Fake News: Palin, like, likes Obama

Sarah Palin responded yesterday to criticism from fellow Republicans following reports that she “liked” President Obama’s pro-war speech while accepting the Nobel Peace Prize.

“I didn’t, like, like like it,” said the former Alaska governor. “I just thought it was cute. I think the president and I can be friends. No, not, like, boyfriend/girlfriend. Gah, you are so immature.”

Some conservatives were quick to criticize Palin for speaking positively about the president, even after he told an Oslo audience that the U.S. had a right to pursue a ”just war” against those who would threaten Americans.

“Sarah likes Barack, Sarah likes Barack,” said former Rep. Newt Gingrich, a possible challenger to Palin for the 2012 Republican presidential nomination. “She’s totally hot for him. Her friends told me all about it.”

Gingrich said the conflict in Afghanistan isn’t “just war,” it’s “a really cool war, with Predator drones and cave explosions and mountains with lots of snow, which means awesome snowboarding.”

Meanwhile, 2008 presidential contender Mitt Romney characterized Palin’s approval of Obama’s address as “yet another indication of how much she loves him, and I don’t mean love like you might love french fries, I mean love like you’d love a dude.”

Romney said he was privy to classified communications between Palin and Obama, including a text message the former vice-presidential candidate allegedly sent to the president. Romney said Palin’s “BFF” showed him the message, which had a photograph of a muskrat attached.

“The message was all, like, ‘check out my muskrat,’” Romney said. “She better be careful — that kind of thing could end up on the internet.”

Another potential candidate in the 2012 race, Gov. Tim Pawlenty of Minnesota, has a state right across the hall from Palin’s, and reportedly told friends that he saw a picture of the president hanging inside her locker, and heard Palin giggle to a classmate that she was going to “totally” get a tattoo of the commander-in-chief on her lower back.

“She said her brother knew a guy that could make it kinda look like (Palin’s husband) Todd when she was standing up straight, but it would morph into more of an Obama likeness when she bent over to pick up her pencil, which she planned to drop in front of him during fourth period,” Pawlenty said. “Talk about Sluts-sylvania.”

Palin defended herself against the salvo of attacks, saying there was “no way” she was about to give the president credit for a well-reasoned defense of American foreign policy “when the guy’s got nerd-ears out to here.”

“I’m not an all-inclusive loser, you know,” she said. “Well, technically, I guess I was a loser (in 2008), but the eleventh-grade me is way cooler than I was last year.”

Palin said the complete transcript of her telephone interview with USA Today would exonerate her of the “liking” charges. That transcript reads as follows:

“I liked what he said. In fact, I thumbed through my book this morning to say, wow, that that really sounded familiar, because I talked too in my book about the fallen nature of man and why war is necessary at times. And history’s lessons when it comes to knowing when it is that we engage in warfare, and a couple of the other things he said were I thought, wow, good, those are nice, a broad message, so broad that I just wrote about those and a lot of Americans are getting to read. Also, my take on when war is necessary.”

“Well, then, I take it all back,” Gingrich said after reading the transcript. “Obviously, the chick is not a ditz.”

Some questions for Monday

This is a sign. Read it.

The computer-generated sign on the door inside the YMCA was short and to the point.    

“The bikes are in here,” read the 72-point type. “Thank you.”    

And sure enough, I could see them through the large glass window of the converted classroom — about a dozen stationary exercise bikes, packed tightly together and ready for spin class.    

I’m not sure why the sign was there, other than the fact that the staff had access to basic word-processing functions and could create and print any message they wanted. The proliferation of computers has made sign-printing so simple that anyone can do it, for even the most superfluous of reasons. The folks at the Y seemed to relish this power to visually communicate, almost to the point of annoyance.    

There’s another sign that appeared recently in the men’s locker room that has generated some controversy among the mostly older patrons. It reads: “Swimsuits are required in sauna, spa, steamroom and pool.”    

Most of the retired guys there during the hours I exercise complain bitterly about the restriction, even though everyone ignores it and no one enforces it. They seem to relish splaying themselves au naturel across the wooden planks while they talk about how things aren’t like they used to be.    

“Next thing you know, they’ll make us wear clothes in the shower,” observed one.    

I could see his point (though it was a bit shriveled). If you can’t be naked in public at a fine Christian institution like the Y, where can you be naked in public?    

One of the few professionally created signs in the locker room is on the door, warning against the use of cellphones and their cameras. After release of provocative photos of celebrities in various stages of undress at their health clubs, the Y posted this sign. Not that we have patrons anyone would be interested in seeing nude online. I guess that’s why this one, too, is ignored, particularly in the photo below.    

Don't take a picture of this

Can I go here?

Are there regulations that exist to enforce the use of handicapped bathroom stalls by handicapped people only? Or is there an assumption that people of goodwill and compassion will act responsibly, avoiding the lavishly spacious facilities so the differently-abled will have a commode at the ready when they need it?   

Because I don’t think the latter is working, if my own behavior is any indicator.   

I’m all in favor of a smallish government that focuses on basic services and minimal law-enforcement, so I wouldn’t advocate a sub-cabinet-level division to impose a national regulation on the subject. No one wants to see federal marshals patrolling the men’s rooms of our nation, peeking under the barriers in search of lawbreakers, except maybe certain former senators.   

But I’m not sure that self-policing works either. If you considered using a handicapped parking space, there’d be both the law and the general public to dissuade you. In the privacy of a restroom, neither of these sanctions exist, so for me the temptation to splurge is too much to resist. If there’s a handicapped stall being used by a handicapped person, I won’t go so far as to order them out. If it’s already empty when I arrive, though, I’ll go ahead and use it.   

If a law were to come to pass, I think I’m ready (not to comply, but to circumvent). My grandfather left me a bizarre antique cane, the bottom of which is a deer foreleg and hoof, that I could start carrying into the stall with me. If having one regular human leg and one deer leg doesn’t qualify me as handicapped, I’m not sure what does.   

You call this acting?

I watched a great documentary on the Discovery Channel the other day about the life of early man. It was called “Before We Ruled the Earth: How We Hunted” and showed what it was like to be a proto-human hundreds of thousands of years ago.    

As you might imagine, life was tough. But it couldn’t have been much worse than what the actors who participated in numerous re-enactments had to endure while preparing for these roles. The hours of makeup required to protrude the brow, harden the jaw and apply matted wigs to make the modern actor look prehistoric had to be nearly interminable. And the costuming sessions must’ve been equally difficult. The only effortless planning was probably the dialogue, since script-writers were generally limited to groans and murmurs.    

I imagine that, considering how difficult it is to break into the acting game, these roles were relatively prized among those who were cast. (Probably almost as valuable as the scavenged rib proudly waved about by “Cro-Magnon #2″ in one scene.) At least you’re working in a paid position, even if you can’t gather your relatives around the premier showing and brag about how much the director admired your nuanced style.    

It also had to serve as a good stepping stone to future gigs. All of the speaking, er, grunting roles were credited at the end, so you would be able to list the effort on your resume. It might just be enough to make James Cameron think of your name next time he makes a movie, assuming you can wait ten years.    

When the credits rolled at the end of the broadcast, I learned that among the characters wandering the snowy landscape of Neanderthal Europe were Aak, Gaag, Do’og, Gnok, Kul and Bjor. Gnok had a particularly touching scene when one of his fellow hunters died in a cave, just as the others were noticing ancient drawings of elk on the wall, and wordlessly postulating who had been there before them. Turns out modern man and his antler-tipped spear was just around the corner, rendering the soon-to-be-extinct Gnok to a sad fate, not unlike that of those who used to work in American manufacturing.    

At least I think that was Gnok. It was hard to be sure, since I was under the impression everybody in this particular tribe was named “Unngghh.”    

Headgear for cavemen?

Speaking of which, can anybody tell me if Neanderthals wore hats?    

My wife and I were out in the cold last night when she suggested I could use a good knit hat. She repeated the theory that seventy percent of body heat was lost through the top of the head. I said I thought that had been debunked, and re-stated my aversion to hats on the principle that my head already looks too big.    

“Even the Neanderthals wore hats,” she said.    

I didn’t think they did, having just watched the above-mentioned documentary. They may have wrapped moss around their heads, or perhaps donned the carcass of an otter after it had been gutted of meat, but it was hard to imagine anything approximating a “hat.” With the tremendous size of those primordial brows, how could any conventional hat possibly fit?    

I googled “Neanderthal hat” when we got home, and got mostly hits that described primitive images designed into home-knitted headgear. I could find no archaeological record that milliners were at work so early in our history.    

If anybody reading can cite any evidence one way or the other on this issue, please let me know.

Revisited: Giving til it bleeds

There was a lot of negative talk out there after my recent post claiming that gift-receiving was so much better than gift-giving http://davisw.wordpress.com/2008/12/26/giving-vs-receiving-which-is-best/. The Internet was absolutely abuzz, if you count the guy who said I was a “seflish idoit” and the email I got from my mom asking if that’s the way she raised me.

To prove the point that I can also be a very caring individual who feels deeply the importance of giving back to his community, I’ll be hauling a load of stuff over to Goodwill at the end of the tax year on Wednesday. I also went to the bloodmobile Saturday to give the gift of life.

Talk about giving of yourself, this is the most selfless contribution one can make short of a lung. My wife and I have been giving this annual donation right around Christmas for the past five years or so. She’s actually way ahead of me in the quantity given, having started in college. I was only introduced to the concept when the local Starbucks began sponsoring the event with the incentives of free coffee and a baked good for all donors. I also wanted to see if it was true that you’d get drunker on a couple of beers after your body had been sapped of almost a quarter of its life-force.

We arrived early enough to be first on the list of those signing up. While the rest of the nearly overflowing coffee shop was lounging around concerned only about number one (that coffee goes right through you), Beth and I read through the pre-donation materials to be sure we were still eligible. Easily clearing the requirement that I was at least 17, weighed at least 110 pounds and had at least one arm, I signed where they told me and soon was called out to the parking lot where the bloodmobile was parked.

I was directed to the tiny interview room by a middle-aged South Asian woman. This was a good start: my past experience with the workers who staff these events was that they tended to be either young Hispanic- or African-American women who were fast on the uptake but still required several jabs to hit the right spot, or else they were older Southern white women who were equally jab-happy but much slower about it. I’ve seen enough cardiologist ads in the paper to recognize that Indians make great healthcare professionals. In addition, when it was discovered the scanner connection to the laptop wasn’t working properly, she was able to troubleshoot that without calling home.

We huddled together in a space about the size of an airliner bathroom while she ran through the extremely personal health history questions she kept assuring me she was required to ask. Was I a hemophiliac? No. Have I had an organ transplant in the last 60 days? I don’t recall one. Have I ever had sex with another man? No. Have I ever had sex with a hemophiliac or transplant recipient who was a man? Have I ever been in prison? Have I ever been to Africa? Have I ever killed and consumed the flesh of another person? If so, did that person have hepatitis? Was I bitten by a crazy cow in the United Kingdom between 1980 and 1996? No, no, no, no, and no, that unfortunate cow encounter was in 1997.

Finally cleared to proceed, I walked out to the main aisle of the mobile. My interviewer asked which arm I wanted to use, and here’s where I must admit I puffed up a little with pride. If you read my previous posting about selling my body to a company that was doing shingles research http://davisw.wordpress.com/2008/11/08/a-second-career-perhaps/, you might remember how exceptional the main vein in my right arm is. The inside of that elbow has been widely admired for the way in which the blue vessel protrudes in a come-hither fashion just below the thinnest layer of skin. Since the right-armed donation loungers were all full, I was asked if I wanted to offer my left arm instead. But when I showed the admiring circle of blood ladies my right vein, they all agreed I should wait. One of them marked the vein with a pen, then posed next to it for a photo to show her family. I took a seat to wait my turn.

After about ten minutes, Beth finished her session and I was able to take her spot. The needle went in effortlessly and soon the blood was flowing. I sat back and relaxed as much as I could while workers scurried perilously close to my connection and the intercom played Christmas songs. And, wouldn’t you know it, two of them were from my “Worst Christmas Songs of All Time” list http://davisw.wordpress.com/2008/12/20/worst-christmas-songs-ever/ and a third was Bob Seger’s boozy rendition of “Little Drummer Boy.” (I don’t know if I was starting to get a little light-headed or what, but the line “the ox and lamb kept time” struck me as absolutely hilarious.)

My languor was soon interrupted when one of the workers reported that an “overflow situation” was developing somewhere in my vicinity. I tried to look behind me where my bag hung to see if the room was starting to look like a Quentin Tarantino film and I was preparing to bleed out. Apparently it was only a minor overflow so I was able to avoid infecting the whole bus with Creutzfeldt-Jakob Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy, or whatever it was that wacky British cow gave me.

I was disconnected from the tubing, had a gauze bandage affixed to my magnificent vein and was told to raise my arm high in the air. After a minute or so, a role of colored tape was brought out and a length was cut off and wrapped around my arm. Everyone else who’d been through this step in the process was asked what color tape they wanted, so I already had my eye on a nice pale green that would contrast nicely with my hazel eyes. But I was assigned the blue with no questions asked in what would turn out to be the only disappointment of the experience.

As Beth and I headed back into Starbucks to collect our premiums, I began thinking what kind of bakery item I’d be selecting for my freebie. When I placed my order at the counter for a tall-low-fat-mocha-no-whip and a slice of coffee cake, I flashed my bandaged arm at the barista and told her I’d just given blood. The point was to communicate that I shouldn’t be charged for my order but apparently the counter people hadn’t been told how this worked so she rang me up for $5.57. I got the confusion straightened out easily enough, but the embarrassment I endured for those few seconds when she thought I was just showing off my bandage to impress her lingered longer than it should have.

Now if I could’ve shown her my vein, that would’ve been a different story.

Revisited: Playing the corporate game

As I’ve written before, I’ve been involved in a lot of game-playing during my corporate career. I’m not talking about the politics and back-biting that make the corporate life so much fun. I’m referring to the all-too-occasional exercises in what’s generally called “career development,” where a group of employees sit around a table (or a bush or an abandoned fire training tower) and get run through a series of humiliations and/or life-threatening workouts. If you’re lucky, you only feel stupid; otherwise, you end up “developed,” a painful condition where you exhibit a positive attitude all out of proportion to your circumstances.

Generally, these outings are designed to promote creativity and build camaraderie among the troops. You’re taken out of your normal cubicle environment and put in a setting where you are encouraged to think outside the box, dare to be great, or push the envelope of your normal comfort zone. I happen to believe that thinking outside the box is over-rated, and remind my cat of this every time he strays over the edge of his litter container.

Nevertheless, I try to be a good boy and play along. The first couple times, I genuinely tried to improve myself and my value to the company. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become a lot more jaded, as you’re about to read.

One fairly common method to get group members to open up and talk freely is to mentally transport them to a different place in time. Here, they can talk about their aspirations or ramble nostalgically about the past. In one session I went through in the early ‘90s, staged for what were (wrongly as it turned out) perceived to be future leaders, we were told to draw a picture of where we saw ourselves in ten years. The only thing the 15 people had in common was that they imagined a future somewhere very far away from the company they were supposed to be leading. I remember that my picture had me sitting on a dock next to a huge satellite dish that retrieved documents from outer space that I would then proofread while my son sat next to me fishing. (I wasn’t exactly prescient about the coming rise of the Internet.) Poor artist that I am, my group’s facilitator interpreted the scene as someone working at NASA directing the first mission to Mars, with my son playing the part of a tethered robot. Close enough, I figured.

A similar exercise was done with another group a few years later: they were told to think exactly ten years into the past. Headlines of the exact day were read aloud and a hit song from the period was played to tickle everyone’s memory. We heard funny tales from high school, a story about a surprise birthday party and, from one young woman who could barely hold back her tears, a recounting of the day after her mother was killed in a head-on collision with a drunk driver. The brainstorming was not especially inspired after that.

Another common activity is to break the group into smaller teams who are then given an assignment that requires them to work together to accomplish a goal. Once, we had to use tape, pipe cleaners and popsicle sticks to create a contraption that could cushion an egg from a six-foot fall. Another time we had to reach consensus on the best way to fold a sheet of paper into an airplane, then test our designs with a farthest-flight competition in the parking lot. My prototype was damaged when it was run over during flight testing; I wanted to ball up the remains and wrap them around a rock, which I was convinced I could throw way farther than anyone’s aircraft was going to go. Apparently, this was not the paradigm shift my trainer had in mind. Maybe I’d do better if a coloring or finger-paint session was next on the schedule.

I also had an opportunity to work on the other side of the equation when I spent a few years as an excellence trainer. (Note that I said “excellence,” not “excellent.”) During each day-long quality awareness session, we played what was called the JIT game, which was meant to demonstrate just-in-time production techniques. Each six-person team was given a collection of interlocking blocks and asked to set up a line that could produce exact replicas of a certain configuration. They were required to re-engineer their process several times – with blatant hints from the trainers – to achieve more and better widgets crafted each time with fewer and fewer people. At the end, they could do their very best work with only two people instead of six. Inevitably, some participant would learn the wrong lesson and ask what would happen to the four people who no longer had jobs. The trainers were told to make some vague hint about how maybe they could work in marketing instead.

The most enjoyable game I can recall from my quarter-century experience with this garbage was the Myers-Briggs personality assessment. What I liked best was that this was something you could do largely in the privacy of your own personal space, without having to “team-build” with your half-witted coworkers. You’d answer a battery of questions about your preferences – there were no right or wrong choices – and then you’d be put into one of 16 categories that labeled you as an extrovert, a thinker, a perceiver, an innovator, a molester, an invertebrate, etc. The only group participation required was at the end when you were given your results and told to go to a part of the room where you’d join up with others of your monstrous ilk and compare notes.

One thing I have learned from all these corporate games is how to game the system. Since no judgments are made, no answers are wrong and no ideas are too ridiculous, you can offer up the most absurd input and enjoy watching your guide squirm as they validate your responses. “Yes, Davis, your idea about twirling on our tippy-toes while talking to clients on the phone is a very innovative one,” the trainer says. “Let’s write that up on the whiteboard.” Until they wise up and put your manager behind a two-way mirror with your personnel file, your pay grade and a taser at the ready, these learning opportunities can actually be rewarding. Just not how they were intended.

Website Review: ChristmasVille.com

The signs of Christmas are everywhere now, and nowhere more prominent than at local holiday festivals being staged around the country. There’s much to get you into the proper spirit — the old-fashioned parade down main street, handbell concerts, carriage rides through the “olde town” and, of course, the single-malt scotch tasting. For many revelers, nothing says Christmas like drinking whiskey until you start seeing gnomes, elves and roving members of “Chimpfabulous!”, the most-respected horseback-riding chimpanzee ensemble in the industry.  

Are they real or are they delirium? Such is the mystery and wonder of the Yuletide season.  

Unfortunately, many Christmas celebrations seem to be wandering from the central theme of the holiday in order to accommodate those with other, less Jesus-centric agendas. I’m all in favor of bringing together a diverse community in a joyous but inclusive gala. I’m just not sure that some of the event organizers on the calendar aren’t looking for any excuse to participate and promote their own narrow interest. Like the chimps, the geo-cachers, the tuba band and the local wireless provider, offering cell phone calls to Santa.  

In my hometown, we have an event called ChristmasVille, “jammed with over 70 different activities for all ages,” according to chairman Allan Miller. And the best part is that you don’t even have to leave your cozy home in order to join in the fun. In the Internet age, all you have to do to get merry is visit the website, ChristmasVilleRockHill.com — subject of this week’s Website Review — and take the $5 you would’ve spent on the single-malt tasting to buy a couple 40’s of Olde English 800.  

The home page summarizes the four-day bash and notes proudly that it was named among the “Top 20 events in the Southeast for 2009″. I’m assuming these are planned events, not incidents like the shooting at a Jacksonville office building or the 100-year flood in northern Alabama, that you’d otherwise think have to be right up there too. There are also the usual links to corporate sponsors, including the tasty-sounding Williams and Fudge (which in fact is a rather bland account receivables management firm) and lead sponsor Piedmont Medical Center, doubtlessly hoping to drum up a little business from the unlicensed food vendors. There’s even an awkward poem:  

There’ll be fashion and artisans and carolers “by Dickens”!

Lamplights and starlight and dazzling white lights (I would’ve gone with “chickens” here)

Greenery and scenery and marshmallow roasts

Toddies and chocolates and gifts you love most!

The heart of the site, of course, is the Events pulldown, and these will be the focus of my post.  

The Opening Ceremonies, called “Lighting of the Village” but fortunately not sponsored by the fire department, features holiday music by “local legend Plair” and a performance by Rock Hill’s own “RockHettes,” all projected on a large screen above the stage so the 30 or so people in attendance don’t obstruct your view. Much of the festive art that appears throughout the event is inspired by hometown hero Vernon Grant, whose claim to fame is that he drew the cartoon characters Snap®, Crackle® and Pop® for Kellogg’s boxes back in the 1930’s, and managed the dash off a few Santas in his spare time. His sprites, pixies and trolls, who are basically the above-named cereal shills with the “K” removed from their chest, provide the theme at sites throughout ChristmasVille.  

There’s a Living Nativity, coordinated by a local Baptist church, where you can “come witness real people and animals acting out the birth of Jesus” in an outdoor manger setting. (In case of rain or severe weather, Christ will be born in the Freedom Center gym.) Also living will be “Roving Thespians,” actors in the costumes of Charles Dickens’ London who will be “interacting with festival-goers” in ways that are hopefully different from the pick-pocketing scamps in many of his classics. Some of these strollers may be caroling while others may be accompanied by their dogs, participants in the “Holiday Hounds Costume Contest.”  

I hope those dogs are well-behaved because there will be other animals in attendance at the festival. The afore-mentioned monkeys of “Chimpfabulous!” appear to be well-trained, wearing cute rodeo costumes appropriate to the season. But spooked by a shawl-wearing lab mix, they could easily rip the face and hands off of any nearby gnomes, which children may want to miss. Maybe it’d be safer to keep the youngest celebrants over by the Reindeer Romp, the Mother Goose display, or in Polar Bear Park, a “winter carnival with inflatable slides” that can presumably withstand the powerful swipe of the Arctic killer’s massive paw.  

Of course, Christmas isn’t Christmas without the wonderful music we remember from our childhoods, and there’s plenty of merry melodies on tap. A performance of the classic “Nutcracker Suite” ballet is always a centerpiece of the season and “there’s no better way to celebrate the holiday than with beautifully crafted trick marionettes sure to get you in the nutcracker mood.” There’s also a “Tuba Christmas” and a “Saxophone Christmas” presentation, a “Senior Choreography Showcase,” blessedly produced by upperclassmen from the local college and not elders from the retirement home, and a bilingual songfest by something called “Grupo Latino.” My Spanish is a little rusty, but I’m guessing this is some sort of Latin group.  

Food is another big part of the holiday, and the opportunity to get as fat as Santa is not to be missed at ChristmasVille. In addition to the standard festival vendors offering traditional favorites like chili fries, barbeque and kettle corn, there will be a Brunswick Stew cook-off, a “souper” supper of holiday gruel, and an Asian Christmas feast. Plus, you’re encouraged to patronize sponsoring restaurants in the downtown district, three of which will fall victim to the recession and go out of business shortly after the weekend.  

Sometimes, though, it’s the miscellaneous events that can provide the most memorable fun. There’s the “Holiday Foam Pit,” where “older teens can slip and slide in a foam-filled pit — clothing will get damp as if playing in snow.” There’s the “Hands of God Puppet Theater” which, with any luck, will get into a bitter sectarian brawl with the Nutcracker marionettes. There’s “Santa’s Great Gnome Awakening,” an evangelical revival in which the trolls have a revolution in religious thought, accompanied by a Jingle Bell Parade. And there’s a “Pirate Christmas,” miniature golf in a Christmas tree forest, a show by the SMS Dancers (Sullivan Middle School, not text-messagers), and a snow village with 20 tons of trucked-in ice shavings that make terrible snowballs but excellent additions to single-malt scotch.  

ChristmasVilleRockHill.com is a fun and festive domain, comprising a complete guide to this award-winning community party. I’d invite nearby readers to come and enjoy but, unfortunately, it ended Dec. 6, nearly three weeks before the actual holiday. You can still tap into the website though to hear some cool 1980s-style digital music and read wrap-up comments from the festival director, the evocatively-named Candy Clapp: “Start planning now so you won’t miss a minute of the fun, starting Dec. 2, 2010.”  

Pirates, monkeys, geo-cachers and foam manufacturers — begin your preparations immediately.  

Poorly groomed Santa, or maybe a pirate

Fake News: Alternate Afghan plans offered

WASHINGTON (Dec. 9) — Opposition to President Obama’s plans to increase troop strength in Afghanistan by 30,000 soldiers continues, with madcap alternate plans coming from both the right and the left.

Republican leaders mainly seem to want a larger contingent deployed. Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell proposed a surge of 70,000, while Sen. Lindsay Graham (R-S.C.) wants a million men, seven circus troupes, 18 chapters of the Red Hat Ladies, all former employees of Circuit City, and comedian/ventriloquist Jeff Dunham to be shipped to the front.

“If we want to win this thing, we need a full-on commitment,” Graham said. “Also, I need to get rid of my annoying aunt and her red-hat friends always wanting tours of the Capitol.”

Some figures farther on the right are suggesting an even more extensive plan. Tea Party spokesman Mark Williams wants something of a three-way trade, with the entire population of Afghanistan being force-emigrated to Wales, a comparable number of Welsh citizens then shipped to the U.S., then about 28 million Americans sent to central Asia.

“I like Wales,” he said. “I like that dancing they do where you don’t move your arms, and I like Welch’s grape jelly. And I love the majestic way they breach the surface of the northern Pacific, forcing huge plumes out of their blowholes, and making that ‘eee-eee’ sound.”

Former Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin revealed a plan that would involve 11,000 caribou, a beautifully embroidered Christmas pullover, her old Chrysler minivan and three dozen turkey sandwiches, but declined to release further details until the idea has been “fleshed-out” by advisors.

Meanwhile, liberals against the surge offered numerous suggestions, including cutting-and-running, separating-and-sprinting, exiting-and-jogging, as well as quitting-and-fleeing-and-pouting-and-then-feeling-guilty.

“It’s too hard,” said Democratic Sen. Barbara Boxer of California. “I don’t want to nation-build any more. I think I hurt my finger.”

Others acknowledged that giving up on the Afghan people at this point in the eight-year conflict would be tantamount to recording an episode of “CSI: Miami” and then never watching it.

“You’d be reminded of a major foreign-policy failure every time you looked at your list,” said Wisconsin Rep. David Obey. “I hate that feeling.”

Retiring Connecticut Sen. Christopher Dodd said he could support a troop surge of “two guys, maybe three guys tops, but we’d have to get creative at the upper end of that range.”

“Maybe you send two additional infantrymen on a permanent basis, then put a new tank gunner in neighboring Turkmenistan and let him commute to work each morning,” Dodd proposed. “I hear Afghanistan has an excellent infrastructure of high-speed public transportation. It’s kind of like the bullet train but without an emphasis on the ’train’ part.”

My cats discuss current affairs, part two

This is the second part of a wide-ranging interview I had recently with my three cats. In Monday’s post, Harriet, Taylor and Tom gave us an overview of current news events as they saw them. Sometimes their focus was narrow, understandable from a creature that lives primarily to sleep and eat. Other times, they displayed a keen insight into the big picture, as if watching world events unfold from the top of a giant refrigerator, except without the cereal boxes getting in the way.

Today, we talk about their impressions of modern humanity as it’s displayed in popular culture.

Q: I was hoping to lighten things up a little for the second half of our interview. I want to discuss a few items in the lighter side of the news right now, and get your take. What do you think about the whole Tiger Woods story?

Tom: Well, we obviously have to stick with our fellow feline on this question. We totally understand the whole issue of “tom-catting.” Or at least we would if we hadn’t been surgically maimed.

Taylor: You’re absolutely right, Tom. Humans think they’re so much better at controlling their baser instincts than we are, yet in reality they’re just hypocrites. You can’t blame the guy for turning down opportunities if they present themselves.

Harriet: Is that really how you guys feel? I’m outraged! Women of all species are tired of being victimized by immature males who can’t keep it in their pants, or their fur, or whatever the case may be. The man has a wife and family who have been humiliated by his lack of control. And now the mother-in-law is all upset too.

Tom: Oh, boo-hoo. I can’t believe they brought the mother-in-law in on this. As if Tiger didn’t have enough problems.

Taylor: I think we cats have it right by not recognizing relatives or spouses at all. A mother will protect her kittens for maybe six or seven weeks, and then it’s like — who the hell are these guys? Get out of here.

Tom: Taylor and I are probably brothers, for example,  yet we’d just as soon kill each other as we would send a birthday card.

Harriet: And I could be your mother-in-law.

Tom: If we recognized any type of law, that is.

Tom: The concept of “law” is beneath us

Q: Let’s turn to show biz for a few minutes, if you don’t mind. What was your takeaway on that Adam Lambert controversy, where he kissed his male guitarist and then simulated a sex act on television?

Taylor: It’s okay with me, but I wouldn’t do it on the television. There’s not enough room to get a good angle on each other on top of these new flat screens.

Harriet: Just another sign of the degradation of your culture. I’ve never worn any kind of make-up at all, including eyeliner, and I’m a female.

Tom: Considering that cats lick even casual acquaintances, you can imagine we’re pretty blasé about the whole thing. What offends me about the guy is his attempt to carry a tune while wearing that much hair gel. It’s distracting — I see those pointy things on top of his head and I think he’s a cat.

Q: Are you guys familiar with Oprah Winfrey? What do you think about her show ending?

Harriet: She’s been a giant in the self-help field. People hardly even knew how put one foot in front of another before she came along.

Tom: You know how well I respond to someone telling me what to do. You can imagine what I’d feel about somebody doing that who doesn’t even feed me.

Taylor: As someone “of color” who knows about all the obstacles we face, it’s great to see a strong black woman getting such success.

Tom: What do you mean, “of color”? You’re grey.

Taylor: I’m a very dark grey, and I have felt subtle bigotry from the white community. And the tabby community, I might add.

Tom: Hey, we Tabbo-Americans have our issues too, you know. It’s not easy being orange-and-white-striped.

Harriet: As someone who is mostly white with black splotches, I personally would like to paint some white splotches on Oprah. Maybe she’ll do a show on that before she leaves.

Harriet: Oprah would look good with white splotches

Q: Okay, we seem to be wandering off topic a bit. It’s right what they say about how hard it is to herd cats, I guess.

Harriet, Tom and Taylor (in unison): That’s prejudiced!

Q: Sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I wanted to ask you about the Kennedy Center honors the other night. The president recognized Mel Brooks, Robert DeNiro, Dave Brubeck, Bruce Springsteen, and some opera lady nobody heard of. Do you feel like these are worthy honorees?

Tom: Never heard of any of them.

Harriet: Actually, Grace Bumbry, the “opera lady,” is the only one I even like. Her rendition of the “Vail Song” from Verdi’s Don Carlo is exquisite. She’s the only mezzo-soprano I can name who sounds like a cat with its tail stepped on. And I mean that as the highest compliment.

Taylor: Bruuuuuuuce! And, I might add, Daaaaaave!

Q: I’m going to start wrapping up with a couple of recent and fairly random cultural references, and you just chime in if you have any comment. The proposed excise tax on elective cosmetic surgery…

Tom: I’m against it. I was thinking of getting a fur tuck, and I’m already afraid I won’t be able to afford it.

Taylor: If you’re talking about the bulge that flaps back and forth on your belly when I chase you down the hall, it’s called a “wattle” and it’s fat, not fur.

Harriet: I’d like to have my legs removed and then reattached backwards, just for the hell of it. I wouldn’t expect the government to subsidize that but I’d hate to be penalized, either.

Q: That video on YouTube showing the groom who updated his Facebook status during his wedding…

Taylor: I saw that. It was hilarious for about two seconds, and then really awkward after that.

Tom: Social networking has gotten completely out of control. You can read more about my thoughts on my blog, kittykittykitty.wordpress.com.

Harriet: I’m into tweeting myself. I keep thinking it has something to do with attracting birds.

Q: Speaking of birds, how about that new birding app for the iPhone?

Harriet: Sounds like it would be really worthwhile, that is if I had $19.99. Or an iPhone. Or thumbs.

Tom: I’ve found claws to be an excellent replacement for the opposable thumb. I can snag chicken skin right out of the garbage disposal.

Taylor: I don’t think chickens count as birds, at least for bird-watching purposes.

Q: The college football bowl match-ups…

Tom: I like Texas winning a close one over Alabama, and then one of the mid-majors, TCU or Boise State, sneaking into the top spot in the final poll.

Harriet: I’m looking forward to that Rutgers versus Central Florida contest. So I can take a nap.

Taylor: The only game I’ll probably watch is Florida, just to see Tim Tebow cry.

Taylor: Bowl games tend to be boring

Q: Okay, I think we’re just about done here. Is everybody looking forward to Christmas?

Harriet: Definitely! I love to see the whole family gather around the dinner table to eat the Christmas tree.

Taylor: We celebrate the birth of our Cat Saviour in a much more respectful manner that humans and their commercialism. We watch Garfield cartoons all day.

Tom: Well, I’ve only been here for three Christmases but I really enjoy this particular human custom. The warmth of the fireplace, the holiday carols, the excitement in the eyes of a young child, these are all things I’ve heard that most families enjoy. You guys, however, will doubtless go to a movie (I’d recommend “Up in the Air” starring George Clooney) and eat Chinese food, which means we’ll have the house all to ourselves for hours at a time.

Harriet: I got first dibs vomiting on the kitchen floor!

Fake News: Salon powers Giants to victory

ROANOKE, Va. (Dec. 7) — Workers and patrons at the local Great Clips hair salon took mostly credit for the outcome of the weekend’s NFL games, though a few admitted they could’ve done more to lead their favorite teams to victory.

“We really gave it to those Cowboys,” said Giants fan and stylist Amanda Bell, who repeatedly used the collective pronoun to describe action that took place hundreds of miles away from where she lay sleeping in her apartment Sunday afternoon. “That’s twice we beat them this year. Now, I think we have a really good chance in the playoffs.”

Customer Clayton Withers expressed similar satisfaction with a job well done in the Philadelphia Eagles’ rout of the Atlanta Falcons.

“I’m so proud of our guys,” Withers noted while having about a half inch taken off the top and the sides cleaned up. “We even had a chance to use Michael Vick in his old hometown. I really wanted to shake his hand and give him a pat on the back in the locker room after the game.”

Withers couldn’t fulfill his desire to encourage his perceived teammate, however, since he was “drunk as I’ve ever been” after watching the game in an Avendale sports bar.

When pressed, Bell also admitted her actions had little to do with New York’s victory over their traditional Eastern Division rival. She is not currently on the payroll of the team nor does she play any voluntary role within the organization, and has never even been to a football game at Giants Stadium or anywhere else for that matter.

“True, I don’t know that much about how football is played, so any homeruns I might’ve hit or strategy I might’ve suggested to the managers didn’t actually exist in reality,” Bell said. “But my sister lives in Jersey and I once spent a summer in the Tri-State area, so I feel like the Giants are my team.”

Withers said “his boys” on the Eagles are a “big part of my aspirations for success and a better life” and that it was only a slight stretch to talk about their exploits on the field as something “we” did.

“I root real hard and try to focus all my mental energy on certain key plays,” he said. “When David Akers attempted that second-quarter field goal, I kept yelling ‘get left, get left’ as it sailed toward the goalposts, and sure enough it curved back through the uprights. I feel I had a little to do with that play.”

Told that no, he didn’t, Withers said, “just wait till you see what we do to Amanda’s Giants next week.” Stylist Bell responded that “we’ll be ready for you, I’ll tell you that much,” then accidentally on purpose nicked his right ear.

Others in the salon Monday were disappointed with their efforts to claim a part in the outcome of contests in Week 13 of the NFL schedule.

“I can’t believe how bad we stunk,” said Jasmine Wood, the lady who says “welcome to Great Clips” and asks for your phone number when you walk in the door. A supporter of the Pittsburgh Steelers, Wood said “we just couldn’t get the ground game going, then we had some defensive lapses” in the defending Super Bowl champions’ surprising loss to Oakland.

Wood admitted that she didn’t watch the game live but did “pour my heart” into a tape-delayed viewing later that evening.

“It doesn’t make a loss like that any easier for us to take, even when you can skip through the commercials,” Wood said. “We should’ve been more prepared for the Raiders. I blame [head coach] Mike Tomlin, and I blame myself, for not watching the game live.”

When informed that her lack of positive influence on the outcome had little to do with when she watched and more to do with the fact that, as a middle-aged woman weighing 120 pounds, she couldn’t possibly have physically participated, Wood became defensive — unlike her make-believe teammates, who gave up 396 total net yards to the pathetic Raiders.

“Have you been here before?” she asked with an arched eyebrow. “What was that telephone number again?”

My cats discuss current affairs

Last spring, I posted a two-part interview with my cats about how they viewed the relationship between us. The three of them were quite candid during the hour-long roundtable, offering a perception on many issues (the concept of pet “ownership,” animal rights, how often the catbox was cleaned) that I hadn’t previously considered.  

Thinking back on the unique opinions each of them voiced, I thought it might be valuable to touch base with them again on some of the key issues facing our planet today. It would be easy to dismiss the views of the common housecat as simplistic and self-centered. Yet I think many of the fundamental issues now facing our society may not be as complicated as we think. Perhaps a fresh perspective on the outside world — admittedly a bird-centered focus from the window sill above our kitchen sink — will offer some insight we’ve been unable to glean through the haze of our existing preconceptions.  

The panel includes Harriet, 13, a small white female with black patches; Taylor, 4, a sleek silvery-grey male; and Tom, 3, a large orange tabby male. We sat down for a wide-ranging discussion over the course of three days, resulting in a transcript I’ll edit down to two postings, one to run today and one on Wednesday.  

Q: Let’s start with the week’s big news, Afghanistan. President Obama has asked for an additional 30,000 troops to suppress the renewed Taliban threat and bring nation-building to that troubled region. Thoughts?  

Taylor: I know the terrorists are the most visible threat, but we have to remember the source of their problems lies with corruption and a tattered economy. The Golden Triangle region that provides over half the world’s supply of Afghan hounds is also a threat to international stability and our own self-interests. Those are some mean dogs and they really hate cats. As long as that pipeline is open to the West and the American market creates a demand for overgrown hounds with heads that look like long-haired women, that’s going to be a problem.  

Harriet: As you know, my interests are mostly with my own physical comfort, so I want to make sure we keep supply lines open so that afghans continue to get through, especially during the winter.  

Harriet: I want to make sure afghans get through

Q: Obviously, you don’t think massive emigration of the Afghan people is the answer…  

Harriet: I’m not talking about the people, I’m talking about the blankets. Afghans, you know, those crocheted shawls like we have on the couch. I love those.  

Tom: I believe an increased show of force in the region is vital. I hope an additional 30,000 troops are enough to pacify the countryside and win the people’s hearts and minds. If we don’t succeed right away, we shouldn’t cut-and-run because of some pre-established timetable. In fact, I would hope we’d ratchet up our assault on the terrorists to include a wider array of offensive weaponry, such as biting and scratching.  

Q: Probably the other big international story coming up is the climate summit scheduled for Copenhagen this week. Do you see a chance for real progress there?  

Harriet: I really do. And I hope the president will join in the international effort this time, unlike what we saw at Kyoto.  

Tom: I know a lot of cats hear about global warming and think, hey, that sounds pretty good to me. You know, we’re originally a desert species, so we love warmth. But too many of us forget the other part of that equation involves rising sea levels, and we hate water almost as much as we like hot temperatures.  

Harriet: I’m just concerned about the momentum on this issue, Davis. The leak of that email last week that discussed manipulating the data to make climate change more obvious really troubled me. I mean, I’m convinced that man is having a negative effect on the environment — just look at that mess in the utility room that you never clean up. I just don’t want to see opponents given ammunition to advance their arguments.  

Taylor: The science is clear. It’s the public policy that now has to follow suit, and I think a new international treaty can help make that happen.  

Taylor: The science is clear

Q: You don’t think the worldwide recession is going to slow progress on this front? The developing world wants to resume the strong growth trends of a few years ago and may not be willing to go along with proposals such as emission caps.  

Tom: I think the developing world needs to screw itself. They’re the biggest polluters out there these days.  

Taylor: Tom, you know it’s not that simple. They have the right to grow to the point where they can better feed their populations.  

Harriet: My biggest fear about the developing world is that those populations want to eat me for dinner.  

Q: Speaking of economic issues, new numbers released Friday showed that the growth of joblessness has slowed to its lowest point in almost two years. Do you think the recovery is finally taking hold?  

Taylor: Growth will continue to be anemic, I feel. But we’ve definitely turned the corner.  

Harriet: I know they say that a “recession” is when your neighbor loses his job, and a “depression” is when you lose your job. We were almost to the point that cats were going to have to get jobs. We’ve definitely pulled back from the brink of catastrophe, but I’m still not confident I won’t be forced into the job market. And I absolutely refuse to work retail.  

Tom: It’s the quality of the jobs out there that concerns me. Our manufacturing base is drying up. A service economy cannot support a broad middle class, and those are the homes that adopt us most frequently. If you have an owner who’s working two jobs just to keep cat food on the floor – yeah, it’s good that they’re almost never around, but it doesn’t make me feel warm and fuzzy.  

Taylor: Actually, we’re always warm and fuzzy.  

Tom: Hah! Good one, Taylor. (Lifts paw for “high five”). Meet me upstairs!  

Q: How do you see the brighter economic news affecting the debate over healthcare reform? Will it have any noticeable impact?  

Harriet: I don’t see that playing a significant role. Both sides seem so entrenched right now.  

Tom: I’m still not convinced of the need for any so-called “reform” anyway. I think we’d all admit how much we hate going to the vet. Anything that makes that easier is not something I can support.  

Taylor: That’s so short-sighted of you, Tom. It’s those frequent vet visits and the emergency pet hospitals that are making our healthcare the most expensive in the pet world. We need to invest in preventative care.  

Tom: I know what preventative care tastes like, and it’s awful. There’s little protein, no sodium, no phosphorous. I’d rather eat catfood with ash in it and enjoy a slightly shorter lifespan than to eat one of those terrible science diets.  

Harriet: Just eat off the humans’ plates when they’re not looking. That’s what I do.  

Taylor: You’re both missing the point, I think. We can’t keep going down the road we’re on now. It’ll bankrupt the country.  

Tom: We don’t need to be in the road, anyway. Remember what happened to that squirrel we were watching through the front door? Now he’s a “science diet” … for the crows.  

Tom: We don't need to be in the road

Q: Turning to another healthcare issue, it seems like the swine flu outbreak may be on its way to relative containment. Do you think that’s due to vaccination efforts, or was the whole thing overblown from the beginning?  

Harriet: I don’t trust the medical establishment enough to think much about the benefits of vaccines and other so-called medicines. I don’t care how far you stick the pill down the back of my throat, how long you hold my snout shut, or how much you stroke my neck to make me swallow, I just don’t trust “Big Pharm.” They’re all about profits, not medical care.  

Tom: They can be about both, you know. This whole conspiracy-theory mentality going on right now is a very dangerous thing. I believe in being startled by loud or unexpected noises, and being afraid of people ringing the door bell or operating vacuum cleaners. Those are common-sense fears. But to think there are no longer any authority figures that can be trusted, I just don’t buy it.  

Taylor: Swine flu was definitely a big media hype, that’s for sure. The mainstream media turned it into a catastrophe even though it’s not as bad as regular seasonal flu. I’ve stopped reading the newspapers and watching regular network TV news. The only news I trust any more is that delivered by my fellow small, stealthy mammals.  

Harriet: He watches Fox.  

Taylor: Damn right I do. Fox, Animal Planet, the Lifetime Movie Channel and the Outdoor Network, that’s enough for me. I love seeing deer get shot on the Outdoor Network. And I adore Karl Rove.

Wednesday: Some thoughts on the lighter side of the news.

Revisited: The worst Christmas song of all time

Yesterday, I listed what I thought were four of the five worst Christmas songs of all time. Today, we learn who the winner is and, of course, by “winner” I mean “loser.”

The perhaps unlikely recipient of this honor is “Do They Know It’s Christmastime?” by Band Aid. I will admit that this song had at least two positives going for it: (1) it was a genuinely catchy and inspiring arrangement, and (2) it single-handedly saved the African continent from the ravages of hunger. Those are pretty strong plusses, so you can imagine the kind of negatives it would take to offset all that good, and transport this effort to the status of worst Christmas song of all time.  

I know he’s already considered something of a “Gloomy Gus,” but consider what singer Morrissey had to say about the song. “I’m not afraid to say that I think … (Band Aid creator) Bob Geldof is a nauseating character. The record itself was absolutely tuneless. One can have great concern for the people of Ethiopia, but it’s another thing to inflict daily torture on the people of England. It was an awful record considering the mass of talent involved. It was the most self-righteous platform ever in the history of popular music.”    

Another critic suggested “the song presents a very bleak view of Africa, which the lyrics appear to refer to as a whole. Some of these, such as the suggestions (if read literally) that the continent has no rainfall or successful crops, have been seen as absurd by critics. The lyrics as patronizing, false and out of date.”    

Well, let’s take a look and see what we, and by “we” I mean “I”, think.    

 It’s Christmastime (for the half of the African continent that is Christian)
There’s no need to be afraid (yes there is, if you’re living in many part of Africa)
At Christmastime, we let in light and we banish shade (thank you, ‘80s British rockers)
And in our world of plenty we can spread a smile of joy (that’s your best idea?)
Throw your arms around the world at Christmastime (just not practical) 

But say a prayer
Pray for the other ones
At Christmastime it’s hard when you’re having fun (please, don’t put yourself out)
There’s a world outside your window
And it’s a world of dread and fear
Where the only water flowing is the bitter sting of tears
And the Christmas bells that ring there are the clanging chimes of doom
Well tonight thank God it’s them instead of you (that just seems terribly selfish)

 

And there won’t be snow in Africa this Christmastime (Accuweather calls for humid)
The greatest gift they’ll get this year is life
(Oooh) Where nothing ever grows
No rain nor rivers flow (except the Nile, Niger, Zambezi, Victoria Falls, etc.)
Do they know it’s Christmastime at all? (do these people have no calendars?)

 

(Here’s to you) raise a glass for everyone (we’ll have champagne; you drink the tears)
(Here’s to them) underneath that burning sun (thanks for that shade banishment)

Do they know it’s Christmastime at all?

Feed the world
Let them know it’s Christmastime again
Feed the world
Let them know it’s Christmastime again (OK, OK, we heard you the first two times)

 

With only a few weeks left till Christmas, I think I can avoid radios, malls, medical offices, elevators, etc., long enough to avoid this song for the rest of the season. If you can’t hole up quite the way I plan, then all I can say is

thank God it’s you instead of me.   

    

  

  

  

  

  

 

Profiles in line-waiting

     I’m writing today from our local Earth Fare grocery store, which has kindly set aside – whether they know it or not — a table and a wi-fi connection for my almost daily use. For those of you not familiar with the chain, it’s in the organic/health/inedible food segment, featuring high-end gourmet offerings along side free-range sticks and locally grown chaff. How it ended up in my rather working-class neighborhood is beyond me.

     Since I am using their space and their power and their Internet waves, I’m careful to patronize them on each visit with at least the purchase of a bottled tea (today I’m sampling the “fair trade” flavor). When I approached the checkout, there were two lines open, each of which had a single customer with a significant basket-load of merchandise. I lingered back briefly because I hate being reluctantly waved ahead when the large purchaser feels obliged to let me and my single item go through. Once each of them had committed to their position by partially unloading their basket, I picked the guy on the left to get behind.

     Usually, I’ll do some profiling of the people ahead of me before I commit to a line. It’s a sexist, ageist, racist, classist habit I have that you’d think would get me to the cashier faster. Obviously, I look at the quantity of items being purchased but that’s actually a very small factor in my assessment. The ideal people to get behind are young professionals who have that urgent on-the-go air about them. They’ll typically be paying with a debit card, usually swiping it crisply before the purchase is even completed, and the next thing you know they’re motoring out the door. At the other end of the spectrum is the harried working mom herding her kids while talking on her cell phone, the college student who’ll be digging through the 12 pockets in his cargo pants trying to scare up enough coin to pay, and the elderly couple fumbling through their belongings looking for the check book.

