects of gun ownership and safety. (Including cleaning - something that a certain wise-*ss was snickering about.) When it came time to dry-fire test with the laser simulation I was....sweating bullets. (ba-dum-bump) Lord, these little raver boys could shoot! Even the ones who had never picked up a handgun before in their lives were taking to it like 14 year-olds to Doom. My own performance was better than the little girls but not by much.

Fast forward to live-fire shooting at the NRA range the next day. (Yes, they actually let me in.) I was a bit nervous being in such a hyper macho environment, but seeing a guy with shaved arms and legs brought up my confidence level. Just an FYI, I'm in touch with my feminine side, but unless you're a professional body builder, porn star, or going in for surgery, men should not shave their arms or legs. Ever. Period.

It reminded me of the scene in "To Wong Foo: Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar" where Patrick Swayze and Wesley Snipes (as drag queens) remove "princess points" from John Leguzamo. I may be overweight and new to shooting, but I don't care who you are: if you shave your arms and/or legs, I am authorized to remove your "macho points." Guy with the shaved legs at the NRA range, consider yourself stripped. Report to your nearest redneck bar for reprogramming.

Anyway, off I go trotting out onto the range to do some live-fire exercises. And for those of you who haven't done it before, handling a gun for the first time - especially one loaded with bullets - is a scary thing. Combine that with remembering all the highly sensible safety rules, and Frank was a wreck. It got even worse, when a lovely middle-class couple sauntered up to the booth next to us, unloaded an M-16 and began blaring away happy as a retired couple playing bingo at their retirement home.

For those of you who have never been in a shooting range before, it's loud. It's enclosed, so it's even louder. Even with the high intensity ear protection, it's still loud. And an M-16 going off less than 3 feet away is really, really, really loud. I could feel the blast through the floor, up my feet, past my prostate, up my spine, until it just barely rattled my teeth (and nerves.) Holding a pistol can be sexy or erotic (as I've commented on before). The blast of an M-16 is like 2 cops locking you in a bathroom and coming at you with nightsticks with intent to sodomize.

After some basic instruction, it turns out that Frank is quite the sharpshooter at 15-25 feet. (25 yards is the shortest tournament length.) Those of you wishing to appreciate and drool over my prowess, may click HERE. I'll leave it on line in my photo album for the next few weeks.

From 25 feet on, I'm not as good, but that's not bad for my first time firing, and an hour's worth of range time. 15-25 feet is "self-defense" range, and while I hope to never, ever, ever, ever need to fire a weapon in self-defense, it's nice to know that I could do it, if necessary. In fact, (and here's the kicker), I'm the best shooter in the entire class! Turns out that the video-game set weren't as good with reality as they were with fancy lasered simulations. (Chalk one up for the Pong-Age people!) Who would have thought, me, marksman extraordinaire. I'm still stoked.

That's why I went out and got (cue ominous music) an NRA membership. Now I have access to the range. All I need is to scrape up the cash for a gun and some ammunition. (Hint: They ain't cheap.) In order to balance out my karmic scales, as soon as I got home, I purchased an ACLU membership as well. I am now officially a card carrying member of the NRA and ACLU. That ought to make some marketing geek's database smoke with frustration when it comes time to inundate me with political junk mail. It's also something else I can scratch off my list. Depending upon your point of view being a card carrying member of either group is supposed to be the kiss of death; the sin of all sins. I've committed both. "Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa."

Frank, your friendly neighborhood armed liberal. Guns blazing soon in a neighborhood near you.
(PS - Don't mistake the tongue-in-cheek tone for a lack of appreciation for serious gun safety.)
(PPS - Football games and pistol training - Frank's testosterone level is fully charged for the week.)

posted at 8:42 PM

  It's been a very interesting weekend and I can't wait to tell ya'll about it, but first I have to actually get some food in my stomach.
That....and run down to Kinko's so I can scan in a) my target from the pistol training at the range today and b) my NRA membership card.....It keeps getting weirder and weirder.
posted at 4:01 PM