     Today, I waited patiently as Guy on the Left fell slightly behind Guy on the Right in their unloading. Switching lines at this point is usually not a wise option, as inevitably that speeds up the line you left and slows down your new choice. Besides, you can’t switch more than once without looking like you’re planning an armed robbery. You need to commit to your choice and stay with it unless some serious misfortune befalls the line, like a price check, a register running out of receipt tape, or (God forbid) some once-in-a-lifetime calamity like a travelers cheque.

     The line I didn’t choose is now wide open while in my line, the unloading has just finished and the customer is ready to step forward and acknowledge the cashier. I momentarily consider switching before two more carts pull in the temporarily cleared line and eliminate that option. That’s okay, though; I’m thinking my patience has paid off and I’ll be plunking my tea on the conveyor belt shortly. Suddenly, I’m horrified by a completely unexpected development: the customer in front of me knows the cashier’s mother! Soon there is chitting and chatting and reminiscing and banter, and I’m starting to wish my tea had a little more preservatives and a little less organic brown rice syrup, because it looks like I could be standing here a while.

     While the grocery checkout system we have in America has its flaws, I still think it’s better than the foreign alternatives I’ve seen in some of my travels overseas. In Manila, where retail seemed to be on steroids with the humongous Mega Mall just a few train stops down from the even larger Mall of Asia, I was in a grocery store that had no fewer than 35 checkout lines, and each of them was staffed on the busy afternoon I visited. In addition to designating several lanes as eight items or less (I think they’re on the octal system there rather than the metric), they also had two lanes marked “elderly only”. I would’ve thought this was a great idea if they hadn’t defined “elderly” as 50 and over, so I decided to be offended instead.

     In London, where I believe food stores are called apothecaries or chemists or something like that, I was too intimidated by biscuits that looked like cookies and cashiers that looked like earls to buy anything. In Bombay, the huge population apparently necessitates a whole different system that involves massing around the checkout and jostling for recognition like you were in some sort of commodities trading pit. Where there were lines, they didn’t seem to exist for any reason, as I had people literally step in front of me to make their purchase. In Sri Lanka, a rebel insurgency requires you to stand in line to go through security before you can stand in another line to do something else, so you’ve kind of lost interest by then and decide to order room service instead.

     Then there are the lines to get out of these countries and back into the U.S. Unlike retail lines, where annoyance and a waste of time are the biggest risk, the immigration and customs lines feel like actual life-or-death scenarios. When I tried to get out of Hong Kong, I had to pass through a scanner that detected my body temperature to make sure I didn’t have SARs, bird flu or other forms of excessive hotness. After it was determined that I was cool, I was challenged again at the ticket counter to prove that I was eventually going back to the States instead of staying indefinitely at my interim destination in the Philippines. My pasty features and American passport apparently weren’t proof enough that I wasn’t Filipino; I had to go through back flips to produce documentation that I had an airline ticket back home.

     Once I got to my final stop in Charlotte a few days later, my joy at being home after five weeks abroad was quickly dampened by the long, snaking line leading up to the immigration desks. About a half-dozen officers were on hand to service two jumbo jets that landed simultaneously for what must’ve been the first time in North Carolina history. Two subsections separately serviced American citizens and foreign nationals, though a third one for suspiciously dusky people who carried all their luggage on the plane with them would’ve been helpful. The perfunctory inspection that resulted in every one of the hundreds who were waiting being waved through eventually got me to my baggage and the customs officials. As soon as the official saw that I had visited something called Sri Lanka, I was ordered aside for a thorough search. The inspector was very chatty and very friendly, which I suspect was the result of some intense profiling training rather than a desire to be nice. Finally satisfied that my cheap souvenirs and even cheaper wardrobe presented no significant threat to national security, I got to meet my family and head for home.

     I suppose it’s only appropriate that the profiling came back to haunt me.

Being neighborly in the subdivision

They say that good fences make good neighbors. Since the restrictive covenants in our particular subdivision forbid the installation of “fences, barriers or similarly containing obstructions”, we have lousy neighbors.

Maybe I’m being a little harsh. I’m actually quite fond of the neighborhood we’ve lived in now for almost 15 years. It’s a collection of perhaps 60 or 70 upper-middle-class homes built in the pre-McMansion era, when floor plans were sensible and pre-existing plant life was respected by not being slashed and burned. In fact the name of our subdivision – I think it’s “Shady Creek”, but it could be “Shadow River” or “Dappled Brook” – reflects both the old hardwoods that canopy the main road and the shallow creek that, if you don’t look too closely, runs cleanly alongside the main road.

We live on that road, on the corner of one of about a dozen cul-de-sacs. We have a nice mixture of young families and retired couples, many of them academics from the college about two miles away. We’ve seen little of the housing market distress that haunts Subprime Village at the Township at Cityplace across the way, and even enough of a progressive streak that we sported a few Obama yard signs during the recent election season. I nod to the people I pass on my occasional walks and raise two fingers off the steering wheel  (three if I’m feeling friendly) as I drive past them, and am on good if anonymous terms with everybody. Most of them know me as the Stocky Guy that Runs and would probably describe me as the quiet type should I ever be charged with some gruesome crime.

I don’t really know my immediately adjacent neighbors at all. Some community-minded type down the street recently collected names, professions and other basic data for a small directory she published, but several families on our block declined to participate in the census. So they are known to me as follows.

The retired couple on our right (they’re either retired or simply don’t work very hard) have lived in their house for about two years now. I thought about approaching them and introducing myself when they first moved in, but after a few near-miss encounters it grew increasingly awkward to do so. Now I mostly see the husband as he walks his harnessed cat in the yard behind our shed. Why our property is better suited for the feline constitution than his is a mystery to me, but what’s even more curious is that he does this activity in full view of my wife and me. At least he has enough shame not to wave when he sees us. I’ve seen his wife only rarely when, for some reason, a different antique auto appears in front of their home every weekend and she engages in a long discussion with the driver. Maybe they’re running a stolen vintage car ring and the cat on a tether is meant to be a cover for their criminal enterprise.

The family on our left, across the cul-de-sac, consists of a young couple with two school-age daughters. They all seem nice enough from a distance, if balloons occasionally displayed on their mailbox is any indication. I have no problem with them, but I do have a concern with one of their visiting mothers. She recently pulled up to the side of their house to witness both me and her son hard at work in our respective yards. It seemed pretty obvious that both of us were herding leaves toward the curb, where the city’s vacuum truck would pick them up in a few days. Rather than park her car in front of his home, however, she chose instead to put it on my side of the street. I was stunned at first by this blatant show of preference for her own flesh and blood, especially since she did it right in front of me. After she went inside, I continued shepherding my leaves to the curb and put them exactly where I had originally intended, leaving a small space for her late-model sedan in the center of my pile. At least the vehicle was still largely visible from the door handles up.

Behind our house is an African-American family that I also know very little about. They’ve lived there about five years now but it’s been hard to watch their comings and goings because of how our respective homes are positioned. They probably know us a lot better than we do them, since the sliding glass double doors leading into our family room let them look out of one of their bedroom windows and directly into our lives. We had a good bit more privacy until they cleared a stand of shrubbery just inside their property line about six months ago; I’m not going to ascribe any voyeuristic motives to this questionable bit of landscaping, though I cut a pretty dashing figure as I clomp around the kitchen in my pajamas. The only other thing I know about them is that, for some unknown reason, they have their grass cut by the retired Southern gentleman on their other side. I’m guessing it’s some sort of Civil War reparations arrangement.

Finally, across the street there lives a cluster of several hundred people. It’s not an overcrowded group home but instead a development of townhouses just beyond the creek. Though not technically a part of the subdivision, the only way they can come and go is via our main road so I’ll consider them neighbors enough to grumble about. My primary beef is that they and their landscapers use the grassy area visible through our front window as a place to heap their trash, in direct violation of some municipal code or other we discovered when we called the city to complain. A guy came out and posted a “no dumping” sign, which they promptly ignored except for knocking it over. When we put it back up, someone stole the sign leaving only a post, which is nice as posts go but mentions very little about the ordinance. I bet the mostly retired community that lives in this development would sympathize with our concern and might even mention it to the landscapers, if any of them spoke English.

All in all, it’s really a pretty good place to live. We may not be neighborly when it comes to borrowing cups of sugar and checking each other’s pets while on vacation, we do have a Neighborhood Watch program. I know this because there’s a sign (not yet vandalized) and because the neighborhood coordinator stopped at my door one day to ask if she could have our stepping stones. I suppose they are desirable as stepping stones go – cement, circular, about 2-feet wide, truly exquisite – but I wasn’t quite ready to simply give them away to the crazy lady who yells at passing cars to “slow down!” Perhaps, for the betterment of the community I should have.

Learning to blog at WordCamp

Attendees at yesterday’s Charlotte WordCamp — you could tell it was a new media thing by how they took the space out of “WordCamp” — generally fell into two categories. There were the experienced bloggers looking to refine their skills and improve their social networking by actually meeting real people, and there were those like me, real (but old) people who had heard of blobs and inner-nets and wanted to get into this online action while we still lived and breathed. It was the twitterers and the twits. The avatars and the ava-tards.

The event was sponsored by The Charlotte Observer, respectfully called the “mature” media by symposium leaders who probably refer to it as the Observersaurus in private. I learned about it while reading an article in the paper a few months ago that promised an opportunity for new bloggers like me to learn the ropes. Publicizing the affair in the local section of the paper, right next to the article about Billy Graham “celebrating” his 90^th birthday, apparently garnered little notice, and registration was wide open when I went online to sign up. When word finally made it out to the blogosphere a few weeks later, the location planned for 50 participants now had to hold in excess of a hundred.

I arrived early Saturday to make sure I could get an outlet for my laptop’s power cord. Going through the lobby and up to the third floor of the Observer building, it was painfully evident that such a long-respected bricks-and-mortar newspaper operation was on the wane. The faded paint, the tattered flooring, the creaking elevator that failed later in the morning, trapping its inhabitant into the identity of “Elevator Guy” for the rest of the day, all served to reinforce the transition now taking place in the media world. We signed in at the registration desk, wrote our names onto nametags in marker ink that soaked through two levels of clothing as it made you high, and headed into the conference room to begin the session.

It was pretty evident right from the beginning about the dichotomy we’d be struggling with all day. Mostly middle-aged representatives of the Observer stood around the edge of the room, studying the participants like we were lowland gorillas. Their sponsorship was obviously aimed at figuring out how to get in on this young demographic and turn them into eyeballs they could charge 37½ cents a piece each day. Sharing their background if not their status among the employed were about a third of the participants. As we learned during brief self-introductions, these folks had opted for a “midlife career change”, “early retirement” or “freelance writing” that all looked suspiciously like being laid off. The other two-thirds, including the people at the front who’d be doing the presenting, may or may not have had jobs and didn’t really seem to care one way or the other. They had Twitter, and that’s all they had time for anyway.

After the introductions, the first item on the agenda was a meet-and-greet for non-beginners and a general Q&A session for the rest of us. The meet-and-greet would take place in an adjacent room, so the non-beginners were told to adjourn for about 30 minutes while the newbies remained behind to ask their stupid questions. I probably had enough experience to go either way but the prospect of climbing through all those wires and aisles convinced me to stay behind, though it did occur to me that perhaps we were being separated like the concentration camp victims told to stay behind for the showers.

I don’t know what went on the other room (I suspect there was a fair amount of snickering and cootie vaccines) but my group took the opportunity to ask variations on the same question for the better part of the session. What was a tag and what was a category? How are they different? How are they the same? What’s a tag again? What do you mean by category? A tag cloud, what the hell is that? Should I have brought a laptop?

After a break, we were again allowed to commingle with the veteran bloggers. There was a technical and design panel that gave ideas on how to make your blog stand out from the 700 billion blogs out there. We were told how to steal a theme, copy a graphic and plug in a plug-in. Most of these tips were delivered in reverse top-ten formats, a la David Letterman, which I’m guessing was supposed to make the aged among us feel like we had taken a long afternoon nap and stayed up past 11 for the first time since college. The nap came in handy, as the discussion turned to FTP, future-proofing, subdomains, RSS and microblogging, and I turned to my version of the Internet to avoid boredom. I had AOL open for about five minutes before I realized this was probably the most embarrassing site choice anyone in the room could possibly make.

After a lunch break for pizza (exactly what I thought bloggers ate), we began the afternoon session with the topic of content development. Not surprisingly, a recurring suggestion from all five presenters was that a blog should actually have some amount of content, which may not have occurred to about half the room who were waiting for the part about downloading reliable cash streams. Content was described as “king”, “queen” and, ultimately, the “ten of spades”. We were told we’d need dynamic content to attract readers but probably wouldn’t have any readers to appreciate it in the beginning, unless you worked for the Observer or developed wide social networks in places like FaceBook, MySpace and the bulletin board at Goodwill.

Some of the ideas for good content seemed to be exactly what I was already doing. One slide read “picture = 1000 words”, which I initially took to mean that the picture of the perfect web posting was something that ran to a thousand words in length. Unfortunately, what this actually referred to was the assertion that you could put photos and other graphics on your blog. My thousand-long-word essays now seem to be serious overkill compared to many of the blogs we were shown, where perhaps as few as fifty words were needed as long as several of them were “tweet”, “Obama” or “my naked girlfriend.” Apparently you can also put video on your blog, and I plan to do that as soon as I can find the port on my laptop that accepts VHS tapes.

Of course, no seminar like this is complete without the inspirational speaker offering his formula for success. Right before the keynote address, we were told that promoting your site was as simple as (now write this down) “create” plus “serve” times “community” equals “wealth”. This was about the most useless formula I had heard at one of these things since a corporate development trainer had advised me that ambition divided by talent minus honesty to the third power is greater than or equal to the cosine of success. Nobody wrote anything down, primarily because pens and papers are such primitive technology that only the older folks even brought them, and most of us were back in the lunchroom by now trying to snag a few more Chips Ahoy. Among those who remained, I did hear some tap-tap-tapping followed by a long pause as they looked for the “equal” key.

At the end, we collected our decidedly low-tech T-shirts (not at all virtual or digital, like I was hoping), said our goodbyes to the new contacts we had made, and hoped that someone somewhere in the room would be visiting our blogs.

Achieving quality step by step

Ever since we started outsourcing a lot of our work overseas, many companies have been real big on standard operating procedures. I think the theory is that breaking down your production process into a simple step-by-step operation makes it possible for even the most untrained worker to perform. While that can work well at a very basic level for those eager but inexperienced developing-world types, it hampers the ability of us still working on American soil to find creative ways to screw things up.

About ten years ago, the rage in corporate quality movements was something called ISO 9000. The idea was that if you documented (or “wrote down”) all your processes and then operated as you said you would, nothing could go wrong. No variation was possible when humans were turned into mindless, instruction-reading work-bots. Errors in this system were supposed to be so few that a special numeration system had to be devised to describe how tiny the odds of failure were. This was the concept of “Six Sigma”, or six mistakes out of all the fraternity or sorority members in the world.

Though ISO 9000 is still followed in some corporate backwaters of the world, it gradually lost credibility in the U.S. First there was the problem that even if American workers could make sense of the instructions, there was no guarantee that just because something was written down that it would work (see the 2008 Republican platform and any MapQuest directions for just two examples). And then there was the problem with the name of the initiative itself: ISO stands for International Society for Obduration, which I think has something to do with pity, and the 9000 part represented the year in which actual gains from the program will be seen.

The remnants of this system that still exist in most lines of work are now called “standard practices”. They used to be called “best practices”, but that was considered too elitist, I guess, and it was judged more important that we do everything the same, whether it was actually good or not. Now, whether the person doing the work is in Boston or London or Hong Kong or Neptune (in the year 9000), all they have to do is go to the corporate intranet, access the development and training section, then go to the operations page, then find the kind of process they’re doing, then call up the appropriate requirements, then find the “SP”, then start looking for another job because they missed a critical deadline while monkeying around on the computer.

When you do have time to follow the standard practice, you better pull up a chair because it’s typically going to take a while to get through it. One example I’m looking at breaks a particular operation down into 15 steps, which seems almost manageable until you consider that step 8 alone includes four checkboxes followed by 16 bullet points and six sub-bullet points. Other steps are ridiculously simple, like step 15 which involves taking your page off the printer. The standard practice doesn’t tell you how many fingers to use to pick up the sheet of paper, whether to use your left hand or your right hand or what kind of protective gear you should be wearing but, as the website warns all users, “don’t use a hard copy of these instructions because they are constantly being revised in the spirit of continuous improvement.”

When despite the best efforts of the quality mavens something wrong does make it out to a client, an investigation into how this could possibly happen usually takes place. A “service recovery account” is requested of the offending manufacturing site who attempts to figure out, usually several weeks after the error was committed, what step in the flawless process was not followed. Usually, the answer is something like “we didn’t work on this job”, and the matter is referred to another location. Once the site is definitively determined, the managers there will “drill down” through a massive collection of archived paperwork to figure out which individual or team was responsible (the drilling is just a figurative term at U.S. offices but involves an actual boring device for workers offshore). A corrective action is implemented, typically a scolding email to anyone who might’ve participated in the misdeed. We’re able to report back to the client that we appreciate they’ve pointed out an improvement opportunity that has made our process even better, and that someone won’t be getting their merit raise, if it’s ever decided these will be reinstituted.

What all this ignores is that some of the steps in a process are more critical than others, and that it takes an experienced person to know when it’s safe to cut corners and skip something trivial. If sub-step 2.4.7(A)(e) involves hopping on one foot while you key in your job number, you’ll see the Bombay skyline compliantly swaying with tremors while in Atlanta they’ll just take a chance they can skip the hopping. Our overseas workers are extremely good at doing exactly what they’re told to do, knowing they could be out on the streets if it’s found they cut a corner. At best, there will be “stand-ups” (where a top manager stands up before the group and yells at them), “letters of retribution” inserted into personnel files and, worst of all, week-long reprogramming regimens that involve the south Asian equivalent of a forced march. Virtually no one gets dismissed for cause domestically, since downsizing is certain to eventually take care of them anyway.

There’s a pendulum of emphasis that swings back and forth between quality and meeting deadlines that American workers seem to be better at timing. We’re much closer to the screaming customer to be able to tell when we’re about to enter a new era. We use those all-American traits of innovation and intuition and poor reading skills to perform from the gut what we think needs to be done rather than what some piece of paper says. And we can tell when it might be a good time take a lunch break to avoid those managers who are shocked (shocked!) to learn that a standard process wasn’t followed step by ridiculous, excruciating step.

Thanksgiving comes early in the office

The turkey carcass sits mangled on the serving table, looking like the victim of a bear attack. The sweet potato casserole has been denuded of its marshmallow topping, but you could probably scrape a few more servings out of the corners of the pan if you tried. The stuffing is completely gone, serving its stated purpose of stuffing those who now lounge around the edges of this scene, barely moving except for the effort it takes to moan.

No, you haven’t been transported a week into the future by the magic of the blog. This is the scene I left behind at yesterday’s office celebration of Thanksgiving, a full seven days before most of us will commemorate the occasion.

The corporate calendar of holidays is not something most of us are aware of until we walk into work one dark January day and discover we’ve neglected to bring the green bagels for St. Patrick’s Day, which the outside world celebrates on March 17. Maybe I exaggerate a little, but not much. The government has imposed Monday observance of the more minor holidays like Presidents, Labor and Memorial days. Christmas and New Year’s are complicated by the fact that the days before them — the Eves — are in many ways more important than the actual holidays themselves. Many human resources departments have come up with the concept of a “floating” holiday for individuals to use in the religious observance of their choosing, such as Yom Kippur, Kwanzaa or Talk Like a Pirate Day. People in my mostly Christian office, for example, use their optional holiday for the day after Easter, prompting one observer to wonder if the “floating” had something to do with Jesus’ ascension into heaven.

I guess having the Thanksgiving potluck yesterday made some sense on a gut level, considering few of us would want to gorge like that two days in a row if it were scheduled for next Wednesday. The only opening left on the sign-up sheet when I got to it was “salad”, which seemed very un-Thanksgiving-like but worked for me since it was so easy to prepare (take one head of lettuce, rip to shreds, serves 20). Management was providing the ham and turkey, and everything else was being brought in by the staff, who would have a chance to dazzle coworkers with their best recipes, many of which involved green beans, cream soup and those crunchy onion things.

The sit-down time was scheduled for 11 a.m. so the organizers had the better part of the morning to set up the centerpieces, warm and then re-warm the hot dishes, and tempt us all with the smells of the season. This was to be an affair that combined our staff with workers from the front office, who we sometimes pass in the restrooms but about whom we know little else. As the serving time arrived, I was unfortunate enough to be just outside their offices when a manager called out for me to summon them. At first I was confused about who exactly he meant, and nearly beckoned the 200-plus temporary work crew from the warehouse. That would’ve been a horrible mistake, certain to result in stolen plastic cutlery and tiny, tiny portions for everyone. Still, I didn’t want to call for these front-office folks I didn’t know (“hey, it’s the guy from the bathroom – what’s he want?”) so I went to hide in my car for a few minutes.

I hoped this would have the added benefit of allowing me to miss the inevitable speech-giving and prayer that would precede the food consumption. But as the schedule started running behind, I made it just in time to hear the department head note that though these are difficult times, we still have much to be thankful for, followed by a brief blessing. Not being a currently practicing Christian myself, I’ve always felt awkward during this portion of the proceedings. It’s not because I take offense at having others’ religious beliefs imposed on me; rather, I’m bothered that I use the respectful silence to think of the sarcastic prayer I’d be tempted to offer if I’m ever called upon. Instead of beginning with “dear Jesus” or “holy Father”, the sacrilegious scamp in me wants to begin with a “good God” and then launch into several other James Brown references like papa’s brand new bag and how good I feel (so good). Fortunately for everyone, Edna does a nice reverent offering, and it’s finally time to chow down.

Office chairs were pulled up to the long row of covered work tables. After people worked their way down the buffet, carefully gauging the decreasing capacity of their Chinettes against the promise of what appeared further down the line, we were told to squeeze into a seat and begin the scheduled conviviality. The randomness and closeness of this seating arrangement, not to mention my very real fear of being injured by flying elbows, caused me to linger toward the end of the buffet line in the hope the table would be too full. I lucked out and was able to return instead to my work station to eat, where I got a kernel of corn stuck between “F7” and “F8” on my keyboard.

I genuinely enjoyed the food, as did everyone else. I was also able to enjoy the air of warmth and geniality in the room without actually having to get any of it on me. We didn’t have any holiday music piped through the intercom as we’ll do at Christmas — primarily I guess because there isn’t any, except for the less-than-festive “Turkey in the Straw” – but there was a certain atmosphere that for a moment almost made me give some actual thanks.

I managed to avoid overeating, which was good since I had a long drive home to navigate in the next hour and I didn’t want to sleep through it. Others in our department weren’t so lucky, as they staggered back to their desks to face another three hours of duty. The combination of turkey, heavy carbohydrates and the kind of workload you might expect at a financial services firm during the worst economic downturn in 70 years must’ve been as tough to handle as an Ambien/opium blend injected directly into your forehead.

At least there were no Detroit Lions to send them over the edge and into lethal coma.

A bad time to start eating good

Food has always played a central role in my life. I know that’s something that everyone can claim, except maybe those lucky few who survive by photosynthesis. I use it not only for sustenance and pleasure but also as a major contributor to my overall sense of well-being and security. If I have an ample store of baked goods, take-out entrees and my favorite soft drink, I feel I’m ready to survive any calamity short of a thermonuclear holocaust. My wife accuses me of collecting cookies and cakes like a squirrel collects acorns, but where else am I going to find a chocolate-chunk blondie post-apocalypse?

We’ll all be thinking a lot about food in the coming days, with Thanksgiving just around the corner. Because of its carbo-centric theme, this has always been my favorite holiday, but it’s hardly the only day where I’m thinking about the menu days in advance. As I write this posting, it’s Saturday afternoon and I can tell you virtually every meal I’ll be eating between now and the holiday five days in the future.

(This is what makes blogs so interesting).

During the workweek, I’ll have a blueberry breakfast bar, hazelnut-flavored coffee and pulp-free orange juice for breakfast, and a sliced deli turkey sandwich on Milton’s bread with two reduced-fat Oreo cookies for dessert. I’m very particular about these selections, and will not tolerate orange juice with medium pulp, some pulp, a little pulp, or one small suspicious glob you’d hope is only pulp. Pulp is for paper mills, not breakfast juices. I might allow some variation in this otherwise rigid schedule for a special celebration – the day after Obama was elected, for example, I treated myself to reduced-fat Chips Ahoy! (because of the exclamation point) – but I take great comfort in the predictability of this regime.

Dinner is my opportunity to allow a little variation in my food consumption. Tonight, for example, I’m considering the hamburger I bought but never ate at lunch today, some leftover Japanese food from my wife’s lunch, or I may just pick out some items from the prepared-food bar here at the grocery store coffee shop where I’m writing. I’ve already checked out the grilled hot dogs sitting under the warming lights and, though they look tasty, there’s a sign that says the buns are available behind the bakery counter, and I’m a bit reluctant to ask the worker there “do you have buns?” (especially since there’s a new hire sitting behind me who’s going through the company’s sexual harassment training DVD).

I may be able to attribute some of my quirky attitudes toward food to my upbringing. My mother created most of her meals out of her Pennsylvania Dutch background until she moved to a Miami neighborhood dominated by Italian transplants from New York. This allowed her to add things like lasagna and meatballs to hog maw and shoo-fly pie, though usually not in the same meal. Breakfast was typically skillet-fried potatoes and something called “scrapple” – more appetizingly known as “liver mush” in the South — and the lunch I carried off to school usually included a can of Vienna sausages (whatever rarely harvested parts of the pig that weren’t in the scrapple were probably in the sausages). It was all very tasty and very dense on a molecular level, and was probably a significant contributor to the fact that I weighed nearly 250 pounds by the time I graduated from high school.

When I went off to college, my eating habits didn’t get any better. “Healthy” eating was a concept still in the distant future in the 1970s; all foods that didn’t contain metal filings were considered healthy in those days. Despite the fact that my favorites at the time included the Burger Chef “Big Chef” and French fries covered in tartar sauce, and I remember celebrating my new-found independence early in my freshman year by eating a two-pound bag of Hershey kisses, I managed to lose weight throughout my college years. I briefly fell under the mistaken impression that there were other things in life besides eating, some of which suppressed your appetite when taken in illegal quantities. I rarely missed a meal – to this day when I hear someone say they forgot to eat lunch, it’s as astounding to me as if they forgot to properly regulate their body temperatures – yet I somehow found a way to metabolize the calories efficiently.

When I met my future wife after college, concepts like fat and cholesterol had become more widely known, as well as the idea that green plants could be used for something other than landscaping. Unlike many kids, I actually enjoyed most vegetables during my formative years. The cartoon character Popeye got me started on spinach and from there it was a slippery slope onto harder flora like broccoli, cabbage and cauliflower. I never went for the likes of okra and squash because of their funny names, though that never kept me away from a McRib. My diet did gradually improve throughout my marriage, largely thanks to my wife’s vegetarian tendencies and a maturing of my tastes that allowed me to appreciate fine wines as well as fine Pepsi.

Now I have a son who eats like the typical teenager, and I find myself once again coming under negative influences. The appreciation I had cultivated of foodstuffs like tofu and tempeh is now being undermined by Rob’s affection for all things nuggety. I still enjoy good-for-you quality – right next to those hot dogs I have my eyes on is a loaf called “field roast grain meat”, the first two ingredients of which are filtered water and wheat gluten – yet I find myself increasingly drawn to fast foods. Maybe I can find a proper balance in the oxymoronically named taco salad.

One of my wife’s favorite sayings is “life is too short to drink cheap wine”. In these uncertain economic and geopolitical times, I’m tempted to agree, and extend the aphorism to include “…eat healthy foods”. I worked hard a year or two ago to lose about 25 pounds, suffering through sensible portions that bordered on the subatomic just to make my clothes fit better. Now I’m inclined to think that’s a pretty high price to pay for a single notch on my belt buckle, and find myself migrating back to comfort foods, so-called because you can trade your trim-fitting clothing for a comforter.

When I drove through KFC for my son on the way home from school the other day, and I got to smell the barbecue boneless chicken wings he ordered, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.

That may yet be my fate if I don’t straighten up and eat right.

My life as a football fan

I’ve been a football fan for as long as I can remember, but I’m not sure why. In recent years, I’ve been able to put my attention to the game on a more sane footing than when I was young. I understand now that the outcome of a contest played by rented behemoths who’s five seconds of action is constantly interrupted by hopped-up robot graphics, slowed-down replays and giant pickup trucks running over things has very little to do with my happiness. Or at least that’s the way it should be.

That’s not always how I viewed it. My earliest memories are not of watching others play the game but rather participating in the activity myself, a concept now seen as hopelessly quaint. Larry and Lloyd and Ricky and I would take over the only open area in our Miami suburb – a public street – and play two-on-two games with gutters for sidelines and mailboxes for goals. It was a touch game consisting almost entirely of passing, since tackling on the asphalt was frowned upon by our moms and pediatricians. (Tackling was done only when we couldn’t scare up the four-person minimum and resorted instead to a backyard version of the game called “kill the man with the ball”.) We’d play for hours at a time, up and down the street with scores often soaring into the hundreds, interrupted only by the occasional cry of “car!” to avoid being struck by an oncoming vehicle.

The first football teams I followed from afar were the University of Miami Hurricanes, a pathetic bunch in the ‘60s more concerned with tanning than athletics, and the Green Bay Packers, more concerned with winning than packing. We didn’t have a pro team south of Washington back then, so proximity wasn’t an issue in my choice of gridiron heroes. The closest we ever got to the pros was when the now-abandoned consolation “championship” game was played in the Orange Bowl, and my father and I would use tickets promoters could barely give away to watch teams casually vie for the title of Third Best Team in the All of Football.

In 1967, the NFL finally realized that the South might possibly be interested enough in physical brutality and incredible amounts of sweating to support a pro team, and Miami was awarded the Dolphin franchise. They were lovable losers in those early years, featuring a head coach who chose his inept son to be quarterback and defensive stalwart Wahoo McDaniel, part of that rare breed of wrestlers-turned-linebackers who were named after game fish. The best part of those early years were the rare occasions when the Dolphins scored a touchdown and a porpoise I thought of as Flipper (though for copyright reasons, I think his name was actually “Blipper”) would leap in celebration from his above-ground pool in the end zone, then retrieve the extra-point kick on the occasions those were made.

I rooted so hard for the Dolphins in my high-school years that they actually started winning games. This was the beginning of my only recently abandoned fantasy that I could positively influence the outcome of a game by jumping up and down in front of a TV screen, crying out “yes!” or “no!” as appropriate to the circumstance. I imagined that either I had keen enough acumen to recognize quality players and coaching better than other observers, or else that I possessed a supernatural skill that somehow would propel footballs over goal lines and through goal posts. When the team posted a perfect 17-0 record and won two Super Bowls in the early ‘70s, I was proud to take the credit personally.

Shortly after I went off to college, I began to develop other interests. I worked at the school newspaper, finally found enough self-confidence to begin a form of dating, and even went to class now and then. As a result, or so I believed, the dynasty began to wane. I’d still watch when I could, on the TV in the dorm lobby, but thunderous expressions of glee or outrage had to be muffled lest onlookers be frightened. I still remember going back to my room after a narrow loss to the Raiders, and getting mad at my roommate when he teased me about my disappointment. “You don’t understand,” I tried to explain. “You making fun of the Dolphins is like me making fun of your family.” In an epiphany, I realized I was an idiot.

Fortunately, the timing of my about-face couldn’t have been more convenient, as my college team, the Florida State Seminoles, were in the midst of their worst run in school history. They had made the ludicrous move of hiring a coach with a doctoral degree who was using good-vibe pop psychology to coax the players into winning, if they felt like it. The result was an 0-11 season, followed by an only slightly improved record the next year after the coach vowed no more Dr. Nice Guy. I had picked up the contrarian nature of the counterculture by this time and, since football was only slightly less politically incorrect than the secret war in Laos, my friends and I delighted in the ‘Nolean ineptitude. Again, though, I was believing that my mental state was directly affecting results on the field.

It took a move from football-blessed Florida to the football-cursed Carolinas to finally break the spell. During my first 15 years in the region, there was again no pro team to follow and the game as played at the college level here contained more than enough mediocrity to keep me at bay. (Anyone who can get excited about a match-up between perennial rivals like Duke and Wake Forest is in serious need of a hobby). The last time a team from that Atlantic Coast Conference generated widespread enthusiasm was around the time the ocean of the same name was formed out of ancient Pangaea.

When the Carolina Panthers came into being in the mid-1990s, I followed them somewhat when they were up and not so much when they were down. Some might accuse me of being a fair-weather fan by ignoring their exploits when success was limited. But I’m not buying tickets to their games when they’re not providing entertainment, just like they don’t come to my house and run the west coast offense when I’m not providing them money. I am watching their games this season, since they currently sport an 8-3 record, but I do it by first recording the contest on my DVR and then playing it back at triple speed. That’s my idea of a hurry-up offense.

Now, when coworkers talk on Monday morning about their respective teams of preference and how “we” really handed it to the Cowboys yesterday or “our” defense made the difference, I can see the truth behind their perceived participation. As my wife succinctly put it when I got a little out of control watching a game early in our marriage, “do you even know any of those guys?”

Thanksgiving weekend musings

Among professional writers, I think the best job would be working in the press office at the State Department and the worst job would be as an editorial writer. At the State Department, every time there was some international catastrophe, it’d be your job to come up with the modifier that expressed the unparalleled level of concern all Americans felt in this time of tragedy.

“Hey, Bob,” your boss would instant-message you, “how concerned are we about Finland being invaded by space monsters?”

“Pretty darn concerned, I’d imagine,” you’d respond, stalling while you reached for your thesaurus. “I’d say we’re either ‘profoundly concerned’, ‘gravely concerned’, ‘momentously concerned’, or ‘really, really super-concerned’.”

“Good job, Jim,” the boss would reply. “We can always count on your sympathy.”

At the other end of the spectrum is the poor editorial writer, whose job it is to be outraged by mass murders, supportive of the local blood drive, and troubled by the rise in teen pregnancies. Only blatantly obvious and widely agreed-upon opinions are allowed. It’s only if you want to end your career in a hail of indignant letters to the editor that you could endorse an armed revolution against the government or a boycott of Girl Scout cookies.

* * *

I went to the mall this weekend, not because I needed anything but because it’s required by federal statute. I avoided the so-called Black Friday (which I thought is what they used to call Good Friday and actually seems like a better name, since it wasn’t good that Jesus was crucified but rather it was black, which I think in the current reference indicates retailers’ profits) like the plague, which was also black but not as popular. Anyway, my wife and I went on a rainy Saturday afternoon, mostly just to see the crowds and punish ourselves for eating too much turkey.

What I like best about a crowded mall is a game I made up that I call “mall-walking”. It’s not the slow-paced circuits made by energetic seniors, but rather an attempt to dart as fast as possible through crowds of zombified shoppers, imagining I’m avoiding tacklers while returning a kickoff for a touchdown. It’s best to walk quickly rather than run, unless you want to really be tackled by security guards. You start on the clockwise side, so you have a few “blockers” going in your direction but most everyone else is coming toward you. Extra hazards include kiosk merchants trying to rub you with cologne samples, restaurant workers trying to hand you teriyaki chicken, slow-moving family blobs who spread out six-wide, and fast-moving professional shoppers erupting unpredictably from storefronts. If you make it to the goal line (a pod of easy chairs containing heavy-eyed husbands who, before the mall was redesigned last summer, had to seek out the bedding section of Sears to recline their slumping figures) without being touched, you win.

I still think this would make a great video game, where you could use famous malls or other high-traffic areas – Times Square, the Ginza shopping district in Tokyo, penitentiaries serving the U.S. Congress – as different game fields. Electronic Arts, are you out there?

* * *

One of the most embarrassing situations I’ve ever encountered happened recently in my office. Coworkers were circulating a card to send to someone’s father who was about to have a serious operation. I was vaguely aware that someone in that family was in the midst of a health crisis, and had wrongly assumed that a death was involved.

When the card got to me, it was left at my desk with the inside open, so I could add my thoughts and/or prayers but I couldn’t see the message printed on the cover. Too quickly, I scrawled my message: “Thinking of you in your time of loss.” It was only when I closed the card to pass it on to the next person that I realized it wasn’t a sympathy card, it was a get-well card.

My callous lack of sincerity was captured in permanent ink. It didn’t matter that my sympathy was in one sense technically suitable – there probably was going to be loss involved in the anticipated amputation of his arm. But it was pretty clear that this wasn’t the kind of loss I was referencing and, even if it was, it was a pretty insensitive way to express my wishes.

Switching into recovery mode, I considered my options for fixing the hideous error. I obviously couldn’t run out and buy a replacement card, because of all the original messages already affixed. I considered white-out, but the glossy smear would only draw more attention and some curious individual would inevitably scratch it off to see what was underneath.

The only other choice was to work with the existing ink-strokes and modify them to change the message. After about 20 minutes of work, I got it to read “Thinking it’s your time to floss.” I had no idea what this was supposed to mean. My hope, however, was that my coworkers would think it was a friendly inside reference that only the patient would get, and that the patient wouldn’t know who I was anyway.

* * *

I called my insurance company this morning to investigate an apparent error in billing that cost me about $250. I was almost positive I was right, but even the smallest doubt seems magnified when you’re dealing with a sophisticated multinational computer system. I actually got through the automated voicemail system relatively unscathed and in touch with a real live person, who turned out to be quite helpful. After the usual small delays (“our computer seems to be a little slow today,” he says as he looks at my premium history in a grid that dictates how nice to be) he located my account and the source of the problem. “Yes, I think our records may be in error,” he says. “Will it be okay if we make the correction in your next billing period?” Yes, of course, that’s great, I say.

Then comes the little trick they’ve apparently taught every help desk in the world in the last year: “Before I let you go, can I interest you in our new 3.5% APR certificate of deposit?” While you’re still in the throes of relief over your billing being corrected, there’s a piece of your willpower against solicitation that has become slightly weaker, and they’re damn sure going to take advantage. I very much want to return the favor of helping this individual like he’s just helped me, and $5,000 does seem like a small price to pay. But in the end, I recover enough to politely decline.

 

 

 

Bits of Thanksgiving leftovers

Question: Is this a fitting response to the stampede tragedy at the Long Island Wal-Mart? “I don’t know why people were being trampled to death — the sales weren’t that good.”

* * *

If you stuff a turducken (a chicken inside a duck inside a turkey) with a tofurkey (a tofu-based turkey substitute), would you call it a “turfucken”?

Please discuss amongst yourselves.

Dispensing with good taste

If we could apply some of the same principles used by manufacturers of toilet paper dispensers to our country’s ports and immigration checkpoints, our concerns about national security would be over.

Bathroom tissue located in public restrooms is way more secure than it needs to be, if you ask me. American industry has developed highly engineered systems mounted in our nation’s stalls that are designed to allow users the absolute minimum amount of product while simultaneously making that product maddening to get at. These hulking plastic cases dribble a thin, single-ply dangle of paper out of their interior with a reluctance disturbingly similar to what I’m feeling in my own mid-section while trying to wrestle a few squares free.

Managers of these communal bathroom facilities – in restaurants, offices, government buildings – know this is a service they have to provide free of charge to their customers. So they’re obviously interested in limiting their expense as much as possible without putting their drapes and other nearby textiles in jeopardy. I sympathize with their situation in these hard economic times, but I also have similarly urgent hygiene concerns that need to be addressed. I decided to learn more about the companies that build and market these stingy dispensers.

Not surprisingly, most of them are manufactured by multinational corporations with interests in many sanitization-related areas. They are typically sold as part of a package that includes both the dispensers and the toilet paper, which I guess makes sense if you think about it. (The Pez analogy is one that unfortunately comes to mind; you rarely see the candy sold without the dispenser.) Bay West is one such company, offering a broad array of services in the environmental, industrial and emergency segments. Their corporate motto – “Slide Door Right for More Paper”– is printed proudly on each of their dispensers, and belies their larger mission in fields like brownfield site remediation (ew!) and hospital waste management. It’s good to know they have something to fall back on if bidets ever catch on in this country.

Another name that I came across in my research in the lavatory at a local bagel seller was SCA. When I searched for this firm on-line, I came back with several hits that caused me concern that this trend toward synergy in the industry was spinning out of control. Was SCA the Society for Creative Anachronism? The Student Conservation Association? The Society of Crystallographers of Australia? I could imagine any of these names being euphemisms for the business of helping the public do their business in public, but none turned out to be the company I was looking for. A link to “SCA Armor (Heavy)” seemed promising, considering the amount of protection these devices provide, but also led to a dead end. Finally I was routed to something called “Tork Online,” which referenced an SCA that sold “away-from-home tissue products,” and I knew I had struck pay dirt.

“An in-depth knowledge of our customers’ businesses means our products work hard to eliminate waste, reduce maintenance costs and offer hygienic solutions,” reads the products page. “Our dependable, attractive dispensers are designed to optimize hygiene, function and cost-in-use through designs that reduce consumption and maintenance time, dispense effortlessly and discourage pilferage.” Note that it’s only in the last two words of their blurb that they hint at their true purpose, keeping me and others from making off with free toilet tissue.

A more thorough look at the products section shows a fine array of conventional and jumbo dispensers, and a certain genius of these producers that I hadn’t considered before. The conventional model is described as “preventing waste by dropping a reserve roll only after the primary roll is depleted, keeping the used roll core in the unit and washroom floors clear of debris.” The jumbo model — for high-traffic facilities and, I presume, the waiting rooms of gastroenterologists — offers a “unique tear feature that eliminates the risk of cutting or scratching hands,” convenient for those moments of desperation we’ve all experienced but are too fortunate to remember in any detail.

Another maker is a company called Merfin, which I’m proud to say services my own workplace. With their system, “time spent replacing rolls can be reduced by up to 90%, and savings are increased by reducing waste and over-consumption with virtually indestructible locking dispensers.” I knew over-consumption was the problem that hyper-extended our nation’s credit system, but I never thought of it as an issue in the area of personal hygiene. Who are they to judge what’s enough or what’s too much? Anyway, I will give them credit for coming up with a cool trademarked and intercapped name for their line – VersaCore, offering the most versatile (bold italic theirs) tissue dispensing options in the world.

Finally, I want to reference probably the best-known company in this field, Georgia-Pacific. I didn’t go to their website because I found out enough to convince me that they are the future of public bathroom tissue during a recent and urgent visit to the toilet in the new upscale Barnes & Noble not far from my home. This casing, while still made of the traditional PMMA polystyrene that seems to be an industry standard, features a stylish, sloped front-end and an overall design that would be at home in the lobby of Europe’s trendiest boutique hotels. I was so impressed that I took a picture with my cell phone, even at the risk of criminal prosecution and a probable listing on certain predator lists. (I’ll include the photo with this posting if I can figure out how to get it off my phone and onto my computer). Even better, it dispensed paper easily in a free-flowing, luxuriant manner that tempted me to roll a mound out onto the floor and lay down for a nice nap.

All things considered, though, I think I’d still prefer the retro approach – the lone, free-standing roll sitting on the tank behind the seat.

The Handwashing Leadership Forum? Really?

While doing online research for my Wednesday posting about toilet-paper dispensers, I came across the following press release. Maybe this isn’t funny if you’re involved in one of these trade groups, but it sure seems curious to outsiders who happen upon them. Tork, by the way, is a leader in all things sanitized, so it seems only fair that they step up and be recognized.

Dateline: New York (Dec. 2, 2008) — Tork® has joined The Handwashing Leadership Forum, an alliance dedicated to advancing the science of hand hygiene to reduce foodborne illness and prevent infections caused by poor hand hygiene in healthcare settings.

“Members are invited to join The Handwashing Leadership Forum based on their demonstrated leadership and commitment to lowering the risks of foodborne and person-to-person illness,” said Jim Mann, Executive Director of the Handwashingforlife Institute, which is the forum’s umbrella organization. “Forum members agree that by thinking and working together, we can replace today’s misinformation with integrated solutions. We can fill the gaps in the science of hand hygiene, frequent handwashing and good gloving practices.”

Mann said SCA Tissue was invited to join the forum because of the technology and research behind its Tork brand products and dispensing systems as well as its ecological and humanitarian record. As examples, he cited the EcoLogoCM certification of its products and its donation last year of 34,560 rolls of paper towels to hurricane relief efforts on the Gulf Coast.

Ian West, SCA Tissue Category Director — Washroom, said The Handwashing Leadership Forum provides an important, unified voice in addressing hand hygiene issues and an effective way to share expertise across a wide range of industries.

“A lot of the issues addressed are related to foodservice, but the forum also looks beyond that sector,” said West, who represents SCA Tissue in the forum. “The membership of the forum represents a diverse, cross functional group that can address any hand hygiene issues that come up.”

In addition to SCA Tissue, members of The Handwashing Leadership Forum include: GlaxoSmithKline, 3M, and NSF, the Public Health and Safety Company™.

“The Handwashing Leadership Forum’s role is to support operators and regulators already searching together for solutions to the ever-growing threat of foodborne illness,” Mann said. “Poor handwashing plus poor gloving now add up to the No. 1 risk factor in foodborne illness.”

Hand hygiene topped the list of health-related risks among respondents in a global hygiene survey recently commissioned by SCA Tissue’s Swedish-based parent company, SCA. Three out of four respondents in the survey said they have been concerned at one time or another about getting sick because of poor hygiene.

The survey was conducted in nine countries: the United States, Sweden, the United Kingdom, France, Germany, Mexico, Russia, China and Australia. Approximately 500 people were surveyed in each country with respondents balanced for geography, age and gender. Results were analyzed and compiled in a report “Hygiene Matters: The SCA Hygiene Report 2008.”

Several smart remarks, if I may:

·                     The Handwashing Leadership Form? Are you serious?

·                     The Handwashingforlife Institute? You can’t be serious.

·                     I didn’t know “gloving” was a proper gerund, but I plan on using it as soon as possible. I’m just not looking forward to the circumstances where it will be appropriate.

·                     Any humanitarian effort that involves the donation of almost 35,000 rolls of paper towels to desperate hurricane victims is definitely to be applauded. I wonder if they considered putting a little square of Danish on the napkins, to address needs equally important to clean hands, like maybe hunger.

·                     It’s good to have a single unified voice on the subject of handwashing. Only with that unanimity can the forces pushing dirty hands be overcome.

·                     So three out of four respondents in the survey said they have been concerned at one time or another about getting sick because of poor hygiene. The other 25% aren’t concerned and in fact actually enjoy getting sick.

Cruising to Alaska (without Somali pirates)

     The recent news story about the cruise ship full of luxury passengers almost being hijacked by decidedly more downscale Somali pirates reminded me of my own experience with the cruising lifestyle. It’s all too easy for everyone to make their own jokes about the prospect of buffet-stuffed tourists brandishing pool cues and miniature golf putters to ward off the boarding party, but I’m sure the confrontation was still very frightening to all those on board.
     The real story of vacationing aboard a lavish mega-ship is something I got to experience first-hand a couple of years ago, back when people had something called disposable income (ask your grandparents, kids). My wife, son and I had the chance to get nicely priced package through our local YMCA’s Silver Fox Club, a group of retirees who more typically take rollicking day trips to Charleston rather than the seven-day voyage from Vancouver to Alaska that we had latched onto. I kept asking at the sign-up if it was okay that we weren’t doddering and they insisted that it was, so off we went.
     Our group of about 20 departed from Charlotte on a flight to Seattle where we would catch a chartered bus for a quick ride across the Canadian border to our port of departure. We arrived at SEA-TAC airport (so named because it’s both seamy and tacky), collected our baggage and shuffled over to the bus loading area. After some considerable delay – we had to shove our own suitcases into the storage bay, which our elderly companions apparently hadn’t trained for at the Y – we left the airport for the two-hour drive north.
     Our driver, a heavy-lidded man who looked like he’d hijacked a few buffets of his own, was just across the aisle from my seat near the front of the bus, er, motorcoach. As our vehicle veered from one side of the lane to the other, I could’ve sworn I saw his head nodding. I’d survived five trips to the south Asian subcontinent without a bus plunge and I wasn’t about to experience one on I-5 just outside of Bellingham, but there was the usual sign that said not to talk to the driver, er, operator, so I resisted. Finally, I thought it might be better if I said “much longer till we get there?” now rather than “oh my god, we’re going off a bridge” two minutes from now, so I did, and he seemed to brighten.
     By now, though, we were seriously behind schedule and faced the real possibility that we’d miss our debarkation. Even though the cruise line had contracted with the ground transport provider to get us from the airport to the seaport, I doubted they’d delay 2,000-plus other passengers just to wait for the Foxes, even if we were Silver. After we made several wrong turns around the port facility, we found the ship and managed to get out and scramble up the passageway just in time.
     The ship was named Something of the Seas (Empress? Brilliance? Enchantment? I forget now) and was as huge as it was magnificent. Greeted in our stateroom by our steward with the usual joke about how the salt air would make our clothes shrink, we stopped to nosh on the welcome-aboard buffet before proceeding to the lifeboat drill/buffet (all jackets extra-large), then on to the settling-in buffet before a quick nap and the midnight you’re-still-not-full buffet. The next two days we were “at sea” according to our itinerary, churning through the Inside Passage while playing trivia games, going on scavenger hunts, scaling the on-board climbing wall and admiring an outdoor pool that seemed out of place off the coast of western Canada.
     We arrived at our first stop on the morning of the third day. This was the famous Hubbard Glacier, a mass of ice a thousand feet deep and a mile wide, inching slowly through the mountains and into the sea. We couldn’t actually get off the ship and experience the glacier first-hand (too slippery, I guess) so we sidled up several hundred yards off shore to watch the glacier “calving.” This is the process where huge chunks of ice fall off into the ocean with tremendous splashes while several cruisers-full of drunken tourists watch and talk thoughtfully about global warning. Though this was an unusually moderate June for these parts, the wind rushing over all that ice made us quite cold, so we switched over to Irish coffees.
     The next day we arrived at our first on-shore excursion at a small town with a “k” in it. We were told they only had about 100 year-round residents, who kept several blocks of souvenir shops during the summer and kept indoors the rest of the year. The main attraction was a vintage steam train that carried us about 15 miles into the snow-capped mountains where we enjoyed fantastic views. Probably the most unusual of these was a cliff face with a huge graffiti scrawl that read “Mr. Hamilton made us do this.” The story was that in the 1930s, a high-school teacher from the Midwest brought his students up here for a summer of adventure, character-building and, apparently, dangling from ropes. They thanked him at the end of the summer with this cliff-drawing before those who survived returned to Illinois.
     We docked next in Juneau, Alaska’s capital city. As we learned in the recent presidential election, state government in this part of the country isn’t much to look at, so we skipped tours of the boxy administrative buildings for a ride up the skytram to a park perched high over the city. We walked a nature trail hoping to spot any of the Big 3 of the Alaskan outdoors (bear, caribou and eagles) but encountered only these furry groundlings that scampered through the brush in a pale imitation of wildlife. The park also had a Pepsi machine.
     Our last stop on Day 6 of the trip was in the fishing village of Ketchikan. We had previously shunned the expensive excursions offered by the cruise line; however, this was our last chance to do something truly special, so my son and I signed up for a seaplane trip into the interior. We joined the pilot and a couple from Arizona for a 45-minute hop to a crystal-clear lake virtually untouched by the outside world. We flew in low over the mountainsides while the pilot played inspirational music (“America the Beautiful,” the theme from “Rocky”) over the intercom and let us all take turns holding the steering thing and pretending to fly. Once on the lake, we taxied over to the shore where the pilot produced a small fishing rod and allowed my son to catch his first fish. On the flight back, the pilot surprised us with short dive, just long enough to photograph everyone’s delighted expression, then maneuvered back into Ketchikan Bay just as an unforgettable sunset broke through the clouds. Meanwhile, my wife had been to the totem pole museum, which I heard was quite nice.
     All that was left now was our return to Vancouver and the flight back home, both very dreary prospects. Before you get off the ship, they make you gather in arbitrary color-coded groups before you’re allowed ashore, since everyone surging to the gangway at once is apparently a bad idea. All the fees and tips have been paid, so there’s no incentive for ship personnel to be pleasant to you anymore and you end up feeling like you’re in a refugee camp. My group, Camp Yellow, was among the last to be able to board our bus. We drove about an hour through the grey drizzle to the U.S. border where we were ordered off the bus by immigration while our vehicle was thoroughly searched. “We’re old and tired and all have headaches,” I wanted to scold the officials who had delayed us. I doubt that would’ve helped our situation, and eventually we made it to Seattle and barely made our return flight, no thanks to the Department of Homeland Security.
     It truly ended up being the trip of a lifetime and I think of it often now that I face a future of lean times and modest vacations. Having been born in Florida and currently living in the heat of the South, Alaska had long been for me an idyllic land of cold and mountains, and in 2005 it was yet to be despoiled by its association with a certain bee-hived governor. Unfortunately, now, when I wear one of my souvenir “Alaska” t-shirts bought on those rustic wooden sidewalks of that town with a “k,” I have the conservative Republicans of my hometown coming up to me, pointing at my shirt, and saying, “Alaska! Alright!”

You want my advice? (Pt. 1)

Free advice seems to be everywhere these days – in the newspapers, online, on television, floating freely in the ether. The problem with the stuff I’ve seen is that they rely heavily on so-called “experts” who have some kind of experience or background in the area they’re discussing. Starting with this installment today and continuing periodically, I will begin offering my own brand of advice, rooted deeply in a philosophy that values the concept of making things up as you go along with no regard for the consequences. Today’s topic addresses an interpersonal relationship, but I’ll also be tackling health problems, spiritual concerns, computer problems, do-it-yourself issues, travel, and virtually anything else I care to. Important Disclaimer in Bold: Remember, I have no idea what I’m talking about.
Q: Three years ago, my brother donated a kidney to me. I’m grateful and have told him so many times. The problem is that he talks about it every time I see him. He will tell complete strangers he gave me his kidney. He even took me to a school reunion to show his old teachers what a wonderful person he is. I’m glad I received the kidney, but how can I let my brother know that while I’m appreciative, I’m also tired of hearing him remind me every day? – Peeing Great in Arkansas.
A: As I see it you have several options: (1) Give him back the kidney. If you sit on the commode and strain really hard, this can be done without surgery. (2) Give him another organ in return. The lungs also come in twos and we can survive quite well with only one. Have it surgically removed (these are a little trickier than kidneys to expel yourself) and overnight it to him — I’d recommend FedX rather than UPS, what with the high volume of packages going through for the holidays. Or, to make even more of a point, smoke cigarettes like a chimney for the next few weeks and then send it to him regular mail after the holidays. You’ll save a lot on postage. (3) Accuse him of wild psychotic distortions. Claim that he made you a pot of kidney bean soup, and then became disoriented. (4) Kill your brother.

Help me Honda (my life in cars)

     With all the attention currently being given to the plight of the American auto industry, I thought I’d take this opportunity to use other people’s hardship for my own personal gain as a topic for a blog posting.
     Not that I’d be caught dead driving an American car, because driving while lifeless can be very dangerous. Actually, my family and I have a long history with domestic auto producers. My grandfather worked for a Ford dealer in Pennsylvania. My father owned almost exclusively Ford products for most of my childhood, except for a failed and ultimately flaming experiment with a Renault. The two most memorable vehicles of my youth were a giant Mercury Monterey with a reverse angle rear window that rolled down at the touch – actually it was more of a 15-second jiggle – of a button, and an even gianter Galaxy 500, our first car with air conditioning.
     And my first car was a “blue” Ford Falcon I inherited from my mother just before my junior year in college. I put blue in quotes because the paint job had become almost crystalline in the heat of the Miami sun. It ran reliably enough despite its stunningly ugly appearance, safely taking me the nearly 500 miles I’d routinely drive between Tallahassee and Miami. My most vivid memory of the Falcon was the day I parked it in front of my landlord’s office while I ran in to pay the rent, then emerged just in time to see it rolling downhill toward several parked cars. Not the best way to find out that adding transmission fluid twice a day was an inadequate alternative to actually getting the transmission fixed.
     My next car was also a Detroit creation, the much-maligned Chevy Vega. This one really was blue, a “fastback” that seemed like one first-rate vehicle to a poor college student of the early ‘70s. Even though it was another automatic transmission, the gearshift was on the floor, which gave its sluggish drive a certain sex appeal (if only to me). We bought it from a neighbor in Miami, who convinced us it was a great deal, which it probably was since he used his front as a used-car salesman to hide what in retrospect were obvious organized-crime connections. I don’t know how many headless bodies were crammed into that hatchback before the Vega came into my hands, but I know they had a remarkably smooth ride to whatever paving project they ended up in.
     The Vega had the distinction of transporting me from my dismal life as an eternally under-achieving college student in Florida to an honest career in a suburb of Charlotte. I drove it for about a year in my new hometown, until I became concerned the corrosive oxidation would metastasize from its body to mine. In my first independent transaction with a car dealer, I made the ghastly mistake of trading it in for a brown VW Rabbit. Not an American car, I know, but by the early ‘80s VW had picked up many bad influences from its U.S. counterparts, not the least of which was constant breakdown. I wasted a lot of money on fruitless repairs before taking it back to the dealer, who took pity on me and put me in my first brand-new car, a Datsun 210.
     I was still a very uneducated consumer – I bought the car in the hope that the “cool” setting on the dashboard fan was actually air-conditioning, which it wasn’t – yet I lucked into a reliable basic vehicle whose fanciest extras were FM radio and faux leather seats. I still remember the feel of those seats after driving through the afternoon heat to my second-shift job a half-hour from home. Open windows on the interstate and that “cool” setting provided little relief to the pit of my lower back, which was utterly sodden by the time I arrived.
     Now that I was experienced with Japanese models, I bought a succession of sensible cars. First there was a red Honda Civic, then a white Honda Civic, then a grey Honda Civic and finally a silver Honda Civic. Not much imagination, I admit, but memories of that damn VW were slower to recede than the stench of a dead rabbit jammed in the under-carriage, and I wanted reliability above all else. I admit I was tempted more than once during that 20-some-year span to go all middle-aged in my car selection, maybe a Miata or a convertible or at least the Honda CRV, the company’s smaller SUV. But common sense (and the advice of my wife) always prevailed. The craziest I was ever able to get was the Honda Odyssey, a chick magnet of a minivan if ever there was one.
     My only complaint with the succession of Civics was that there always seemed to be a slight problem in the same area, one I’ve found hard to describe to my mechanic. It’s sort of near the steering wheel, a bit to the left of the gearshift, maybe just above the accelerator pedal. I think it’s referred to as the vehicle operator, or “driver.” Aside from that incident with the wandering Falcon, I’d never had any accidents with my American cars, probably because I was so attuned to every detail of their operation that I actually paid attention while I was driving. With the Hondas I was able to do other things, like listen to the radio and go in reverse.
     In my first accident, an oncoming driver tried to turn left in front of me and we had a major fender bender in which I actually sustained an injury, a sprained thumb. The next incident was on the interstate near the exit ramp on my way home from work. A line had backed up for some reason, and when the truck in front of me rear-ended the vehicle in front of him, bringing him to a sudden and, I might add, un-signalled stop, I naturally plowed into him. Some extensive front-end damage but nothing irreparable. Finally, I was backing out of a parking spot at the mall on a foggy day, trying to see over the monstrous SUVs that flanked me on either side, when another driver looking for a parking space backed into my rear side panel. In none of these three cases were the Hondas “totaled”, an extremely cool verb I’ve always wanted to use; they were only partialled. All were fixed and returned to service.
     In the judgment of the moment, none of these episodes seemed even remotely to be my responsibility. All of them were largely caused by the inattention or carelessness of others while I was going about my business. I couldn’t have anticipated things were going wrong or changed to a direction that would have led to a more positive outcome. Simply put, none of the three failures were my fault.
     Sounds like I could get a job as head of one of the Big 3 automakers.

You want my advice? (Pt. 2)

This is the second installment in my free but awful advice service. As I mentioned before, my philosophy values the concept of making things up as you go along, with little or no regard for the consequences – a methodology I call “selfish preposterism”. Today’s topic addresses a health matter, but I’ll also be tackling interpersonal relationships, spiritual concerns, computer problems, do-it-yourself issues, travel, and virtually anything else I care to. Important Disclaimer, today in Bold Italic: Remember, I have no idea what I’m talking about.

Q. My 77-year-old husband has a bizarre skin problem. On his left arm he has red blotches that appear and then disappear every several days. He’s seen several dermatologists but none can give him a diagnosis. Now it’s showing up on the other arm. The spots are not itchy or painful, just unsightly. Please help us figure out what is happening.

A. There are several bizarre things going on here: your husband apparently has some skin without red blotches and, at age 77, if this is the best he can do for a health complaint, he’s better off than my sorry 55-year-old body.

 When you say the blotches appear and then disappear every several days, do you mean that they flash on and off like Christmas lights, or do they change more slowly? If they’re flashing, this could be very amusing to circus folk, and you should consider renting a tent for him and charging admission. If it’s more gradual than this, your profit-making options are limited. When it shows up on the other arm, does it disappear from the original arm? Does he ever have both arms in this disgusting condition? And are you sure those are dermatologists you’re seeing, or might they be herpetologists, who would be less surprised because of the unusual skin features they routinely see in snakes and alligators.

My advice would be that, if the spots are just repulsive, not itchy or painful, your best bet would be to cover him in a full-body burqa and move to the tribal regions of northeast Pakistan, which is about as far away from me as you can get.

Rediscovering the rock concert

     As a fifty-something man, it’s been some time since I’ve been to a live rock concert. I’ve been a fan of the genre for as long as I can remember (at least since 1966’s “Snoopy vs. the Red Baron,” assuming that counts) and grew up being inspired by rock’s energy and message (the Red Baron gets shot down in the end). Nothing beats a live performance of rock ‘n roll to celebrate those two magical elements in a community of like-minded people.

     The last concert I can remember attending before just recently was during my final year in college when I drove 180 miles to see John Denver. Now I know a lot of the purists out there will claim that John Denver hardly qualified as a rocker, but let me tell you that the bespectacled moptop could seriously get down. He wasn’t all “Rocky Mountain This” and “Rocky Mountain That.” He actually had a drummer on several of the songs.

     This past summer, I got to attend my first arena show in ages as I accompanied my 17-year-old son to a performance of Canadian rockers Rush. I was delighted to be invited, first because it indicated that Daniel wasn’t too embarrassed to be seen with his dad in public, and secondly because he was embracing a style of music that we could share an appreciation for. Also, I wasn’t on restriction, like the friend he originally planned to go with.

     We made our way to the Verizon Amphitheatre just north of Charlotte on a hot July day. Walking through the parking lot, we saw numerous tailgate parties featuring abundant amounts of beer and suspicious smoky odors. The rebellious nature of rock was alive and well in these small groups who were openly defying the property-wide ban on cigarette smoking. When we got to our seats, we found ourselves situated in mid-row between a guy throwing back Bud Lites at an alarming pace and a 6-foot-8 student with limbs the length of a primate.

     The three-man band took the stage and proceeded to rock long and hard through a set list of new songs and classics. We tried to care about selections from their new “Snakes & Arrows” album but were really there for oldies like “Tom Sawyer” and “Working Man.” To give something of a theme to the tour, they’d produced a short film featuring Jerry Stiller on a nationwide search for rotisserie chicken (I didn’t get it either), and stage props that included upright ovens that roasted rotating birds. The increasingly drunken guy to our left was really getting into this, repeatedly shouting “chicken! wooo!” and “wooo! chicken!” directly into my ear. As the afternoon heat and closeness of the crowd started getting to us, we retreated to the back lawn and spent the rest of the show looking up at the stars and considering how man should “put aside the alienation and end up with the fascination.”

     Then, just this past Wednesday, I had an opportunity to join Daniel for another concert, this time with former Talking Heads front-man David Byrne. We drove through a soaking rain to arrive at a trio of venues clustered together on the east side of Charlotte. I had been to this site several times before but became confused about where exactly I was supposed to park. There’s an auditorium, an arena and a theatre, and they are forever changing labels as corporate naming rights come and go. Were we looking for the Bojangles Arena, which used to be the Blockbuster Coliseum after it had been the Cracker Barrel Arena for years? Or did we want the Papa John’s Theatre, formerly the Time Warner Cable Theatre, formerly the Slim Jim Turkey Jerky Performance Space? We found a line of cars queuing up for a parking lot, so we got in it and hoped for the best.

     And the best is what we got. David Byrne put on an absolutely brilliant performance with all the quirky lyrics and bizarre choreography of the Talking Heads. Three back-up singers and three dancers lumbered frantically around the stage in hilarious chaos, at one point performing while lying flat on the floor and at another time scooting around in office chairs. The music was every bit as enthralling, with the new stuff as mesmerizing as the oldies. I will say nothing nasty or sarcastic about Byrne who is, remarkably, a fellow fifty-something.

     The auditorium offered very comfortable amenities and seating, though the crowd didn’t seem to know how to use the latter. When the musicians first took the stage, we all stood and welcomed them loudly. We continued standing through the second song, and the third song, and I began to wonder why we had bothered to pay for the seats. When a slower-paced song began, most of the audience took the chance to sit down and rest, but then re-exploded onto their feet when a high-energy number followed. My back is not in the best shape and I was starting to wish we could pick a pose and stick with it; I didn’t care which one, I just didn’t like all the up and down. Perhaps the guidance of a program would’ve been handy, like those we used to have in church that prompted “the congregation rises” and “now you sit down.”

     The other parts of the concert that gave me pause were the sing-along portions. It wasn’t a formal row-row-row-your-boat kind of thing. I’m talking about how enthusiastic audience members would chime in with the chorus of certain songs, whether they knew the lyrics or not. I wanted to hear Byrne singing “Life During Wartime,” not the bozo behind me who chanted “This ain’t no Hardee’s/This ain’t no Frisco/This ain’t no dueling in town/No time for potluck/Or heebie-jeebies…” and so on.

     The end of the set arrived, a reasonable 90 minutes after the show began, and we gave a rousing ovation as the band bowed, waved and then left the stage. Then, more awkwardness – how exactly is this encore thing supposed to work in a way that doesn’t embarrass the performer and afflict the audience with repetitive motion injuries? We all know it’s a sham, that the musicians are going to return for another song or two. Still we play this little game where we pretend we can’t live without them and they pretend to be on their bus, halfway out of town already. Byrne and company seemed to stretch their luck a bit with the amount of time they stayed off-stage, and the cheers were starting to ebb when they finally returned. Embarrassing, yes, and yet we did it all over again following another song. After this one, though, we clipped our appreciation short and managed to get them to stay away.

     Though awkward, uncomfortable and slightly scary to someone my age, I must say I enjoyed both of these concert experiences thoroughly, probably slightly more in retrospect than during the event itself. It was a great chance to bond with my son and allow us to share a common passion for a cultural phenomenon that will never die, even if most of its earliest fans will shortly.

Don’t forget to get Alzheimer’s

Like many people approaching late middle-age, I’m starting to have some concerns about my memory. I’m not sure where on the continuum from a few “senior moments” to full-blown Alzheimer’s I might be, and even if a neurologist could pinpoint it, I wouldn’t be able to remember what he said.

It’s that short-term memory that I seem to be having the most trouble with these days. I guess this is something everyone struggles with to an extent; even the twenty-ish cashier who I just paid for my tea had notes scribbled all over the back of her hands, including a scrawl that looked suspiciously like “kill.” (You’d think a chore that life-altering would tend to stick with you, but maybe she’s got a lot of holiday-related obligations – parties, cards, gifts for the nephews, etc. — on her mind.)

Now that I think of it though, my mid-term memory is also suffering. I recently made a list of all the places we’ve gone on vacations over the years so I wouldn’t forget the tremendous time we had in Montreal or that great walk along Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco. My wife would suggest that if these events were so memorable, then I’d remember them, and I suppose she has a point. But I did shoot photographs and took video on both of these trips, so why should I have to waste cranial storage space when I can just as easily root around in the dusty bags stashed in the top of the coat closet to recall such precious times?

What tends to be most bothersome to family members, and I’ve heard this is a symptom I share with the most desperately neuron-deficient, is that my long-term memory remains quite good. The problem is that it’s not important lifetime milestones like weddings and births that I remember with such clarity. I do vaguely recollect that my wife had some sort of child a while back, and I’m pretty sure it was a boy because that’s what we have walking around the house now 17 years later. But the details of that event are roughly equivalent to my recall of the ’63 Dodgers and the record-setting 104 steals made by Maury Wills on their way to the World Series. The emergence of a living being who represents my own flesh and blood from the womb of my beloved life partner is a truly magical experience but, c’mon… 104 stolen bases in one season?

What worries me is that it’s neither long- nor medium-term memory that allows you to get through the day in some sort of organized, survivable fashion. It’s the immediate stuff that’s most important to daily life. I can’t imagine arriving at the airport having forgotten my passport and yet getting a reprieve from the screeners because I can remember the actress who played Granny on “The Beverly Hillbillies” (Irene Ryan).

For just one example, with this being the Christmas season, I am expected to remember hints dropped by loved ones about the type of gifts that would be most dear to them. I barely even realize that it’s the most wonderful time of year until we’ve run out of Thanksgiving leftovers, and that still hasn’t happened yet. My wife and son already have an estimated four presents either in-hand or on-order for me, and I’ve yet to visit a single retail website (unless you can count ESPN.com). I think Beth said she wants an iPod or socks or tea, or something in that general area. But these kinds of things come in such a huge variety of options these days that it’s very challenging to pick out exactly the correct item. Beth has kindly promised to get me to the website of choice this weekend and position the cursor directly on the gift she wants, then turn away as I click so that there’ll be at least some element of surprise.

It’s exactly this kind of immediacy that enables me to function with some measure of decency. I’ve borrowed a term from modern manufacturing techniques to give credibility to the technique I’ve developed. Called “Just in Time” – for the idea that you don’t build something until right before someone wants it – I want to learn what I need to know just before I need to know it. Don’t tell me several weeks in advance that my mom’s birthday is coming up. I need to know at the very last minute so I can spend three times the necessary amount on rush postage and still be two days late.

Aside from occasions like gift-giving and breaking the heart of my dear mother, the other major handicap I’m learning to live with has to do with following directions to get from one location to another. Visiting my son’s high school the other day, I asked at the main office to be directed to a particular room number. I was told go out this door, turn right, go down the hall and through the double doors, walk across the open area to building E and take the first hall to the right all the way to the end. I moved my head up and down and put the most understanding look I could summon on my face as the sounds being made by the secretary in front of me went whizzing by my head. It was at this point that I wished I’d put a Garmin GPS on my Christmas gift list.

There is one major benefit to a severely deficient memory, and that comes while watching television. I can’t tell a first-run TV show from a rerun even if it stars Bernie Mac, Heath Ledger and Pope John Paul II. I can blissfully sit through every episode of “Seinfeld” or “The Office” that I’ve ever seen and enjoy the jokes like I’m hearing them for the first time. This annoys my wife to no end, since she has the memory of a wolverine and can recite dialog from foreign films she hasn’t seen for years, and do it in French. Plot twists already known to millions hit me out of left field, like an errant throw from Orlando Cepeda trying to gun down the speedy Wills on his record-breaking dash for third base.

I’m just hoping to hang on till retirement, when I can while away my remaining days, remembering to drool now and then but not much else.

You want my advice? (Pt. 3)

This is the third installment in my free but dreadful advice service. As I mentioned previously, my philosophy uses the concept of making things up as you go along, with little or no regard for the consequences – a methodology I call “selfish preposterism”. Today’s topic again addresses a health matter, but I’ll also be tackling interpersonal relationships, spiritual concerns, computer problems, do-it-yourself issues, travel, and virtually anything else I care to. IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER, TODAY IN BOLD CAPITALS, IN HONOR OF THE FROZEN CAPITAL MARKETS: REMEMBER, I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT.

 

Q. My 82-year-old father was recently hospitalized with complications from a blood disorder. Medical staff assessed the need for a urinary catheter. The insertion was done with a dry tube surface. When asked if they could “put something on it,” the female nurse just told him to “take a deep breath”. The insertion was done twice, both times without lubricant. When he told his regular doctor, she just about came unglued. My father is now unable to urinate on his own because of a blockage, which his urologist said may have been caused by the dry insertions. He now has to live with a catheter. I cringe whenever I think about his experience and wonder if others have been subjected to this.

     A. HOLY CRAP! DID YOU REALLY HAVE TO TELL ME THIS? OH MY GOD, THAT SOUNDS HORRENDOUSLY PAINFUL.

     On a more sane and sober note, I agree with your father’s regular doctor who suggested using glue as a lubricant. Wait, that’s not what you said. Jeez, I’m really unhinged here.

     I’m guessing that the female nurse who did the unlubricated insertion misconstrued your father’s request to “put something on it” as an improper sexual advance, which it may well have been. Is your father currently getting “any”? Was “it” in an engorged state when the request was made? It may be that his eagerness for admittedly pleasurable but inappropriate touching by the nurse could have caused him a more painful procedure than was necessary.

     As for the blockage he’s now experiencing, I would suggest limiting his intake of fluids to zero. If he still has to urinate, you might try the homeopathic version of a catheter: a Burger King straw (the big ones they give out for milk shakes). Instead of the greasing the tube, try lubricating your father instead with a tall glass of Bacardi 151 rum. While he’s unconscious, his limp appendage should be far more user-friendly.

     And please, PLEASE, never write to me about urinary catheters again. I’m serious.

I beg (urp) your pardon (achoo!)

I wrote not too long ago about my annoyance with the social convention that demands a verbal response from bystanders when someone sneezes. Just as we properly fail to comment when our friends and coworkers make other kinds of unprompted nasal or oral outbursts — like snorting or saying “hi” — so too should we mind our own business for the sneeze.

The most common response always seemed a little presumptuous to me anyway. “God bless” sounds too much like an order to the deity. He’s supposed to stop whatever grand enterprise He might be involved in so He can heed your command to bless Bob from accounting simply because he (Bob) had an irritation of the nasal passage that caused a sudden, forceful expulsion of air and God knows what else? Even the most focused of us has to concentrate when creating worlds or smiting errant Methodists; we don’t need to be distracted by requests for trivial blessings, especially when we all know that Bob makes it louder than he has to just because he craves attention.

Saying “God bless” is second nature to many of us, yet would other cultures similarly demand their gods do such casual bidding? Can you imagine hearing “Shiva, hand me that stapler,” or “Yahweh, tell that guy to knock off the humming”? I don’t think so.

If we’re all going to agree that spontaneous eruptions from the mouth or nose need some kind of acknowledgment, let’s at least be consistent and come up with some standards that make a little bit of sense. I think I’m as competent as anyone to start the discussion.

For sneezing, I proposed we switch over completely to the more secular “Gesundheit.” I believe that translates from the German to “good health,” which is probably too late to hope for if the cold germs are already in the trachea but seems like a nice sentiment anyway.

For coughing, I think we should say “Schadenfreude.” Again, turning to the Germanic tradition feels appropriate and, since the translation has to do with taking delight in the failure of others more successful than you, a certain bitterness is properly communicated.

For hiccupping, I would suggest something along the lines of “Sorry you’ve had a convulsive gasp caused by the involuntary contraction of the diaphragm. Let’s agree that it won’t happen again.”

For burping, let’s go with “Jacksonian democracy.” Admittedly it makes no sense, but it should at least prompt a change of subject to 19^th century American history. I think we also need to acknowledge the pause in conversation you’ll sometimes detect when someone just barely manages to suppress a burp. Your boss says “I really think that in order to cut costs further we’re going to have to (pause, slight puffing of jowls and slight lowering of jaw) lay off our entire workforce and outsource our production to Chimp Haven, the retirement home for lab monkeys” and you’re thinking “Wow, he almost burped; I should probably say something.” That something should be “Hail, Satan.”

For yawning, no response should be required unless the yawn is accompanied by an audible sound. If it is, let me propose either “need a nap?” or the equally appropriate “please close your mouth as soon as possible.”

For throat clearing, keep in mind that this is usually done as a preface to an interruption, so a good reply might be “what the hell do you want?” If instead, a true backup of phlegm was actually involved and the “ahem” was sincere, say nothing but instead evacuate the area immediately.

For chewing gum in such an insistent manner as to cause a cracking sound, we should say (into the nearest 911-enabled telephone) “The nature of my emergency is that my friend has apparently swallowed Bubble Wrap.”

For sniffing or sniffling, like when you’re try to get air through a slightly congested sinus, I’m tempted to suggest the caustic “Oh, boo-hoo, what a baby” but that seems a little harsh, even to me. I think I’ll recommend tactful silence unless – and this is a very important exception – the sniff is accompanied by a high-pitched tweet, which should prompt the response “There seems to be a bird in your nose; let’s join together to kill it.”

Nose-blowing, even the most subtle variety, is an abomination that I can’t believe is sanctioned in polite company. Considering that it’s far less spontaneous than other expulsions – the blower even premeditates (if we’re lucky) his or her move by producing a hanky – it should not be tolerated, much less tacitly endorsed with a friendly comment. Nose-blowing should only be done under the care of a healthcare professional on an in-patient basis at the nearest major medical center, or at least not in the same room as me.

Horking, mostly done by cats trying to expel a hairball though occasionally heard from elderly gentlemen, should be met with “bad kitty” (or “bad elderly gentleman”) followed by a stern “No!”

I think I’ve provided an adequate framework for the transition from our current methods of recognizing these outbursts to something much more fair and equitable. I realize that there may be some categories I haven’t covered, in particular those hybrid explosions that combine two or more of the above-defined events: the sneef (sneeze + cough), the curp (cough + burp), the york (yawn + hork) and the never-documented but often-theorized snickup (sniffle + hiccup). But I can’t both create and manage this new system, and will have to rely on the good sense of average citizens to take it to the next level if that’s what’s needed.

I don’t want to appoint a Language Czar to oversee my plans though, if necessary, I understand George W. Bush may soon be available.

You want my advice? (Pt. 4)

This is the fourth installment in my free but increasingly dreadful advice service. Today’s topic again addresses a technical matter, but I’ll also be tackling interpersonal relationships, spiritual concerns, health problems, do-it-yourself issues, travel, and virtually anything else I care to. TODAY’S DISCLAIMER APPEARS IN UNDERLINED CAPITALS, BECAUSE I WANT TO SEE HOW UNDERLINES ARE CONVERTED FROM WORD TO HTML: REMEMBER, I HAVEN’T THE FAINTEST IDEA WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT.

Q. I’m hoping you can provide guidance concerning harmful radiation from a satellite dish mounted on my roof. I’m a little concerned because we’re expecting a baby soon, and her crib will be just a few feet away from the satellite dish’s position on my roof.

A. You’re quite right to be concerned about the position of the satellite dish. The way that it’s mounted, the angle of the dish and the condition of the bowl itself are all very important considerations in the well-being of your loved ones. You also need to look at the power source, the wiring and the connection into your TV. All of these must be in proper shape to guarantee you’re getting the crispest picture as well as all the channels you’re entitled to. The happiness of your family members hangs in the balance, especially if they can’t see all the Indian cricket, Mexican soap operas and NFL football they want.

As for the baby you’re expecting, I wouldn’t recommend putting her crib on the roof. Most roofs are slanted to allow rain and snow to trickle off, and the same thing could happen to your little girl if the crib isn’t soundly secured. It would be much better to keep her inside the house, preferably in a room by herself, if she’s going to scream and moan anything like my kids did. This room, often called a “nursery,” should not be confused with the nurseries and rooftop herb gardens some people keep in the city. It should contain bedding of soft cotton or linen, not soil or mulch.

Allow me to wish you all the best with the new addition to your family. A rewarding life of laughter, pride and contentment await you as you watch the number of channels offered on satellite TV continue to grow and grow. There’s nothing quite like a dish to make you appreciate how happy you can be with your family.

Just make sure that new little girl doesn’t get loose and chew through the wiring.

Playing the corporate game

As I’ve written before, I’ve been involved in a lot of game-playing during my corporate career. I’m not talking about the politics and back-biting that make the corporate life so much fun. I’m referring to the all-too-occasional exercises in what’s generally called “career development,” where a group of employees sit around a table (or a bush or an abandoned fire training tower) and get run through a series of humiliations and/or life-threatening workouts. If you’re lucky, you only feel stupid; otherwise, you end up “developed,” a painful condition where you exhibit a positive attitude all out of proportion to your circumstances.

Generally, these outings are designed to promote creativity and build camaraderie among the troops. You’re taken out of your normal cubicle environment and put in a setting where you are encouraged to think outside the box, dare to be great, or push the envelope of your normal comfort zone. I happen to believe that thinking outside the box is over-rated, and remind my cat of this every time he strays over the edge of his litter container.

Nevertheless, I try to be a good boy and play along. The first couple times, I genuinely tried to improve myself and my value to the company. But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve become a lot more jaded, as you’re about to read.

One fairly common method to get group members to open up and talk freely is to mentally transport them to a different place in time. Here, they can talk about their aspirations or ramble nostalgically about the past. In one session I went through in the early ‘90s, staged for what were (wrongly as it turned out) perceived to be future leaders, we were told to draw a picture of where we saw ourselves in ten years. The only thing the 15 people had in common was that they imagined a future somewhere very far away from the company they were supposed to be leading. I remember that my picture had me sitting on a dock next to a huge satellite dish that retrieved documents from outer space that I would then proofread while my son sat next to me fishing. (I wasn’t exactly prescient about the coming rise of the Internet.) Poor artist that I am, my group’s facilitator interpreted the scene as someone working at NASA directing the first mission to Mars, with my son playing the part of a tethered robot. Close enough, I figured.

A similar exercise was done with another group a few years later: they were told to think exactly ten years into the past. Headlines of the exact day were read aloud and a hit song from the period was played to tickle everyone’s memory. We heard funny tales from high school, a story about a surprise birthday party and, from one young woman who could barely hold back her tears, a recounting of the day after her mother was killed in a head-on collision with a drunk driver. The brainstorming was not especially inspired after that.

Another common activity is to break the group into smaller teams who are then given an assignment that requires them to work together to accomplish a goal. Once, we had to use tape, pipe cleaners and popsicle sticks to create a contraption that could cushion an egg from a six-foot fall. Another time we had to reach consensus on the best way to fold a sheet of paper into an airplane, then test our designs with a farthest-flight competition in the parking lot. My prototype was damaged when it was run over during flight testing; I wanted to ball up the remains and wrap them around a rock, which I was convinced I could throw way farther than anyone’s aircraft was going to go. Apparently, this was not the paradigm shift my trainer had in mind. Maybe I’d do better if a coloring or finger-paint session was next on the schedule.

I also had an opportunity to work on the other side of the equation when I spent a few years as an excellence trainer. (Note that I said “excellence,” not “excellent.”) During each day-long quality awareness session, we played what was called the JIT game, which was meant to demonstrate just-in-time production techniques. Each six-person team was given a collection of interlocking blocks and asked to set up a line that could produce exact replicas of a certain configuration. They were required to re-engineer their process several times – with blatant hints from the trainers – to achieve more and better widgets crafted each time with fewer and fewer people. At the end, they could do their very best work with only two people instead of six. Inevitably, some participant would learn the wrong lesson and ask what would happen to the four people who no longer had jobs. The trainers were told to make some vague hint about how maybe they could work in marketing instead.

The most enjoyable game I can recall from my quarter-century experience with this garbage was the Myers-Briggs personality assessment. What I liked best was that this was something you could do largely in the privacy of your own personal space, without having to “team-build” with your half-witted coworkers. You’d answer a battery of questions about your preferences – there were no right or wrong choices – and then you’d be put into one of 16 categories that labeled you as an extrovert, a thinker, a perceiver, an innovator, a molester, an invertebrate, etc. The only group participation required was at the end when you were given your results and told to go to a part of the room where you’d join up with others of your monstrous ilk and compare notes.

One thing I have learned from all these corporate games is how to game the system. Since no judgments are made, no answers are wrong and no ideas are too ridiculous, you can offer up the most absurd input and enjoy watching your guide squirm as they validate your responses. “Yes, Davis, your idea about twirling on our tippy-toes while talking to clients on the phone is a very innovative one,” the trainer says. “Let’s write that up on the whiteboard.” Until they wise up and put your manager behind a two-way mirror with your personnel file, your pay grade and a taser at the ready, these learning opportunities can actually be rewarding. Just not how they were intended.

 

Worst Christmas songs ever

Today I begin my list of the five worst Christmas songs in the history of the universe. In reverse order, they are:

Number 5 – “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” by Michael Jackson

This is the only song on my list that is a re-imagined classic rather than an original composition. It was recorded back in the Jackson Five days and features Michael at his high-pitched screeching worst. (I’d say he was pre-pubescent at the time, but then I could be talking about last week.) In the final bars – “…mommy kissing Santa Claus … last … night” – the pitch is so grating that I get a headache just describing it. It’s so bad that it’s possibly even worse than the allegations of child abuse against him.

Number 4 – “Little St. Nick” by the Beach Boys

Allow me to quote what is otherwise one of my favorite groups of the rock era:

Well, way up north where the air gets cold
There’s a tale about Christmas that you’ve all been told
And a real famous cat all dressed up in red
And he spends the whole year workin’ out on his sled

It’s the little Saint Nick / Ooooo, little Saint Nick
It’s the little Saint Nick / Ooooo, little Saint Nick

And haulin’ through the snow at a frightenin’ speed
With a half a dozen deer with Rudy to lead
He’s gotta wear his goggles ’cause the snow really flies
And he’s cruisin’ every pad with a little surprise

Run run reindeer / Run run reindeer / Run run reindeer / Run run reindeer

Ahhhhhh / Oooooooo
Merry Christmas Saint Nick
Christmas comes this time each year

I think that last line is my favorite. Nothing puts cheer in the season like reminding us that holidays come on a regularly scheduled basis.

Number 3 – “Step Into Christmas” by Elton John

I don’t know if Elton collaborated with long-time lyricist Bernie Taupin to create this song, or whether it was one of his rare song-writing efforts with the ghost of Adolf Hitler. Either way, it’s a sorry, sorry offering.

Welcome to my Christmas song
I’d like to thank you for the year
So I’m sending you this Christmas card
To say it’s nice to have you here
I’d like to sing about all the things
Your eyes and mind can see
So hop aboard the turntable
Oh step into Christmas with me

Step into Christmas
Let’s join together
We can watch the snow fall forever and ever
Eat, drink and be merry
Come along with me
Step into Christmas
The admission’s free

 Note that he’d like to sing about “all the things your eyes and mind can see,” in other words, virtually everything known to mankind, from kangaroos to the tensions on the India-Pakistan border to the third law of thermodynamics. Just “hop aboard the turntable so … we can watch the snow fall forever and ever … because the admission’s free.” Excuse me, but I just have to ask: what?

Number 2 – “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime” by Paul McCartney

This “song” is an absolute abomination. Even if you didn’t compare it to other holiday efforts by former Beatles – the haunting “Happy Christmas (War is Over)” by John Lennon and the not-really-a-Christmas-song-but-I-think-it-mentions-Jesus “My Sweet Lord” by George Harrison – it would still be ghastly. Let’s look at some of the “lyrics”:

The moon is right
The spirits up
We’re here tonight
And that’s enough
Simply having a wonderful Christmastime
Simply having a wonderful Christmastime

The party’s on
The feelin’s here
That only comes
This time of year

Simply having a wonderful Christmastime
Simply having a wonderful Christmastime

The choir of children sing their song
Ding dong, ding dong
Ding dong, ding ohhhh
Ohhhhhhh

“Ohhhhhh” indeed. And, I might add, “arrgghhh” and “eeewww.”

Tomorrow, the number-one worst Christmas song of all time.

The worst Christmas song of all time

Yesterday, I listed what I thought were four of the five worst Christmas songs of all time. Today, we learn who the winner is and, of course, by “winner” I mean “loser.”

The perhaps unlikely recipient of this honor is “Do They Know It’s Christmastime?” by Band Aid. I will admit that this song had at least two positives going for it: (1) it was a genuinely catchy and inspiring arrangement, and (2) it single-handedly saved the African continent from the ravages of hunger. Those are pretty strong plusses, so you can imagine the kind of negatives it would take to offset all that good, and transport this effort to the status of worst Christmas song of all time.

I know he’s already considered something of a “Gloomy Gus,” but consider what singer Morrissey had to say about the song. “I’m not afraid to say that I think … (Band Aid creator) Bob Geldof is a nauseating character. The record itself was absolutely tuneless. One can have great concern for the people of Ethiopia, but it’s another thing to inflict daily torture on the people of England. It was an awful record considering the mass of talent involved. It was the most self-righteous platform ever in the history of popular music.”

Another critic suggested “the song presents a very bleak view of Africa, which the lyrics appear to refer to as a whole. Some of these, such as the suggestions (if read literally) that the continent has no rainfall or successful crops, have been seen as absurd by critics. The lyrics as patronizing, false and out of date.”

Well, let’s take a look and see what we, and by “we” I mean “I”, think.

It’s Christmastime (for the half of the African continent that is Christian)
There’s no need to be afraid (yes there is, if you’re living in many part of Africa)
At Christmastime, we let in light and we banish shade (thank you, ‘80s British rockers)
And in our world of plenty we can spread a smile of joy (that’s your best idea?)
Throw your arms around the world at Christmastime (just not practical)

But say a prayer
Pray for the other ones
At Christmastime it’s hard when you’re having fun (please, don’t put yourself out)
There’s a world outside your window
And it’s a world of dread and fear
Where the only water flowing is the bitter sting of tears
And the Christmas bells that ring there are the clanging chimes of doom
Well tonight thank God it’s them instead of you (that just seems terribly selfish)

And there won’t be snow in Africa this Christmastime (Accuweather calls for humid)
The greatest gift they’ll get this year is life
(Oooh) Where nothing ever grows
No rain nor rivers flow (except the Nile, Niger, Zambezi, Victoria Falls, etc.)
Do they know it’s Christmastime at all? (do these people have no calendars?)

(Here’s to you) raise a glass for everyone (we’ll have champagne; you drink the tears)
(Here’s to them) underneath that burning sun (thanks for that shade banishment)
Do they know it’s Christmastime at all?

Feed the world
Let them know it’s Christmastime again
Feed the world
Let them know it’s Christmastime again (OK, OK, we heard you the first two times)

With only a few days left till Christmas, I think I can avoid radios, malls, medical offices, elevators, etc., long enough to avoid this song for the rest of the season. If you can’t hole up quite the way I plan, then all I can say is thank God it’s you instead of me.

 

Twas the parody before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the land
The economy’s falling like castles of sand
The stock market tanked like a chimney of hair
Investment banks toppled, and wide roamed the bear
The Dow hit new lows, then fell even more
The middle class joined with the ranks of the poor
Retirement and pensions and 401(k)’s
And savings we’d kept for our golden-age days
Were gutted and shredded and eaten for lunch
And now try to borrow in this credit crunch
We’ve bailed out the autos, insurance and banks
And we’re thrown out of work — this is our thanks
Unemployment climbs higher, near seven percent
And foreclosures rise and yet so does the rent
The Internet’s fun but it’s taking our jobs
And turning us all into hypnotized mobs
Outsourcing continues, white-collar work prowls
To lands in South Asia with too many vowels
We tried “Buy American”, tried doing our part
But succumbed in the end to the lure of Wal-Mart
When all looked quite lost and we struggled to cope
We saw signs of life, we saw signs of hope
When what to our wondering eyes did appear
A president-elect a bit large in the ear
But he knows how to lead, even knows how to talk
And he goes by the uncommon name of Barack
His electoral victory o’er Old Man McCain
And that gal from Alaska, the one who’s insane,
Was truly historic, inspiring and cool
After eight years of piss-poor incompetent rule
Now he’s picking his cabinet, a quite able lot
Can’t remember them all but I’ll give it a shot
Now, Daschle! Now, Vilsack! Now, Holder and Duncan!
On Solis! On Salazar, Gates, Chu and Clinton!
From the right, from the left, labels falling away
Need just one from the South and one who is gay
Transition’s proceeding at an admirable rate
Less than thirty days now till the January date
That Cheney and Rove and their underling Bush
Return to their homes with one final push
To a life full of leisure while the rest of us work
To undo the disaster that’s left by this jerk
But we’ll hear him exclaim as he flies out of sight
“Sure I lost your life savings, but I coddled the Right”.

You want my advice? (Pt. 6)

This is the sixth installment in my free but increasingly dangerous advice service. Today, rather than giving advice, I’ll be answering a deep theological question posed by one of our dimmer readers.

Q. Who created God? Everything else in the universe had a beginning, so why not God? – Just Curious

A. What an appropriate question for this magical day. The answer lies in the Christmas Story itself.

Hundreds of years ago, it came to pass that the Italians wanted to impose a tax on the people of Galilee, so they had to return to the land of their birth to register for a census. The tax was to be placed on wine and some of the Galilites protested this with a “wine party” in which they dressed up as Judeans, boarded a ship in the harbor and threw the wine overboard. Most of them, however, did as they were told.

A carpenter by the name of Jesus and his wife Mary were among those who had obeyed, so they rented a donkey to carry them to Bethlehem. But when they arrived, there was a big convention of the local medical association in town so no rooms were available. At the last hotel they checked, Jesus demanded to see the manager but while they discussed the matter behind the front desk, Mary went into labor and the child was delivered right there by the manager (now translated as “manger”). When the clerk came to check on the commotion and witnessed the scene, he shrieked “Oh my God,” so that was given as the new baby’s name.

Soon, there were Three Wise Men who arrived carrying gifts for the young God: gold, myrrh and a burning bush. The gold and myrrh looked on in silent awe, but the bush spoke up, saying “you must go find a man named Noah and get on his ark because there is a Great Flood on the way.” The young family headed for the mountain where Noah was known to reside. It was a two-day trip, so they had to stop for the night at a cave. When they woke up the next morning, someone had put a giant stone in front of the cave so they yelled and screamed till the Pharisees showed up and rolled back the stone. Finally they arrived at the ark and just as they were about to board, a giant whale ate them. But John the Baptist intervened, administering the Holy Emetic (later found to be syrup of ipecac) to the great fish. He swam as far as Gethsemane before he couldn’t hold it down any longer. Jesus, Mary and the young baby God were saved from the flood and the fish only to be injured by a stampeding cavalry (now translated as “Calvary”) of soldiers.

Some shepherds soon came to pass and carried the family to the nearby Garden of Eden. They were welcomed there by a talking snake who offered them a large meal consisting of apples, one fish, one loaf of bread and some communion wafers. The baby smushed his food all into one pile, creating the first shepherd’s pie. When the Holy Family recovered, they traveled to Rome to wreak vengeance on the Italians but soon became distracted and instead single-handedly built the Vatican.

And that’s roughly why we celebrate Christmas today.

Giving vs. receiving — which is best?

They say that giving is better than receiving. This sounds to me like one of those counterintuitive urban myths, except with fewer unauthorized kidney transplants. I would contend that common sense dictates that it’s the receiving that’s better than the giving. Sure, there’s a rush of warmth when you see the look on that loved one’s face as they open your gift. But that tends to pass pretty quickly, whereas on the receiving end, you’ve still got the socks.

No matter how much joy I’ve ever experienced giving or receiving during the holidays, it can’t possibly match what one of my coworkers went through just the other morning. Lucy is widely known as, shall we say, the expressive type, never one to keep her thoughts or feelings unshared. The generosity with which she lays out all the details of her life is something I don’t always appreciate. It’s a gift that keeps on giving. And giving. And giving.

The co-worker sitting immediately to Lucy’s right has become her close friend, which Lucy pretty much requires when you’re that close to her every day. Jen was nice enough to bring Lucy a gift, a contraption called the Pasta ‘n More. You may have seen the ads on late-night TV: features include a strainer lid, steam rack, storage lid and, if you order now, two handles. You can cook, drain, serve and store pasta all in one vessel constructed of FDA-certified materials. Makes a great gift.

But “great” didn’t come close to describing how Lucy felt upon opening the package. There were shrieks, there were yips, there were even tears. The entire production floor ground to a halt and got to hear how wonderful the gift was, how fantastic the pasta was going to be, and how unbelievably extraordinary was the two-quart capacity. Eventually, she had to be comforted and led to a chair.

Kind of made one of my most memorable gifts from childhood pale in comparison. I grew up in Miami, which sounds like an ideal place to spend your formative years but was actually quite lacking in many ways. I’d read in books at school about concepts like autumn leaves, mountains, chimneys and snow, though these were totally alien to the south Florida scene. Our Santa came not in a sleigh drawn by eight tiny reindeer. He came in a helicopter powered by Pratt & Whitney.

My grandmother, who lived in Pennsylvania, took pity on me one year and actually mailed me an oak leaf that had fallen in her yard. I removed the leaf from the envelope and marveled at how red and how leaf-shaped it was, not like the palm fronds and crocus spirals in my unnatural subtropical hell. She could’ve used the U.S. Postal Service to clear her yard like her neighbors used the city’s curbside vacuuming trucks if we could’ve figured out the logistics. Only the intervention of my parents kept me from requesting a snowball with the next shipment.

This is not to discount the value of the gifts I received from my own parents, for these were also very special. We lived in a modest working/middle class neighborhood but they always made sure my sister and I had one of the best Christmases in that part of town, and not just because all our neighbors were Jewish. My anticipation and gift list began in late November, when the 3,000-page Sears catalog would arrive at our door by flatbed truck. Up till about age twelve, I’d quickly flip to the last section of the giant volume where the toy section was spread out in its full black-and-white glory and begin to compile my list. (When my teens arrived, I tended to first make a furtive stop to check out the models in their industrial-strength bras and the sexiest girdles this side of J.C. Penney.) More often than not, I’d get most of the items I’d requested.

Aside from the conventional gifts that every boy of the ‘60s received – footballs, cap guns, the occasional bike – my parents were as accommodating as they could afford to be to some of my more unusual requests (no, not the bra). One year I asked for and actually received a full-size pool table. Our three-bedroom home contained modest floor space at best, yet we managed to turn that monster on its side and wrestle it down the hallway to my bedroom. There, it barely fit next to my bed, hard up against the other three walls. I still remember how impressed visiting friends would be as we stood in the closet banking shots into the corner pocket.

Other especially memorable gifts included a punching bag, a portable tape recorder and a slot-car racing set. As a nerdy, pimply overweight kid, my pugilistic skills were not the best. It was theorized the punching bag would build both the confidence and technique that would allow me to defend against those vicious Jewish bullies. The height of the bag on its spring was not quite right, so my most vivid learning experience consisted of the punched mass viciously returning back to my lower abdomen. I spent hours complaining about this to the tape recorder in an affected British accent, which I imagined would ultimately land me a job as radio deejay. The car racing set, much like the small stereo and the electric guitar I received at subsequent Christmases, was a mass of primitive electronics that alternately provided fun and dangerous high-voltage currents.

My folks were also open-minded enough to buy me some of them rock and roll records all the kids were so crazy about. I still remember the year I received the Beatles’ White Album, and the contortions I had to go through to hide the picture inside of a naked John Lennon. Though I succeeded at that, the Fab Four were eventually exposed when my mom overheard a playing of “I’ve Got a Feeling,” which contained the line “everybody’s got a wet dream.” What had previously been just noise to her now took on the awkwardness of a subject the 15-year-old doesn’t especially care to discuss with his mother. A year later, she heard the lyric “nothing’s gonna change my world” on “Across the Universe,” and commented that John should “quit whining and do something about it if he doesn’t like the world.” That is one valid criticism you can make about the Beatles: they didn’t exert much influence on the culture.

So now it’s the day after Christmas, and I’m enjoying playing with this year’s gifts – peanut-butter-stuffed pretzels, a book of crossword puzzles and a hat. (“Whee!” I gushed as I spin the fedora on my finger. “It’s a hat!”) At least these gifts are unlikely to electrocute me.

New ideas of 2008

The New York Times recently ran a feature in their Sunday magazine profiling what they called the “Year in Ideas.” They examined several dozen new concepts floated in 2008 that “helped make the previous 12 months, for better or worse, what they were” – an introduction that belied their alleged astonishment at the unlimited nature of the inventive mind.

I’ll admit that all the ideas are extremely imaginative, but that doesn’t mean that some of them can’t also be extremely bizarre. Today and tomorrow, we’ll look at a few examples:

Air Bags for the Elderly – In light of the fact that falls are the leading cause of death among people 65 and older, a Japanese company has begun selling a wearable set of airbags. Describing the device as looking “something like a fishing vest with a fanny pack attached,” it contains motion sensors that will inflate two airbags – one around the hips and the other around the neck – when a fall is detected. “Instant Michelin Man,” notes the Times. This innovation updates an earlier attempt to reduce injuries, the foam hip pads. Both the low-tech hip pads and the high-tech air bags could be a success from a bioengineering and cost standpoint and yet still fall victim to the elderly’s penchant for wanting to be fashionable. “One of the reasons people shy away from these is that they don’t want to make their hips look larger,” said one independent researcher. “These air bags look kind of parachute-y.”

The Biomechanical Energy Harvester – A knee-brace-like contraption has been developed by a Canadian scientist that reportedly can harness the power of your walk and turn it into something your cell phone and other small electronics can run on. Strapped to the back of your leg, the device taps the power of your muscles with each stride without making walking feel any more difficult. At less than three pounds, it’s small enough to fit under your pants (or, less subtly, just below the hemline of your skirt), which is a significant improvement on version 1.0 – a backpack that made its own electricity from the subtle bouncing of your walk but, unfortunately, weighed in at 80 pounds.

Bubble Wrap that Never Ends – Again it’s the Japanese leading the way to a better future. They’ve created a battery-powered keychain with a panel of eight buttons that simulate the tactile joy of bubble-package destruction. Roughly translated as “Infinite Pop Pop,” the company has already sold a million of the gadgets in its first two months of release, and it’s reportedly now available at American outlets such as Target and Wal-Mart. Makers of the real thing, the Sealed Air Corporation of New Jersey, acknowledge the tension-relieving properties inherent in ruining their product, yet they won’t admit to feeling the stress of potential competition from the Far East. (Probably the same way GM felt when that first Toyota rolled onto the docks of California.) No word yet on whether the Biomechanical Energy Harvester could be used to power the “Pop Pop” keychain.

Carbon Penance – To assuage the guilt many of us feel about our contributions to climate change, a Swiss-born inventor (again with the foreigners) has built a leg band that monitors how much power you’re consuming. When levels have exceeded a certain threshold, the techno-garter slowly drives six steel thorns into the meat of your leg. The concept came to the inventor, who not surprisingly also refers to herself as an artist, while designing a device that punishes the wearer who doesn’t spend enough time talking to their houseplants. The leg band is apparently not quite ready for full-scale development and distribution because of a slight flaw: when the spikes dig in, they don’t hurt that much.

The Cloth Car – This is a concept car developed in Germany that substitutes fabric for the more conventional (and you’d think safer) hardened plastic and aluminum auto body. The shell, made of polyurethane-coated Lycra, is stretched over a car’s frame in four separate pieces. It creases when the door opens, can be unsealed if work needs to be done on the engine, and contains eye-shaped slits so the headlights can shine through. The interior is similarly flexible, featuring a steering wheel and dashboard that collapse to lie flat and create more interior space. Perhaps the seatbelt and upholstery will be made of steel.

Tomorrow: eatings kangaroos and a vending machine for crows

More new ideas of 2008

This is the second installment looking at innovations of the past year that have both the potential to make all our lives more comfortable and, at the same time, illustrate why researchers and inventors typically live such lonely, pathetic existences.

The Dog-Poop DNA Bank – The mayor of a small city near Tel Aviv wanted a more effective way to enforce regulations requiring pet owners to clean up after their dogs have done their business. So he turned to the city’s director of veterinary services to come up with a system that could use DNA fingerprinting technology to attach (so to speak) unclaimed feces to specific dog owners. An army of 13-year-old volunteers recruited by the mayor’s office fanned out across the city, going door to door to collect samples of poop with which to create a DNA bank. Surprisingly, about 90 percent of city residents who had kids showing up on their doorstep asking for some shit complied with the request. Once the problem of random canine defecation is solved, scientists will then turn to less pressing issues like genetic research on dog diseases and returning strays to their owners.

Eat Kangaroos to Fight Global Warming – An official with Australia’s wildlife services, which you’d imagine is supposed to be protecting indigenous species, proposes that raising and eating kangaroos instead of sheep and beef could cut methane emissions by as much as three percent. Unlike the ruminants we’re used to slaughtering and devouring, kangaroos have a different stomach structure with different organisms to digest their food — probably something to do with the pouch. Already considered a specialty meat that’s (not surprisingly) a bit gamy in taste, the hoppers-cum-whoppers sustained native Australians for 40,000 years before Europeans arrived with their stupid cows. Reaction in the land Down Under has not been especially positive: the official can’t find any funding to further his study, plus he’s battling newspaper headlines that read “Skippy on the Menu!”

Scrupulosity Disorder – Researchers from Brigham Young University suggest that as many as a million Americans suffer from this disorder defined as “obsessive doubt about moral behavior often resulting in compulsive religious observance.” Not to be confused with your standard evangelicals, sufferers worry about thinking bad thoughts, whether or not these thoughts are acted on in the physical world. An omniscient God, after all, sees past the bumper stickers on your SUV and into your heart, where you may be doing things like being aware of curse words. Though possibly related to obsessive-compulsive disorder, there can be a fine line for chronic hand-washers like certain sects who observe such a ritual as part of ordinary religious observance. Treatment is thus problematic but another researcher says once patients are released from the crippling doubt about their own virtue, they can emerge with a new sense of faith, even if it means slightly more soiled hands.

The Spray-On Condom – The idea with this device is not so much the convenience of application but with the way it can made to fit a variety of sizes. Rather than asking retailers to stock a quantity of as many as 30 or so sizes, the spray-on condom can be customized to each man. The inventor, a German entrepreneur, got the idea in an automated car wash – not in the back seat while canoodling but while observing that the car was being inserted into a tube-like structure and then sprayed with latex from all sides. (Oh, baby). The only drawbacks reported in real-life testing were that the spray was a little cold and that the latex would take up to two minutes to dry. That, and the fact that the European Union’s strict product standards will make it difficult to bring to market, means the condom won’t be commercially available any time soon. I guess if you can wait two minutes, you can wait two years.

Vending Machine for Crows – An NYU graduate student (probably a marketing major) put coins and peanuts into a dish attached to a vending machine he created. The crows arrived and picked out all the peanuts, leaving only the coins. As they pushed the coins out of the way while looking for more peanuts, the coins were dropped into a slot which then dispensed more peanuts. When the crows figured out the equation that coins plus slot equaled more nuts, the more entrepreneurial birds starting looking for loose change on the ground to put into the slot. Realizing that the flock was quickly becoming his intellectual match, the grad student brought in a few more researchers to help him figure what all this might mean. Rather than arriving at the obvious answer (a fleet of trained ravens who could steal cash from the pockets of pedestrians, thereby giving the students the power to ultimately rule the world), they’re trying to do something positive. “Why not see if they can do something useful for us, so we can all live in close proximity?” they asked. They’re now busy trying to apply their techniques to train rats to sort garbage for us, instead of imagining a future in which they could practically bathe in dimes.

Giving until it bleeds

There was a lot of negative talk out there after my Friday posting claiming that gift-receiving was so much better than gift-giving http://davisw.wordpress.com/2008/12/26/giving-vs-receiving-which-is-best/. The Internet was absolutely abuzz, if you count the guy who said I was a “seflish idoit” and the email I got from my mom asking if that’s the way she raised me.

To prove the point that I can also be a very caring individual who feels deeply the importance of giving back to his community, I’ll be hauling a load of stuff over to Goodwill at the end of the tax year on Wednesday. I also went to the bloodmobile Saturday to give the gift of life.

Talk about giving of yourself, this is the most selfless contribution one can make short of a lung. My wife and I have been giving this annual donation right around Christmas for the past five years or so. She’s actually way ahead of me in the quantity given, having started in college. I was only introduced to the concept when the local Starbucks began sponsoring the event with the incentives of free coffee and a baked good for all donors. I also wanted to see if it was true that you’d get drunker on a couple of beers after your body had been sapped of almost a quarter of its life-force.

We arrived early enough to be first on the list of those signing up. While the rest of the nearly overflowing coffee shop was lounging around concerned only about number one (that coffee goes right through you), Beth and I read through the pre-donation materials to be sure we were still eligible. Easily clearing the requirement that I was at least 17, weighed at least 110 pounds and had at least one arm, I signed where they told me and soon was called out to the parking lot where the bloodmobile was parked.

I was directed to the tiny interview room by a middle-aged South Asian woman. This was a good start: my past experience with the workers who staff these events was that they tended to be either young Hispanic- or African-American women who were fast on the take but still required several jabs to hit the right spot, or else they were older Southern white women who were equally jab-happy but much slower about it. I’ve seen enough cardiologist ads in the paper to recognize that Indians make great healthcare professionals. In addition, when it was discovered the scanner connection to the laptop wasn’t working properly, she was able to troubleshoot that without calling home.

We huddled together in a space about the size of an airliner bathroom while she ran through the extremely personal health history questions she kept assuring me she was required to ask. Was I a hemophiliac? No. Have I had an organ transplant in the last 60 days? I don’t recall one. Have I ever had sex with another man? No. Have I ever had sex with a hemophiliac or transplant recipient who was a man? Have I ever been in prison? Have I ever been to Africa? Have I ever killed and consumed the flesh of another person? If so, did that person have hepatitis? Was I bitten by a crazy cow in the United Kingdom between 1980 and 1996? No, no, no, no, and no, that unfortunate cow encounter was in 1997.

 Finally cleared to proceed, I walked out to the main aisle of the mobile. My interviewer asked which arm I wanted to use, and here’s where I must admit I puffed up a little with pride. If you read my previous posting about selling my body to a company that was doing shingles research http://davisw.wordpress.com/2008/11/08/a-second-career-perhaps/, you might remember how exceptional the main vein in my right arm is. The inside of that elbow has been widely admired for the way in which the blue vessel protrudes in a come-hither fashion just below the thinnest layer of skin. Since the right-armed donation loungers were all full, I was asked if I wanted to offer my left arm instead. But when I showed the admiring circle of blood ladies my right vein, they all agreed I should wait. One of them marked the vein with a pen, then posed next to it for a photo to show her family. I took a seat to wait my turn.

 

Check out the vein

After about ten minutes, Beth finished her session and I was able to take her spot. The needle went in effortlessly and soon the blood was flowing. I sat back and relaxed as much as I could while workers scurried perilously close to my connection and the intercom played Christmas songs. And, wouldn’t you know it, two of them were from my “Worst Christmas Songs of All Time” list http://davisw.wordpress.com/2008/12/20/worst-christmas-songs-ever/ and a third was Bob Seger’s boozy rendition of “Little Drummer Boy.” (I don’t know if I was starting to get a little light-headed or what, but the line “the ox and lamb kept time” struck me as absolutely hilarious.)

My languor was soon interrupted when one of the workers reported that an “overflow situation” was developing somewhere in my vicinity. I tried to look behind me where my bag hung to see if the room was starting to look like a Quentin Tarantino film and I was preparing to bleed out. Apparently it was only a minor overflow so I was able to avoid infecting the whole bus with Creutzfeldt-Jakob Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy, or whatever it was that wacky British cow gave me.

I was disconnected from the tubing, had a gauze bandage affixed to my magnificent vein and was told to raise my arm high in the air. After a minute or so, a role of colored tape was brought out and a length was cut off and wrapped around my arm. Everyone else who’d been through this step in the process was asked what color tape they wanted, so I already had my eye on a nice pale green that would contrast nicely with my hazel eyes. But I was assigned the blue with no questions asked in what would turn out to be the only disappointment of the experience.

As Beth and I headed back into Starbucks to collect our premiums, I began thinking what kind of bakery item I’d be selecting for my freebie. When I placed my order at the counter for a tall-low-fat-mocha-no-whip and a slice of coffee cake, I flashed my bandaged arm at the barista and told her I’d just given blood. The point was to communicate that I shouldn’t be charged for my order but apparently the counter people hadn’t been told how this worked so she rang me up for $5.57. I got the confusion straightened out easily enough, but the embarrassment I endured for those few seconds when she thought I was just showing off my bandage to impress her lingered longer than it should have.

Now if I could’ve shown her my vein, that would’ve been a different story.

 

You want my advice? (Pt. 7)

“You Want My Advice?” is a twice weekly feature (Tuesdays and Thursdays) of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. Heed my word at your own risk.

Q. I recently graduated from college and started working in the real world. My problem is that my name is gender-neutral, which my parents tell me was intentional. Many new business acquaintances, whom I meet through e-mail, mistake me for a man. I am often addressed as Mr. and worse, taken for my own secretary when they call. It’s awkward to explain and then embarrassing for the person calling. Is there a polite way to let people know my gender? – It’s Pat

A. I can definitely sympathize and may be able to offer some unique advice from the perspective of someone named “Davis Whiteman.” The “Davis” part comes from several previous generations of fathers and grandfathers, and is not to be confused with “David,” which I’m often mistakenly called. Because my father was also a Davis (actually he went by “Dave”), I became known as “Davie,” which I dropped as soon as I got to college. My son also has the first name of “Davis,” but we call him by his middle name, Daniel. I don’t know who or why somebody came up with the “Whiteman” part – it might’ve seemed like a good idea at the time (1800s), but is definitely awkward in this modern multicultural era. It’s actually pronounced “White-mun,” a small consolation.

Now what was your question again?

Oh, yeah … something about how you want to show your genitals at work. This is not something I’d recommend for most professional workplaces. While it may be essential for certain jobs in adult entertainment and, more recently, the real estate industry (“I’ll show you mine if you buy this house”), most of the dress-for-success literature out there strongly suggests dressing. If you’re a woman, you may want to stay away from pant suits; if you’re a man, I’d avoid putting flowers in your hair.

Electronic and telephonic communications are admittedly a little more problematic. For email, I think you can solve the problem merely by using pink paper for emails if you’re a girl and blue paper for emails if you’re a boy. On the phone, just talk in a real high-pitched squeaky voice if you’re a girl and a booming low-pitched baritone if you’re a boy. As an added flourish, make passing references to Barbie dolls or rocket-propelled grenades, as appropriate.

Doing the Charleston, Holy-style

A spokesperson for the travel industry estimated this week that at least 5 billion Americans made a trip of 100 miles or more during this holiday season. A large majority of these were on the airlines or driving on the road, though a growing minority of travelers are choosing clean alternative transportation such as paddle boat, skate, and sliding downhill on a piece of cardboard.

When my family and I decided to go the 200 miles from Charlotte to Charleston, S.C., to visit my great aunt, we debated the merits of flying versus driving. We could make it either way in about the same amount of time, when you consider the attendant hassles and time delays involved in modern jet travel. Did we want to pay about ten times what it would cost to drive so we could experience the stimulation of surly counter agents, body searches and a potential plunge from 20,000 feet, or could we endure the tedium of freeway motoring? We realized how close a call the decision was about 50 miles out of town when I almost fell asleep at the wheel, but in the end, we’re glad we decided to drive.

There’s little of the magnificent American landscape so idolized in popular culture on the stretches of interstates 77 and 26 that bisect the state of South Carolina. Brown flatlands give way to sulfurous marshes as you approach the coast, so you’re generally left to your own imagination to summon enough interest to stay alert.

One way to do this is to admire the creativity (and lack thereof) that’s been put into the naming of different locations along the route. Towns have been saddled with unimaginative monikers like Jedburg, North, Cope and, from mapmakers who gave up completely, Ninety Six. There’s also a “Townville” that apparently was judged to be better than “Cityberg” or “Villageton”. Meanwhile, interchanges between the federal highway and various county roads have been given elaborate names to honor prominent locals, I guess because “Exit 17” was just wasn’t inspirational enough. For example, there’s the Medal of Honor Recipient Eugene Arnold Obregon Memorial Interchange, the State Solicitor J. Robert “Bobby Joe” Adamson Jr. Interchange, and the Buck Mickel Memorial Southern Connector, to name just three of the dozens we passed. I can only assume that the memorials were put at highway exits to symbolize how these heroes left the mortal world in much the same way we drivers are forced to get off for gas and a Pepsi.

Though most of the old-time South is located too far off the highway to appreciate, we did get a good sense of the bygone era when we stopped in a tiny village called Restarea. The town had only two roads – “Cars Street” and “Trucks and Campers Avenue”. Though the manufacturing base of Restarea left long ago, there are still pockets of commerce among the 100 or so residents of this bustling community. The only shopping area is a bank of vending machines behind a beautiful wrought-iron gate. There’s a small park where families eat at picnic tables and dogs romp at the end of a leash. The city hall still shows an unfortunate remnant of segregation, with the community rooms divided into separate men’s and women’s facilities. Despite that, there’s still evidence of an active cultural scene inside, including an innovative arts installation where residents can leave their thoughts for others to consider, including thought-provoking folk wisdom such as “eat me,” “Goths and emo rule” and “your stupid.”

As we got further into the last half of our four-hour drive, amusements starting running low until we were passed by a large semi with a sign on the back that asked “How’s My Driving?” I’ve seen these for years and always wondered if anyone ever called, so I pulled out my cell phone and decided to give it a try. After a couple of rings, the operator answered “England Transport customer service, can I help you?”

“Yes,” I responded. “I wanted to offer a comment on the driving of one of your owner-operators.”

A pause, then skeptically, “How can I help you again?”

“I was just passed by one of your trucks on the interstate and a sticker on the back asked ‘how’s my driving?’ and gave this 800 number. I figured not many people responded unless they were mad about something, and I just wanted to offer another perspective.”

“OK,” said the woman. “Can you give me the truck number, please?”

“No, I can’t. It’s already passed. But I can tell you it had a metallic silver trailer, mud flaps on the back wheels and was heading south about 60 miles from Charleston.”

At this point, I got the distinct impression this woman was only pretending to care. “Oh… kay,” she said. “Can you give me your, uh, comment?”

“Yes,” I said. “The driver seemed to be doing an adequate job. Nothing dangerous, nothing dramatically good either. I’d say he was meeting expectations.”

Another pause. “Um, okay. England Transport appreciates your input. Thank you for calling.”

“Do I get a coupon or a discount or anything toward my next less-than-truckload haul?”

No response. She’d hung up. At least my grogginess had passed.

Rural South Carolina was now receding in the rear-view mirror as we headed toward the more metropolitan Low Country. We passed a pickup truck with a bumper sticker advertising the “Medieval Tattoo Studio,” and I couldn’t help but wonder how inked scarring of the skin could be more primitive than it already was. Maybe they splash you with flaming tar to give your etching a random effect. Soon, the “Holy City,” as Charleston bills itself, was all around us.

We had a pleasant two-night stay at our favorite Hampton Inn-Historic District (thanks for the one night free, Mr. Eichmann). We started to remember next morning at the lobby breakfast buffet some of the reasons for the “Holy City” nickname. A family at the next table grasped each others’ hands and bowed their heads, quietly but audibly thanking the Lord for the Honey-Nut Cheerios, banana and decaf that His Mercy had bestowed upon them. Later we met up with our aunt, and got to hear all the details about how her tiny evangelical congregation had schismed yet again, this time over something to do with casseroles. (They had been renting a movie theater for their weekly services when there were 40 of them; now that they’re down to 20, they’re looking at local self-storage facilities.) Aunt Vertie confirmed later that she had indeed erased the line between faith and lunacy. We commented on how well her Buick Regal seemed to be running, and she noted that it probably needed some brake work but she was hoping the occasional addition of fluid would allow it to last “until the Rapture.” This sounds like something that GMAC and other car loan financers should investigate – leasing options that are pegged to the End Times.

It was a short enjoyable vacation that made a nice respite during the holidays. Charleston is a great place to visit but I prefer my home just off the Ungodly Memorial Interchange.

You want my advice? (Pt. 8)

“You Want My Advice?” is a twice weekly feature (Tuesdays and Thursdays) of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. Today, in the spirit of the New Year, we hear from a writer who decided to take matters into her own hands.

Q. In an attempt to stop smoking, I chewed gum all day and suffered from halitosis. I went to dentists and doctors to no avail. My family and colleagues at work learned to keep their distance. It was very embarrassing! Eventually, I discovered it was the aspartame in the gum and the many cups of coffee I devoured each day. After I switched to another sweetener, the halitosis disappeared and has never returned. – How About Me? Aren’t I Something?

A. Sounds like problem solved. What do you want from me?

I’m glad to hear you achieved success in your resolution to quit such a nasty habit. That can be an inspirational and helpful story for others of us who are trying to turn over new leaves at this time of year.

It can be, but it’s not. Instead, it just sounds like you’re bragging about your ability to identify a problem on your own and think it through to a successful conclusion. This is a very bad thing for us in the advice-giving field. People should not be trying to improve or change their lives in any way without the close supervision of a professional. You’ve seen the signs at the health clubs about consulting a physician before beginning any kind of exercise program? They speak the truth.

I’d recommend that you back up all the way to where you started on this journey — resume your smoking, resume your gum-chewing, regain your odious breath – then call up Harpo Productions to get on the waiting list for the Dr. Phil Show. Otherwise, you’re doomed to failure or, at best, a success that’s not nationally televised so no one cares.

A resolution on resolutions

This being the New Year, it seems we’re required to propose resolutions to improve our lives and the lives of those around us. What a drag.

I agree that it’s naturally appropriate to respond to the excesses of the holidays with a good stiff shot of moderation. It just makes sense that we can’t spend the entire year eating rum balls and eggnog for breakfast, and so it’s reasonable right now to assess the wisdom of year-round splurging, especially as you approach your late fifties. But to formalize this reasoning into a strict resolution is not something I’ve ever felt comfortable doing.

However, if I must, let me put it this way: everything I’ve been doing for the last month or so I’ll stop doing, and everything I’ve stopped doing I’ll resume. As an important exception, however, I will continue running my autonomic nervous system as I always have, and I’ll persist in being unable to take to self-powered flight.

I went online this morning to see what were some of the more common resolutions being considered. According to Wikipedia, these resolutions were “sorted by the horizontal pixel dimension in ascending numerical order. It is important to realize that the use of the word ‘resolution’ in this context is misleading and inaccurate. The sizes given are pixel dimensions, and do not imply anything about the resolution of the display, which would be expressed in pixels per inch or pixels per centimeter.” Typically helpful Wikipedia.

When I looked around a little longer, I found a more useful list that cited the following as popular choices among Americans: lose weight; manage debt; save money; get a better job; get fit; eat right; get a better education; drink less alcohol; quit smoking; reduce stress; take a trip; and volunteer to help others. I think just about everybody can agree these are worthy aspirations for self-improvement. All of us are imperfect in one way or another, except for a certain savior born over 2,000 years ago who probably never smoked in the first place and already had a pretty good job. If He wanted to make some kind of resolution to improve, about all He could do would be to work on His tan. (Should I capitalize the “t” in “tan”?)

The other thing about starting these new resolutions right on the advent of the New Year is that the timing of this particular holiday isn’t at all convenient. It’s virtually impossible to begin the New Improved You right at the stroke of midnight, when drinking less alcohol is probably the last thing on what’s left of your mind. You might be considerate enough to hold your girlfriend’s hair out of her face while she vomits over the balcony railing, but that’s hardly what you’d call volunteerism. You’re still wanting to celebrate throughout the day on Jan. 1, and then even though it’s back to work for most of us today, it is a Friday and then you’ve got all that free time to be tempted on Saturday and Sunday, and now you’re out to the fifth of the month before any proper behavior can reasonably be expected to begin.

Which reminds me: whoever is in charge of such things needs to resolve to reschedule our holidays so they’re more evenly spread throughout the year. After the King holiday in the third week of January, there’s nothing until Memorial Day, a full four-and-a-half months away. The summer holidays are pretty well spaced, but you hit another dry spot of almost three months until Thanksgiving, then there’s a holiday virtually every other week. I wouldn’t be opposed to getting rid of the January New Year’s Day altogether and putting it back to the beginning of spring, where the Druid gods intended.

But I digress, and that’s something I need to work on improving.

Anyway, while I was researching this subject yesterday, I did come across something I might be able to sign off with. Access Hollywood had talked with a variety of celebrities and other prominent individuals from around the world to see what a few of their resolutions might be. A number of them struck me as a tad bizarre, but most of these are folks who have risen to the top of their professions, so it’s probably worth taking a look at this insight into some of what made them so successful. The following list includes the individual quoted and what they wanted to accomplish in 2009:

George W. Bush: To discover and settle the West Pole, using only dogsleds and shopping carts for transportation

Laura Bush: To bank the seven ball into the side pocket

Barack Obama: To attend next year’s Chick-fil-A Bowl, especially if Vanderbilt is playing

Michelle Obama: To make a smoked bacon reduction sauce

Bill Gates: To learn to play the songbah drum using a stapler

Rod Blagojavich: To drink more brackish water

Oprah Winfrey: To breathe more frequently

Will Smith: To move furniture randomly throughout the day

Warren Buffett: To wear underclothing more often

Peyton Manning: To become chief technology officer of Dr Pepper

Usain Bolt: To play Scrabble with the evil twin of Mickey Rourke

Dakota Fanning: To close on a stunning three-bedroom, two-bath townhome condominium

Michael Phelps: To have his teeth yellowed from drinking coffee

Bernie Madoff: To be run over during the live telecast of a NASCAR race

Britney Spears: To have cholesterol so high it starts leaking out her nose

J.K. Rowling: To be sentenced to 35 years in a federal penitentiary by mistake

Tiger Woods: To review a major motion picture that doesn’t exist

Judge Judy: To develop gills and swim like a fish

Brad Pitt: To eat more cologne samples from men’s magazines

Vladimir Putin: To avoid saying the words “Queen Latifah”

Tina Fey: To climb more trees

Amy Winehouse: To cozy up to a warm winter soup

Tom Cruise: To have that 6-by-8-inch mole on my lower back checked out

T-Pain: To upgrade his 401(k) to a 407(m)

Robert Mugabe: To learn arthroscopic colo-rectal surgery by correspondence course

 

Wrapping up the bowl games, sponsored by DavisW

One of the great things about the global economic catastrophe has been the effect on certain corporate marketing decisions. High-powered multinationals have been forced to look at their priorities and re-evaluate how important it is to shareholders to have the company name plastered all over everything from sporting venues to golf tournaments to baby’s foreheads.

Two new baseball parks being built in New York City for the Yankees and Mets are struggling to find firms willing to spend multi-millions for naming rights, and may have to begin hosting games next season as Hank’s Place and Choker’s Field, respectively. NASCAR auto racing has seen a significant decline in its sponsorships, to the point where you can almost see a bare patch of material on drivers’ uniforms. Traditional suppliers like GM and Chevy are scaling back their involvement in motorsports and we may soon see a Daytona 500 featuring Mini Coopers and old VW minivans.

I’ll miss the occasional unintended consequences that resulted when corporate takeovers clashed with the best-laid marketing plans. For example, when First Union Bank acquired CoreStates, it also inherited the basketball arena that was home to the NBA’s 76ers. The “CoreStates Center” sign was coming down and the “First Union Center” sign was going up when it occurred to someone how headline writers were going to abbreviate the new name.

Before the college football bowl season finally began winding down, many of us (OK, a few of us) sat in front of our TVs wondering about this new crop of low-rent game sponsors. Slashed rates allowed local credit unions and regional trucking firms to have their images splashed across a national stage, prompting viewers to wonder how exactly they could patronize the San Diego Credit Union or R+L Carriers even if they wanted to.

To help these would-be customers, I’ve compiled a complete list of the games and their sponsors with a little something about each firm. I would’ve included the teams who played and the final score too, but nobody cares.

magicJack St. Petersburg Bowl – The magicJack is some kind of device you stick in your computer to make phone calls. Sounds like a good idea until you realize how awkward it is to hold the monitor up to your ear while you try to talk into the mouse.

R+L Carriers New Orleans Bowl – R+L is an Ohio-based trucking firm founded in 1965. Ralph L. “Larry” Roberts was a mere teenager with aspirations of owning his own business. His dream became a reality with the purchase of a single truck he used to haul furniture. The firm then grew into … That’s really all you need to know.

SDCCU Poinsettia Bowl – Everyone living in San Diego, Orange and Riverside counties is eligible to join this federally insured credit union. If you watched the game from your home in Louisville, their competitive CD rates make a move to California worthwhile. I hear R+L is available to help with your couch.

Motor City Bowl – Not too surprisingly, this Detroit game failed to attract a big-name sponsor. Reports are that next year’s game will be called the Bailout Bowl.

Meineke Car Care Bowl – Meineke is a car maintenance franchise clever enough to have worked not only their name but also what they do into their bowl name. This might be something for the SDCCU to consider when they begin negotiations for next year’s Poinsettia Bowl, which could instead become the SDCCU Foreclosure Poinsettia Bowl.

Champs Sports Bowl – Champs is a seller of sports equipment even though I thought they were a sports bar. I must be thinking of some other company I’ll never patronize.

Papajohns.com Bowl – Most people are aware of Papa John’s Pizza, but they also want you to know about their website, which uses a PDF (pizza delivery format) to bring you hot pies through your high-speed Internet connection.

Valero Energy Alamo Bowl – Valero is a retailer of gasoline that managed to work a slight rule change into the Alamo Bowl. Team scores not only can rapidly rise, but they can plummet just as quickly.

Roady’s Humanitarian Bowl – Roady’s Truck Stops are the nation’s largest chain of truck stops, catering to the professional driver and traveling motorist in 45 states, meeting the humanitarian needs of people low on fuel for many years.

Brut Sun Bowl – As the final seconds ticked off the clock in this classic, the winning coach was drenched by a cooler full of Brut cologne. He’s currently recovering in the Augusta burn center.

Bell Helicopters Armed Forces Bowl – The rush to purchase helicopters from viewers who enjoyed this match-up drove Bell’s stock price to a three-year high.

Chick-Fil-A Bowl (formerly the Peach Bowl) – They dropped the “peach” out of a concern that fuzz is not something chicken consumers want to be reminded of.

Outback Bowl – This is much like the regular college game except the football is replaced with a Bloomin’ Onion.

Gaylord Hotels Music City Bowl – This bowl game had more adjectives (4) than one of the participating teams had points (3).

Konica Minolta Gator Bowl – Makers of fine cameras until the next leap in digital technology sends them into bankruptcy.

AutoZone Liberty Bowl – Perhaps the winners of this game and the Meineke Car Care Bowl could meet in a playoff: the Sell ‘Em a Muffler When They Just Need a Spark Plug Bowl.

GMAC Bowl – A long, long time ago, people bought cars from a company named “General Motors” and frequently did something called “financing” with GMAC to pay for the car on credit. This bowl is a salute to those bygone days, and includes players using helmets made of leather that have no faceguards.

AT&T Cotton Bowl – AT&T is one of the few big names still in the bowl sponsorship business. Send me a 10-cent text message and I’ll tell you more.

FedX Orange Bowl – Another of the big names still in the bowl scene. Surviving despite the tremendous loss of business due to email attachments and zip files, FedX now has a business model that relies primarily on Amazon and eBay shipments, along with its recent diversification into mowing lawns.

Allstate Sugar Bowl – A curious combination considering New Orleans was wiped out by a hurricane and is still having trouble recovering because of tight-fisted insurance companies. You might be “in good hands” with Allstate, but watch out for their prehensile tail that may be picking your pocket.

Capital One Bowl – What’s in your wallet? Not much cash after you’ve finished paying the astronomical interest rates on their credit cards.

Tostitos Fiesta Bowl – The most delicious, crunchiest game on the postseason calendar.

Insight Bowl – I challenge you to follow this one: Starting in 2000, this game moved to Bank One Ballpark, now known as Chase Field. The game moved yet again effective with the 2006 game, but remained in the Phoenix metropolitan area, this time in Sun Devil Stadium, which was left without a postseason game when the Fiesta Bowl moved to the University of Phoenix Stadium.  The game was formerly known as the Copper Bowl until 1996 when sponsorship was assumed by Insight Enterprises and it became the Insight.com Bowl from 1997 to 2001, and then the Insight Bowl. Insight, incidentally, is either a type of Honda, a broadband service, or a laptop maker.

Rose Bowl, sponsored by citi – Yes, the same “citi” as the Citibank that narrowly avoided financial collapse late last year. So their stockholders wouldn’t be pissed that they threw money at the little-known Rose Bowl, note how they put their sponsorship after the bowl name and lower-cased the first letter, hoping no one would notice.

The Fabulous Band Names

There was a time when I thought the creativity put into the naming of a rock band correlated to that band’s skills and success. If you came up with a clever enough name, you’d shoot straight to the top. Then I became familiar with the oeuvre of “Frankie Goes to Hollywood,” “Death Cab For Cutie” and “Panic! At the Disco,” which made me realize that talent wasn’t necessarily a part of the equation.

Still, you have to admire how witty some of these are. Take a look at this collection I compiled recently:

Sonic Death Rabbit

Southern Culture on the Skids

Cottonwood Frostbite

Phil and the Blanks

Dexateens

Plants and Animals

The Hothouse Hefftones

Closed for Remodeling

Trivia Night

Bubonik Funk

Thunderlip

Coma League

Dante’s Camaro

Cowboy Mouth

Electric Chicken

The Holy Trinity Family Band

Stiff Knee Birthday Jam

Dangermuffin

Col. Bruce Hampton and the Quark Alliance

British Sea Power

These Arms are Snakes

I Set My Friends on Fire

The Hobo Nephews of Uncle Frank

Natalie Portman’s Shaved Head

God Came From Space

Lee Press-on and the Nails

Somebody and the Really Somethings

IWANTTOKILLEVERYHUMAN

And I’ll Form the Head

E=MC Hammer

The Unnecessary Gunpoint Lecture

Guy Who Looks Like Me with Glasses

Penguins with Shotguns

Robin Williams on Fire

Mel Gibson and the Pants

The Shark that Ate my Friend

One Small Step for Landmines

Boneless Children Foundation

The Busiest Bankruptcy Lawyers in Minnesota

Sorry About Your Couch

 

 

As great as those real-life names are, I always thought there was a rich source of funny names that were being overlooked. They could easily be ripped from today’s news headlines:

Gaza Rocket Attack

Mideast Peace Initiative

The Heart Transplant List

Workplace Hazards in the Poultry Industry

Federal Wildlife Experts

The Time and Frequency Division of the National Institute of Standards and Technology

Cholera Death Toll

The Volatile Diyala Province

Bhutto’s Ancestral Village

The Year-End Deals

Santa Slays Seven

36 Months Free Financing

The Taliban

The Obama Daughters

The Spectrum of Neurological Disorders

Boneless Wing Tray

Double-Digit Unemployment

Multiple Listings Service

Certificate in Treasury Management

Checked Baggage Fees

Consumer Price Index

Federal Stimulus Package

Children Left Behind

Bristol Palin’s Baby

50 Herbert Hoovers

Repeat DUI Offenders

The Credit Freeze

Pork Tenderloin and the Spicy Cranberry Glaze

The Additional Rebates

 

 

Happy Worst Day of the Year

The first Monday in January should receive some kind of official designation as the worst day of the year. State and federal offices should be closed, black bunting should drape store windows, and flags should be lowered to half-staff. Calendars should note this as a day of commemoration of how miserable our lives are going to be for the next four to five months.

If you haven’t done so already, pause now for a moment in recognition of just how bleak our immediate future is. We’ve been observing one holiday after another for several weeks now, so even happiness and celebration are no fun any more. We’ve gorged on foods we’d never otherwise eat (can you imagine a dinner of goose, champagne and chocolate-covered cherries in August?). The friends and family we only get to see once a year have reminded us all too clearly why we moved halfway across the continent to get so far away from them.

I don’t know about you, but the weather where I am today is cold and wet, the sky a low-hanging grey. I’ve returned to a job that seems unlikely to get any more exciting or any more secure in 2009. There are no significant holidays, no coming of spring, no summer vacation anywhere in the near future. The landscape of life is desolate, barren, foreboding, dreary and miserable. Happy god-damn new year.

I tried yesterday to head off this gathering funk by going to the Y for a nice vigorous run on the treadmill. Exercise has always elevated my mood, even when it has to take place elbow-to-elbow with my fellow fatties in front of a bank of TVs showing the Dolphins losing another playoff game. I’m not one of these exercisers clogging the floor who are motivated only by recent resolutions to get fit. I’m the guy who was complaining to the manager that they were closing the Y early on Christmas Eve. Now here I am, unable to find a vacant treadmill because of all these latter-day athletes.

Out of the ten machines available, two of them have runners while the rest have walkers. Walking is for the hallways of hospitals, not for expensive exercise machines. The guy who just barely beat me to the last available treadmill is wearing a sweater, pleated slacks and penny loafers. He jabs perplexedly at the control buttons until the belt begins the slowest possible movement, which seems to satisfy him until a few minutes later when he feels compelled to poke a few more buttons, bringing the machine to a stop. The same pattern of behavior is repeated several times before the pudgy woman to his right finishes her stroll and lowers her moist bulk to the floor. A machine is finally open.

As the endorphins kick in during my run, I start thinking of a few of the positives that do exist in the first half of the calendar year. There’s the new TV season, one that’s lacking the day-long “Password”-a-thons we’ve endured over the recent holidays. There’s the Obama inauguration in mid-January and the Super Bowl in early February. But all these are enjoyed vicariously at best and don’t even require us to leave our living room.

There are some legitimate holidays on the calendar falling between now and the unofficial start of summer on Memorial Day. There’s Martin Luther King’s birthday in just two weeks, so we’ll get a Monday off to remember the accomplishments of the great civil rights leader. But greeting card companies haven’t told us yet how we’re properly supposed to celebrate this day. Neither parties nor gift-giving nor dressing up in costume seem quite appropriate.

In February, we have Groundhog’s Day, which represents the point at which we might potentially see an end to winter in the distance. Recent efforts to turn February 2 into even more of an occasion have met with limited success. Watching Punxsutawney Phil being groped by that guy in tuxedo and top hat was amusing the first 40 times I saw it on the news, though the novelty has since worn off. I liked the idea of expanding the number of species honored to include other groundlings – moles, voles, badgers, hedgehogs, large rats, etc. – but this added biological diversity did little to spur retail sales and holiday cheer.

Later in the month is Valentine’s Day, when we honor our beloved ones with candy and flowers and the disappointment of knowing a spouse can’t be any more thoughtful than that. Then, just a week or so later is the government-concocted President’s Day, timed to honor the birth of perhaps our greatest commander-in-chief, Abraham Washington. Once every four years, we celebrate the rare Leap Day by trying to find the instructions for changing the date on our digital watches. On March 17, St. Patrick’s Day comes rolling in drunk and smelling of cheap beer. We all wear green so as to better disguise the vomit stains on our shirts. By the time it’s April, we’re starting to sense that warm weather is in the air and we all get a little silly celebrating April Fool’s Day, when radio shock jocks trick us all into thinking an asteroid is about to hit the earth. We laugh when we realize it’s not.

Finally, on some apparently random Sunday between March and May comes Easter, originally scheduled to honor the birth of Christ but now more about the bunnies and candy than the Lord and Savior. When I was a kid, Easter was second only to Christmas in significance. Hunting for eggs, rather than avoiding them like we do as adults, was a big deal, as was the story of Peter Cottontail rolling back the stone from Jesus’ grave. With its Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Sadder Saturday and Maundy Monday (which gave us one of the few Easter carols, performed by the Mamas and Papas), Easter had the potential to give us almost a week off from work, but now most offices barely notice it.

Well, there seems to be a few breaks in the clouds as I look outside, and at least I have a job, a wonderful family and a home that’s not on the auction block. There is something to be said for the satisfaction of getting back to a routine that gives you a feeling of accomplishment at the end of the day instead of the incessant bloating I’ve endured since Thanksgiving. Once I get hungry again, and tired, and overworked, and stressed, and anxious about the economy, maybe then I’ll be happy.

 

You want my advice? (Pt. 9)

“You Want My Advice?” is a twice weekly feature (Tuesdays and Thursdays) of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. Today, we hear from a writer who likes to complain.

Q. Whatever happened to the idea of keeping to the right? Most drivers observe this rule in their cars, but as soon as their feet hit the pavement, all memory of it vanishes. Our sidewalks, airports, grocery stores and shopping malls have become free-for-alls. People have crashed into me with their grocery carts as I made a right turn from one aisle to the next and they are making a left turn on the left side. If people will remember to stay to the right and pass on the left, they’ll see that these important rules of the road make all traffic move more smoothly. – Your Mother’s Busybody Neighbor

A. I couldn’t agree with you more. Perhaps together we can change the world.

There’s really not much difference at all between motor vehicles and what I call “pedestrian vehicles,” also known as “humans.” The windshield is like the eyes, the grill is like the mouth, the tires are like the legs, the headlights are like the headlights, and the tailpipe is like the you-know-what. Didn’t any of you people see the Disney movie “Cars”?

What we need to move toward now is fully equipping individuals with the accessories that automobiles have, so they can more easily obey the rules of the road. For example, we could attach turn signals to hip pockets so pedestrians could signal which way they’re turning. We could surgically implant an antenna in their heads so they don’t need to be distracted by their cell phones and music players. We could require everyone, instead of saying “hi” as they greet one another, to say “honk.”

The next time someone brushes against you with their shopping cart during one of these encounters, drop immediately to the floor and start yowling like a scorched cat. A store manager should arrive shortly with a specially equipped shopping cart into which you’ll be placed to be hauled out to the parking lot. There, this cart will be tied to the back of an ambulance and you’ll be taken to the nearest hospital. Meanwhile, the offender will be left in stunned silence before resuming their shop, hopefully noticing the great deal on frozen chicken breasts.

 

Three procedures and still alive

ATLANTA (Associated Press) — Griffin Bell, 90, the shrewd Southern lawyer who grew up with Jimmy Carter and later became U.S. attorney general after Carter was elected president, died Monday in Atlanta. He was being treated for complications from pancreatic cancer, kidney disease and being 90.

From the perspective of someone still in relatively good health, it often seems like medicine can go too far in treating the ravages of time. I think there comes a point when you feel like you’ve lived a rich, full life and now it’s time to go do something else, like maybe die. Throwing the incredible expenses of the modern healthcare establishment at the elderly and infirm just doesn’t always seem wise, especially if you hit one of them in the eye with an otoscope.

I’ve been incredibly fortunate with my health for over 55 years, and haven’t spent a night in the hospital since that whole birthing thing back in 1953. I’ve had my fair share of the usual modern maladies that almost everybody goes through – measles, mumps, mole removal, molar removal. I had what we politely called a “nervous stomach” in my teens, I’ve had a couple of lower back issues that kept me prone for days at a time, and I got chicken pox as a Christmas present from my son about ten years ago. Only three times have I gone through anything more serious.

My first such episode occurred in 1989. For years, I had noticed a brownish area just inside the top of my left ear. I chalked it up to poor hygiene until one day when it started bleeding. I knew that blood was only effective when it was coursing through your veins and that having it drip off the end of your earlobe wasn’t as good. I made a visit to the dermatologist who took one look at the wound and made his frightening pronouncement – ear cancer.

Well, not exactly ear cancer. It was a skin cancer that happened to be on my ear. All those hours I’d spent on college break in Miami laying out on my parents’ patio without benefit of sunscreen hadn’t been wasted after all. I was referred to a cosmetic surgeon despite my protests that I already looked damned good, but they explained he’d be the one carving off thin layers of my cartilage until all the cancer was removed, then would rebuild what was left into some semblance of an ear. The procedure I’d be undergoing was called “Moe’s surgery,” which sounded like it might involve a conk on the head rather than traditional anesthesia, but actually turned out to be Mohs surgery.

The operation was done in a Charlotte doctor’s office while I was fully awake but feeling no pain. Everything went as planned and the doctor assured me that all the malignancy was removed. I couldn’t look at the cosmetic results right away, since they wrapped my whole upper head in a bandage. I was able to return to work the same day, looking like that guy playing a fife in the middle of that iconic Revolutionary War painting, except that I had a $4,000 doctor’s bill sticking out of my pocket. But my coworkers we really impressed at the dedication I showed by coming in with such an apparently brutal head wound.

My next significant experience came in 2003 while I was planning my first business trip to India. I had noticed occasional discomfort in my groin for a few weeks before a particularly acute episode sent me home from work to wander restlessly around my house. When I went to the doctor later that morning, he immediately recognized the wandering as a symptom of kidney stones (go figure). X-rays confirmed the presence of a crystalline mass lodged firmly in my urethra. “It’s about six millimeters in diameter,” the technician told me, but failed to note whether that was considered small, medium or super-sized. Regardless, it was bad enough to require what they refer to in the business as a urologic intervention. Unless I passed the stone naturally or wanted to risk the male equivalent of childbirth while 35,000 feet in the air over the Middle East, I needed to get this taken care of.

Shortly before the outpatient procedure, called a “simple basket extraction,” I thought I might’ve avoided it entirely. After using the urinal at work, I looked down to see a corn-kernel-sized piece lying next to the scent cake. Had I painlessly expelled the stone and avoided costly surgery? Unfortunately, it turned out to be exactly what it looked like – a piece of corn – though I fail to understand even today how it got there.

Either kidney stone or granola

 

 

 

Going ahead with the physician-assisted removal turned out to be fairly simple, at least for me. The trickiest part was counting backwards from 100, and then waking up to ask when we were going to start, only to discover the doctor had not only finished but left the building. The nurses kept watch on me until I was able to wiggle my toes and pee on my own, which took only a few hours. Recovery was quick and relatively pain-free, and I’ve survived to this day without another incident.

What you’ll doubtless be glad to hear is the last experience I’ll recount was the highly recommended (by doctors, not by patients) diagnostic colonoscopy. As veterans of this wonder of medical science will tell you, the worst part comes the day before when you have to drink huge amounts of a foul liquid designed to cleanse your system of everything you’ve ever consumed. Once this is accomplished, you’re ready for your outpatient visit at the hospital. There was no backward counting this time; instead, you get an injection that puts you into a “dream sleep” where your dream consists of someone putting the proctological equivalent of a Swiss army knife (including a light, camera, scalpel, eraser, fountain pen and comb, I seem to recall) several feet up your colon. I do remember lying on my side and watching a TV show where the plot consisted of a cute little pink character named “Polyp” being snipped by a “Mr. Scissors”. The next thing I remember after that, I was arguing with my doctor about the billing.

It seems there’s a loophole in the way most insurance companies view the colonoscopy. They urge you to get one, they tell you it’s fully covered because it’s purely diagnostic in nature, but if they find anything that needs to be removed (which they apparently always do), then the diagnostic designation disappears and you’re suddenly responsible for a percentage of the $5,000 cost. Or, you could choose to have them maintain the status quo by shouting “hey, leave that thing alone” during your dream sleep. I almost came to the point of demanding that my gastroenterologist reinstall the polyp before I finally knuckled under and paid the fee.

I seriously doubt that any of these conditions, left untreated, would’ve led to my untimely demise. I suppose I could’ve had colon cancer, renal failure or an ear fall off, though chances are excellent I would’ve survived at least two out of three. Had they occurred later in life, I think I might’ve considered that option more seriously. I hope Griffin Bell didn’t suffer too much from treatments for the kidney and pancreas problems when his larger issue was that he was 90 years old. I’m not sure living to a ripe old age just for the sake of hitting a really high number is a worthy goal. It seems like the oldest living person is dying every other day anyway.

 

You want my advice? (Pt. 10)

“You Want My Advice?” is a twice weekly feature (Tuesdays and Thursdays) of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. Today, we hear from a love-lorn teenager.

Q. At school last year there was this guy that I really liked. He was just a friend but then I realized that I really liked him! We ride together on the school bus, so while we were on the bus I asked him for his phone number. He said, “I don’t think so. I don’t want you to bug me.” Now what do I do? – Cute Girl in Third Row Who Accidentally Fell Out the Emergency Exit That Time

A. Some guys like to play hard-to-get, and I’m thinking that’s what’s going on here. You need to keep after him in every way you can think of – late-night knocking on his door, throwing pebbles at his windows, moving into his attic, etc. It’s only proper that you don’t technically “bug him,” since he made that specific request, but asking his friends to wear a wire is completely within reason.

Maybe a story from my school days will be enlightening. There was this girl I liked in the first grade and I think she liked me too. I wrote her a note – I don’t remember the specific language I used, but I’m pretty sure “like” was in there a lot – however I was too shy to hand it to her personally. I knew where she lived so I walked by the house and threw the folded piece of paper onto her lawn. Whether she eventually got it or her father simply ran over it with the lawn mower I’ll never know. Eventually, though, we entered into a tumultuous relationship that ended on the balcony of a Paris hotel where she struck me with an exquisite piece of Waterford crystal when I called her a “doody-head.” When we returned to second grade that next fall, we knew we were not meant to be.

My point is that young love has a way of resolving itself, though it usually involves an unwanted pregnancy. You just need to look your best, be kind and friendly when you’re around him, and slip some rohypnol (the so-called “date-rape drug”) into his Full Throttle when he’s not looking. When he falls to the floor of the bus, sit on his face, and I think you’ll be “2 forward + 2 be = 4 gotten.”

 

 

 

 

Website review: M&M’s.com

While I was at a theater recently waiting for the movie to start, I temporarily pulled my attention away from the trailer for Kevin James’ Oscar-bound vehicle “Paul Blart: Mall Cop” to read my M&M’s wrapper. I wasn’t too surprised to discover there’s an M&M’s website (mms.com, not the mandm.com I might’ve expected, which is being cyber-squatted on by men who like Depeche Mode) and I promised myself I’d check out this internet curiosity the next time I couldn’t find anything better online.

Several months later, I made my first visit and was delighted to learn there’s a world of enchantment behind that hard candy shell. The folks from Mars – the candy company that owns M&M’s, not the single-celled life forms on the nearby planet – have put a lot of work into dreaming up ways they can sell all things M-related. They offer not just the candy itself, with colors and imprints I could hardly believe, but an immense variety of merchandise, recipes, games and allergen warnings. Let’s review the site map as soon as I down a handful of America’s favorite sedative-shaped chocolate treat.

Mmmmmmmmm! I love the taste of ampersands.

The home page currently features three revolving promotions: exploring the five fabulous flavors of new M&M premiums; the somewhat-outdated “make holiday magic with M&M’s and Martha (Stewart, I’m guessing, not Washington)”; and the “bring ‘M’ to the party” Super Bowl campaign. I’m guessing “M” is the cool new identity designed to appeal the younger generation, who love the brevity of single-lettered terms, as in “let’s do some ‘X’” and “I have to ‘P’”. This is where I also learned that the iconic “melts in your mouth, not in your hands” slogan has been replaced with “Always Fun,” which works, I guess, unless one of them gets lodged in your trachea.

The recipe section was largely predictable, taking just about any cake, cookie or pie concoction and throwing a bunch of M&Ms into the mix. There were a few interesting ideas that wouldn’t have occurred to me (“put ‘em in your coffee!”) as well as a number of others that struck me as a bit of a stretch. These would include the Autumn Turkey Casserole, Citrus Basil Sangria and something called “Plantains with Mex,” which I hope includes a type of southwestern flavoring and not an actual Mexican. In addition to the recipes was a related section called crafts, which offered creative ways to assemble the M’s into works of art. Among the more inspired suggestions were the Eight Nights of Light cupcakes (for the Jewish holiday known as Hanukkah, which Mars has apparently moved to January), a party pizza cookie with M&M’s standing in for pepperoni and anchovies (two of the aforementioned “five fabulous flavors” I suppose) and a holiday wreath made of hundreds of green M&Ms crazy-glued together into a wheel.

Other ways to incorporate the M&M experience into your personal lifestyle included bedding, clocks and, not surprisingly, extra-large sweatpants; online games such as “Red vs. Green,” “Flip the Mix” and “Shmuffleboard” (that’s right, spellcheck, shuffleboard with an “m”); and the company’s venture into sports marketing with a sponsorship of NASCAR driver Kyle Busch. This last section is particularly interesting to those of us in the South. We get to read about the entire crew – cleverly dubbed the guys who “show grit in the pit” by some pathetic corporate copywriter – including jack man Jeff Fender, who  during his downtime enjoys fishing, the music of Bad Company, and long walks on the beach without being hit by racecar. We also see Kyle himself, posing at the track alongside a cocky-looking M dressed in a fireproof suit, because though he won’t melt in your hand, he doesn’t do real well with 900-degree gasoline fires. We get to read extensively about Kyle’s 2008 season, lowlighted by a nineteenth-place finish in Miami, a solid eighth in Phoenix and “surviving crash-filled Talladega despite damage from a late-race accident” to celebrate his birthday May 2 with M&M candies and “finding his inner M.”

Another way that Mars is trying to engage the candy-buying public is with the opportunity to create your own virtual characters. To get you started, they show a group of anthropomorphic sweets sitting around a breakroom table with coffee (WATCH OUT!!) and “Hi my name is” tags identifying them as Stacy, Naomi, Larry, Tony and Mike. A few of these guys are what you might call slightly edgy-looking – no body piercings or purple hair but a tattooed “m” on their chins. We see another set of unnamed characters standing proudly in front of a picture of an actual 50-foot M&M-styled Statue of Liberty holding her beacon skyward near the Brooklyn Bridge in 2007. One of these characters does have a mohawk, perhaps in recognition that Lady Liberty welcomes the tired, the wretched and the haircut-impaired.

My favorite part of the mm.com website is where you can order personalized M&M’s with words, faces and colors of your choosing. The faces consist primarily of the characters noted above and the colors include just about any pastel you can imagine. The words, however, are subject to a list of do’s and don’ts. The do’s include the requirement to use nice words, be cheerful, have fun and be expressive, just as long as you don’t take your basic American freedoms too far. You can’t use obscenities, proper nouns like business, celebrity or product names and, “to avoid any confusion and keep everyone safe, we will not print any reference to prescription drugs, especially those that are in pill form.” To drive this last point home, they show a diagonal “no” slash through a candy that reads “Mary’s pills.”

Finally, there’s the boilerplate part you see on just about every commercial website, offering basic facts about the company. We learn that Mars also makes Uncle Ben’s rice, Combos snack crackers, Seeds of Change for the home gardener, and a disturbing quantity of cat food varieties, including Whiskas, Sheba and Pedigree. An ingredients section talks mostly about potential allergens in their products, with additional unnerving references to bass, cod, crab and shrimp (hopefully these are in the cat foods, not candies like Skittles and Snickers.)

Then there’s a store locator to help you find where to buy M&M’s. It’s hard to imagine that locating the ubiquitous dark brown bag we all know and love is really a problem, unless perhaps you’re on safari in Kenya. I keyed in the zip code where I’m writing this posting and found that there are bags for sale in the drugstore across the street, the gas station opposite that, the bookstore on the other corner, and the dollar store three doors down. In total, there are 29 outlets within ten miles of my house.

I appreciated the opportunity to learn more about this fine all-American product and what makes it so special. Watch for more website reviews in future Friday postings.

 

Breaking news from the local paper

Being an old guy, I’m understandably a fan of old media, or what we used to call newspapers. I remember how excited I was the first time I had my picture in the local paper, as an awkward preteen caught in mid-air jump during a tryout for a local production of “The Sound of Music.” A few years later, I had a letter to the editor published that espoused human rights for broccoli in The Miami Herald. I spent many hours I should’ve been sitting in college classes instead working for the student newspaper, where my big achievement was planting a story about a meeting of the Streakers Club, which ultimately led to a mention in Newsweek magazine and a nationwide craze.

If that’s not the most bizarre career arc in journalism, it’s probably pretty close. I applied for a few editorial positions with publications as esteemed as the Tallahassee (Fla.) Democrat and the Columbus (Ga.) Ledger-Enquirer after college, but fortunately for everybody involved I didn’t get the jobs. Still, I’ve remained a life-long news junkie, subscribing to a number of papers (two).

In many ways, my favorite is the small local daily in my mid-sized South Carolina city. It’s a surprisingly professional periodical with just enough small-town amateurism to keep me unintentionally entertained. Today and tomorrow, I’m going to highlight (copy) a few of the more memorable features I’ve encountered in the last month. We’ll start with the news side of the operation.

From a “Fireworks primer” published during the holiday season: “Shooting fireworks from a moving vehicle or at a vehicle is prohibited. Nominate a ‘designed shooter’ for your fireworks display if alcoholic drinks are part of your plans. Let neighbors know your plans – hearing firecrackers explode unexpectedly outside the window can be a shock.” You think?

From “Deaths in the news”: “George Francis, the nation’s oldest man, died Saturday. He was 112. The UCLA gerontologist who maintains a list of the world’s oldest people says the oldest living person is Maria de Jesus of Portugal, who is 115.” Or at least she was a living person at press time.

From “(Local) woman hopes for return of stolen Jesus”: “(She) has set up a crèche every year in the yard of her home for as long as she can remember. The two stolen figures [a wise man was also snatched] can’t be replaced, she said, because she bought them four or five years ago from Carolina Pottery, which has since (gone out of business.)”

From a correction: “In a story about actor David Spade donating $100,000 to the Phoenix police, the AP erroneously reported the first name of a Phoenix police spokesman. His name is Andy Hill.” You would’ve thought the error was going to be that David Spade even had $100,000.

From the sports section: “Practice starts Jan. 12 for men’s (college) golf, with the season opener set for Feb. 15 at the Rice Intercollegiate. Practice starts Jan. 12 for women’s golf, with the season opener set for Feb. 22 in Kiawah Island.” Nothing matches the excitement of college golf – the pep band, the cheerleaders, the tailgating, the ceremonial washing of the balls…

From “Religious recordings hidden in dolls”: “Jennifer Calandra bought dolls at Wal-Mart for her daughters shortly after Thanksgiving. What she ended up with was a baby doll that says ‘Islam is the light.’ Calandra said she thought she was going crazy. She exchanged the doll for another but the second doll said the same thing. ‘It’s not really something you want to hear coming from a doll,’ she said. The doll’s message has sparked a lot of questions from her 7-year-old daughter about religious tolerance. She wants to know why it’s wrong to say ‘Islam is the light.’”

From the veteran local gardening columnist: “The kids are here! The grandkids are here! They were throwing a party for us so of course I had to get a hairdo. First let me tell you about the party tables. Each had three candlesticks, special ornaments turned upside-down and secured with double-sided tape, and a bed of greenery. The theme was repeated outdoors using large concrete urns filled with kitty litter. I ventured into the foggy night to gather more greenery … golden mophead cypress and Siberian Iris seedpods and twigs. What a difference those twigs make! It was nearly 3 a.m. when I brushed my teeth, glanced into the mirror and went into shock. My pretty hairdo was long gone, a victim of our misty foray into the woods.”

Finally, from two separate letters to the editor: “We recently attended the Cheer for Children Charity event and were really impressed. The crowd was lively, loud and good. Meaningful gifts were distributed.” And the other letter: “There are several states that have God on their license plates. Yet even though the plate costs $29 and gives Christians their first amendment rights for free expression, the judge shot it down. Separation of church and state doesn’t apply when Muslim students are allowed to pray in school several times a day, or where taxpayer money was used to provide foot baths so these students could clean their feet before praying.”

Tomorrow, we’ll take a look at some local advertising.

 

Amusing ads from the local paper

Yesterday, I wrote about (made fun of) some of the news items I found amusing in our small hometown newspaper. Today I’m going to mock the advertising side of operations.

From an ad for a local car dealer: “Free breakfast with the purchase of any new or previously owned vehicle.” Some are offering thousands of dollars in cash back, some are giving away gas cards, one carmaker is even offering to take the car back with no obligations if you lose your job. But how many will give you a cup of coffee and a free McMuffin (and hash browns) with your new Ford Focus?

From another desperate car dealer: “All credit applications accepted.” Note that they used the word “accepted,” not “processed,” “read,” “considered,” or “acted upon.” This same dealer also offers something special on their website: “up to 60 photos per car.” I would never consider buying a car online with only 40 or 50 photos, but somehow 60 seems like the right minimum.

From a fitness center trying to lure new customers with the high quality of their personal trainers: “Not all personal trainers are equal. At BOROCK, our standards are high. Our trainers are specially eductated [sic] to offer you the best in fitness.” Proof positive that you don’t have to be a good speller in order to clean and jerk 350 pounds.

From the county’s newest independent assisted-living facility: “Enhanced dementia care. Beside Outback Steak House.” The convenience of this set-up is that if your elderly Alzheimer’s-addled loved one does wander away from supervision, you know where you’ll find them – face down in a Bloomin’ Onion.

From a furniture store promoting a mattress sale: “Purchase any Tyndall Pedic Visco Memory Foam Mattress Set during this sale and receive a $1000 shopping spree.” That’s a lot of adjectives to describe a mattress set. But even more interesting is the adjacent picture of an astronaut fully dressed-out for an extra-vehicular spacewalk. The apparent connection is that the mattress features three layers of “certified space technology,” whatever that is. Among other features of the bedding listed in a bulleted checklist: “fibromyalgia, hands tingle, lower back pain, pain sitting at desk, nervous leg syndrome, diabetes, pain driving, arthritis, hurting shoulders, many other sleep problems.” These are listed as features that will come with the mattress, but I’m pretty sure they mean these problems will be alleviated, not imparted.

From the owner of an air conditioning and heating firm that suffers from the sad but silent epidemic of mental illness which accompanies price reductions everywhere: “AM I CRAZY? I’m offering my $179 furnace super tune-up for only $89… and I guarantee your system won’t break down this winter or this service is FREE!!!” Accompanying the offer is photo of owner Charlie Reid, known to his friends as the “King of Comfort.” I just love a promotion that offers you more of the same defective product or service if you’re not satisfied the first time. “If you don’t like our meatloaf lunch special, here, have another one.”

From another heating and cooling company, this one a bit punctuation-challenged: “Comfort you can depend on, is just a phone call away.” The ad also proclaims “from all of us to you – Jesus is the reason for the season.”

Speaking of Jesus, the most touching of all advertisements in the paper are those located on the obituary pages, remembering beloved family members who have passed on. An elderly lady who died in 2004 is wished “Merry Christmas on your 5^th Christmas with Jesus.”

Obituary pages, though very sad for obvious reasons, have a certain something about them I’ll be addressing in a future posting. Look for it soon.

When I first learned to blog

The following is a piece I wrote as a submission to our local newspaper when they expressed interest in the subject of local blogging a few months ago. Though it “doesn’t meet their needs at this time,” I believe that by “this time” they mean “while humans walk the earth.” So rather than waste my efforts, I’m putting it in as today’s posting.

As a fifty-something middle-class European-American, I long ago gave up any aspirations to be on the cutting edge of modern culture. There was a brief period years ago when I might’ve considered myself marginally “cool” – I think it was for about a half-hour during my junior year of college – but once you find yourself with a family, a suburban home and a corporate career, you are so far past cool as to need only a light jacket.

I like to think, however, that I’m at least aware of all the latest happenings among the younger generation. Though I choose not to indulge, I know all about the discos, the hip-hop, the so-called “brake” dancing, where kids stop and reverse direction in mid-tumble. I’ve heard the music of Madonna, LL Coolio J-Z, and Fall-Down Boy. I have a cell phone and I’ve walked past the video game section in Best Buy. And I’ve learned enough about computers and the Internet to think I’ve found a niche where perhaps I can rekindle enough of my def self to put a toe in the kids’ pool.

I’ve started a blog.

The young people out there know what I’m talking about, but let me take a moment to explain this phenomenon to any of my contemporaries who aren’t familiar with the concept. The blog has nothing to do with Steve McQueen and meteors exuding a pink, gooey substance (that’s “The Blob,” as I was embarrassed to learn a little too late) and everything to do with chronicling your every thought, move and breath for a fascinated world to follow. It’s a little like being an exhibitionist from the comfort of your home, without the gross and illegal parts.

I went online and found WordPress and Blogger, two of the more popular sites that serve as portals to the time-space wormhole known as the “blogosphere.” This huge ball of Internet waves, sitting in geosynchronous orbit over south Asia, is where you choose your blog name, create your profile, even upload video, if you can find the VHS port on the side of your laptop. The setup is quick and remarkably painless (as long as you keep your power cord out of the water) and before you know it, you’re a blogger!

Now that you’ve got the infrastructure in place, you need to turn your attention to something known as “content.” This annoying but necessary part of keeping a blog requires you to think of something interesting to put in your postings so that when people open your webpage, there will be words instead of blank space, which tends to discourage return visits. From looking at some of the blogs already out there, it seems that your content doesn’t have to be especially pertinent – cats, lawyer jokes and death threats are a few common themes – it mostly just has to be there.

My favorite subject so far, as I hope you’ve been able to guess from the last 491 words that preceded these, is humor. Since standards aren’t especially high, what with the lack of editors, fact-checkers and other mainstream media flotsam, all you need to do is position your screen pointer on the “write” tab and click it to open a window that looks something like an email entry. Type until your hands get tired and then press the “publish” button.

At this point, you’re usually given the option to “view site” so you can see what you just wrote in a slightly different format, but one that is now being viewed by millions of people around the world. Or at least that’s how I thought it worked. Turns out that the hardest part of blogging once you’ve gotten this far is figuring out how to get people to actually visit your blog. I believed that once your posting went up, there’d be a flashing signal on every computer then online that would direct readers to stop whatever they were doing and read all about you. I kept watching for evidence of all this traffic to show up in the comments that record what visitors think of your hard work. It’s the positive reinforcement of these remarks – notes like “wow, you’re terrific” and “worst blog ever” – that provide the incentive for people to keep up their blogs for weeks at a time. It’s been slow to come in my case, though with networking, webcasting and poking people with sticks, I’m starting to build a respectable audience.

It’s certainly not money that provides the motivation for blogging. If you’re thinking about joining in this communications revolution as a way to add a little extra income during this time of tight cash, you’ll find out quickly that that’s not how it works. Though my laptop does have a slot on one side that looks about the right size to spit out fifty-dollar bills, they haven’t come yet, and I’m starting to think they never will. Still, I’ve achieved the satisfaction of joining a community of like-minded citizens to whom connectivity, even though it’s virtual, gives us all a sense that we’re involved in something very, very special.

Being cool.

You want my advice? (Pt. 11)

“You Want My Advice?” is a twice weekly feature (Tuesdays and Thursdays) of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, design, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. Today, we hear from a reader in the midst of a home redecoration.

Q. We are starting to renovate our kitchen and are thinking about basic black and gray and white. We would like modern, but not too cold. Maybe a bit Oriental. We also wanted to install a backsplash that has the “wow” factor. We want to replace the current countertop, which is tropical brown granite, and the deep sill of the bay window over the sink also needs tile. We’re also removing a dated sunshine ceiling light, which leaves a 3-by-4 foot rectangle that is unfinished, plain gyprock. The rest of the ceiling is popcorn finish. We’re installing three pendant lights. Our kitchen is contemporary with cream cabinets. How can we unify the ceiling? –Worried, Perhaps Even a Bit Paranoid

A. You’re under arrest for possession and distribution of methamphetamine. Put down the trowel and step away from it slowly.

Seriously, what is it with you ambitious do-it-yourselfers and your plans for creating the perfect home? Can’t you think of anything better to do with your free time? Maybe you should take up a more soothing hobby, like golf, stamp collecting, or occasional sleep.

I can try to answer your questions, but I’ll tell you up front that my heart’s not really in it, considering I live in a house with 15-year-old carpeting that used to be tan but now tends more toward a muted shade of cat-stain.

I’d say black and gray and white sound just about right for your kitchen; you can avoid the cold feel and add an Oriental touch at the same time by adding a flaming Buddha to your breakfast nook. I don’t even know what a backsplash is, so instead of a “wow” factor you’d be getting the “huh?” factor from me.  I’d go counter-intuitive on the countertop and replace the granite with hard cheese, maybe a nice Gouda. I also don’t know what a “deep sill,” “sunshine ceiling light,” “gyprock,” or “pendant light” is. I’ve heard of rectangles and popcorn, though admittedly not in the context of home décor. So I’ll refrain from advice on these issues, except to note that popcorn is to be avoided on a low-res diet.

Your final question about unifying the ceiling I feel fairly comfortable answering. You’ll definitely want all parts of the ceiling to touch all other parts, so as to avoid rain and bees.

Good luck with your renovations! I hope you finish before the Rapture.

This post not available in stores

With the poor economy continuing to affect TV advertising revenue, you see more and more direct marketing commercials selling items that are “not available in stores.” These ads typically feature extremely agitated pitchmen, a toll-free order number, a price that’s typically $19.95, and tiny-font shipping and handling charges that run you another $12. If you order now you can get two, and don’t forget that these items are not available in stores, probably because the idea behind stores is that they offer products people actually want and need to buy.

It used to be that you only saw these commercials late at night, when you were so worried about how you’d deal with sudden urges to fish that you couldn’t sleep. And mercifully, there would be an ad for the “pocket fisherman.” Now you’re likely to see these kinds of spots any time of the day or night. An NPR report recently explained the trend: as traditional advertisers reduce their budgets, local stations make leftover air time available to these low-end buyers at drastically reduced rates. One ad buyer interviewed admitted he was a “bottom feeder,” which I think would be an excellent name for a product: Try the BottomFeeder! You’ll never need to buy bathroom tissue again!

A lot of the trailblazers in this industry have unfortunately been made archaic by modern technology. The Ginsu Knives, famous for cutting through a can, were so sharp and awkward to use that most of their purchasers accidentally slashed their wrists. The Medic Alert bracelet, for when you’ve fallen and can’t (or simply don’t want to) get up, was antiquated by the cell phone. The Clapper, which allowed you to turn stuff on from across the room, was discontinued when seniors began using the Segway to travel effortlessly about their homes from light switch to light switch.

One of the promoters currently most in demand for these frenetic spiels is a bearded, raspy-voiced fellow named Billy Mays. Son of baseball’s Willie Mays, who roamed centerfield for the San Francisco Giants for over two decades on his way to 12 Golden Gloves and the Hall of Fame, Billy wanted to get out from the shadow of his famous father. His big break came in the ‘90s when he was selected to be spokesman for the Bedazzler, a tool that embedded plastic gems into jackets, jeans and that household pet desperately in need of a makeover. He later sold items like OxiClean, the Mantis Tiller and Miracle Whip (I can’t remember ever seeing him hawk the well-known mayonnaise substitute, so I can only guess this product was instead some kind of domination device).

Described by The Washington Post as having a “signature yelling approach” and being “known for screaming in lieu of talking during infomercials … a full-volume pitchman, amped up like a candidate for a tranquilizer-gun takedown,” Mays was last seen branching out into the service economy. He was recently named the new voice of iCan Benefit Group, “the first company offering health insurance Billy Mays has been excited to endorse.” (He’s endorsed many other insurance plans, but steadfastly refused to be excited by them until now.) I anticipate a not-too-distant future in which Billy sells everything from mutual funds to cremation services in his classic manic shriek.

Mays is not affiliated with the infomercial product that most recently has been all over the airwaves — I mentioned him mainly because I wanted to see how many readers would buy the Willie Mays connection. I’m talking here about the “Loud and Clear” sound-amplifying device that fits in your ear like a Blutooth cell phone apparatus. No longer will your difficulties interpreting sound be obvious to all who can see the electroacoustic device in your ear; now, they’ll think you’re just another self-absorbed tool enamored with pointless technology that hangs off the side of your head. I can hardly wait for the next-gen app that enhances your smelling abilities with the brushed-steel device that protrudes from your nose.

Rather than using a spokesperson, the Loud and Clear commercials feature actors pretending to go through their daily routines enjoying the life-enhancing properties of a monstrous hearing aid. There’s a guy in bed next to his annoyed wife, who’s giving him dirty looks because the TV is too loud for her to sleep, until he discovers the Loud and Clear and can turn that damn thing down. There’s a woman rocking out to the kitchen radio while her husband tries but fails to concentrate on his laptop work. Rather than asking him to get his stupid computer off the kitchen table, she’s seen moments later happily accessorized in her Loud and Clear. Others are involved in a number of activities designed to demonstrate that today’s seniors aren’t your father’s old people – they’re energetically playing bingo, strolling through the woods in tight jeans, and listening in on two neighbors having a private discussion across the street.

This last example hints at the more malicious uses of the Loud and Clear, which are also illustrated in the commercial with a surprising lack of guilt. One scene shows a guy, hopefully a private detective, sitting at the wheel of his parked car with the amplifier in his ear and a camera in his hands. He becomes suddenly attentive, clicks the camera at some off-screen scene, then nods in quiet satisfaction at how easily he was able to get naked pictures of his kid’s hot teacher. I’m not sure how the hearing device helped with this, unless maybe it keeps him on guard for the piercing sirens of approaching squad cars.

Generally, though, the Loud and Clear is shown engaging in harmless fun. There’s a party scene where a trio of attractive women are chatting, then the shot widens to show the eavesdropping stud who’s delighted to learn they’re talking about him. There’s a hunter in the woods — hopefully not the same woods with the tight-jeaned woman — using the hearing enhancer to listen for the rustle of live game. I only hope the L&C has a volume control handy, because when he lets loose with that shotgun, he’s going to get way more amplification than he bargained for. There’s a quiet conversation at home with the family, above a caption that reads “HEAR PEOPLE AROUND YOU!”

Probably the worst, most devious thing about this product is that I want one. I can tell that my hearing has declined in recent years, and I recognize that it would be nice to watch television and have some idea of why Howie Mandell is beating that guy over the head with a baseball bat. My world could be so much richer.

Actually, I think I’d like to have two, one protruding out of each ear. Maybe if I order now…

 

You want my advice? (Pt. 12)

“You Want My Advice?” is a twice weekly feature (Tuesdays and Thursdays) of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, design, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. Today, we hear from a reader in the midst of a spiritual crisis.

Q. Why should I believe in Jesus and give up my lifestyle right now, if God will forgive me anyway whenever I ask him? Why not wait until I’m about ready to die? I like the way I’m living. – Tweet from the Floor (And I Do Mean the Floor) of the S’Uptown Dance Club

     A. Is that right? God will forgive you a lifetime of sins even on the day you die? Hang on a second while I check Bible.com.

     Wow, you’re right! I did not know that. Right there in Revelations 13:35-36, it says: “For ye shall be able to do all kinds of unrighteousness — up to and including sins of the flesh, sins of the spirit, and sins upon thy brother and thy father – as long as ye shall call upon the Lord during your last days and ask that He give unto you a break.”

     So what’s the point of living a proper and sin-free life? If you can lie and steal and murder and work for the Bush Administration during your days here on Earth, and you can still get into heaven with a deathbed confession of your wrongdoing and a new-found faith in God, why wouldn’t you want to do as much harm as possible in the time you have? Because even the “God-less” can have some sense of propriety and a recognition of what’s right and what’s wrong? That can’t be true.

     In my role as a leading theologian and an Authorized Vessel through which the Lord speaks unto all the world, I would still advise that you not to be so callous and calculating in the timing of your final confession. What if you’re walking down the street and suddenly struck by a truck? By a meteor? By a runaway train? I have connections and can make it happen, just like that if I want to. You might survive for a second or two plastered on the grill of that speeding Freightliner but I wouldn’t count on having your wits about you. They’ll probably be lying in the road about a hundred feet back.

     Get right with the Lord now, I say unto you. I’m not kidding around.

Website review: CNN.com

This … is … C … N … N.

So intoned the Lord our God, in his only commercial spokesperson role, some 40 years ago when the Cable News Network premiered. I was an early adopter of the cable news format when it was first made available in the 1970s, and have been a fan of its derivative networks since then. I enjoyed watching Braves baseball, Turner Classic Movies and the unchanging drumbeat of Headline News (now rechristened HLN) repeating the same stories over and over and over. I got a vicarious kick out of Ted Turner’s unsuccessful mergers, with both Jane Fonda and Time Warner. I’ve even taken the tour at the Atlanta headquarters, ascending the world’s tallest escalator to end up in a tiny room where they explain how the weather people can’t even see what they’re pointing at as they wave their arms in front of a green screen. Amazing!

Having seen the bricks and mortar of the operation, I was eager to take a look the digital and the virtual in the form of the network’s website, CNN.com. As you might imagine, the home page is heavy on the headlines of breaking news. Thursday’s highlights included must-reads such as: “Rabid fox attacks dad, son,” “Man complains about Buddhas at zoo,” “Cow gas tax not happening,” “Eighteenth Porta-Potty set on fire” and “Iowan: Cold hurts, makes ‘skin burn.’” There’s also promotion of a feature about what’s on schoolchildren’s minds (“Make Iraq war go away”) and an offer to update your Facebook status while you watch the inauguration on CNN.com.

CNN is working hard – some might say a little too hard – to make itself relevant in the new-media landscape that potentially threatens its very foundation. In its efforts to involve viewers and make them more a part of the news operation, it’s giving Average Joes nearly equal footing with its staff of veteran journalists. While participation from the grassroots can offer a broader perspective on the events of the day, it can be distracting to those of us used to a little more professionalism.

Take the concept of the “iReport,” a user-generated site containing stories that are “not edited, fact-checked or screened.” Just the kind of reliable information source you want. One recent example went beyond news into the realm of opinion and policy-making, allowing an iReporter to offer his views on how to fix the most severe economic crisis of our time. Zennie Abraham, also known as “Zennie62,” offered his taxpayer stimulus package to CNN chief business correspondent Ali Velshi. Zennie’s plan calls for a $3,500 stimulus check to those making less than $100,000 a year, presumably including Zennie. Velshi said such a plan wasn’t targeted enough to work but Zennie defended his idea: “$3,500, particularly for college students and their parents, can help pay for their housing.” (Sounds like someone trying to afford first and last month’s rent so he can move out of his parents’ basement.) CNN’s Velshi, after hearing the explanation – and mindful perhaps of the network’s changing demographics – started to agree. “That could work,” he said lamely.

Another new feature a little too close to the cutting edge for my comfort is the Rick Sanchez Show, wherein Rick attempts to moderate a Twittering free-for-all that’s taking place in a strip across the bottom of his screen. He tries his best to turn submissions like “great rap, agree … disagree no matter … all good. gots to go to bed. will do again morrow” and “hey, why’s ur girlfriend gaining weight again. u making her too happy?” into relevant commentary on the topic at hand. He squirms so hard at some points that you fear he’ll pull a muscle.

The website also includes details and extras about certain on-air personalities and the efforts they go to in making themselves more interesting. The “Today”-equivalent morning show on HLN is called “Morning Express with Robin Meade,” featuring a former beauty queen with a chatty manner, a smile as wide as  Heath Ledger’s Joker, and the kind of extreme makeup required in today’s high-definition production. Robin hosts the Morning Express Challenge, a news quiz where both the first correct answer and a randomly drawn player win the same prize – an autographed picture of Robin – but both are enrolled in a chance to win the grand prize, a trip to Atlanta to meet Robin in person. We also see Robin posed in what looks like the open bay door of a helicopter, the smile wisely turned upside down as she offers her “Salute to the Troops.” And, you can sign up for her daily email news preview, sent out early each morning in her signature lower-case style: “morning glory! let’s shake the sleepy out of you. this isn’t our top story, but i love this one: too much caffeine can make you hallucinate and see ghosts. okay, how much are we talking? more on that.” I actually subscribed to this service for a while, until I cancelled after realizing there’d be no pictures of Robin still in her baby-doll pajamas.

Other highlights around the site include pictures of Indo-hunk Surgeon General-designate Sanjay Gupta, promotions for the “News to You” show (a kind of “Best Week Ever” rip-off without the snark), and the obligatory nod to Nancy Grace’s all-consuming obsession with the Caylee Anthony case. I looked for something on CNN’s resident right-winger Glenn Beck, but he’s apparently left the company for a new and more welcoming home on Fox News. Either way, I’m glad to see network news offering a big enough tent to employ those afflicted with uncontrollable facial tics such as Glenn’s.

You can also sign up for CNN Mobile alerts, in case you want to be notified immediately via your cell phone should there be a warning about Vicks Vaporub or how “doctor [is] interested in seeing kids not kidney, lawyer says.” I tried to find out more about similar high-tech extras but crashed my PC twice when I tried to go to the Tools and Widgets section of the site.

All in all, it’s a respectable representation on the Web, almost deserving of the thunderous tones I quoted at the beginning of this post. If God is no longer in the promo business, maybe they can get James Earl Jones to splice a “… dot … com…” onto the audio for their site.

The mystery of health-food names

I absolutely love my neighborhood organic health-food store. They let me hang out in their small Wi-Fi-equipped café for hours at a time playing with my laptop, drinking cold bottled tea and raiding their free samples. Though the freebies don’t always complement one another — yesterday’s selections were chocolate brownie bites and garlic hummus – they’re always delicious.

My wife and I shop here on a regular basis, so I don’t feel too guilty doing this cyber-loitering. I blend in nicely with the houseplants and pistachio-nutshell artworks (I’m the one wearing sweatpants) and I try not to make a nuisance of myself. It’s become something of a home away from home since my hours at work were cut back a few months ago and I started getting on my wife’s nerves at home.

I’m not a big health-food consumer though I do enjoy just about anything that’s tasty and expensive. Browsing the shelves here I find a lot of products I’m sure I would enjoy, but I also see a lot of items that are something of a mystery to me. Health and organic food manufacturers have gotten very creative with their naming conventions. It does make them memorable, though often in an unintentionally funny way.

Here are some of the products I found while wandering around the store yesterday afternoon, and my guess of what they really are:

Wallaby yogurt – I’m sure it’s not made of wallaby, but I also want to know that it’s not made of wallaby milk.

Seventh Generation recycled toilet paper – Recycling is obviously a good and important thing, even in items like bathroom tissue. Taking it all the way to the seventh generation, however, seems a bit much.

Women’s bread, man’s bread, brown sandwich bread, kamut – These are all frozen bread products and are fairly self-descriptive, except for whatever the hell “kamut” is.

Dr. Praeger’s spinach pancakes – This sounds more like a prescription than a healthy side dish.

Amy’s tofu rancheros – Yee-hah, let’s round up those free-range tofus and slam ‘em into these rancheros.

Gaga’s SherBetter orange frozen dessert – I guess this is some kind of sherbet substitute. I thought sherbet was already healthier than other frozen desserts but, as the name suggests, this is even sherbetter.

Scandinavian-style Gravlax – This was displayed next to the salmon and crab dip, so I’m guessing it’s a fish product, possibly similar in nature to the notorious Norwegian lutefisk. Combining the word roots “grav” (as in “gravel” and “grave”) and “lax” (as in “laxative” and “lacks edible texture”) does not tempt me to buy it, however.

Chocolate hazelnut tea – Just doesn’t seem like a good taste combination.

Blackwing ostrich filet – “Blackwing” sounds like a disease sweeping through the ostrich population, not a brand of their tasty meat filets.

Uncured organic chicken corndogs – I know curing is considered a bad thing among whole-food purists, but it seems like if anything needs to be restored to health it’s chicken corndogs.

Ziyard vegetarian kibbeh – I had to go online to learn that kibbeh is a “Levantine dish made of burghul,” which wasn’t particularly helpful.

Quorn turk’y and chik’n products – I’m presuming these are made of corn and at least vaguely resemble the poultry products they sound like.

Dominex eggplant burgers – I’ve never before thought of the eggplant as a particularly assertive or strong-willed vegetable.

Baby Mum Mum vegetarian rice husks – Start your child out right in life with the kind of taste-free bulk that brightens the eyes of kids everywhere.

Venison jerky with sea cucumber – This product was in the pet food section, though I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the more hard-core customers here have eaten it themselves.

Organic Ghee – Ghee is a clarified Indian butter that can be stored without refrigeration. Mmm!

 

Soon, I’ll venture into the neutraceutical (pill) section of the store and report on some of those names. Stay tuned.

Now we’re cooking … with crackers

There’s been quite an explosion in culinary creativity in recent years. Things that just were not done with foods in the past are now being routinely cooked up by top-flight chefs as well as amateurs in their home kitchens. Taste combinations we couldn’t fathom ten years ago – lamb and Pez, free-range chicken and bubblegum, eggplant and Chloraseptic, pomegranate and mint-flavored toothpaste – are now so commonplace as to be almost ordinary.

Television, at least at some level, seems to have had a large part in driving this revolution. Shows like “Top Chef,” “Iron Chef” and “You Think You Can Cook? Well, Think Again” are all over the airwaves, showcasing cooks with stars in their eyes and eyeballs in their soups. Celebrities such as Anthony Bourdain, known for using his lit cigarettes as a heat source for his famous fondues, and Andrew Zimmern, the “Bizarre Foods” guy who recently added blown-out retreads and chunks of asphalt to the carbon-based matter he’s willing to consume, are well known and admired, assuming they’re still alive as of this writing. Racheal Ray brings less exotic ideas like pasta-stuffed Mom jeans to dinner tables all over the country.

But even at the everyday level where most of us live, we see these changes. Fast food restaurants that once offered only regular French fries, now also offer curly fries and seasoned fries. Pizza toppings, the most exotic of which used to be anchovies, now include pine nuts, pine cones and pine tar. You can even buy a hamburger that has another hamburger on top of it.

Large corporations have been quick to join in on this anything-goes bandwagon with suggestions of their own, cooked up in the same kitchens that brought us such entrees as high-interest junk bonds and collateralized mortgage originations. It’s a great opportunity to team even the most pedestrian snack foods with exotic recipes in the interest of selling more Fritos and Twizzlers.

One such company is Nabisco, makers of not only nature’s most perfect food, the Oreo, but also saltines, more formally known as Original Premium Saltine Crackers. The quick and easy recipe on packaging now on the shelves is the Grilled Steak Salad with Creamy Avocado Dressing. Below is the actual recipe:

Preheat grill to medium-high heat. Sprinkle steak with chili powder. Grill steak 7 minutes on each side. Remove from grill and let stand 5 minutes. Meanwhile, toss lettuce with tomatoes, onion and olives. Place Italian dressing and avocado in blender and blend until smooth. Cut steak into thin slices; arrange over salad. Drizzle with dressing mixture.

And then, the final and, some would say, most important step: Serve with the crackers.

Lives of the Dead: Martin Luther

Martin Luther (1483-1546), widely regarded as the father of the Protestant Reformation and a number of unintended babies, was a German theologian and religious reformer who challenged the supremacy of the Catholic Church. He also had a vast influence on European concepts of politics, economics, education, language and hair styling, with his now-familiar bowl cut making him one of the most crucial figures in modern European history.

He was born in Eisleben (later Hitlerville, and then back to Eisleben) in what today is Germany. His father, originally known as Hans Luder, had wanted to name his son “Lex” but was convinced by his wife to go with “Abraham Martin and John,” later shortened to simply Martin. The family was descended from peasantry, but Hans made a nice living for himself and his family as a copper miner and part-time fletcher/cooper (roughly equivalent to today’s writer/director). Martin received his early education at Magdeburg and Eisenach, before enrolling at the University of Erfurt at age 17. Red-shirted during his freshman season, he became an outstanding left tackle for the Fightin’ Furter football team by the time he graduated with a bachelor’s degree in 1502. He passed on an opportunity for a pro career — he was projected as high as the eighth round by some scouts — and chose to stay in school to pursue his master’s, which he received in 1505.

He began to study law, as his father wished, but didn’t have enough credits to graduate so he fell back on his undergraduate major – monking — and entered the Augustinian monastery. Within a year, he had so impressed his superiors that he was selected for the priesthood, ordained, and conducted his first celebration of mass. (“Celebration” might be overstating the case, as he kept stumbling over the unfamiliar phrasing, once mispronouncing “Madonna” as “My donut.”) He continued his studies in theology, including multiple re-takes of basic Latin, until he got his big chance to go to Rome and check out how Catholicism was done in the big city.

To put it mildly, he was not impressed. In fact, he was shocked by the worldliness of the Roman clergy, especially the way they had substituted vodka shots for wine in the communions they conducted. This led him to question other basic tenets of church, and he gradually came to believe that Christians were saved not through their own efforts but instead by God’s grace. The church leadership was making a tidy fortune off the sale of indulgences, which were peddled to the peasants in the form of mugs, posters and t-shirts (“Rome Rules” was a common slogan for this merchandising). This crass effort disgusted Luther to the point where he suffered from nearly constant vomiting, though scholars recently discovered a sixteenth-century Domino’s menu that led them to believe that salmonella-tainted pizza may have been a contributing factor.

Luther finally emerged into worldwide prominence when in 1517 he was named Holy Roman Empire Today’s “Most Pious Man Alive” and became known for some graffiti he had scrawled on the door of All Saints Church in Wittenburg. This posting of the so-called Ninety-five Theses has been greatly misunderstood by historians and only recently was clarified when the old door itself was located at a garage sale in East St. Louis, Missouri. It was long believed that Luther wrote the theses before-hand and then nailed them to the cathedral door as a sign of protest and to show his growing prowess as a construction worker. In reality, Luther wrote the seminal document on-site, meticulously painting it onto the oak with a fine single-haired brush. What bothered the church elders more than what the manuscript said was the fact that he was always in the way, blocking the main entrance almost constantly during the three weeks it took him to finish. Most of the demands were not that unreasonable – for example, he wrote of the need for sturdier pews to “accommodate the ample Germanic hind.” He also wanted Wednesday night services moved to Tuesday because most members couldn’t TiVo floggings in the public square like the wealthy clergy could, and he wanted the liturgy conducted in native languages because Latin “sounds too much like they’re just making it up as they go along.”

He made it all the way through the next-to-last thesis (“94. Enough with the incense already, it’s giving everybody a headache”) with church officials only mildly curious about the progress of the bowl-headed scribe. On the morning of his final day of work, he began writing the last entry as a crowd of onlookers grew around him. “The pope is not ni…” he began. The throng began buzzing with anticipation. The pope is not what? Nitrogen-based? Nihilistic? Luther slowly added a “c”. Nicene? Nickel-plated? Then he added an “e”. “Don’t get upset everybody – it could still be ‘Nicene,’” shouted one observer, trying to quell the growing distress of the crowd. Then Luther added the punctuation mark that would change European history forever, a period. “The pope is not nice.” The multitude gasped, but soon dispersed when they heard a beheading was being set up across the street.

The Roman Curia, which is kind of like a Senate subcommittee only crankier, began an investigation that eventually led to the condemnation of Luther’s teachings in 1520 and his excommunication a year later. He was summoned to appear before Emperor Charles V at the Diet of Worms and asked to recant. His famous assertion of conscience in the face of certain punishment – “No Can Do!” – is most likely legendary, but still he was spirited away by Prince Frederick the Wise who kept him in virtual house arrest at his castle.

Luther was able to continue much of his other life work, though it paled in comparison to royally pissing off the entire Catholic Church. He made a little money doing some free-lance translations and sticking his nose into the Peasants’ War of 1524-1526, where he supported the peasants’ political demands while repudiating their theological arguments, a fine distinction that was lost on all the people who had swords. He married a former nun, a widely acknowledged hottie by the name of Katharina von Bora, and continued his writing as his influence spread across northern and eastern Europe.

By the late 1530’s, his health began to deteriorate and he took on an anti-Semitic bent by accusing the Jews of exploiting the confusion he had caused among Christians. This made him virtually unable to locate a decent doctor, and he died on Feb. 18, 1546. His obituary, printed several days later in the Eisleben Picayune-Examiner, included a long list of his works, an even longer list of his children, and the name of his new religion: Martinism, which was later changed to Luthermania, then Lutheranism.

You want my advice? (Pt. 13)

“You Want My Advice?” is a twice weekly feature (Tuesdays and Thursdays) of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, manners, faith, technology, geopolitics, design, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. Today, we hear from readers looking for a more open and honest relationship with their friends.

Q. Our best friends, “Bill and Melinda,” are financially well off. My husband and I make just enough to get by. We have been friends for a long time and always have a good time together. “Bill and Melinda” are always inviting us to go with them on expensive trips. When we say we can’t afford it, they insist on paying. They even offered to buy us a membership in their country club. When we explain we’re uncomfortable with them paying for everything, they tell us the money is no big deal. How can we make them understand that we appreciate their generosity but are uncomfortable accepting their charity? – Not Only Poor But Really, Really Stupid

A. I think that if you’re truly best friends with these folks, you should be able to have an honest conversation about your concerns. I suspect they don’t even realize your discomfort, and would try to be more understanding if they did. I also would bet that they consider your friendship far more valuable than anything they could buy, and that’s why they want to be so generous.

No – forget that. It’s entirely too reasonable.

I would make a point of entertaining them the best way you can afford, in the coziness of your own home. The fanciest restaurant in the world can’t compare with a home-cooked meal of spam-and-dog-food lasagna around the small bench you call a dining room table. Go all out for this event, setting a trash fire in the corner of the room to provide the right ambience and putting a block of cheese on the back porch to draw out all the rats. After your friends have had a few glasses of malt liquor, all class differences will be forgotten.

Then, when they return the favor by inviting you into their home, be prepared to thoroughly ransack the place looking for jewelry, cash and expensive electronics to be loaded into your pick-up truck and hauled away while they’re preparing the canapés. If they happened to surprise you during your looting spree, just laugh it off – in as threatening and maniacal a laugh as you can summon.

By the way, you say these people are named “Bill and Melinda.” That wouldn’t be Bill and Melinda Gates, would it? If so, make sure you also steal the Microsoft stock certificates.

 

Impressions on an historic day

Observations on yesterday’s historic events:

• My suburb of Charlotte, NC, was slammed by two inches of snow Tuesday, grinding everyday life to a complete halt. Transportation was paralyzed, schools were closed and people stayed home from work to eat French toast, made with all the eggs, bread and milk they’d purchased the previous night. Life slowly returned to normal later in the day when all the car accidents that could possibly happen did happen. In other news, the U.S. inaugurated its first African-American president, beginning an era of hope and promise not seen in decades.
• When Chief Justice John Roberts bungled the first few lines of the presidential oath of office, I got the sneaking suspicion that he was laying the foundation for a constitutional challenge that Barack Obama was not in fact president because he didn’t say exactly the right words. What Roberts should have prompted was “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of the president,” but instead he came out with “I do slovenly swear that I will facetiously execute the president of the office.” Fortunately, Obama saw what Robbie was up to and managed to recite the correct wording.
• In an attempt to capture every possible camera angle, the networks at one point were focusing their cameras through the bullet-proof glass and onto the front line of dignitaries right before the oath was delivered at noon. An astute reporter observed that the giant foreheads seen on the distinguished guests were a “funhouse mirror reflection” and not actual giant alien foreheads.
• I noticed that 10-year-old Malia Obama was fiddling with some kind of electronic device while waiting for her father’s big moment. TV commentators claimed it was a camera, but I got the distinct impression that she was texting her friends. I can only imagine the message that a pre-teen girl might send in the midst of so much attention being paid to her and her family: “OMG – my dad is becoming president – I’m so embarrassed!!!”
• I was not particularly impressed with the invocation delivered by controversial preacher Rick Warren. He managed to avoid the verb “smite” while talking about the diversity of America, but still snuck in a few ingratiating references to his own personal savior, while giving only passing acknowledgment to everybody else’s. Then, for the last quarter of the recitation, he had the nerve to sample from the Lord’s Prayer. What is he, some kind of DJ Saddleback? I just hope he’s made to pay royalties to whomever it is who owns the rights to that “Our Father, who art in heaven” lyric.
• I thought it was very sad when the Obamas had to get out of their GM-produced megamobile during the parade and begin walking because the vehicle couldn’t get above 2 mph. This was the Big Three’s opportunity for some impressive grill time before a huge national audience, and the giant Escalade broke down at least twice on the route. They were able to get it re-started both times and finally ended up at the reviewing stand in time to watch the rest of the parade.
• During some of the postgame analysis on CNN, Democratic strategist and Louisiana native Donna Brazille talked about how great it was to be so close to the historic event up on the main stage. She said she ran into Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas at one point and, in the spirit of bipartisanship, resisted what had to be an overwhelming temptation to punch him in the mouth. Instead, she reportedly told the Savannah-raised justice, “Georgia in da house, Louisiana in da house.” Responding with classic Thomasonian wit, the soft-spoken arch-conservative responded, “duh?”
• It was high noon, the historic moment was at hand, and inauguration coordinator Senator Dianne Feinstein takes the stage to introduce … an overhead backup band? Their set was mercifully short, just long enough for me to make a quick trip to the restroom before the presidential oath. They were just finishing when I got back, so I may not have the band lineup exactly right, but I think I know at least a few of them – cellist Yo-Yo Ma, violinist Itzhak Perlman, pianist Billy Joel and saxophonist Kenny G were immediately recognizable. It was only the tambourine player that I didn’t recognize.
• Dick Cheney made his final appearance as sitting vice president literally sitting, in a wheelchair. He couldn’t have been happy with how diabolical that made him look. Reportedly, he suffered a back sprain while helping move furniture out of his office the day before (that man-sized safe isn’t going to move itself, you know). I’ve been through similar back pain myself, and I can tell you that sitting down is not the position you want to assume. When I had my most recent spell of back spasms, I wanted to either stand up straight or lay flat the whole time; any bending at the waist was extremely painful. I guess they couldn’t wheel him into the proceedings on a stretcher, since that would make it too hard to see unless he had one of those iron-lung mirrors you see in old movies. I suppose they could’ve slanted the gurney to a 45-degree angle so he might get an actual view. That was probably vetoed, however, when they realized how much it would look like he was doing a shout-out to waterboarding.
• Since I had to watch the proceedings from the office, I had to rely on the magnificent architecture of the worldwide web to get my live feed, and things were not going well. I went to several sites I would’ve thought reliable – CNN, CBS, ABC, MSN, even, in desperation, Fox – and all of them said I could “click here for live video.” I’d click there and nothing would happen except for a circular graphic rotation. I could understand why CNN’s wasn’t working; they had to use up half their bandwidth to include inane but real-time comments from their Facebook connection (Allegra Bischoff is thinking Rachel Maddow and Keith Olbermann are total foxes; Reza Gulastani is thinking I love everybody, God loves everybody, I think I need to study now). I finally got a site up and running just as Obama was stepping up to the podium for the main event, then … screen freeze. I rushed into the breakroom and was able to see the historic moment along with a group of African-, Asian- and Latino-Americans from our warehouse. When they broke into applause as the oath finished, it was a great moment.

Best of luck to all of us and to our new president.

You want my advice? (Pt. 14)

“You Want My Advice?” is a twice weekly feature (Tuesdays and Thursdays) of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, manners, faith, technology, geopolitics, health, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. Today, we hear from an elderly reader wondering about his medications.

Q. I’m an 83-year-old man and am medicated pretty well. I walk sometimes but otherwise get little exercise. Recently, I started having bad cramps at night and my legs are getting weak. Please advise me. – Old Man

A. You’ve come to the right place. I’m a 55-year-old man and am also “medicated pretty well,” if you know what I mean.

Have you ever tried Simvostat, sometimes known as “Simmies” or “Vo-vo”? It’s a drug designed to lower your cholesterol but, man, I gotta tell you, that stuff sends me totally flying. If you’re at all into mad hallucinations, this is for you. After I dose myself (don’t take with grapefruit), I’ll just lay back and stare at the clouds. Sometimes they form themselves into the Face of God and speak to me, while other times all I can see are flying monkeys and these transluscent fish that just laugh and laugh. It’s so cool, AND it’s gotten my cholesterol down to 135.

Another high I can recommend is Lorzepam, often called “Zeps” or “Lordy Lorzy” on the streets. This is ostensibly a sleep medication, but if you can manage to keep yourself awake, the effect is similar to surgical anesthesia. You’re just drifting, drifting – it feels like your brain is buzzing. If you do fall asleep, beware that side effects may include amnesia with no memory for the event, such as sleep-driving, sleep-eating and sleep-robbing-convenience-stores.

The last medication that I would “highly” recommend is something called Flomax. This is frequently prescribed to men of a certain age who may have trouble “going” or else find themselves going “all the time.” Flomax isn’t in generic form yet, so you might also ask for pharmaceutical equivalents such as Peezalot, WeeBegone or Pissanpiss. Besides fixing your prostate, this stuff makes your face literally vibrate and gives you incredible incentive to get things done (mostly involving urinals). If you need to stay up late to study for a test or prepare a presentation for work, this is the junk you want.

As for bad cramps and leg weakness, I think you’ll forget all about these problems – not to mention the names of close family members – if you try any of the above-recommended drugs. Have fun, dude.

 

Website review: Pepsi.com

There’s probably no consumer product I’ve consumed more of in my life than Pepsi-Cola. For at least the last 40 years, it’s been my everyday drink of choice – preferred over water, over beer, over tea and over coffee. Especially preferred over ice, with a straw, in a tall frosty glass. A quick calculation shows that I’ve probably spent close to $10,000 on the corn-syrup-infused soft drink over the years. I’ve downed 438,000 ounces, which amounts to over 5 million calories, which adds up to about 5,000 pounds of added bulk, roughly the weight of a modern supertanker. It also means I’ve consumed more than a million milligrams of sodium – enough to build my own salt mine.

My love affair with Pepsi began as a youth in the 1960s. It was the ultimate treat my parents could get me at the end of the day. I occasionally strayed to other brands of cola, specifically RC Cola which at the time was the only drink to come in a 16-ounce bottle. Like many, I experimented during college, trying now-defunct brands such as Jamaica Cola, Chek Cola and the poorly-conceived Ebola Cola. Pepsi’s arch-enemy, whose name I shall not allow my fingers to type, is my choice only when there’s no other choice.

There’s nothing quite like that feeling you get after about the fourth or fifth gulp, when the carbonation in your gut reaches critical mass and that gentle eruption of flavor flows back into your sinuses and, if you’re lucky, stops there. It’s “the taste that beats the others cold” and “the choice of a new generation,” to quote slogans the company has used since its creation in the nineteenth century. I’ve got a lot to live, and Pepsi’s got a lot to give. Let’s see what some of that is by visiting the pepsi.com website.

The first inclination for any consumer visiting this site, after considering the home page request to make suggestions to our new president about how to Help Refresh America (I think I can guess at least one), is to find out what it is that makes Pepsi so tasty. I know there’s water and I suspect there’s sugar, but what else gives it that special bite? Well, there’s caramel color, phosphoric acid, caffeine, sodium benzoate, potassium, citric acid and “natural flavors.” I know what caffeine is, I imagine citric acid comes from fruit, and I read somewhere that phosphorous can make you glow, all of which are good things. And who can dispute the wholesomeness of natural flavors? I can practically taste the dirt in a freshly opened can of soda.

In the “yesterday and today” section, we learn that Pepsi was invented in 1898 by Caleb Bradham and was originally called “Brad’s Drink,” a clever name that survived for days. It was created, Bradham said, to aid digestion. He said it tasted good and was good for you, unlike certain other colas I could name who bred a generation of cocaine fiends. We see a whirlwind of Pepsi logos circling the computer screen and eating up display memory before being shown the new container design. This is introduced with inspired words we could just as easily have heard during President Obama’s inaugural address: “We’re looking forward without losing sight of our past. We celebrate tomorrow, but honor yesterday. Today, we introduce the new face of our future.” Be assured, however, that “the taste remains the same” and only the marketing campaign changes.

Wandering around the site a little more, I see a part that issues “false rumor alerts,” where the company gets a chance to address concerns that the drink is made from the liquefied remains of slaughtered Amazon natives (completely untrue). The only entry here is a rather benign story about a patriotic can Pepsi allegedly produced with an edited version of the Pledge of Allegiance. Creating a patriotic can hardly seems scandalous; I can only assume that the abridged Pledge was the point of concern, maybe something about the “Republic of Richard Stanz” preparing for an attack on the American homeland.

We also see the obligatory corporate interest in protecting the environment in the form of the Pepsi Eco Challenge. I thought this might be a specific effort to restore balance to the biosphere – maybe planting a new tree for every plastic bottle cap that’s properly disposed of. Instead, it’s some vague “New Pepsi Challenge,” designed to recreate the excitement of that time the company dared consumers to choose among competing cola brands. “Today we heed a different call and face a different challenge, one that cuts across brands, companies, industries, even continents – the challenge of environmental stewardship, protecting our planet’s resources for generations to come.” I expected perhaps a call to pursue renewable stores of potassium or an end to our nation’s reliance on unfriendly suppliers of benzoate, but couldn’t find it.

It was fun to view the company’s current TV ad campaign, the “Pepsi Pass,” in which every generation is shown refreshing the world. We see Pepsi first being served at an old-time soda fountain, then the drink is successively passed to a 1920s flapper, soldiers celebrating the end of World War II, teenage drag-racers, hippies, a streaker, disco dancers, break dancers, Germans tearing down the Berlin Wall, and finally modern concert-goers. Most historians credit the pressure of Ronald Reagan’s military build-up in combination with decades of economic stagnation for the collapse of the Eastern bloc. As a loyal Pepsi drinker, I’m glad to see the truth finally told: the gassy fullness caused by drinking too much requires you to vigorously move around to get relief, and the Germans chose to get their exercise by dismantling the symbol of communism.

Finally, I did a quick review of all the current Pepsi products on the market. I barely survived the emotional roller coaster that was the rise and fall of Crystal Pepsi in the 1990s, so I was glad to see that the diversification of my favorite soft drink is still robust. We now have regular Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Caffeine-Free Pepsi, Diet Caffeine-Free Pepsi, Pepsi Max (with extra caffiene), Diet Pepsi Max, Pepsi One (with one calorie, for those who can’t stand zero-calorie drinks) and an orchard of fruit-flavored Pepsi’s, including cherry, lime, vanilla, cherry and vanilla, and caramel cream. It’s only a matter of time until we see Pepsi with Chicken Broth and Green Pepsi, with broccoli, kale, cabbage and algae.

I’m sure they’ll be wonderful. I plan to drink many thousands and thousands of ounces.

 

More celebs to rewrite history

Film actor Tom Cruise revealed last week that he had a childhood dream of killing Adolph Hitler. While on a world tour promoting his new movie “Valkyrie,” Cruise told reporters he regretted that time travel was not available for him to show up in 1930’s Europe and personally take out the Nazi leader responsible for the deaths of millions.

“I always wanted to kill Hitler, I hated him,” Cruise, 46, said. “As a child studying history and looking at documents, I wondered, ‘why didn’t someone stand up and try to stop it?’”

News of the Hollywood star’s desire to transcend the laws of time and space in an effort to preemptively remove the brutal German tyrant represented a new high-water mark among celebrity do-gooders. No longer content to adopt Third World children and raise funds to fight disease, today’s idols won’t limit themselves to what’s physically possible as they aspire to help humankind and promote their vanity projects.

Here’s a look at what other kinds of murderous retro-vengeance are on the minds and lips of the stars:

Kirsten Dunst: “When I was a very young girl, probably not more than two or three years old, I harbored a desire to kill (Hall of Fame Detroit Tiger) Ty Cobb. He was a very racist, very mean man. He may have held the all-time base-stealing record for decades, but he did it with a cleats-up style that injured many a second baseman. I really, really hated him.”

Bruce Willis: “I’ve always had a very strong distaste for the Chinese Cultural Revolution that led to the deaths of uncounted thousands. I’m not saying I’d want to kill (then-Chinese leader) Mao Tse-Tung because he did some good things to fight the Japanese during World War II. I’d just like to have been on hand to advise him against some of the more heavy-handed aspects of his efforts to overhaul his society.”

Marg Helgenberger: “Given half the chance, I’d put fifteenth president James Buchanan on my hit list. He did virtually nothing to head off what everyone could tell was going to become all-out civil war, plus he was our only bachelor president. He was a real bungler, and we’d all be better off today if his sorry ass had been eliminated before his 1856 election.”

Carson Daly: “For me, it kind of depends on how far back in time I could go. If there was no limit, I’d want to kill Alexander the Great. His reputation, as the nickname implies, is that he was an enormous political and military talent. Though he did bring Western culture as far east as India, he was very pushy about it, killing many tens of thousands of innocent people. If, however, I’m limited to just the last century or so, I’d kill (Russian tyrant) Josef Stalin.”

Philip Seymour Hoffman: “Rather than bring physical harm to flawed-but-human creatures, I’d go back to 1935 to prevent so much devastation from the Labor Day hurricane that ravaged the Florida Keys. I’m not naïve enough to think I could’ve prevented formation of the storm, but I do think I could use my histrionic acting style to warn many hundreds of residents to move to higher ground.”

Meryl Streep: “I’d kill Vlad the Impaler and I’d do it with my bare hands. Even though he was the basis for the great dramatic character of Dracula, that whole impaling thing just rubs me the wrong way.”

Roger Moore: “I’d kill Ivan the Terrible. He was just terrible – what more can you say?”

Rene Russo: “I’m not sure I’d go so far as to kill him (Oliver Cromwell), but I’d definitely do something to seriously hamper his more vicious tendencies. While I sympathize with his anti-royalist tendencies, there were more constructive ways to achieve the ascent of the Parliamentarians without all the fighting and executions.”

Dennis Quaid: “I’d kill either (Roman emperors) Caligula or Nero, I’m not sure which. Caligula was mad, so I guess you could say he had something of a medical excuse for his virtual ruin of Rome. Nero, though, you know he fiddled while Rome burned. That’s very un-cool.”

Orlando Bloom: “There’s not one individual I could name, because I was never very good at history, but I’d definitely want to do something to prevent the Spanish Inquisition. I’m a big believer in freedom of religion, so you can imagine how I feel about the idea of Catholics burning alleged heretics alive. By the way, watch for the upcoming release of my film ‘Elizabethtown,’ coming to DVD on January 31.”

John Mayer: “I know Tom Cruise is already taking care of Hitler, so I’d say I’d want to kill (Italian fascist) Benito Mussolini. He would’ve been as bad as Hitler if he had the skills, but things just didn’t quite work out for him.”

Osama bin Laden: “I’d go back in time to kill the mother and father of Mike Meyers. That ‘Love Guru’ movie absolutely sucked.”

A visit to the neutraceutical aisle

Last weekend I wrote about some of the strangely-named — and downright strange — grocery items I found in my neighborhood organic health food store. Yesterday, I wandered through what traditional stores would call their HBC section (health, beauty and cosmetics) but this store would have to call their USB section (unguents, salves and balms). Here are some of the items I found:

Candex Yeast Management System – I know yeast are living creatures, however I doubt they really need a manager. If they do, I know several from my work that I can recommend.

Super Digestaway – I’d imagine this is for people who feel their food is staying in their gastrointestinal tract for too long, and would prefer to see it expelled only moments after it is eaten.

Colon Green – I can understand the importance of an environmentally correct colon, and I hope that’s what this product delivers. If instead it actually turns your colon green, that is something I would not want, no matter how many glaciers melt as a result.

Deglycyrrhizinated Licorice Root Extract – Whatever this product is, it single-handedly broke the spellcheck function in my word processing program. It now stops on every single word and instead of offering “suggestions,” that field is simply headlined “huh?”

Intestinal Bowel Support – I hope this isn’t what it sounds like: a contraption of harnesses and trusses.

Parasite Formula – Like several of the products listed here, I’m not sure if this formula fights the title character or is comprised of it.

Gigartina Red Marine Algae (5 strains) – For those situations where four strains aren’t enough.

Dr. Ohhira’s Essential Living Oils – I’m guessing these do NOT include gasoline, motor oil, heating oil, etc.

Fucothin (concentrated Fucoxanthin) – For consumers ready to say to society “screw your impossible body images and screw your xanthin as well.”

Show Me the Whey – It’s so clever, you have to buy it, regardless if your diet is whey-deficient or whey-cool.

Hemp Shake – Not yet available at Burger King, fortunately.

Goatein (goat’s milk protein) – Stimulates those follicle-producing glands on your chin and upper lip in a way that will produce a strong, healthy goatee.

Host Defense – Something you take before going to a party thrown by your pushy neighbor?

MucoStop – If mucus has already been produced in overabundance, I wouldn’t want it to stop; I’d want it to MucoGo, into a tissue, into the garbage and into the landfill.

Super Lysine+ FizzSticks – Imagine the disappointment of young children who instead were expecting fish sticks.

Organic Motherwort – Just because “organic” and “mother” are in the name does not make up for the fact that “wort” is there too.

Quai Dong – I wouldn’t buy this product simply because I’d be afraid that a mis-type dropped the “l” from “quail.”

IP-6 and Inositol Plus Maitake and Cat’s Claw – When IP-6 and Inositol and Maitake are simply not enough, it’s time to get out the nail clippers and call Harriet in from the other room.

Bone Up – Please, please, please, let this product be for sufferers of osteoporosis and not for middle-aged men.

Ultimate Eye Formula – Again, I’m not sure if this is something that purports to help your vision, or is simply made of eyes.

Holy Basil – St. Basil was one of the group of great oriental theologians to whom, under God, we owe our right belief in the Trinity and the Incarnation, and also the chief organizer of ascetic community life in the East. When he died in 329 A.D., he was freeze-dried, ground up and sold as a spice.

Inflatrol – Can be used both on your tires and on your gut.

Calming Kit for Kids – This is an organic collection of Benadryl, vodka and cough syrup with codeine.

Confidence and Daydream Remedy – These are two different products sold for use with children. I assume the former boosts confidence and the latter suppresses daydreaming, but I could have it backwards.

Gummy Omegalicious – Another product for kids, most of whom are smart enough to see past the “gummy” and the “licious” to find that key ingredient of fish oil hiding in the middle.

Ubiquinol – It’s the herbal treatment for everything!

Guggul and Red Yeast Rice – Guggul is the resin from a tree from India. Why you would want to ruin perfectly good red yeast rice with it is beyond me.

Ditch the Itch Bar – This label is pasted on the product sideways and I originally read it as “Ditch the Bitch Bar,” believing it to be some kind of soap that would repel an estranged loved one. That actually sounds like a more useful product than this anti-itching formula. You can relieve an itch by scratching it with your fingernails but you can’t … Wait a minute, I guess you could.

Superhazel – Sounds like a mash-up of two sitcoms from the 1960s, where the sassy maid and the suburban witch become one, and madcap antics ensue.

Licefreeee! Lice Killing Hair Gel – For those kids who want to be fashion-forward and parasite-free at the same time.

Bone, Flesh and Cartilage – Are these things enhanced if you take this product, or is that what it’s made of? We need to know.

Thoughts on death and dying

I’ve been thinking lately about death and dying, and there are a few things I don’t like about it.

 

Obituaries, for one. I find myself being drawn to reading the obituaries in the local paper, since I’m more likely to find people I know hanging out on that page than in sections like sports, weddings or commodities futures. As my young son used to observe as we’d drive past a cemetery – “that’s where the dead people live” – I think it’s time for us to take a fresh look at the concept of death notices.

 

Currently we get to read all about how old people were, who some of their survivors were, and which email address condolences can be sent to. We’re told that they “passed,” “departed this life,” “were funeralized” or “went to be with [their] Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ,” but are given few other details. Sure, some notices may say that the departed passed “peacefully but unexpectedly” or “after a courageous fight.” That doesn’t really tell us enough. What we don’t get to hear, unless we’re good at reading between the lines, is what everyone really wants to know – the cause of death. If, in lieu of flowers, mourners are asked to make a donation to the National Skydiving Association, there’s a decent chance that the dead guy fell 10,000 feet out of an airplane. If they were employed by Johnson’s Crushing and Hacking, Inc., it’s a fairly safe bet they were killed in an industrial accident.

 

I think it’s a shame that the dead and their family members have to be ashamed of the way in which they left this earth for realms unknown. We have a much better understanding these days of what’s involved in the cessation of bodily functions, and it’s usually not anything to be particularly embarrassed about. My face might be red (before turning ashen) if it’s reported that I died trying to hold down a mattress in the back of a speeding pickup truck before the mattress became airborne. But at least everyone would know I was the kind of guy to help move a friend to his new apartment.

 

Then there’s the issue of what to do if your passing is going to take a while. No one wants to die of a lingering, painful illness, though I can’t say for sure I’d prefer the quick and easy death involved in a head-on train impact. You hear people saying they don’t want to spend their last days lying in a hospital bed hooked up to all manner of mechanical intervention to keep them alive. “I’d rather be home with my family,” they say, conveniently forgetting the smell of the cat box, the annoying telephone solicitations and how far ten steps to the bathroom seems when you’re no longer the most continent person in the home.

 

Before I’m discharged to my cluttered, dusty bedroom, I’d want to know more about which particular machines I’d be hooked up to if I stayed in the hospital. Might there be morphine involved? High-definition satellite television? The ability to pee without having to get out of bed? Talk about being treated and released. I’d be tempted to sign up for that now if I didn’t have to start paying for four years of college education this fall.

 

Speaking of early enrollment, I read a science fiction story once where members of the aging population were given the opportunity to end their lives sooner rather than later in return for a cash reward, a fabulous vacation and a pain-free passing. The short-term expense to society would be offset by the decades in which the fading individual was not eating their meals on wheels and using up other social services that might be better dedicated to those who could chase down their own food. I think this proposal should be given serious consideration. Put me down for spending a week in a hot tub on cruise ship eating prime rib with Anne Hathaway.

 

There’s one important consideration to reconcile before this can become a workable public policy: how you would create the least difficult death. Humanity has had a long history of failing to figure out the easiest way to go, if you can use execution methods as any example. The intentionally cruel attempts of ancient peoples – stoning, crucifixion, being fed to whatever wildlife was handy and hungry – gave way in recent centuries to progressively more user-friendly methods. The guillotine, gallows, electric chair and lethal injection were all thought at one time or another to be humane choices, though I don’t think any are quite my cup of poisoned tea. I think more research is needed to figure the fastest way out, and might I suggest the cast of the movie “Twilight” as possible volunteers in this study.

 

Finally, there’s the question of the afterlife. Most organized religions regard self-destruction as a sin, probably because it can make such a serious dent in their membership rolls. If you get to the other side legitimately and have lived a relatively good life, most creeds will give you a pass to a magnificent paradise featuring angels, harps, virgins, clouds, cows, gods with lots of extra arms, and all your dead relatives, though presumably the grumpy ones will have found other accommodations. If you’ve sinned or, in the Southern Baptist tradition, done a disco dance, you instead are consigned to a hell that will likely include at least one Bee Gee as well as a lot of other horrible stuff.

 

I honestly don’t know what waits for me in the Great Beyond. My best guess is that it’s eons and eons of nothingness, kind of like what the A&E channel has become. It’s only because we have such difficulty imagining what that void would feel like that we’ve come up with all these elaborate afterlife scenarios. Since they can’t all have it right, and because I hesitate to cast my lot with a randomly chosen sect (with my luck I’d get Zoroastrianism, which preaches a final purgation of evil from the Earth through a tidal wave of molten metal — ouch!), I prefer to think that you get whatever it is you believed in while you were alive.

 

 

And for me, that’s where Anne Hathaway comes in again.

You want my advice? (Pt. 15)

“You Want My Advice?” is a twice weekly feature (Tuesdays and Thursdays) of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, manners, faith, technology, geopolitics, design, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. Today, we hear from a reader with a possible new-product idea.

Q. I am a registered nurse three days a week at a hospital and a bartender one day a week at a country club. I am about to launch an all-natural premium margarita mix and want to include on the label that it is endorsed by a nurse – me. Ethical? — An Entrepre-Nurse

A. Sure, why not? It should be fairly obvious to potential buyers that the mix is not intended to be used in a medicinal way and, while I don’t necessarily think the “AS ENDORSED BY A NURSE” tagline is going to be driving buyers to your product, I don’t think it’s unethical. The only potential for misinterpretation might come at the hands of dumb college frat boys who think they’ll be able to binge drink without any ill effects.

I admire your ambition in trying to bring something like this to market, and wondered if you have thought at all about the reverse synergy of capitalizing on your medical connections to make something that would appeal to the country-club set. You could do a line of pre-mixed drinks that were infused with various medicines you have access to at the hospital. Maybe a “Vodka Collins with Ritalin” for those wanting to focus in on improving their tennis forehand, or a “Cosmopolitan with Ortho Tri-Cyclen Patch” for the desperate housewives on the nineteenth hole concerned about their birth control. You could even do something as simple as a band-aid or aspirin, put it into hospital-style packaging, and charge $25 a piece like they do on the insurance claims. Or you could do a line of congealed, room-temperature entrees and casseroles and sell them as Hospital Cafeteria Healthy Meals.

By the way, I also think it’s ethical that you cut me in for a percentage of the profits if any of these ideas work out.

Let’s recognize the underappreciated breakroom

When he grows weary of his heavy labor and seeks a few moments of rest and reflection, the American worker is able to turn to a quiet refuge of solitude where he charges his batteries before re-entering the global economy with renewed vigor. These are the hallowed halls of the corporate breakroom.

The origins of the breakroom may be lost in the mists of time, but we can imagine how ancient hunter-gatherers might take a few moments from their huntering-gathering to rest under a sprawling fruit tree. With the modern marvel known as the vending machine still eons in the future, they had no coin slots that would lead them to refreshment. Instead, they’d nudge the trunk of the tree with their brawny shoulders and hope that an apple or pear might fall at their feet. As is the case for us, their modern cousins, sometimes it did and sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes, instead of fruit they’d get a bird’s egg or a dead raccoon. What are you gonna do?

As societies moved to an agrarian and eventually an industrial economy, the breakroom evolved with the times. In the sweatshops of eighteenth-century England, the 14 hours of toil spent every day tending the steam-powered orphan press would be broken into manageable chunks by the occasional moments spent chained by your overseer in a quiet corner for trying to steal some steam. The apples of yesteryear and the SunChips of tomorrow may have been replaced by  badger-sized rats, yet still it was good to catch your breath.

Today, we have advantages and comforts unimagined by our forefathers. As an example I’m familiar with, I’ll describe the breakroom at the office where I work.

The room is painted a shade of ecru/tan/beige/off-white that is the closest thing possible in the visible spectrum to no color at all. I’m not sure of the room’s dimensions, but if people were laid end-to-end on the floor (which only happens during third shift), I’d imagine it’s roughly twenty by forty feet. There are maybe eight or ten nondescript grey tables each surrounded by a random mix of plastic and cloth-covered chairs.

However, it’s what’s around the edges of this quiet corner of the corporate world that draws in the tired workers of both the office and the warehouse. Primarily, there are the vending machines: one that contains mostly snack foods such as candy, cookies and chips; one that was intended to hold actual meals of sandwiches and salads but now offers only instant oatmeal, cup-o-soup and plastic orange juice containers with some type of dark sludge in the bottom; and one each for Coke and Pepsi products, still sadly segregated in these otherwise diverse times. You can tell all the machines host a lot of traffic by the sticky notes affixed to their fronts, bearing messages like “you owe Jane in accounting 85 cents” and “I found a roach in my Snickers!!!”

Almost as important as the vending machines are the appliances used to make their products more palatable. We have two microwave ovens, one splattered with hardened sweet residues and the other with savories, so your cooking won’t be too badly mis-flavored if you choose the right one. There’s a toaster oven that neither toasts nor ovens, though it will provide a measure of warmth to your food. There’s an ice machine where you can immerse your hands when they get tired of typing (at least that’s what I think it’s for). There’s a refrigerator for those who choose to bring their meals from home, as long as they heed the warning sign on the door: “Absolutely no pizza boxes or two-liter bottles – they WILL be thrown away.” We used to have a coffeemaker but the warehouse people ruined it for everybody by using up all the artificial creamer and never replacing it, the jerks.

As for entertainment, besides watching people bang their fists on the vending machines, there’s a television perched in one corner with its endless loop of Headline News. We also have a bookshelf generously stocked with a surprising variety of paperbacks and magazines that makes it appear we’re a more literate crowd than we actually are. There’s a single window that looks out onto the parking lot, a clock with hands that make a 360-degree circuit every hour, and those intriguing walls I mentioned earlier. Those last three features draw as much attention as the more stimulating options the later it gets in the day; people working on overtime seem to have an especially keen interest in the walls.

Finally, I’ll mention the internal communications centers of the room, a couple of bulletin boards. One of these contains information being communicated by management about health, legal and other employment-related issues, as well as copies of recent emails sent out by headquarters, including the one explaining how we can afford to buy a company in Brazil but no employee hams for the holidays. The other board is a forum for people wanting to get messages out to their fellow workers. There are a few rules – nothing allowed that promotes commercial or for-profit enterprises, all postings must be approved by site management, they can be up for only ten days before being removed – but otherwise it’s the kind of wide-open space that our brave patriot ancestors earned for us when freedom of speech was first established in this country. When I checked the board yesterday, it showed a newspaper clipping of a record catfish catch, an article about how much trouble you can get in if you tell the health insurance people you don’t smoke but you really do, advice to wipe down all surfaces during cold and flu season and, inexplicably, a large map of the United States. (I think it fell out of one of the National Geographic magazines.)

It’s a warm and welcoming place where we while away our 15 minutes of paid break time twice a day. While it may not be for everyone – like the people who choose to sit in their cars or the coworker I discovered doing some bizarre exercise routine in the darkened training room next door – it can be a special “happy place” for those who need a break.

 

You want my advice? (Pt. 16)

“You Want My Advice?” is a twice weekly feature (Tuesdays and Thursdays) of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, manners, faith, technology, geopolitics, science, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. Today, we hear from a reader with a really stupid, really boring science question.

Q. With talk of rising seas, what could happen to the rivers that flow into the oceans? Will they reverse flow? Will rising seas back up into freshwater lakes? And what happens to our groundwater should saltwater flow backward into it? – Getting Thirsty Just Thinking About It

A. Finally … a hydrology question. Our readers have been waiting forever.

Though I’m an expert in many fields (taxidermy, thoracic surgery, the Dave Clark Five, the Ming Dynasty), this is one area where I’m a bit of an amateur. I’ve never studied the subject formally but rather have approached it as an all-consuming hobby, primarily through my quest to drown as many fire ants with boiling hot water as I can. (It’s fun to put a stick in the middle and watch a few lucky creatures survive, only to realize later their world has been wiped out.) So let’s see what the professionals have to say on the subject.

Hydrology has been a subject of investigation and engineering for millennia. For example, in about 4000 B.C. the Nile was dammed to improve agricultural productivity of previously barren lands. Aqueducts were built by the Greeks and Romans, while the history of China shows they built irrigation and flood control works. The ancient Sinhalese used hydrology to build complex irrigation works in Sri Lanka, and are also known for invention of the valve pit which allowed construction of large reservoirs which still function.

All of which has nothing to do with your question, especially that part about whatever the hell a “valve pit” is. I predict that when the seas rise that rivers will indeed reverse their flow and the seas will back up into freshwater lakes, just as you’ve postulated. Our groundwater will be rendered too saline to drink, which doesn’t bother me because I only drink Pepsi anyway.

It’s basically just an end-of-the-world scenario, and nothing to worry your little head about.

 

Website review: NorthDakota.com

I consider myself to be a pretty experienced traveler. I’ve been to England, Germany, Asia, the Philippines, Alaska and all over the Caribbean. In this country, I’ve been to all the major cities except Los Angeles. The only wide swath of territory I’ve missed are the so-called “flyover states” west of the Mississippi.

I’ve never gone to North Dakota and, frankly, I can’t imagine a scenario where I will. Of all the Dakotas, I’d rank it only my third favorite: behind the more populous South Dakota but also trailing the mythical East Dakota (when you’re a Dakota, imaginary is often better than real). I’ve heard claims made that North Dakota is the gateway to the Wild Wild West, though any time you hear something referred to as the “gateway” to something else, that just means it’s next to it, not part of it. I was once the gateway to Bill Clinton when he campaigned in my area for president in 1992, though I’d hardly put that on my resume, for a number of reasons. If I check my atlas, North Dakota could at best call itself the gateway to the Upper Midwest.

Fortunately, in this the age of the Internet, I don’t have to make a half-dozen flight connections all for the pleasure of ending up in Fargo. I just have to search for “North Dakota travel” and there I am at the official website of that frigid state’s tourism division – this week’s choice for a website review.

As you might guess, the home page features a collage of photographs, all of them featuring snow. There’s a couple wearing oversized sweaters snuggled up to their mugs of cocoa while leaning on the side of their log cabin. There’s a guy on a snowmobile, and there’s a view of a balcony in the woods where it looks like someone has fallen. I don’t know if this is the slide they put up just for winter, though from what I hear it could just as easily be a scene from June.

Next, a little history is probably in order. In 1889, President Benjamin Harrison signed the order granting North Dakota statehood. Nothing significant has happened since.

“Dakota” is derived from the Sioux word for “friend.” North Dakota ranks number one in the U.S. in a variety of agricultural categories, including durum wheat, all dry edible beans, canola, flaxseed, all dry edible peas, lentils and navy beans. (I’m not sure how many friends you’d have left after eating such a flatulence-inducing diet, but I imagine at 40 below you’ll take whatever warmth you can get). The official beverage is milk, the official dance is square, the official fossil is petrified wood, and the official fruit is the chokecherry.

The tagline for the travel site seems to be “North Dakota: Legendary.” To quote further: “you ask, ‘what is there to do in North Dakota?’ and we answer, ‘what ISN’T there to do?’ The options are as diverse as the imagination. Some like to hunt, either for antiques or big game. Others enjoy howling, at a comedy club or while camping. Then there are the trails.” Let me pause to catch my breath before we look at some of the more memorable sites, events and activities throughout the state.

According to the “what to do” section, there are 606 statewide attractions. Neither space nor interstate commerce laws against using the Internet for fraud will permit me to describe them all. However, I can report that there is an albino buffalo, a 9/11 memorial site with a girder from the World Trade Center, a number of swimming pools, and a Celebrity Walk of Fame with signatures and handprints of notables including Debbie Reynolds, Maury Wills and the band KISS (rumor has it their handprints in cement were the result of a drug-induced fall rather than anything intentional). There’s also the David Thompson State Historic Site, a monument to the pioneer explorer who mapped the Missouri-Knife River area and later went on to basketball stardom at North Carolina State. And let’s not forget the Enchanted Highway, featuring metal sculptures including “The World’s Largest Tin Family” and “Grasshoppers in the Field.” Also there’s a batting cage called “Field of Swings,” a game warden museum and the geographical center of North America.

Not only are there places to see but there are things to do, as listed in the events section of the site: A Wine Tasting, Cabin Fever Days, ShiverFest, Quilt Til You Drop, the Dakota Bull Session (a three-day gathering of former military members), and A Cowboy and His Horse (“learn about the Old West from local cowboy Lyle K. Glass”). There’s also a production of the hit musical “Cats,” but I’ve got one of those in my back yard, so that’s hardly a big deal.

The website is not the only evidence that North Dakota has entered the digital age with the kind of enthusiasm its residents usually reserve for dying of hypothermia. The state is also mentioned on Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr. It’s seen in the background of at least several You Tube videos. And there’s also a blog, with one posting that seems to sum up what for many visitors is the typical North Dakota experience:

“I arrived just two hours before the start of what would become the biggest early November blizzard in the last 20 years. I traveled to the state to hunt whitetail and waterfowl for six days. The snow forced me to spend the night in Bismarck, since the interstates were shut down, but I spent a pleasant evening at the Expressway Inn and was able to get on the road by 10 a.m. the next day.”

In North Dakota, they don’t believe that getting there is half the journey. When explorers Lewis and Clark arrived, they stopped and spent the winter (not a bad choice when you consider they could have proceeded on to Montana). And, as the tourism office concludes proudly, “Theodore Roosevelt visited twice before he became president.” Twice.

* * *

For those as bored as I am by the prospect of the Arizona Cardinals playing in the Super Bowl on Sunday, I’ll be live-blogging during the game (or as much of it as I can stay awake for). I’m sure I’ll be making a lot of rude, sarcastic comments, if that’s your thing. Watch this space starting a little before the game begin around 6 p.m. For those who miss it, I’ll compile a summary to be posted on Monday morning. I look forward to “seeing” you there.

The New York Times goes potty-mouth

While I personally regard The New York Times as the world’s greatest newspaper, there are others who substitute nicknames different than the traditional “Grey Lady” or “The Paper of Record.” They may call it “Home of the Eastern Elite” or simply “Those Jewish Guys.” These are politically driven criticisms that I won’t dignify with a response, other than to say that those people are rednecks.

I understand how certain recent changes have been made necessary by market demands on the financial side of newspapers. The design has changed to acknowledge that it’s now possible to produce color on a printing press. Advertisements recently made their way onto the bottom of the front page.

But what’s possibly most challenging for loyal readers is how the editorial content has had to change with the times and with the tastes of younger readers. Though not nearly as outrageous in their titillation as other media — see tomorrow’s post about America Online’s “front page” — the Times is venturing into subjects I’d expect to see in underground elementary school newspapers, if such things existed.

The following is an article the Times ran recently that’s a pretty good example of what I’m talking about.

 

CRAPSTONE, England — When ordering things by telephone, Stewart Pearce tends to take a proactive approach to the inevitable question “What is your address?”

He lays it out straight, so there is no room for unpleasant confusion. “I say, ‘It’s spelled “crap,” as in crap,’ ” said Mr. Pearce, 61, who has lived in Crapstone, a one-shop country village in Devon, for decades.

In the scale of embarrassing place names, Crapstone ranks pretty high. But Britain is full of them. Some are mostly amusing, like Ugley, Essex; East Breast, in western Scotland; North Piddle, in Worcestershire; and Spanker Lane, in Derbyshire.

Others evoke images that may conflict with residents’ efforts to appear dignified when, for example, applying for jobs.

These include Crotch Crescent, Oxford; Titty Ho, Northamptonshire; Wetwang, East Yorkshire; Slutshole Lane, Norfolk; and Thong, Kent. And, in a country that delights in lavatory humor, particularly if the word “bottom” is involved, there is Pratts Bottom, in Kent, doubly cursed because “prat” is slang for buffoon.

As for Penistone, a thriving South Yorkshire town, just stop that sophomoric snickering.

“It’s pronounced ‘PENNIS-tun,’” Fiona Moran, manager of the Old Vicarage Hotel in Penistone, said over the telephone, rather sharply. When forced to spell her address for outsiders, she uses misdirection, separating the tricky section into two blameless parts: “p-e-n” — pause — “i-s-t-o-n-e.”

Several months ago, Lewes District Council in East Sussex tried to address the problem of inadvertent place-name titillation by saying that “street names which could give offense” would no longer be allowed on new roads.

“Avoid aesthetically unsuitable names,” like Gaswork Road, the council decreed. Also, avoid “names capable of deliberate misinterpretation,” like Hoare Road, Typple Avenue, Quare Street and Corfe Close.

(What is wrong with Corfe Close, you might ask? The guidelines mention the hypothetical residents of No. 4, with their unfortunate hypothetical address, “4 Corfe Close.” To find the naughty meaning, you have to repeat the first two words rapidly many times, preferably in the presence of your fifth-grade classmates.)

The council explained that it was only following national guidelines and that it did not intend to change any existing lewd names.

Still, news of the revised policy raised an outcry.

“Sniggering at double entendres is a loved and time-honored tradition in this country,” Carol Midgley wrote in The Times of London. Ed Hurst, a co-author, with Rob Bailey, of “Rude Britain” and “Rude UK,” which list arguably offensive place names — some so arguably offensive that, unfortunately, they cannot be printed here — said that many such communities were established hundreds of years ago and that their names were not rude at the time.

“Place names and street names are full of history and culture, and it’s only because language has evolved over the centuries that they’ve wound up sounding rude,” Mr. Hurst said in an interview.

Mr. Bailey, who grew up on Tumbledown Dick Road in Oxfordshire, and Mr. Hurst got the idea for the books when they read about a couple who bought a house on Butt Hole Road, in South Yorkshire.

The name most likely has to do with the spot’s historic function as a source of water, a water butt being a container for collecting water. But it proved to be prohibitively hilarious.

“If they ordered a pizza, the pizza company wouldn’t deliver it, because they thought it was a made-up name,” Mr. Hurst said. “People would stand in front of the sign, pull down their trousers and take pictures of each other’s naked buttocks.”

The couple moved away.

The people in Crapstone have not had similar problems, although their sign is periodically stolen by word-loving merrymakers. And their village became a stock joke a few years ago, when a television ad featuring a prone-to-swearing soccer player named Vinnie Jones showed Mr. Jones’s car breaking down just under the Crapstone sign.

In the commercial, Mr. Jones tries to alert the towing company to his location while covering the sign and trying not to say “crap” in front of his young daughter.

The consensus in the village is that there is a perfectly innocent reason for the name “Crapstone,” though it is unclear what that is. Theories put forth by various residents the other day included “place of the rocks,” “a kind of twisting of the original word,” “something to do with the soil” and “something to do with Sir Francis Drake,” who lived nearby.

Jacqui Anderson, a doctor in Crapstone who used to live in a village called Horrabridge, which has its own issues, said that she no longer thought about the “crap” in “Crapstone.”

Still, when strangers ask where she’s from, she admitted, “I just say I live near Plymouth.”

* * *

For those as bored as I am by the prospect of the Arizona Cardinals playing in the Super Bowl tomorrow, I’ll be live-blogging during the game (or as much of it as I can stay awake for). I’m sure I’ll be making a lot of rude, sarcastic comments, if that’s your thing. Watch this space starting a little before the game begins around 6 p.m. For those who miss it, I’ll compile a summary to be posted on Monday morning. I look forward to “seeing” you there.

 

Startling news from the web

The teasers for upcoming local news shows we see sprinkled throughout prime-time network TV programming can be both annoying and alarming. When they take five seconds to shout “Find out what fast foods can kill your kids” or “Earth to be destroyed by asteroid? News at 11,” we know they’re just trying to get us to watch their show later that evening. So at least we understand their logic as we run screaming into the night.

When new-media news sites do the same thing, just to get you to click through to the actual story, it doesn’t make quite as much sense. I don’t mind annoying and alarming, but unnecessary tends to get on my nerves.

The following teaser headlines are a sampling of some of the more outrageous examples I’ve seen (mostly on AOL) in recent weeks:

 

–Toxin found in 1 in 3 grocery foods

–Man trapped under sofa for days: Manages to survive in bizarre way

–Peek at spots only rich people get to use

–Man returned from dead: He flatlined, turned blue and his family said goodbye, then he awoke

–Woman killed for Facebook status

–Woman literally scared to death

–Singer, 60, still hot in just fishnets

–Man’s story of harassment by boss is humiliating: He’s just ‘too cute’

–Fifteen things never to say on a plane

–Bride attacked on wedding day: Sister arrested for ripping her hair out

–Teen chases parents with knives over cell phone

–Casey Anthony’s new image in court: She wears suit, hair in bun

–Chat on couch turns mortifying: Wrong move in skirt exposes star to world
–Change coming to thin mints: Bet you’re not going to like it
–Had to see for yourself: Photo shows Janet’s weight is up
–Jessica’s mom jeans aren’t flattering
–New York baker defends racist cookies
–High sex drive linked to disease
–Book will rip apart Brad and Angie (only 37% believe it’s true)
–15 women who bared (almost) for a cause
–Watch as elephants play soccer
–Kids with cell phones at risk: More likely to be hit by cars
–Katie’s hair caused a stir: We called it a ‘mullet’, you called it ‘adorable’, then it disappeared
–Could have been much worse: Star’s undies flashing has you talking
–Road named after part of anatomy
–Is Kingston or Ruby cuter? One winning by a lot
–Hotel main spilled hotel guests’ oh-so-nasty secrets
–Actress refuses to fly with her husband
–Sitting here doubles risk of death
–Lesbian to be prime minister
–Bikini-clad Spears flaunts even more of her comeback body
–Island may look harmless but it’s disease-infested
–Man in dress steals NFL spotlight
–Oprah probably won’t be happy with this list
–Potato salad step you should skip
–Most searched facial cleansers
–Lamp makes your living room ugly
–Country singer goes to market but looks like she just rolled out of bed
–Couple spends $155K on a cloned dog
–Cindy and Mandy spotted wearing same dress
–Zombies ahead, Run for your lives! Why did drivers get wacky warning?
–Girl passed out eating sandwiches: what caused her bizarre illness
–Why sexy star wore her dress backwards
–Your reaction to Brit’s comeback bod was mixed (to say the least)

–Miss Kentucky is awfully hairy

–Teen star nearly gives crew eyeful

–Celeb baby showdown: It’s a close call, but you have to pick which tiny tot is cuter

–What your face says about you

(What was) live blogging of the Super Bowl

     For those of you who missed all the excitement last night, I spent a good portion of the Super Bowl live-blogging my impressions of the event. It seemed like a good idea in advance: watching all the TV proceedings and publishing my comments every 15 minutes or so. It was a lot harder than I thought it’d be, and detracted significantly from my enjoyment of an (eventually) thrilling game.

 

     I ended up posting ten different commentaries before running out of interest at the beginning of the second half. I’ve compiled the most trenchant of these in today’s post for those who were too involved in other activities (watching the game, partying with friends, enjoying life itself) to be spending time online.

• Our new president once again made a good impression with the viewing public in his interview with Matt Lauer before the game. Dressed in a casual shirt and looking relaxed, he chatted about his first days in the White House, his work on the economic crisis, and how “people may think I’m cool but they should see my daughter.” I was a little disappointed though that they didn’t introduce him the same way they introduced the players — that video head shot where the player is first seen looking down at his shirt, then raises his head and smiles at the camera as he announces “Barack Obama, sitting president, Harvard University.”
• Well, we’ve waited through all the hype and now it’s almost game time. The pregame show has just completed its fifth hour and the commentators have made their picks: five selected the Steelers and five picked the Cardinals. Most unbelievable of all is that they actually have TEN guys providing their insight.
• This just in – Kurt Warner is clean-shaven for the game and, in an unrelated story, the Hyundai Genesis is the 2009 North American Car of the Year.
• There’s a guy on the Steelers whose last name is “Colon.” I know former running back Jerome Bettis was called “The Bus”; I wonder if Colon’s nickname is “The Semi.”
• The Terrible Towels are much in evidence, with the majority of the fans apparently from Pittsburgh. The Arizona fans have either opted for the Lightly-Regarded Linens or the Formidable Facecloths, but it’s hard to tell which for sure.
• Time for the community outreach public service announcements, where players pretend to like underprivileged children just long enough for it to be caught on camera.
• I think Faith Hill has had a makeup malfunction. Her eyelids are a shade of blue not normally seen on the human anatomy, except maybe for those who have been deeply bruised. She added a “God bless America” and a “wooo” onto the end of her rendition of “America the Beautiful”.
• Look! It’s the flight crew of the USAir jet that landed in the Hudson River! Fortunately, they’re on the field and not involved in the ceremonial flyover.
• Gen. David Petreas of the central military command is tossing the coin. Glad he was able to pull himself away from that whole homeland defense gig for something more important.
• They promise that after this next set of commercials – “we PROMISE” – the game will actually start.
• Some woman just quoted somebody named “F. Scotts Fitzgerald” about there being no second acts in American popular culture. Good thing he died so long ago that he didn’t see how wrong that prediction was going to be.
• Second play of the game and it’s a run for three yards. I think I’m bored already.
• All this talk of penetration and offensive packages is very disturbing while I’m trying to watch this game with my family.
• Rothelisbergenberger (sp?) just leaned in for the touchdown … no wait, it’s a challenge on whether or not he crossed the goal line. Nope, he didn’ quite make it after all. Sounds like a good time for a commercial on beer and its drinkability.
• I really like the look of that Audi in the commercial just completed. Can I have one since I mentioned it on my blog?
• It’s the first penalty marker of the game, and it’s on the Cardinals who are now on offense. Then the Cardinals fumble and barely recover to gain half a yard. Troy Palamalamalu (sp?) is having trouble with his contact lens on the sideline.
• I do like the part where the players introduce themselves and mention the college they went to, if any. One guy simply says he’s got “swagger” instead. I’m guessing he left school early rather than choosing to pursue post-graduate work in genetic engineering.
• Maybe this would be a good time to mention the score, in the unlikely event someone reading this even cares. The Steelers made a field goal after they lost that challenge, so they lead by 3-0. Back to you, John.
• What’s with all these players with the long hair? You can’t even read the name on the back of their uniforms. Back when I was that age, why … oh, yeah, we had long hair too. Never mind.
• The always-exciting false start penalty on the Steeler offense. Glad they showed the replay to confirm the start was indeed false.
• Hey, that’s funny – they have the Potatoheads driving in a commercial. Mrs. P. is mouthing off at Mr. P. and suddenly he reaches over and knocks her mouth off. Just as my teenage son predicted at the beginning of the commercial. That was for Bridgestone Tires, by the way. Now there’s one for Castrol motor oil. I wonder what you use these products on, considering there’s no mention about GM, Ford or other American cars anywhere to be seen.
• We’ve returned to action and there’s a skirmish. John Madden says Hines Ward likes to get physical, even though receivers don’t usually get in on the fights. They’ll discuss third and goal while we go to another commercial.
• My wife just called me to dinner and I said “wait a second, Pittsburgh is about to make a touchdown.” “Make”? What am I, a girl?
• TOUCHDOWN STEELERS!!! I think that makes it 94-0 now.
• Suddenly, dinner is looking a lot more exciting than this game. I’ll take a break and return shortly. You’re reading live blogging from the Super Bowl on davisw.wordpress.com, you poor thing.
• Did you see that 100-yard interception return just now? I didn’t, because I was finishing my dinner, but I’ve seen about five replays. While we’re waiting for the review … the ruling on the field stands! The Steelers will have a comfortable lead going into halftime, 17-7. Now, for the real show.
• What’s with all the texting we’re now required to do during half the commercials? Text this to that, text that to this. Can’t we just relax and watch Danika Patrick continue with her shower?
• I love it when defensive linemen record a sack, and they’re so not used to celebrating that they instead go into this exaggerated stepping thing that looks so dorky. They need to practice this more during the offseason, maybe take a few cues from all those flamboyant receivers.
• Enough with the five-guy panel analysis already. Every time another prominent coach retires, he gets added to the panel. I still don’t understand why Matt Millen, the genius behind the Detroit Lions winless season, gets to give his opinion.
• Chris Collinsworth has this one really thick grey hair growing out of one of his ears. No wait, that’s his earphone wire.
• It’s Bruuuuuuuce. He’s really starting to show his age a little, as he jumps around on the equipment. First song of the 12-minute set is “Tenth Avenue Freezeout.” I would’ve preferred “Born to Run” but that’d probably take the whole allotted time. I hope he doesn’t do a medley with every song truncated.
• Clarence Clemmons is dressed in a very slimming black floor-length Matrix-style coat that belies his status as the “Big Man.”
• Nooo – it is a shortened version of “Born to Run.” How can you ride through mansions of glory in suicide machines in just 12 minutes? Well, I guess it’s still pretty good. He still gets to die with Wendy in an ever-lasting kiss. 1-2-3-4…!
• This gospel number by Bruce with the Arizona Cardinal cheerleaders singing in robes in the background is not one I’m familiar with. Of course, I haven’t bought a Springsteen record in probably 25 years, so what do I know?
• We Conan fans are more excited by Max and Labamba and the rest of the Late Show Band in the background than we are by Bruce and the lovely Patti and the even lovelier Little Steven, who’s not looking so little with that jowl thing he’s got going.
• Pretty clever to have the fake umpire declaring a delay of game on the E Street Band. Now Bruce and the boys are headed off to Disney World (probably got an extra $25K for that little shout-out). “The National Football League thanks you for watching the Bridgestone Halftime Show.” Yep, I’ll remember those tires long after I’ve forgotten that performance.
• There’s a kid who’s bringing a football out to the official, as he apparently won some sort of contest. I can’t believe he’s not sick or handicapped or dying and still gets to go to the Super Bowl as a kid.
• Okay, the Super Bowl halftime show is over, and most of the good ads have been aired, so I’m just about done. When they show the local insert that advertises the city transit system, you know they’ve played out the good ads.
• The teams are back on the field and there’s still buzzing about that huge interception return to end the first half. Either that, or my high-def TV is going on the fritz again.
• I can’t believe I’ve stayed up til 8:30. This is a really late night for me, considering I had to get up at 4 this morning. I actually got a chance to work some overtime this weekend, for the first time in quite a while. I hardly had any time to play online Scrabble – that’s how busy we were. We’re experiencing a peak in activity because of the end of the fiscal year a few weeks back and now we have to help prepare all this financial documentation of how and why various companies tanked this year. Oh yeah, somebody just rushed for a four-yard gain.
• Time for some ice cream and a sleeping pill. I’ll check out the score in the morning. I’m too old for this stuff. Goodnight, everybody.

 

You want my advice? (Pt. 17)

“You Want My Advice?” is a twice weekly feature (Tuesdays and Thursdays) of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, manners, faith, technology, geopolitics, science, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. Today, we hear from a reader who’s having some problems protecting his hearth and home.

Q. A squirrel is trying to get in a bay of the roof just behind the side trim on my dormer. He has gotten in previously by chewing on the fascia trim board. I finally got him out and nailed some lightweight metal to cover the holes. He made short work of those metal patches, so the next time I got him out I covered the entire fascia with galvanized steel. He keeps scratching on the metal. How long will it take him to get in, one way or another? – Despiser of All Things Wild

A. The squirrel is one of nature’s most persistent creatures, so I’m guessing it won’t take long at all. In fact, in the time it took you to send me this correspondence, I’d be willing to bet you’re already up to your knees in acorns.

Just kidding. Actually, I bet the galvanized steel will work for a while, though most biologists now predict that squirrels will be developing blow-torch technology in the next two to three years that will enable them to burn through all metals except reinforced titanium. Some pest control experts are suggesting a “reverse psychology” strategy that will use the animals’ ingenuity against them. This philosophy involves you moving out of your house and into your yard, which will then encourage the furry-tailed scamps to try to break out of your house instead of into it.

I might also suggest the use of humane traps which would allow you to capture the squirrels and return them to your nearest nature preserve. If you don’t have a preserve in your area, watch this space on Saturday of this week. I’ll be posting some excellent squirrel recipes printed in the outdoors section of our local paper, including the compassionate and delicious fried squirrel and the hearty smothered squirrel.

News in briefs: multiple births and “bad” banks

Doctors in Texas have reported yet another record-breaking multiple birth. An unidentified woman delivered eleven babies in about 45 seconds early Tuesday as a team of 125 specialists assisted.

The babies, being called “eleventy-uplets” until someone figures out the proper Latin root words, are all remarkably healthy despite their tiny size and early deliveries. The eight boys and three girls are believed to represent the largest multiple birth ever recorded.

“You can imagine what it was like to have that many infants coming out at that rate of speed,” said Dr. Andrew Crisp, chief of obstetrics at Dallas’ Parkland Hospital. “I’m just glad my team was already wearing safety glasses for medical reasons, or someone might’ve had an eye put out. Those kids were just flying outta there.”

It was believed the mother, identified only as a 25-year-old teacher, was taking fertility drugs, and lots of them. There was some speculation from relatives that she confused the medication with her favorite candy, jujubes.

Ultrasounds taken just days before the birth clearly showed eight babies in the woman’s uterus, so doctors were already prepared for an extraordinary procedure. There was a brief pause after the eighth newborn emerged before doctors discovered the existence of three more – one hiding behind a kidney, one in the mother’s handbag and the last in an easy chair in the hallway outside the delivery room.

The mother was reported resting comfortably following the historic delivery. The babies have taken over a nearby Hampton Inn until they reach a healthy enough weight to be released.

***************************************

The proposal being floated to create a so-called “bad bank” to contain shaky mortgages and other toxic assets is already being fleshed out by Treasury Department officials who would oversee such an effort. In fact, sources say, a working prototype has already been established in a Washington, D.C. suburb and is testing various business strategies with actual banking customers.

The new office, tentatively called the “Worst National Bank of Maryland,” will not only be aggregating assets that other banks are trying to get off their books, but will be test-marketing new policies and services keeping in line with their charter, “to really suck as a bank.”

“We know most banks currently serving the public are not very good,” said vice-president of marketing and community relations Robert Hanschu. “We know people are fed up with hidden fees, high credit-card interest rates and difficulties in getting a loan. But we think we can take that ‘screw-you’ attitude to a whole different level.”

Customers will notice a difference as soon as they arrive on the property of the WNB. The parking lot is broken asphalt, the grass is uncut and the windows are covered with plywood boards. There’s an ATM drive-through on one side of the building that’s actually a converted tool shed, with one side cut out to display an old TV screen, a telephone keypad and a mail slot configured to simulate the cash machine. Inside the shed sits a homeless employee who will pull your ATM card through the slot while making whirring noises with his mouth and then dispense your cash. The bills may be smeared with blood, mucus or feces but are still fully negotiable.

Inside the lobby there’s the usual armed security guard but he’s just as likely to rob you as protect you from criminals. There’s a rope to guide you to the tellers’ window though instead of velvet it’s made of razor wire. A small desk off to the side is set up for those opening new accounts, who get to choose from a dangerously rewired toaster or a 2003 calendar as their introductory gift. There’s a counter for customers to fill out their deposit slips and other paperwork, with the requisite pen chained to the surface. The tellers are also chained in place.

Most standard banking services are offered with a twist. Checking accounts with a minimum deposit of $1,000 offer modest interest – “You have a thousand dollars?” asked one teller as he rubbed his palms together. “That’s very interesting.” There are secured safety deposit boxes “around here somewhere,” she noted, and a line of CDs that aren’t actual investment vehicles but instead are compact disks featuring recordings from all the top hitmakers of the 1990s. Both auto and home loans will be available in the near future, and will be largely similar to the awful loans found at standard banks.

Federal officials are also looking at this retail concept as a potential vehicle for disbursing funds being made available through the economic recovery stimulus now working its way through Congress. Customers representing different problems in the economy could line up outside a small office in the lobby while government officials would throw money at them.

“I think the bad bank idea can really go far,” said Hanschu. “Almost as far as I’ll be going just as soon as I can embezzle enough money to get to the Caymans.”

You want my advice? (Pt. 18)

“You Want My Advice?” is a twice weekly feature (Tuesdays and Thursdays) of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, manners, faith, fashion, geopolitics, science, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. Today, we hear from a reader who’s looking for some fashion and career advice.

Q. I have been working in fashion sales from the same department store for 16 years. Now I am one of several sales associates whose position will be eliminated. We all will be looking for retail-sales job. Should we wear pantsuits (which is what most of us wear to work now) or skirt suits? What about shoes and accessories? What is the rule for shoe color? I always thought your shoes were supposed to match whatever clothing was closest – pants, skirt, etc. What is the best thing to wear for a job interview? – Naked and Wondering

A. You’re asking the wrong person.

I am not someone who is known for their fashion sense. As I look down at my body today while sitting at my laptop, what I see is pretty much a disaster area on the order of the Kentucky ice storm, except maybe with fewer hypothermic horses. I’m wearing a faded “Salty Dog” t-shirt, grey sweatpants about two sizes too large (make that one size – I just finished a sausage and cheese McGriddle), white socks and ten-year-old penny loafers. Above the neck, I’ve got a two-day beard stubble, a windblown comb-over whose tentacles threaten to obscure my ears, and nose hair issues I should probably see an endocrinologist about. But this much I can tell you in response to your question: do not wear sweatpants.

In the eternal debate on pantsuits versus skirt suits, I come down firmly on the side of pantsuits. The last thing you want is a job interviewer who thinks you’re moderately attractive, and wearing a pantsuit will just about guarantee that this won’t happen. As far as accessories, I’d suggest something that’s going to grab their attention so that when you leave the interview, they won’t be able to forget you – maybe something like a live fish around your neck, fuzzy dice earrings, and a black inner tube inflated around your waist. (You can never go wrong with black.)

As for the shoes, you’re right that they should be matching whatever clothing is closest, which in my case is the white socks. However, it’s well known (even by the fashion-challenged like me) that you’re not supposed to wear white shoes after Labor Day.

Frankly, it’s probably just going to be easier for you to go on welfare.

If you had been paying any attention at all during your years working in fashion retail, you should be able to answer these questions yourself. What were you doing while customers were trying on clothes in your changing rooms – training for a career with an actual future? If you had any sense at all, you would’ve reached over the wall, stolen their old clothes, and then worn these when you showed up at McDonald’s to apply for the only position you’ve got a hope of getting in this economy. Might I suggest you order the sausage and cheese McGriddle to let them know how serious you are about your new career.

 

Website review: Chicken.com

The subject of this week’s website review – the National Chicken Council – proved to be a distracting and elusive target, much like the barnyard animal to which it’s dedicated with its head chopped off. I found myself wandering off to other areas of the Internet with no apparent connection to my original subject. The Web has a way of doing that to your best intentions. Start out researching American bomb testing on Bikini Atoll and the next thing you know, you’re studying American Idol contestant Bikini Girl.

The National Chicken Council, not surprisingly located at nationalchickencouncil.com, promotes the consumption of chicken and fosters a positive public image for the industry. It’s a full-service trade association that promotes and protects the interests of the chicken trade and is the industry’s voice before Congress and federal agencies. It is not, unfortunately, an association of the birds themselves determined to end their enslavement and exploitation.

The website features several appetizing pictures across the top of the home page, and if you allow your browser arrow to linger there long enough, these are identified as “chicken photos.” Further down, there are links to several of the key issues confronting the nation’s chicken producers. Specifically these include “correction” of an alarmist article in SELF Magazine about chicken preparation safety, how the council opposes a boost in the ethanol content in gasoline (to free up more corn for chickens, I guess), and how they applaud an end to the European ban on American poultry and support for a trade agreement with Russia. Like the chicken itself, the council is selfless to a fault, concerned more about the health and well-being of Americans than their own interests.

There’s also an article about the safe, government-regulated use of arsenic-containing compounds in chicken feed, but the less we know about that, the better.

Speaking of frightening thoughts, the NCC invited Gen. Barry McCaffrey to speak at its fifty-fourth annual conference last fall. (I guess if we all die as the result of a rogue nuclear attack on our homeland, it’s really going to put a dent in chicken sales.) McCaffrey virtually scared the feathers off the conferees. He noted how the situation in Pakistan is unstable, how Iran will soon go nuclear under the Sunni Arabs, how the death of Castro could mean 500,000 refugees within 36 months, and how a confrontation with Venezuela’s Hugo Chavez will lead to continued instability in oil supplies. Because he didn’t mention the crispy goodness of a well-fried leg quarter, however, they reportedly knocked $25,000 off his speaker fees.

Speaking of fried chicken, which used to be the centerpiece of the KFC menu before it was replaced by the mysterious “FC,” I was intrigued by their newest TV ad campaign so I went to their website to read all the fine print I couldn’t make out on my 54-inch television.

There’s a Tyson chicken truck pulling up to the restaurant as the voiceover talks about how fresh the chicken is. But the tiny type tells us “fresh claim is applicable to KFC’s drumsticks, thighs, wings and breasts; not applicable due to supply outages.” Then we see a young woman who claims to be the in-house cook at that location, but the tiny type tells us it’s an “actor portrayal.” Then we see a tagline about the newest offer of dinners for five, $3 each, but the tiny type tells us this is a “limited time offer at participating restaurants , prices may vary, tax extra, extra charge for breast piece substitution.” As a professional typographer, I must object to the way small point sizes are used to convey such disclaiming. That’s what whispered fast-talking is for.

Getting back to the National Chicken Council, I started to wonder what other kinds of special-interest representation is being done on behalf of animals with similarly funny-sounding names. I searched for the National Turkey Council but it turned out to be more concerned with the geopolitics of Asia Minor than with our favorite Thanksgiving bird. Seems I should’ve looked instead for the National Turkey Federation, located at the not-so-subtle URL of www.eatturkey.com. Next, I tried to locate a lobbying group for ducks but came up only with hunting information and Food Network recipes.

Turning away from food animals (at least for most of us), I found that the Monkey Association is concerned primarily with a free-association exercise done by a digital monkey, that there’s something called the National Monkey Knife-Fighting Association, and that if you’re sincerely concerned about our closest relative in the animal kingdom, what you really want is the International Primate Association.

Change the “m” in “monkey” to a “d,” and you’ll find the American Donkey Association. This group was founded by Dale and Geri McCall of Oregon for the purpose of “improving the status of the donkey.” They are currently establishing chapters all over the country so that people who own donkeys and “people who just love donkeys can share their interests, their zeal, their passion and their knowledge of these fun animals.” The website tells us there are several sizes of donkeys and each has its own purpose and pleasure, and that Dale and Geri have been “involved” with donkeys, mules and horses for a combined total of 75 years. (I assume that’s human years rather than donkey years, which I don’t know the translation for.) The McCall’s ask “would you like to see donkeys presented in shows that are strictly for donkeys? We would too. Let the ADA show you how to do just that.” I’m sorry, but this is just getting a little too silly.

Speaking of silly, I got to wondering what it was about the chicken, the turkey, the duck, the monkey and the donkey that struck me as funny. The only commonality I could readily come up with was that all of them contain the letter “k”. So I Googled “animals starting with ‘k’” to see if this hypothesis would hold up to the rigorous scientific standards of the typical search engine. I came up with the kangaroo (funny), kookaburra (really funny), kinkajou (hilarious), kitten (cute but with sharp claws), kudu (sounds like “doo-doo,” so it’s funny), koala (again, cute), krill (shrimp-like), katydid (riotous), killer whale (endangered and not at all funny to small marine mammals) and Komodo dragon (first word funny, second word scary). So the evidence is a bit inconclusive.

By the way, there is an International Kangaroo Society, but I could find no council, federation, association, commission, congress, convention, alliance, partnership, union or society that cared about the Komodo dragon. I hear that they’re a very solitary creature and, besides, they would probably eat people rather than vice versa.

 

Recipes in squirrel (garnish with tail)

On Tuesday, in my guise as an advice columnist, I answered a question from a reader who was having trouble with squirrels trying to break into his house. More frightening than your typical 2 a.m. drug-inspired home invasion, this situation involved the furry yard-beasts chewing through various parts of the siding in an attempt to find shelter, food, girl squirrels or some paradisiacal combination of all three. The writer wanted to know what he could do to solve this problem. I gave a lame, tentative answer, but today I’ll elaborate.

Eat the squirrels.

How? For that answer, we turn to the outdoors columnist of my local newspaper. Keep two facts in mind as you read the following: (1) “dressing” the squirrel does not involve putting on cute little outfits but rather involves dismembering him; and (2) if you think removing the grey glands from behind the legs is really going to make a difference in how palatable the meal is, you better think again. Also, when the columnist says the broth “can” be used to make a delicious gravy, he is speaking in theory.

You must acknowledge that some of the names commonly used for squirrels aren’t exactly appealing when it comes to looking at them as table fare. Consuming critters known as bushytails or tree rats doesn’t put one’s salivary glands into overdrive. Then again, neither does goose liver, the basic ingredient in the gourmet delicacy pate de foie gras.

Yet as a reader recently noted, and as fond memories regularly remind me, properly prepared squirrel makes wonderful eating. Moreover, this is the time of year when squirrel hunting is one of only a handful of sporting activities which can be pursued with expectations of a high likelihood of success. So, with those thoughts in mind, why not take to the woods, bring home a mess of squirrels, and get ready for some mighty fine moments at the table?

I’ll leave obtaining the basic ingredients for the recipes which follow up to readers’ gumption, but drawing on a lifetime of dining on squirrel meat, along with the experience gained through writing a number of game cookbooks with my wife, I can offer some guidance when it comes to preparing this game delicacy.

As with any successful game cooking, the key first step involves dressing and handling the meat. Look at it any way you wish – squirrels are difficult to clean. The best way is to make a slit around the tail and a bit of a cut along the back hams and then shuck off the whole hide, following that with removal of the entrails. Alternatively, you can start in the middle and peel away toward both ends.

The keys are to get every bit of hair, along with any fat, off the carcass. Also, probe in under the animal’s front legs and remove the gray-colored glands found there (this is often overlooked). Once you have the carcass clean, and cut into pieces if desired, soak in a pan of cold water to which a bit of salt has been added for a half hour or so. Once you remove the meat, rinse it, and pat-dry, it’s ready for preparation. What follows are a few recipes suggesting ways to turn squirrel into scrumptious feasts.

ANNA LOU’S SQUIRREL

Place dressed squirrel in a large saucepan, cover with cold water, add soda, and heat to boiling. Remove from heat and rinse squirrel well under running water, rubbing to remove soda. Return to pan and cover with fresh water. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer until tender. Place squirrel in a baking dish, dot with butter, and bake at 350 degrees until browned and crusty. The broth left from cooking the squirrel can be used to make a delicious gravy.

SMOTHERED SQUIRREL

Saute flour-coated squirrel in butter until browned. Then cover squirrel with onion slices and sprinkle with salt and paprika. Pour sour cream over squirrel. Cover and simmer for an hour or until tender.

FRIED SQUIRREL

Mix flour, salt and pepper and place in a paper or plastic bag. Beat egg well and place in a shallow dish. Drop squirrel in flour bag, shake to coat, remove, and then dip in egg mixture. Return to flour bag and shake to coat well. Heat canola oil in large skillet and quickly brown squirrel. Then place browned squirrel in a roasting pan at 250 degrees for approximately 90 minutes or until tender.

SQUIRREL BOG

Sprinkle squirrel pieces with salt and place in a Dutch oven with enough cold water to cover completely. Add onion, celery and pepper. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, cover and simmer until squirrel is tender and readily separates from the bones. Remove squirrel, saving broth. Let meat cool and then remove from bones. Measure broth back into pot. Add water if needed to make four cups of liquid. Return squirrel to pot. Cut kielbasa into quarter-inch slices and add to pot along with rice, and then stir. Add salt and pepper to taste. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, cover and simmer for 30 minutes or until most of broth is absorbed into rice or until rice grains are fluffy and tender.

Poets for our time (about 30 years ago)

The rise of folk and, ultimately, rock music was grounded in a lyrical foundation that gave us pop stars who were also poets. Beginning with the likes of Bob Dylan, the Beatles, and Simon and Garfunkel, it’s a tradition that has stalled in the contemporary era. Though Jewel may have published a book of poetry – including “I lived in a car/But couldn’t drive far/My teeth they are weird/It’s chewing I’ve feared/Yet somehow I’m hot/Which forgives quite a lot” – it’s hardly comparable to what the giants of the 1960s and 1970s were able to produce.

Two of my favorites from that earlier period were the Doors and John Denver. Mercurial front-man Jim Morrison composed lyrics for the Doors that were every bit as evocative and stirring as anything written by bards as far back as Shakespeare. When Morrison cries out “Father/Yes son?/I want to kill you/Mother/I … want…  to/Waaarrriiiihhhhyyyyaaaa!” in his masterpiece “The End,” it’s not hard to imagine Coleridge, Byron or even Emily Dickinson adding “right on, dude.” When John Denver soars through the musical heights of his beloved Rocky Mountains, he’s flying in the experimental tradition of earlier wordsmiths such as Buddy Holly, Lynyrd Skynyrd and Amelia Earhart.

I thought I’d take a look at one short piece from each of these inspired giants, and try to analyze what it was that causes our emotional reactions to be so profound. I start with Morrison’s tone-poem “Horse Latitudes”:

When the still sea conspires an armor

And her sullen and aborted currents breed tiny monsters

True sailing is dead

Awkward instant, and the first animal is jettisoned

Legs furiously pumping their stiff green gallop

And heads bob up

Poise

Delicate

Pause

Consent

In mute nostril agony

Carefully refined and sealed over

I remember when I first heard this piece as a young man how sad it struck me that early seamen had to throw horses overboard when the winds died. What a terrible fate those noble beasts faced. They suffered at least as much as Morrison himself did after his arrest on obscenity charges for exposing himself during a concert. I see the exposed horses as an allegory for the act he allegedly performed on stage in Miami, though I hesitate to think what the “mute nostril agony” might be symbolic of. This poem captures perfectly the angst of a time when America’s youth were questioning traditional morals, and what the hell something like this was doing on a rock album.

Now, let’s contrast that hallucinogenic imagery with a folksier sentiment from Denver’s classic “I’m Sorry”:

It’s cold here in the city
It always seems that way
And I’ve been thinking about you, almost every day
Thinking about the good times, thinking about the rain
Thinking about how bad it feels alone again

 

I’m sorry for the way things are in China
I’m sorry things ain’t what they used to be
More than anything else I’m sorry for myself
Cause you’re not here with me

 

I’m sorry for all the lies I told you
I’m sorry for the things I didn’t say
More than anything else I’m sorry for myself
I can’t believe you went away

I’m sorry I took some things for granted
I’m sorry for the chains I put on you
More than anything else I’m sorry for myself
For living without you

Denver, obviously, is sorry – he’s very, very sorry. To this day, some critics claim he was a sorry songwriter in more ways than one, though I tend to see his pathos in a more positive light. Remember that this song debuted in an era when the U.S. was feeling its way in a post-Vietnam world, trying to consider old relationships in a new light. Amidst the profound self-pity about his girlfriend leaving, he still takes time to offer regret about the Cultural Revolution in China and the hardships that caused for a billion people, as well as the cold and rainy forecast in his hometown. By the end of the song, you can tell he’s heading to a better place – this is about the time he left Colorado for California and the contentment that came from his role in movies like “Oh God” and “Walking Thunder.” We lost a great poet but we found an even better actor.

 

Early spring cleaning

I’m glad to report that activity at my workplace has really picked up in recent weeks. I’ve actually put in some substantial overtime the last two weekends, and the prospects look good for more. I realize I’m one of the few people still employed these days who can make that claim, so I am grateful.

Without being too specific, my job involves helping publicly-held companies prepare financial documentation that is required to be released to their shareholders. Most companies operate in the fiscal year that ended December 31, so this is the time when they’re pulling together the data that shows how they’ve done the last 12 months. As you might imagine, they have a lot of explaining to do. Which means I have a lot of real work to do, and not so much time to devote to my blog.

So what I’m doing today is something of an early spring cleaning, a yard sale of the half-baked ideas I’ve scribbled down in moments of questionable inspiration that later turned into “what did I mean by that?” Everything not marked with a price sticker is going for a nickel.

(10 cents) Everyone has enjoyed all the jokes at Rod Blagojevich’s expense, especially about that huge mane of hair he carries around. Long after he’s been reformed and elected governor of Louisiana, we’ll still remember that hairdo. We’re going to want to reference it to use on other people so we’ll need a proper adjective: Blagojevichian? Blagojevichesque? Blagojevichistic?

(25 cents) The woman in the news this weekend for swimming across the Atlantic Ocean is getting way more attention that she deserves. She went from the westernmost point in the east to the easternmost point in the west, she swam in a cage, and she spent only eight hours a day in the water while sleeping at night on a boat. With those kind of dubious criteria, I’m ready to make the claim that I’ve spent the last 55 years walking a billion miles across the galaxy. Never mind that I was attached to the Earth while doing it.

(10 cents) While sitting in a doctor’s waiting room the other day, I observed the woman across from me helping her elderly mother fill out the personal information form. When she reached the part about marital status, she was faced with the usual options – M, S, D or W. She selected “D,” because her husband was “deceased.” That’s not right, is it?

(15 cents) I’m getting a little tired of hearing the adjective “full” in news reports all the time. Someone is being buried with full military honors, the governor said there will be a full investigation, the church is taking full responsibility for neglecting the abuse charges. Does anyone every get buried with partial honors and, if so, how bad a serviceperson would you have to be?

(10 cents) If women ever knew the basketball fantasy that goes through a man’s mind when he throws a balled-up piece of paper into the trash can, we’d be laughed out of the house. “And the 30-footer from beyond the top of the key wins the game!” should not count when the paper napkin banks off the side of the refrigerator, leaving a dark lasagna stain.

(50 cents) Indecipherable commentary heard while trying to watch the recent Winter X Games: “skiing big air,” “clean grab,” “stomping it clean,” “kangaroo flip sweet double,” “he can’t tweak,” “that was all time” and “that’s how these Swedes roll.” I’m glad baseball season is just around the corner, because we all know that “back, back, back” makes a lot more sense.

 (20 cents) I once participated in a medical study that required me to answer an extensive list of questions asked by a nurse’s assistant. One of the questions was “do you ever have headaches?” I responded that I did, occasionally, like probably just about everybody in the world. “How long have you had the headaches?” she followed up. “On and off for as long as I can remember, I guess,” I responded. A look of concern crossed her face as she recorded my answer. I bet I’m eventually going to die.

(30 cents) Wouldn’t it be neat if they made more video games that simulated the tasks of everyday life? I know there are driving games and skateboarding games and guitar-playing games, but how about something that riffs on the thrill of using an ATM machine? Going through the self-scan at the grocery store? Pumping your own gas? I would so play those games.

(15 cents) I’m convinced the world is divided into two distinct groups: those who will eat only traditional breakfast foods for their first meal of the day, and those who will consume things like cold pizza, RC Cola and a Moonpie, or leftover Chinese food. I am a member of the first (correct) group, while my wife is a member of the opposition. So – as I found out on some recent business trips abroad – is the entire continent of Asia.

(40 cents) Speaking of which, during the three weeks that comprised my first trip to India, I yearned for a good old-fashioned hamburger near the end of my stay. As you might imagine, though beef is virtually everywhere in the streets, very little of it is in a readily edible form. (Take a bite out of a passing cow and you’re in big trouble). The closest that the hotel room-service menu could offer was something called the “Holstein Burger,” a small beef patty topped with cucumber slices and a fried egg, topped with a cherry. Not exactly McDonald’s.

(15 cents) What is it with little kids being so excited to get a sticker? Don’t they realize how little it’s worth in real dollars?

(no price sticker) We once had a backyard neighbor who claimed to have a shrinking brain. He always complained that we didn’t trim the grass enough on our side of the shared fence, and once killed a honeysuckle bush rooted in our yard but extending into his. I don’t know why or how I ever thought that was going to be funny. You can have it for free.

 

You want my advice? (Part 19)

“You Want My Advice?” is a twice weekly feature (Tuesdays and Thursdays) of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, manners, faith, fashion, geopolitics, science, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. Today, we hear from a reader who’s looking for some advice on their love life.

Q: I feel like I’ve missed out on life. I grew up in a conservative Christian home where “gosh” and “heck” were bad words. I was homeschooled then went to a Christian university. After years of dealing with the crap, I became an atheist and am still going strong. After spending my whole life in the evangelical world, I have no idea how to function in the real world. I’ve never kissed a girl, had a girlfriend, or had sex. The only women I know are Christians. I’ve read stories about people hooking up in bars, but I have no idea what I’m supposed to do or how to meet people. – Awkward Agnostic

A. I’m sorry to hear how much trouble you’ve had with what is obviously a difficult transition. Changing from one lifestyle to another that’s so completely different can be very troublesome to your psyche. You need to be patient as this important transition proceeds.

Have you thought about asking God for help? Many people trying to survive in today’s hectic world think they can find easy answers to the trouble they’re having. The answers ARE easy, if you look in the right place, and by “right place,” I mean with those who have found the one true religion of Christianity.

Wait. I just reread your question. Sorry for not paying closer attention – I’m trying to balance one girlfriend on Twitter, another on Facebook, and my wife trying to get through to my cell. Pray to Jesus that you should be so lucky some day.

Yes, meeting women in bars is definitely the way to go. Hooking up in these establishments is not necessarily a requirement, but I’m guessing from your background that you’re going to want to have your potential mates as smashed as possible. Once you help them stagger out of the bar, into your car, and into your bedroom, don’t let them become unconscious because this would be considered “taking advantage,” which is something you should do only when you’ve reached a more advanced state. Also, don’t take it the wrong way if they cry out “Oh, God” or “Holy Jesus” during lovemaking.

I hear that meeting women on the Internet is also a very good idea. You can either use the popular social networking sites or a legitimate “matchmaking” service like eHarmony or FindAPiece.com. Just realize that most of the women you meet on line are actually going to be middle-aged men, and ugly ones at that.

One more thing: I don’t like your language when you talk about “dealing with the c**p.” Nobody, be they believers or non-believers, want to hear that kind of filth. Clean up your language, mister, and I think you’ll soon find yourself cleaning up with the ladies as well.

Going in for a haircut

The care and maintenance of the human head is something that we as a society devote an inordinate amount of interest in. A growth industry if ever there was one, hair cutting and styling is a multi-billion-dollar business that creates a fairly comfortable living for its employees, if you don’t mind touching strangers. Sure, you have to stand on your feet all day and pretend to be interested in what the head is saying as you groom it, but you aren’t likely to face having your job outsourced. At least until we develop the technology to ship scalps to Asia.

I’m not one to put a lot of effort into my appearance, so I view my periodic trips to Great Clips more as a necessary inconvenience than an opportunity to make a fashion statement. To me, the best haircut is a fast haircut. I’ve been known to tell my stylist to do the best they can in ten minutes because I have a pressing appointment to deliver a major address to a convention of neurosurgeons. This guarantees speedy service by allowing them to cut corners knowing that any injuries they cause can be repaired later. And yet, I’m proud to report that I still have at least an ear and a half.

During yesterday’s visit, I paid more attention than usual to the process because I thought I could write about it, so here we go.

I walked through the door a little past 4 p.m. and was greeted by the monotonic stylist nearest the front counter – “hell-o-wel-come-to-Great-Clips.” It must be a corporate requirement that they offer this less-than-sincere greeting because it is so lacking in enthusiasm as to be an embarrassment to us both, and I don’t embarrass easily. Another woman breaks away from her sweeping to approach the counter and sign me in. No need for names, please, they just want your phone number, like some would-be bar gigolo. When she enters my number into the computer, she’s apparently shown the names of everyone at my address, but can’t take the time to look up when she asks me, “Beth?” No, I’m Davis.

My cutter introduces herself as Holley, and I take the opportunity to ease into the casual conversation we’re going to have to have for next quarter-hour by noting that my sister is named Holly. “Mine is spelled with an ‘e’, like the high-performance fuel injection carburetors,” she tells me, but I don’t have the heart to ask if her parents were so funny-car-obsessed as to name their daughter for an after-market auto part.

I sit down in the twirly chair and remove my glasses as she drapes me with a thick blue sheet, like something out of “CSI” only grubbier. Then she asks the question I dread: “What are we doing today?” Well, I know I’ll be sitting in a chair and looking at the snappy corporate posters, including “Walk Right In, Sit Right Down” and “We’re Cutting It Out.” Holley, on the other hand, is going to be hard at work giving me what I lamely describe as just a trim, not too short, thin out this wavy stuff, none of those extra-short sideburns. And one actually specific point:

“Last time they left this part on the left” – I pull at a long, unruly strand of grey straw – “real long so I could do a comb-over but I’m out in the wind a lot and don’t want that look. So roughly the same length all across the top, even though it’s a little thin.”

As I settle in, I realize I’m hearing the second consecutive song by Eric Clapton on the in-house music player. So you know they’re not pumping in a specially crafted playlist, because that would certainly include only clean-cut artists, and Clapton – though he may be a god on the guitar – is barely a low-level angel when it comes to personal grooming. Holley asks me if I’m enjoying the nice weather (I am), then launches into her personal story: she just moved to this location from the next town over where they were a little slow and she likes it here better because she likes to keep busy, and (I presume) she enjoys rainbows, puppies and long walks on the beach.

She seems fairly adept at her craft, hacking away at my head with a level of expertise you don’t always see in Great Clips employees. Often you get one who is so methodical, you know you’re probably among their first real customers. You wish they’d go faster, but have to balance that impatience with concerns about ending up looking like somebody halfway through six weeks of radiation therapy. Holley is good, though, making rapid progress through both my thinning silver mane and her autobiography.

Soon, we’re in the end-game. She’s shaving my neck, dusting my face with talcum powder and asking if I want gel (c’mon, I’m 55 years old, what do you think?). We’ve come to that awkward moment where I have to gauge what other body hairs she’s willing to cut. We older guys have a lot of issues with random hair patches, and I’m never quite sure what’s acceptable to request and what’s off-limits. I’m pretty sure from past experience that eyebrow trims are fairly standard, but they fall near enough the middle of a continuum that runs from ear hair (obviously part of the haircut) to nose hair (apparently not, though if the issue is the relative grossness of ear wax versus congealed mucus, I really don’t see much difference) that I’m tentative in my request.

Holley is fine with the eyebrow shave. But she’s momentarily distracted by a newly arriving customer, who is also wel-come-to-Great-Clips, and nearly forgets to trim the left eyebrow. I can’t accept this. My brows are so thick that the imbalance of leaving one untrimmed would severely affect my already-poor posture and leave me walking in circles, so I have to speak up with a reminder. It only takes her a second, and I’m done. She holds up the mirror so I can give my final approval.

I leave what I consider is a fairly generous tip and I’m done for another month or so. In my car, I can give a more thorough examination in the rear-view mirror without appearing too vain, and I must admit: Truly, it is a great clip.

You want my advice (last one)

“You Want My Advice?” is (or, I should say, was) a twice weekly feature of davisw.wordpress.com. I looked at questions of ethics, manners, faith, fashion, geopolitics, science, etc., and offered completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. In today’s final installment, we hear from the reader who finally drove me over the edge.

Q. Out of the blue, I’ve been contacted by an ex. We had a brief relationship several years ago, which represents part of my past that I’d rather forget. He is emotionally unstable, so I can’t just tell him to leave me alone, even nicely. I’m afraid he might harm me. I’ve been responding to his phone calls and e-mails (which all have a general message of “I think of you often and I miss you”). I’m also a widow and a parent of two children. I lost my husband almost four years ago. I have been trying to date, but it seems harder now than it ever was before. Many men hear of my situation and run the other way. Some are so insecure they can’t handle the fact that I was married before. I think it is a little unreasonable for them to expect me to never mention my late husband in conversation. In high school, I dated this wonderful guy for two years. We came to a halt after we graduated, but kept in touch. I made a series of really bad decisions with him and find myself regretting them constantly. We talk regularly now, about things such as moving in with each other and getting married. I am currently in a relationship where the person has put an expiration date on it. He says “I love you” a lot but he also becomes distant and cold toward me. My ex-boyfriend has cerebral palsy. I have loved him for more than a year, regardless of his condition. He broke up with me because he didn’t think he could love someone if he didn’t love himself. I have an on-again, off-again relationship with this other guy for more than five years. We are “off” now but I can’t stop thinking about him. It was my decision to end the relationship because I felt I was wasting my time. We get along well, but he lies and cheats. But the love I feel for him never changes. I can’t help but wonder if he is really my soul mate.

Can you offer a suggestion for how I might deal with my situation? – Troubled in Love

A. No. In fact, I’m sick and tired of all you whiny, needy social misfits constantly beating a path to my website with your pathetic problems. You need to take control of your own lives and figure out your own solutions, rather than relying on all-knowing super-beings like myself to give you the answers.

I’ve been writing this advice column twice a week for ten weeks now, and I don’t see that the world has become a better place as a result. I’ve answered questions about invasive squirrels, proper shoe color, organ donation etiquette, satellite TV, the creation of God and gender-neutral names. Every answer has been as appropriate as can be, and yet no one ever writes back to offer their thanks. The most feedback I’ve ever received was that one time a guy was looking for a cure for halitosis and I told him to drink pesticide and he died and they wrote about it in the paper.

This marks my final advice column. I’m not going to be dragged down to the level of you lonely losers any longer. If you need suggestions about how to live your lives, you better hope that one of the following works, because it’s the last you’re getting from me:

·         Try rotating the tires on your car. If that doesn’t make the noise go away, remove the tires completely.

·         A shampoo with conditioner may be what you need. Just be sure to use it on your hair.

·         I also read that article about a donated kidney being removed through the vagina, but I still wouldn’t recommend dental work being done through your ear.

·         If you’ll limit your caffeine intake, I bet the vibrations will stop.

·         Tell your wife/husband/boyfriend/girlfriend that you hate them and never want to see them again.

·         Try a non-allergenic carpeting or else stop eating off the floor.

·         You need to lose some weight, get a haircut and give up your dreams of moving to Japan.

·         The sim cards in virtually all cell phones will usually provide your minimum daily requirement of minerals and vitamins.

·         Before you think about remodeling your kitchen, might I suggest you remodel your face.

·         God is not sitting on His Golden Throne in heaven worried about which casserole you bring to the church supper. He thinks congregants would be just as happy with one of those KFC Famous Bowls.

Website review: God.com, and others

In this time of great uncertainty and upheaval, people from all different backgrounds are looking for something more in life than merely earthly contentment. They sense there’s something more to life than that which we can see, some great intangible force that controls our world in ways we can barely comprehend. If we can seek to understand this omnipresent yet invisible force in some fashion, perhaps we’ll gain insight into the fundamentals that underpin our very existence.

But I suppose the Internet can only do so much for us.

I’m actually more interested in realms even greater than the digital universe, though I know I can’t get there without going through the web. So I’ve done a little spiritual seeking of my own, looking at various sites that hint at divine intervention, at least if their domain name is any indication. (It’s no accident, you know, that “domain” and “dominion,” as well as “Domino’s Pizza,” come from the same Latin root, meaning authority or deity.)

Obviously, you need to start such a mammoth quest at the top, and that would have to be god.com. This is a very simple site with only a few sub-categories, primarily “food for thought” (which disappointingly is not gift baskets of heavenly treats) and a webstore. Actually, god.com is a redirect to emgonline, home of the Evangelical Media Group, producer of various religious tracts and audios. The home page asks some very fundamental questions – Does God exist? Is there a heaven and a hell? Is the Bible really true? – that you’d think they know the answers to.

Oh, well, let’s proceed next to jesus.com, which turns out to be another redirect, this time to the Metropolitan Community Church. When I first saw the URL of “mccchurch.com,” I thought I had ended up at McDonald’s latest diversification effort. After all, if innovations like healthy kid’s meals and fine lattes can work, why not a venture into Judeo-Christianity? Then I remembered where I had heard about the Metropolitan Church before: its membership is primarily made up of what they obliquely call the “transgender and gender non-conforming” communities, in other words gays, lesbians and transsexuals. Can you imagine the fit that fundamentalists would have if they knew that jesus.com linked to a site like this? Talk about your rapture.

Speaking of which, both rapture.com and heaven.com send you to an interesting page for the Gospel Media Network, which apparently is some sort of aggregation for these sites. It includes links to religion.com, messiah.com, muslims.com, jew.com, buddha.com and armageddon.com. This is really going to save me a lot of work. Both jew.com and buddha.com are concerned with both other-worldliness and concerns of the flesh, with jew.com offering links to dating, cars, entertainment and finance, and buddha.com providing credit card help, tanning lotion, dental insurance and golf vacations. Armageddon.com takes itself a bit more seriously, with a countdown to Armageddon, end-time Bible prophecy and, for the kids, movie downloads.

Bible.com, not surprisingly, sells Bibles: not just traditional translations like the King James Version but also the “New Men’s Devotional Bible” and the “Confident Women Bible”. There’s also a link that provides Bible answers for issues like trials and suicide (the latter of which I’m guessing the Bible is against). Salvation.com has as its focus an offer of better understanding that God loves you and that Jesus is “Lord”. It’s also the same site as something called 7777777.com, which isn’t thoroughly explained though it’s over 11,000 times better than the 666 mark of the Devil. Allah.com is an educational outreach spot that seems to be obsessed with Kosovo but also promotes Christian dialog with a downloadable biography of Jesus.

Several websites I would’ve thought were going to help me with my spiritual exploration were actually intended for purely commercial purposes. Cross.com is a seller of fine fountain pens. Revelations.com offers church management software and a payroll system. Lord.com provides valuable expertise in adhesives and coatings, vibration and motion control, and magnetically responsive technologies. Their tagline – “Lord. Ask Us How” – sounds more like a prayer than a corporate slogan, though I guess it could serve as both when you’re dealing as they do with poison-containing encapsulants.

With pagan and Wiccan religions gaining more and more legitimacy these days, I also checked out a couple of addresses from the dark side. Hell.com starts you out on a black page that says nothing but “no one can hear you,” then gets even scarier when you click on that and read that “hell.com is a private parallel web – there is no access via web browser.” Wow, that is scary cool. A visit to satan.com was a little more conventionally frightening, with categories like occult, witches, satanic rituals, the Antichrist and, inexplicably, debt consolidation.

Perhaps even more terrifying than these was the material I found at christ.com. Most of this huge website is comprised of a blog abandoned shortly after the recent presidential election, when Christ’s choice for commander-in-chief was crushed by over a hundred electoral votes. A “webservant” who calls himself Job (real name, Marc) laid out the case against Barack Obama in a September post, where he coined the term “Obamacide” to describe the candidate’s alleged support for the mathematically impossible fourth-trimester infanticide. In October, he ranted that Obama is too inexperienced to protect your diminishing 401K and that people should instead trust the Lord to turn the capital markets around. Just before the election itself, Job formally endorses McCain, though he seems resigned to the likelihood that most Christians are going to opt for the gay-marriage, assisted-suicide, child-murdering candidate.

Job has receded into the background since the election, perhaps practicing that patience he’s so famous for. Meanwhile, the rest of christ.com keeps chugging along with anti-MSNBC logos, Fox News reports on how only 40% of Americans believe in evolution theory while the engagement of Mandy Moore is a certifiable fact, and a spot where you can enter your prayer requests. Among those currently awaiting action is a supplicant who needs a car payment, another who wants their business blessed, and a third who inquires about God’s will for them, specifically tonight. There’s also a cryptic Bible verse that should serve to inspire and puzzle all visitors: “Suppose ye that I come to give peace on earth? I tell you, Nay; but rather division (Luke 12:51)”. Huh?

I think part of the great spiritual hungering we’re now seeing around the world is linked to a belief that a better understanding of the mysteries of the universe will allow us to make a difference during our lives. We want to know what’s good and right and essential so we can do these things and leave behind a legacy that we have been here and left the world a better place.

 

If the browser history I’ve left behind during this research is to be my heritage, I think I can feel I’ve accomplished what I set out to do. Except maybe for that quick peek at TMZ.com.

Valentine’s poems both sacred and profane

While doing research for yesterday’s post about godly websites, I came across a selection of Valentine’s Day poems designed for those who tend to see all holidays through religious glasses. (Just wait to see what they’ve got cooked up for Washington’s Birthday next week). These sentiments in rhyme would fit just perfectly on that special card you present to your loved one today, though I guess they’d make some pretty good hymns too.

 

While the construction and meter and tone were all quite proper, I thought I could do just as good a job incorporating Holy imagery into messages suited for consenting adults. Let’s see what you think. Two of these poems were written by a legitimate Christian lyricist and two were written by me. See if you can tell which is which.

 

God’s Valentine Gift

God’s Valentine gift of love to us
Was not a bunch of flowers;
It wasn’t candy, or a book
To while away the hours.

His gift was to become a man,
So He could freely give
His sacrificial love for us,
So you and I could live.

He gave us sweet salvation, and
Instruction, good and true–
To love our friends and enemies
And love our Savior, too.

So as we give our Valentines,
Let’s thank our Lord and King;
The reason we have love to give
Is that He gave everything.

 

Way Better Than Your Spouse

When we awake to celebrate

This very special day

We look across the bed and see

The love we want to stay

 

But greater than that love is one

Who we can’t really see

We’re told He lives up in the sky

Near Alpha Centauri

 

The one we love on earth is dear

But we know they’ll end in death

They’re hardly perfect, that’s for sure

From here I smell their breath

 

But up above the loved one is

The one who wields the rod

For He demands devotion pure

I think they call him God

 

 

You Are Often In My Thoughts

Love is a command
That Christians are called to do;
Our Lord says “Love your God,
And love your neighbor, too.”

Some people are easy to love;
They are human rays of sun;
They light up every life,
And encourage everyone.

You are in that group,
So I sincerely want to say:
You are often in my thoughts;
Happy Valentine’s Day!

 

The Food of Love is Nutritious

My Valentine is special

She’s smart and pretty too

I like the way she does her hair

And the color of her shoe

 

Her eyes are like the stars that shine

Her ears are also nice

Her nose is pert, her brows are plucked

Her smell is like some spice

 

But these are things that don’t mean much

Unless you’re into one

Who spends the time God gave them

Forsaking Cinnabon

 

For eating too much high-fat food

Like cake and cream and cheeses

Will make them fat and gross to us

Unlike a certain Jesus

 

He kept His looks and kept His soul

He never tried to lose

The weight he gained from bread and fish

He was the King of Jews

 

In such a role he loved us all

The weak, the sick, the poor

We love him back as much we think

As we love the sacred ‘Smore

 

Today, a day to celebrate hate

One of the great things about living in the South is happening outside right now on this lovely February morning. There’s no snow or ice, as we’re still feeling the effects of a week-long warm spell, and some trees are even starting to show a few buds. There’s that rising-sap feeling that makes you look forward with hope and optimism to the future.

One of the awful things about living in the South was also happening outside this morning, in the editorial page of my local newspaper. Contained therein were some letters to the editor that are unfortunately typical of too many Southerners in these supposedly enlightened times.

So on this day after the holiday where we celebrate so much love, I thought it might be appropriate to look at (and laugh at) the ignorance of Southern hatred.

______________________________

Dear Editor:

What are the idiots in Washington thinking about? A stimulus of $825 billion that is supposed to create jobs and help the economy? President Obama said just a month ago that no pork would be in any bill he sponsors. That was a lie. House Speaker Nancy Pelosi wants contraceptives given out as part of it to young women. How is this supposed to help?

The local and national news media will not bring any of this up, so nobody will know any of this. Thank God for conservative talk radio. I really don’t think The Herald will put this in because 99 percent of all newspapers are very liberal as well. Did any of you know that during the Clinton years we sent $400 million overseas to pay for abortions?

Bush cut this out during his years and, out of the blue, Obama started this back up again. During a time we are hurting here at home. This is unacceptable. And then he had his first major interview to a Muslim TV network. His true Muslim faith has come out. But the 57 million Americans who voted against the socialist knew this. The media never brought any of this up.

Obama did not need one vote from a Republican in the House to pass his package, but he continues to lobby them to sign on. He is doing this because he knows when this blows up in his face, the Democrats can say the Republicans were on board with it. Well, that is not going to work. This will be a Democratic package and will be on their shoulders.

We are headed to a socialist country that is being put in place without the American people raising a cry. Well, I, for one, will not sit and not voice my opinion.

Sincerely, A Lunatic
__________________________

Dear Editor:

As Democrats control the House, the Senate and the presidency, it is indeed humorous to see [another letter-writer] calling for more cheese for his whine.

President Barack Obama’s Lincoln-inspired “Team of Rivals” is descending into a Grant-inspired “Team of Rascals.” At a cabinet meeting, we will see some who walk in, some who slither in and some who have to ooze through.

Perhaps this would be of more interest to our Democratic friends. We now have a liberal ecological group calling for a limit on children being born in America to two per family so as to not further damage the ecology. The Democratic Party is for abortion on demand and Speaker Nancy Pelosi wants the stimulus package to contain millions to buy condoms because the cost of public assistance is getting too high.

 

Connect the dots. And you thought only a Nazi could come up with this. The stimulus plan is nothing more than a pork pie. And the latest Gallup poll says over 50 percent of the people want a fork stuck in the pie because it’s done.

 

Yours, A Nutjob

______________________________

Dear Editor:

In response to the recent letter calling Republicans hypocrites, I think the writer couldn’t recognize pork if he was standing in a pig farm. The Republicans may be called hypocrites but we can’t be called baby-killers either! Does he not think the wonderful stimulus plan coming from Nancy Pelosi and Barney Frank is not full of pork? Not earmarks but pure pork!

Two-hundred million dollars for insurance for honey bees. How about $250 million for the movie industry. Boy, that is a great stimulus. (It’s just payback for campaign contributions.) As far as deregulation, Slick Willie started requiring banks to stop red-lining people for home loans. How can you require a bank to loan money to people who don’t have jobs! I guess that is the Democratic way.

Slick cut the military funding just like the new king of the USA is going to do. We don’t need a strong defense in this country because the new regime is going to use diplomacy. We’ll just talk the terrorists out of attacking us. If Congress will rush, rush, rush the proposed stimulus plan through without going over all the details, then all the garbage will slip through. Nancy Pelosi said it’s unpatriotic to vote against all their paybacks. But the Republicans are only doing their job. You don’t rush through important matters unless you have a lot of pork to hide!

Respectfully, An Idiot

Twenty-five random things about me

1.       I’ve discovered both a simple cure for cancer and a way to convert water into a fuel that can be used to power the automobile. Wanna see?

2.       I have an extensive cardiovascular system that is centered in my heart and lungs but also includes numerous veins, arteries and capillaries. These blood vessels run throughout my entire body – from the top of my head to the tip of my toes – and supply both oxygen and nutrients so that I can experience cell growth.

3.       I once shot a guy just to watch him die. Unfortunately, he had a silver dollar in his shirt pocket that deflected the bullet and left him completely unharmed. What followed was one of the most awkward conversations of my entire life: “Did you just shoot me?” he asked. “Yeah,” I responded. “I’m sorry, I guess.” He pressed the point: “Why the heck did you do that? I’ve could’ve been seriously injured.” “Actually, I was hoping you’d be killed, ‘cause I wanted to watch you die.” “Man,” he said. “That is so uncool. I’m really, really tempted to tell on you.” “No, don’t,” I pleaded. “I’ll give you ten dollars if you’ll just forget about it.” “OK,” he relented.

4.       I just typed the word “indecipherable.”

5.       I am allergic to air. I’m currently on a waiting list for a gill transplant.

6.       My favorite word is “jubilee”. My least favorite word is “bolus,” defined as a soft, roundish mass or lump, especially of chewed food.

7.       I hope one day to be injured just enough for a brief hospitalization, during which I can be treated and released. That sounds so pleasant.

8.       When I was a young child, I thought that cats were the females and dogs were the males of the same species. If you think about it, it does make sense. I’m not sure to this day that zoologists have sufficiently proved me wrong to my satisfaction. I also thought that you could aspire to be a lion or giraffe when you grew up, just like you could aspire to be a policeman or football player. I’m convinced now that at least that part is wrong, but it doesn’t soften the blow that I ended up being a financial typesetter.

9.       I was among the five finalists when they held the selection process for the fifteenth Dalai Lama a few years ago. It was me, this guy Andy that I know from work, Arizona’s junior Republican Senator Jon Kyl, Victoria Beckham (better known perhaps as Mrs. David Beckham or Posh Spice) and this four-year-old kid from Tibet. The kid won out in what I thought was a very flawed, very prejudiced process, but I’ve since come to believe that just being nominated was an honor.

10.   I once invaded Europe though my assault was ultimately halted on the banks of the Rhine. I think I could’ve gone all the way to the Urals if I would’ve bothered to study the European language before hand. I could’ve explained my case for invasion.

11.   I’ve hugged a turkey though I can’t say I’d recommend it to just anyone. You really have to have a special place in your heart for barnyard poultry.

12. I once ran a marathon. By “ran,” I mean that I slowly jogged for large portions while occasionally stopping to walk and catch my breath. By “marathon,” I mean that I completed 22 of 26 miles before giving up completely on the running and instead walking to the finish line. By “a,” I mean “uh, I didn’t really run a marathon.”

13.   I’ve had 534 haircuts in my life, resulting in unknown quadrillions of individual hairs ending up in the landfill.

14.   While visiting Sri Lanka on business last year, I found myself on the fringes of an anti-government demonstration where participants were being tear-gassed. I caught just enough of a whiff of the gas to recognize what it was. It reminded me of the pickles they serve on Chick-fil-a sandwiches.

15.   I once correctly answered a question in my fifth grade science class that no one else could answer. The teacher asked: “Davis, can you tell us what is the thirteenth element in the periodic table?” “No, I can’t,” I responded. And I was correct – I couldn’t tell her because I didn’t know the answer.

16.   I once spent a lazy Sunday afternoon watching a rerun of a senior golf tournament. Think about how boring that is on so many different levels.

17.   I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.

18. My social security number is 834-68-8091. My Visa card number is 8934-8017-5583-7814, expiration date 5/10. The PIN number for my ATM is 9350.

19.   I was once abducted and probed by aliens. I’ve never mentioned it before because it didn’t seem that important. It happens to lots of people.

20.   Family legend was that if Ireland ever had its monarchy restored that I would become the king. I think that would be a mixed blessing. You’d be a king, but you’d probably have to live in Ireland.

21.   If I could live in any other state besides my current home in South Carolina, it would be North Carolina.

22. I am Shiva, Destroyer of Worlds.

23.   I can’t come up with 25 random facts about myself. I can only find 23.

Chimp beheads owner, wants more Xanax

A chimpanzee who founded a TV channel intended to counter violent images of higher apes has been arrested in the brutal beheading of his owner.

 

Mr. Bobo, who had lived with a human family for close to 20 years and before that had a successful career in advertising, apparently went berserk while under medical care for the treatment of Lyme Disease. Vets speculate that the medication, which was mixed with Xanax the owner had given him earlier in the day to reduce his agitation, may have triggered the attack.

 

“I am totally stunned,” said a neighbor who knew the animal and his owner, Sandra Herold of Hartford, Connecticut. “They were really more than pet and owner – they encouraged each other in everything. Mr. Bobo was such a lovely person.”

 

Court records may show a different story, however. Herold had obtained an order of protection from Bobo on Feb. 6, barring the simian from their home.

 

“There had been problems before,” said attorney Corey Hogan, whose law firm had represented Herold. “There had been prior incidents of physical abuse.”

 

The television channel, which Bobo founded after leaving a job at M&T Bank, had been under financial strain. Published reports said that the venture was seeking new investors and battling cable carriers for access to a bigger audience.

 

Bobo, a lovable 200-pounder who had appeared in TV commercials for Old Navy and Coca-Cola, was captured by police after a short chase.

 

Following the savage decapitation, Bobo ran away and started roaming Herold’s property until police arrived, setting up security so medics could reach the mauled woman. But he soon returned and went after several of the officers, who retreated into their cars. Bobo knocked the mirror off the cruiser before opening its door and starting to get in, trapping an officer. That officer shot the chimp several times, who fled the scene but was eventually captured.

 

Bobo was well known around town because he rode around in trucks belonging to the towing company operated by his owners. He was toilet trained, dressed himself, took his own bath, ate at the table and drank wine from a stemmed glass. He also brushed his teeth using a Water Pik, logged onto the computer to look at pictures, and watched television using the remote control, police said.

 

Bobo answered a few shouted questions from reporters as he was transferred to the county jail, claiming “I was framed” and asking for more Xanax.

Fake news from the economy

(DETROIT) Feb. 19 — The economic crisis grew even deeper this week as the Big Three automakers appeared to fall short in their efforts to restructure, and several more high-profile companies announced a new wave of job cuts.

Drafts of the plans being drawn up by General Motors, Ford and Chrysler to show how they’re using bailout money approved in December to reorganize their business models were filed with Congress late Tuesday. Critics are already saying that Detroit is not going far enough to remake itself to face twenty-first century economic realities.

General Motors’ centerpiece involved reducing its brands from nine to four and retooling its plants to produce more of what the market seems to be demanding – specific motors rather than general ones.

“In the past, we have been guilty of building whatever motors we felt like on any given day, and hoping that someone somewhere would be interested in buying them,” said GM Chairman Richard Wagoner. “Lawn-mower motors one day, servo motors the next, then moped motors and Erector Set motors. We’re thinking now that if we build automobile motors more consistently, that might make better business sense. Then we could install them in all those surplus car bodies we have sitting around.”

Meanwhile, over at GM’s chief domestic rival, executives said their right-sizing efforts would include changing their name from “Ford” to “Third”.

“The math alone – reducing from four to three — tells you we’ll be able to save 25% on the expense side of our ledger,” said Ford CEO Alan Mulally. “To tell you the truth, we’d be happy to be third, instead of where we are now, which I think is somewhere in the twenties.”

Chrysler will also be announcing a name change, moving away from the “Christ sound” to something a little less ambitious. The firm will now be called Buddha-ler.

“If we can become one with a central consciousness, we stand a better chance of surviving in this difficult climate,” said Chrysler executive Bob Nardelli. “We’ll probably start by taking our portion of the bailout money and using it to ship all remaining PT Cruisers to a secluded cave high in the Himalayas.”

Meanwhile, a new round of layoff announcements seems certain to add to already-swollen unemployment roles.

Credit card giant American Express said it will pink-slip its entire corporate headquarters staff and replace workers with Roombas, the robotic vacuum cleaner.

Bank of America said that it will not only close every office west of the Mississippi, but that departing branch managers would also go out to whichever bank was next door and fire all those workers as well.

Starbucks said it has already down-sized its staff to a bare-bones level, and would now attempt to shed customers, using a strategy of over-priced coffee, under-cooked scones, and discontinuing limited-release items as soon as they caught on with the public, specifically the banana chocolate-chip coffee cake that one middle-aged blogger guy keeps asking for.

Cellular giant Verizon, well-known for its commercials featuring the nerdy guy backed up by hundreds of co-workers representing its support network, will dismiss all the commercial actors except for the front-man, who will carry on his shoulders one of those long poles with life-sized dummies attached.

 

WASHINGTON (Feb. 17) — Republican opposition to President Obama’s economic stimulus package remained strong this week, despite passage of the plan in Congress and the widespread desire of Americans to deal decisively with the current financial crisis.

With the new president in office less than a month, he continues his efforts to transcend “politics-as-usual” and the partisan atmosphere of Washington. But Republicans have grown impatient, waiting 29 whole days for the catastrophe of the two Bush terms to be repaired, and have become more adamant in their calls for resistance to Obama.

“The president thinks he’s addressing our problems with obvious solutions, but that’s just not the case,” said defeated Republican presidential candidate John McCain. “Conservatives among us see things a little differently.”

For example, McCain addressed Democratic assertions that the sky is blue by saying “you know, sometimes it’s more grey than blue, and at night it’s actually a dark black.”

“What we on earth are perceiving as blue is in fact the light refracting off of oxygen atoms and water vapor,” said the Arizona senator. “There’s really no blue there at all. I’ve flown Navy jets at high altitudes, and all I ever saw was clouds, enemy fire and the billowing white of my parachute as I ejected yet again from another plane shot out from under me.”

Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell challenged what he called another common misperception among those in the majority party, that the Pope is Catholic.

“My Christian evangelical friends and I would challenge the notion that Catholicism is even a religion,” the cabbage-patch-esque Kentuckian said. “If it’s not, then how can they even have a pope? Just because there’s some guy speaking Latin and wandering around the Vatican in a Snuggie doesn’t mean he’s the infallible representative of God on Earth. I thought that was Rush.”

Suspiciously single South Carolina senator Lindsey Graham also spoke out to counter Democratic claims about the excretory habits of large mammals residing in the nation’s woodlands and national parks.

“They say a bear shits in the woods. I respectfully disagree,” the fiery but always dapper Republican said. “There is not one shred of scientific evidence that such a disgusting thing occurs with any regularity. And even if it did, the droppings of all other kinds of wildlife would substantially outweigh those of the bear, so their (Democrats’) claim is really a distraction more than anything.”

Newly elected Republican Party Chairman Michael Steele tried to sum up the sentiments of his GOP colleagues.

“It may look like we’re opposing everything Obama supports just for our own political posturing,” Steele told reporters, noting that if you stacked up dollar bills representing the size of the stimulus package, your arms would end up very, very tired. “It may seem like we care more about picking up some seats in the next Congress than we do about American society as we know it surviving. But that’s not true and you have to believe me. Remember, I’m a black guy.”

 

Remembrances of college

While my 17-year-old son considers his options for college in the fall, I’m reminded of the exhilaration of my own post-secondary educational experience some 35 years ago. As I’ve recounted to him numerous times — I’m hoping at least one account will make it past the iPod — it remains to this day one of the greatest experiences of my life, right up there with Daniel’s birth, my marriage to my wife, and the day I found 57 cents under a park swing when I was four years old. (It seemed like a big deal at the time.)

I graduated from Miami Norland High School in 1971, about 150 in a class of 991. As such a successful senior, I had my choice of virtually any public college in the state, primarily because they were legally bound to accept me.

I chose Florida State University in Tallahassee, over 400 miles northwest of Miami. My reasons were not the soundest: I longed for cooler weather, it had an active countercultural movement, and it was the farthest I could get from my dreary teenage life without leaving Florida. I was interested in pursuing a journalism degree but failed to notice in my research that such a program was not offered at FSU. Oops.

Since I couldn’t major in the field I wanted, I decided instead to work on the student newspaper. The Sunday before my first official day as a freshman, I showed up at the student union offices of The Florida Flambeau, wanting to be a reporter. I remember sitting in the hallway outside the newsroom, too scared to walk in and introduce myself but too overweight to avoid being in the way of the scurrying journalists who kept tripping over me. One of them finally asked what the hell I was doing on the floor, and my career in mass communications was launched.

I absolutely fell in love with the place and rose quickly through the ranks. My very first news story, on a new sleeping concept called the waterbed and students’ reaction to it (“they’re not allowed in the dorms”), soon gave way to meatier stories about all the political activity on campus. Both the draft and the Vietnam War were still in full swing at the time, and student protests had caught the attention of the state’s media. About the same time, a member of the state Board of Regents heard that male and female students were commingling, shall we say, in state-funded dormitories, which she colorfully labeled “taxpayers’ whorehouses.” By reporting on these events as an outsider instead of as a participant, I could share in the excitement without experiencing any of the risk (a good thing in the case of anti-war protests, not so good with the whorehouses.)

By the end of my sophomore year, I had become editor of the paper. I was spending all my free time in the newsroom, as well as a good bit of the time that I should’ve spent in lecture halls, laboratories and the library. We clustered around the ancient AP teletype machines and watched as the demise of the Nixon presidency unfolded in smeared black ink. We yearned for a similar scandal in our own corner of the world, so we found some faculty members who didn’t like the university president and started giving them press. But the excitement of the era was definitely on the wane. We could tell our chances of being shot by National Guardsmen were rapidly diminishing.

With the fad of opposing an unjust colonialist war losing its luster, it was time for a new craze, and I had an idea. I’d read a small article on the wire about a so-called “streaking” incident at a Midwestern school but the most compelling part of the story – photographic evidence – was missing. We ran the item, then I planted a fake meeting notice in our paper of the FSU Streakers Club for the following Friday night. Organizer Ed Mims failed to show up for the meeting, primarily because he didn’t existent, though about 20 others did come, including me as the reporter. When the group finally got tired of waiting for Ed, someone else took charge and recommended that FSU put itself in the national spotlight.

Within a few days, we got a tip to have a photographer ready at 1:30 p.m. in the parking lot near the Chemistry Building. In the interest of providing written documentation of the event, I went along and, sure enough, a naked guy emerged from a car and ran across a small grassy median before ducking into another car and driving away. We got five shots, two of which were genitals-free, and the least fuzzy of these made it into the next day’s Flambeau. The following day it was reproduced in the Jacksonville and Tampa newspapers and by the weekend, it made the pages of Newsweek magazine. FSU was being credited with starting the latest college fad as streaking broke out at campuses all over the country.

These were heady times as we attempted to capitalize and build on our new-found notoriety. We scheduled a mass “streak-in” on the campus’s main quadrangle, Landis Green, which brought out more local families and their picnic baskets than any actually nude people. Several locations did attract small aggregations of mostly male naturists – I still have a photo taken outside my freshman dorm of probably 50 or 60 streakers milling around the bicycle stands, frozen in a miraculous moment reminiscent of the Austin Powers openings, with all naughty bits hidden.

Soon the thrill and novelty of streaking began to wear off, despite our desperate attempts to lengthen its duration in the national consciousness to something more akin to Vietnam. We convinced a cub reporter to borrow his roommate’s cane so we could feature him on the front page as the nation’s first blind streaker. On April Fool’s Day, me and another editor got a guy to lie naked on the ground and we dragged him by his four limbs in front of the camera as the first dead streaker. For reasons that make sense in hindsight, we had to abandon attempts to record the first bicycling streaker.

Through it all, I never once participated in any actual streaking, not because of any quaint notions I had about journalistic integrity (ha, ha) but because I was rightfully ashamed of my own personal body. We had a ton of fun, nobody got hurt, and we all ended up with great stories to avoid telling our children.

 

Website review: Famous South Carolinians

In my website review of a few weeks back, I teased the good people and state of North Dakota, primarily for being a bleak barren winterscape but also because they considered the presence of a swimming pool to be a state attraction. It was all in good fun and hardly meant to offend, though readers from the Flickertail State contacted me to say … well … actually, I don’t have any readers in North Dakota. So screw you after all.

It did get me to thinking though about how people who live in glass houses should be foreclosed on for shear stupidity, and that they also shouldn’t throw stones. As a resident of South Carolina, whose unofficial motto is “thank God for Mississippi or we’d be last at everything,” I can honestly acknowledge that we have some serious image problems as well. I think it’s only fair that I examine these, primarily using the website that promotes tourism in the state, scprt.com.

Before we venture there, however, let me make an observation about U.S. states in general. Two things that North Dakota and South Carolina do have in common is an adjectival modifier in their names, and I believe it testifies to their lesser status. Think about other states that are easy to make fun of: there’s New Jersey, rather than just Jersey; West Virginia, rather than just Virginia (though Virginia is pretty laughable too); Rhode Island, rather than just Island. All of these, unlike powerful brands such as California, Texas and Hawaii, are commonly the butt of jokes. If I toss in Arid Zona, Mini Sota and Mass Achusetts, I’m obviously stretching to make a point, so I think I’ll return to my original subject.

The part of the website I’m going to focus on is a subsection in the “Facts and Figures – Help with Homework” that includes a list of famous South Carolinians.

There was a time about 20 years ago when there was a noticeable trend of bozos in the news who called the Palmetto State home, and I remember being vaguely embarrassed every time I met someone out of state and had to say where I was from (“originally Florida”). In the late eighties, we saw disgraced evangelist Jim Bakker, game-show manqué Vanna White, corrupt congressman John Jenrette, political assassin Lee Atwater and toothless tackle William “The Refrigerator” Perry almost constantly in the news. White and Perry both made the website list, the former as the 300-pound defensive lineman who helped the Chicago Bears win the Super Bowl in 1986 and the latter starring as Venus in the TV movie “Goddess of Love”.  (Or do I have that backwards? I always get former and latter confused.) Bakker, Jenrette and Atwater were conveniently overlooked.

Also on the website list are a number of other well-known Sandlappers from throughout history of at-best questionable integrity.

There’s the legendary U.S. Senator Strom Thurmond, now remembered primarily for fathering a child with a black teenager while race-baiting his way to a third-place finish in the 1948 presidential race. The state web page fails to mention either of those milestones, of course, choosing instead to focus on his more intriguing stints as chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee and ranking member of the Committee on the Judiciary Subcommittee on Antitrust, Business Rights and Competition.

There’s Shoeless Joe Jackson, who is acknowledged to have conspired with gamblers to throw the 1919 World Series as a member of the Chicago Black Sox. Despite having been the Jose Canseco/Roger Clemens/Barry Bonds/Jason Giambi/Alex Rodriguez/Andy Pettite of his time, he’s more fondly remembered as the holder of the third-highest career batting average in baseball history and having once played a minor league game in his socks. Big deal; I used to play tennis in my bare feet.

There’s James Brown, cited as the “Godfather of Soul” and “Hardest-Working Man in Show Business” though understandably not as “High-Speed Police Evader While Carrying an Unlicensed Pistol” or “Wielder of Steak Knife Against an Electric Company Repairman.” There’s Leeza Gibbons, a South Carolina native best known for her role as host for “Entertainment Tonight” and her own talk show, “Leeza!” (My editor tells me that the exclamation point should be outside the quotes, since the excitement is mine, not the show’s.) And there’s Darius Rucker, lead singer and guitarist for the hottest band of March 13, 1994, Hootie and the Blowfish.

Not yet on the list are two names I look forward to seeing in the not-too-distant future.

First is current governor Republican Mark Sanford. A right-wing purist, Sanford was in the news just yesterday for finally entertaining the possibility that he might accept federal stimulus money that is due his desperately poor state despite the fact that he opposes the package in principle. He said he’d comb through the fine print of the recently passed bill trying to find anything that would benefit the people of South Carolina, despite claiming “it’s a horrible idea” and has “real bad” ramifications for the country and economy. He’s also been in a feud with the state’s employment security commission because they’ve been unable to match 200,000 jobless people with 40,000 vacancies, conveniently overlooking the fact that by gutting education funding, he’s made it virtually impossible for janitor Clem from the closed textile factory to get a job in genome sequencing research.

Sanford was briefly considered a potential vice-presidential candidate last summer until he opened his mouth-like orifice on national television. CNN’s Wolf Blitzer asked him how the economic policies of John McCain would differ from what the Bush administration had proposed. Sanford replied: “Yea, I mean for instance take, you know, ummm, ahhh, take for instance the issue of, ahhh (knocks on table) I’m drawing a blank. I hate it when I do that, particularly on TV.” If he thought that was embarrassing, imagine the egg on his face when he’s unable to enunciate launch codes during a Russian missile attack should he ever become president.

 Secondly and, to this day, probably more famous than even the governor, is Lauren Caitlin Upton, former Miss Teen South Carolina. Lauren Caitlin is the blonde knockout who became a YouTube sensation when she mangled her question about why so many Americans couldn’t find the U.S. on a world map. As you probably recall, she responded that “U.S. Americans” had such trouble because they didn’t have maps and “I believe that our … education like such as … South Africa and … the Iraq, everywhere like such as, and, I believe that they should, our education over here in the U.S. should help the U.S. or… should help South Africa … so we will be able to build up our future, for our children.” If you realize that she was a student leader with a 3.5 GPA at her South Carolina high school, you can’t help but recognize the imprint of Gov. Sanford on her education.

Maybe the two of them could team up to make a run at the 2012 Republican presidential nomination. If they ended up debating Sarah Palin, we could witness the end of the English language as we know it. And that would make all of us South Carolinians so proud.

 

 

Drugs can be funny

Anyone who has watched much late-night television knows that drugs are funny. Just let the host mention “weed” or “roids” and listen to the audience howl. Michael Phelps and Alex Rodriguez jokes proliferate like octomoms on fertility drugs.

But are legal prescription drugs as funny as the illicit kind? I think so, and so do the writers on the hilarious “Colbert Report” in their frequent segment on Prescott Pharmaceuticals, the fake drug company in constant legal trouble (“the tingling tells you it’s working; the class action lawsuit tells you it’s Prescott”). Their line of medicines includes Vaxadrone, Vaxachub, Vaxascab and Vaxamaxx. It’s usually unclear what the intended effects are – something to do with 1980s 32-bit computing architecture, I imagine – but the side effects are absolutely riotous: vivid dreams of self-cannibalization, late onset albinoism, increased risk of vampire attack. Vaxadrine use is discouraged “if you plan to walk around.”

The items that follow are either brand or generic names from legitimate pharmaceutical giants. Either laugh along with me, or ask your doctor if one of these is right for you and, as Prescott advises, “if he says no, see another doctor.”

Accolate – for treatment of former Lutheran altar boys who continue to extinguish candle flames long past adolescence

Bambec – for the easily confused wild antlered mammal, such as the proverbial “deer stuck in headlights”

Zafirlukast – for inflammation of the pan flute

Faslodex – a high-speed computerized system for recording and maintaining business phone numbers

Modip – a flea treatment for dogs and cats that results in fur styles which resemble the leader of the Three Stooges

Gastroloc – an antidote to diarrhea

Avlocardyl retard – a California-grown salad and guacamole ingredient that can also be used to treat cognitive and learning disorders

Goserelin acetate – Canada Geese dropping refined into a film stock and selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitor

AscoTop – for treatment of pretentious English types who are too good to wear normal neckwear

Zomig Rapimelt – for treatment of ice-cream-induced brain freeze

Imigran – designed to turn illegal aliens into a bran fiber that can aid in digestion

Epzicom – a new Disney theme park designed for the treatment of patients with epilepsy

Bonviva – for the treatment of unusually annoying happy people

Twinrix – a rice cereal for fraternal twins

Rotarix – a rice cereal for plumbers

Integrilin – for treatment of the honest politician

Ipilimumab – for treatment of those who think they want to travel to India, but will realize when they get there that it wasn’t such a good idea

Baraclude – one ounce dropped in the ocean will eliminate vicious fish within a one-mile area

Aspergillosis – for treatment of green vegetable spears growing in the shaded parts of your body

Fablyn – an implant that provides instant fashion sense

Cymbalta – for the treatment of drum solos

Yentreve – a medication designed to get Barbra Streisand to appear in a quality movie

Humalog – for those who think going to the bathroom is funny

Survivin – for those interested in stayin’ alive

OpRA II – a cure for those who stay at home watching daytime television

 

The poetry of financial disclaimers

There’s a certain art and poetry to everyday life if you know where to look for it. One of the big differences, I believe, between happy people and sad people is that the happy among us are able to find joy and beauty in a bad situation. I often cite the great poet Raymond Stevens on this subject and his claim that “everything is beautiful in its own way/Like a starry summer night or a snow-covered winter’s day”.

 

In my real-life job working for a financial services company, I get to read a lot of writing that was never intended as anything more than stiff, informative prose: cash flow statements, auditors’ reports, etc. Occasionally, the author’s rhetoric will soar to unintended heights (perhaps while looking for a way to explain huge executive compensation packages, for example) but it’s usually pretty pedestrian stuff. Unless you can look at it a little differently.

 

The language that follows is a boilerplate disclaimer that appears in almost every financial document filed with the Securities and Exchange Commission. With a little imagination, an italic font, and the right line breaks, however, it’s a work of art:

 

These statements are intended to enjoy

The protection of the safe harbor

For forward-looking statements provided

By the Securities Exchange Act.

These statements can be identified

By the use of the word or phrase

“well positioned,”

“expect,”

“expects”

or “would have”

in the statements

 

These forward-looking statements

Are subject to risks, uncertainties and other factors,

Domestically and internationally,

Including general economic conditions,

The cost of goods,

Competitive pressures,

Geopolitical events and conditions,

Levels of unemployment,

Levels of consumer disposable income,

Changes in laws and regulations,

Consumer credit availability,

Inflation, consumer spending patterns and debt levels,

Currency exchange fluctuations, trade restrictions,

Changes in tariff and freight rates,

Changes in the costs of gasoline, diesel fuel, other energy,

Transportation, utilities, labor and health care,

Accident costs, casualty and other insurance costs,

Interest rate fluctuations, financial and capital market conditions,

Developments in litigation to which the company is a party,

Weather conditions,

Damage to the company’s facilities from natural disasters,

Regulatory matters and other risks

 

The company discusses certain of these factors more fully

In its additional filings with the SEC,

Including its last annual report on Form 10-K filed with the SEC,

And this release should be read

In conjunction with that annual report on Form 10-K,

Together with all of the company’s other filings,

Including current reports on Form 8-K,

Made with the SEC through the date of this release

 

The company urges you to consider

All of these risks, uncertainties and other factors

Carefully

In evaluating the forward-looking statements

Contained in this release

 

The forward-looking statements

Made in this release

Are made only as of the date of this release,

And the company undertakes no obligation

To update them to reflect

Subsequent events

Or circumstances

 

It was just one of those days

I had one of those days late last week. I’d say it was a bad day, except that in this difficult age – with poverty and recession and war and the CW network – it’s hard to complain about a series of mishaps from which you emerge with your health and livelihood still intact. The tens of thousands of people being laid off today will have a bad day. The 150,000 soldiers fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan are having a bad day. Abraham Lincoln had a bad day when he was assassinated at Ford’s Theatre. I merely had one of those days where you look up at that kitty in the “Hang in There, Baby” poster, let out a deep sigh, then rip the poster from the wall and tear it into a thousand pieces.

My ordeal was not a morning-to-midnight event but rather a 24-hour span that began around 3 p.m. Wednesday. I was just about finished with my daily treadmill session at the Y when I looked into the hallway. I saw a flesh-colored torso, sheared off at the hips and with the top of its skull blown away, lying on a rapidly moving gurney. My God, had there been some horrible elliptical machine accident? I rushed to the door to learn more, only to get a clearer look at what turned out to be a nude though otherwise unharmed “Resusci-Annie” figure. Annie, for those of you who aren’t familiar, is a mannequin modified for use in CPR training. She’s supposed to be missing her legs and cranium. All she really needs to perform her function is a chest you can press your hands into and a gaping mouth, not unlike Jessica Simpson.

After my workout, I usually stop by my favorite café to do a little blogging before heading home for dinner. I was barely settled into my favorite spot when my cell phone rang. Only a very few people have my cell number, and fewer still like me enough to call it, so I was a little surprised. It turned out to be my boss from work. A take-home project I had agreed to start on two days ago was finally ready to begin and – oh, by the way, the deadline is still tomorrow morning. I was being asked to proofread and edit a 200-page Form 20-F. For those of you unfamiliar with financial filings, a 20-F is one of your least interesting reads, not quite on the skull-crushing level of a Schedule 14A but at least as bad as a Form 6-K or a Dan Brown novel. So my fate for the next eight hours was sealed.

I abandoned my writing and rushed home to begin work, and was probably driving a little too fast past the dog-walkers and assisted-livers from the nearby rest home strolling through my subdivision. I didn’t hit anybody but apparently came close enough to one neighbor just before wheeling into my driveway. “Hey,” he called out, “do you think you can drive a little slower through the neighborhood?” His tone was perfectly even and polite, and he made an entirely reasonable request. This annoyed me even more, yet how could I respond as negatively as I felt here in front of my own home? I mumbled a weak “yeah” and hurried into the house, fuming with irrational anger. By the time I figured out that the person I was mad at was me, he and his dog had already moved off into the darkness. No apology was possible.

I plunged into my project hoping it would distract me from my bone-headed motoring. The document described a Swiss manufacturer of farming and construction equipment. Their market was a challenging one in light of the global economic downturn yet their management team had been prudent with expenses except for this one $385 million credit swap default agreement, the first tranche of which was due in 2013, blah, blah, blah. We tend to think that staying awake, being a mental state rather than a physical one, is something we can control if we only have enough will power. But I’m here to tell you that the functioning brain is no competition for European-made bulldozers and threshers. I gave the document my best cursory glance and headed off to bed around 11:30.

At about 1:30 a.m., my telephone rang. It was Elaine from the office. “Can you come in early this morning?” she asked. I felt like saying “I already come in early,” since my normal arrival time is 5 a.m., but I knew that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. I stumbled out of bed and into the general direction of work.

In between the other projects that were waiting for me when I arrived around 3, I had to send off the results of my previous night’s work. We have some very sophisticated communications equipment in my office, including two digital scanners (DSP) that would capture my marks and upload them to the client. I would create a PDF on the DSP using OCR and the OGF. The perhaps-unfamiliar acronym here is the last one, which stands for Old Guy Frustrator. This is the mechanism – installed especially for me — that pulled too many pages through the first time, caused a jam the second time, and ultimately rendered a file with a thick vertical line down the middle of the copy. When I re-fed the pages into the second machine, I got basically the same results except this time the copy was too light. (Apparently the OGF is networked). In frustration, I messaged the people getting the proof that somewhere in the six files they had received, they’d be able to see all my edits somewhere.

As the workday wound toward a close, I had one last chore: call my health insurance provider and make sure some upcoming surgery was pre-approved. I had to listen carefully to the voicemail message because my available options had recently changed. (Imagine that!) When I finally got through to a human, she proved very helpful in explaining to me it would take just a few moments to call up my information because the computers were a little slow this afternoon. (Again, imagine that!) She was soon able to determine that I was talking to the “completely wrong” department, and transferred me over to someone else. A very pleasant musical hold – T. Pain, if I’m not mistaken – soon ended and I found myself discussing the merits of a system that had designated my surgeon as “out of network,” roughly the same status as sword-wielding barbarian. I was told a further review would be necessary before he could be accepted, then I was given a case number and told to call back in eight to ten business days. Assuming I was still alive.

Twenty-four hours had now passed since my frightening encounter with Resusci-Annie, and I was glad at last to call it a “day.”

My son’s in surgery

For the first time in ten weeks, I won’t be putting up a new humor post today. My 17-year-old son is in surgery at this moment to fix a stomach problem he’s been coping with for some time now. He was incredibly brave and poised as they wheeled him down the hall about a half hour ago — I think he’s glad they’re finally going to fix him up good. He’s a great kid.

I hope to be back with a fresh humor post in the next day or so. Wish us luck. Thanks.

Inside the gut of the healthcare system

First of all, a sincere thanks to everyone who sent well wishes to my son on his encounter with abdominal surgery. He’s doing very well on his first full day of recovery, and doctors are optimistic about a rapid improvement in his condition. We hope that he’ll be out of the hospital and back on his feet – or, more accurately, his favorite sofa — by Friday.

Surgeons spent about two hours yesterday morning exploring his interior laparascopically before locating a diseased section of the small intestine and removing a segment described improbably as the length of a foot-long hotdog, or about ten inches. While in the gastrointestinal neighborhood, they also yanked his appendix because, like the mountain to the mountain-climber, it was “there” and thus demanded surgical attention. The doctor later explained that future physicians would see the scar and believe the appendix had been removed and, if it wasn’t and they thought it was, they might misdiagnose a future malady, which made marginally more sense.

We’re staying at a splendid complex in Charlotte called the Levine Children’s Hospital, which is part of the Carolinas Medical Center. Levine is less than a year old, and sports all the bells and whistles you might expect from a medical construction project finished right before the recession hit. In fact, for our tastes, it sports a few too many bells and whistles, some of which are attached to a remote-control toy train that toots down the hall hourly to the delight of four-year-olds and the annoyance of 17-year-olds.

The entire hospital complex here is an intriguing mix of the latest in high-tech medical care and more down-to-earth systems with chronic problems. When my son was wheeled off to the operating room, my wife and I were taken to a special waiting room where we’d receive hourly updates on the details of the procedure. In addition, there was a big-screen video display that tracked the progress of each patient in each OR. It reminded me of an arrivals and departures board at the airport, with a color coding system indicating who was in pre-op, who was in “stage 3” (something to do with rocketry, I assume) and who was in post-operative recovery. The coding tactfully did not include a color for who had expired on the table or who got one of those cool stab-the-syringe-into-the-chest moves you see on TV. I think they personally inform you of those.

Contrast the elaborate video display with an ID tagging system that seems archaic at best. When we first arrived in admitting, my wife and I each received a printout bearing our crude photographic likeness, our status as “parents” (disturbingly set to expire at the end of the day) and a bar code that we would scan at various access points throughout the hospital. The printout is extremely poor, looking something like the rendering you get when you swipe a pencil on a piece of paper covering a penny and end up with a smeared imprint. There’s spare toner all over the place, making the bar code completely unreadable. So every time we go downstairs to visit the cafeteria, we’re not sure we’ll be back; there’s this one door where we’re halted until a hospital staff member comes along to let us through. I’ve waved the ID in as many different motions as I can imagine, which only leaves me looking foolish, not to mention hungry.

On the elaborate TV remote control in my son’s room, there’s a poorly placed red button between the “movie” and “TV” selection, summoning the emergency nurse when all you wanted to do was get that damn Hannah Montana movie off the screen. The IV pump keeping my son hydrated starts a different series of warning beeps every half hour or so, the different tones meaning the battery is low, the fluid bag is half-empty, or the med-evac helicopter is about to crash through our window. We’re never certain, so we call the nurse (or perhaps change the channel) just to be reassured. The relaxation screen-saver on one channel, showing a teeming tank of tropical fish, is actually a repetitive loop, not the live feed from Sea World I had imagined.

Of course, it’s really the human side of the business that’s far more important, and I have to give very high marks to all the staff and doctors working on our case. Our surgeon is a calm, cool customer by the name of Dr. Bambini, and he was ably assisted by anesthesiologist Brian May. Despite the fact the first sounds more like a vaudeville acrobat than a pediatric surgeon, and the second, I believe, was lead guitarist for the rock group Queen before drugs apparently lured him into his current field, both were consummate professionals in the treatment of my son. The rest of the staff, while well-intentioned, is sometimes a little less stellar.

There’s an unending rotation of individuals parading in and out of our room at all hours of the day and night, performing the various support services every bit as necessary as what the doctors do. (Not really). We met a new nurse yesterday afternoon who entered the room with a breezy “Hi, Cameron, how ya doin’?” We were immediately impressed by both her professionalism and manner until we realized neither of us was named Cameron. The receptionist in the OR waiting room came to tell us our son was out of surgery with the pronouncement “he’s done,” sparking some panicked nanoseconds before her broad smile told us she probably didn’t mean it quite like it sounded.

This cavalcade of health-care workers gets a bit overwhelming, especially when you’re awakened in the middle of the night by the latest visitors. Is this the vital-signs checker or the child-life services volunteer? Is this the nutrition person taking meal orders or a nurse’s assistant? Even if they do identify themselves fully, it still can be hard to keep them all straight, and you fall back on conventional stereotyping to determine what kind of person looks like what kind of worker. If you don’t, you may end up asking the two well-groomed guys in white coats for an unsoiled set of linens, or the tattooed woman with a tongue piercing and a blue smock for another dose of morphine. Though that might actually work out too.
When the woman from the admitting office stopped by to graciously welcome us and ask how we wanted to pay the $300 deductible, there was no mistaking her role. She offered to take a check, a credit card or a debit card, then walked away to inform us a few minutes later that the computer was down so she’d be back to try again later.
Which got me to thinking about what all of this exquisite technology and highly-trained care was going to cost us. Whatever it was, it would definitely be worth it to have our beloved son converted into a healthier teenager than when he arrived, but I won’t mind at all if Admitting Lady gets eternally stuck behind that door with the bad scanner.
In my next post, I’ll write more about costs and other interesting features of our visit into the heart (or should I say gut) of the American medical system.

Fake News Bulletin: Detainees crash into ocean

A jumbo jet carrying all the detainees who had been housed at Guantanamo Bay for the past seven years crashed into the Atlantic Ocean shortly after takeoff earlier this morning.

At this point, there appears to be only a handful of survivors, including most of the crew who apparently opened their emergency parachutes upon impact to use as flotation devices. The pilot, six crew members and 11 guards were picked up shortly after the crash by a Coast Guard rescue vessel that just happened to be in the area.

It is believed that all the prisoners died in the crash.

“This is just an awful, awful tragedy,” said Defense Department spokesperson Ron Kilgore. “We felt like we were making real progress in resolving these cases, and then for this to happen, it’s just a terrible thing.”

The prisoners, taken in for alleged war crimes during the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan, had been in legal limbo for some time. The Obama Administration had already pledged to close the prison at the naval station on the eastern tip of Cuba within a year, but it was still uncertain where the detainees would go. Most were regarded as too dangerous to set free, there were few countries willing to take them, and a growing outcry in the U.S. made relocation to domestic prisons problematic.

“Frankly, we have no idea what we’re going to do with these guys,” said an unnamed source at the State Department as recently as last week. “There really seems to be no good solutions.”

The cause of the crash is unknown at this point, but one investigator speculated that a build-up of ice on some Canada geese which crashed through the engine may have severed hydraulic lines that then caused an oxygen tank in the cargo hold to explode. He also noted that one of the prisoners could’ve been wearing a sandal bomb and another could’ve had a 3-ounce bottle of inflammable liquid, or possibly mouthwash.

Officials offered various accounts of why all 378 prisoners had boarded the flight. One said they were “just giving them a break from the same old routine by flying them around the island on a sight-seeing trip.” Another insider said they had been assigned work duty to clean the interior of the jet when it accidentally took off, while a third spoke of a trip to Disney World “paying them back for all the torture and hardships and stuff.”

Administration press officer Jason Seals said a full investigation of the crash would take place, just as soon as the economy had revived and a proper study could be funded.

“It’s kind of funny how it worked out, if you think about it,” said Seals. “On one hand, it’s an unimaginable loss of life that will haunt us for a long time, but on the other, we didn’t know what we were going to do with them anyway, so that’s the positive side.”

“Like they say, ‘shit happens,’” Seals concluded.

Getting the most for your healthcare costs

My son was released from the hospital yesterday afternoon and is now at home recovering from his Tuesday abdominal surgery. Doctors offered an excellent prognosis for him, meaning he actually might be pain-free or close to it for the first time in several years. We are thrilled with such an apparently positive outcome, and thank both those in the hospital as well as readers of this blog for their support and their thoughts.

Seeing a behemoth as much discussed as the American health care system from an inside perspective was quite a learning experience. I wrote on Wednesday about how impressive both the people and the technology were; now I guess it’s time to look at the dark side of that equation, which is the financial cost involved. Reading a news story on the day of the surgery about how health costs have now skyrocketed to over $8,000 annually per American put me into a hyper-cheap mindset as soon as my immediate concerns over the surgery had passed.

Right after leaving the OR recovery area, we were escorted to our home for the next 48 hours, a private room on the tenth floor of the Levine Children’s Hospital. Before we were even settled in, a volunteer and her “hospitality cart” appeared at the door, offering items such as toothbrushes, books and toiletries. Figuring we had surpassed our yearly cost allotment during my son’s first 15 minutes of surgery, I declined the hospitality, afraid it would show up on our bill in the form of a $65 deodorant stick. Assured it was actually free, we instead chose to load up.

That’s a strategy I continued over the next few days in an effort to counter my fear of what our ultimate costs are going to be. We have relatively good insurance by most measures (in other words, totally inadequate), but I’m sure we’ll still be paying quite a bit out of pocket. So, I made every effort to take full advantage of the offerings that did seem to be free.

I decided I would spend the night in the room with my son, since there was no double-occupancy add-on and the convertible couches looked relatively comfortable. The amenities in Room 10001 (we must’ve been in the Base 2 Annex of the hospital) were considerable. I’ve already talked about the in-house TV/movie system, hardly a Spectravision but still quite watchable for characters with their clothes on. There were a lot of recent releases on the movie channel and also some cable offerings of interest. I regret that I didn’t get a chance to check out the “Newborn Channel.” At first, I imagined a network of nothing but infant actors in a variety of drama, sitcom, sports, news and reality productions, though I later realized it was more likely intended as a how-to for new moms and dads.

Besides watching as much TV as possible, another way to recoup some of our charges was through the food service. I wasn’t so thoughtless as to filch nutrition from my ailing son – his bland mashed potatoes didn’t look that good anyway. My wife and I did, however, take full advantage of a family snack pantry halfway down the hall that had free soft drinks, cookies, puddings and cereals. There was also a high-tech coffeemaker in another common room that was complementary, and we received a number of $7 meal tickets redeemable in the downstairs café.

Say what you will about hospital food, the main cafeteria in major hospitals these days is on a par with food courts at the mall, except with slightly sicker patrons. There was a Sbarro’s, a Chick-fil-A and several grilles and a-la-carte stations. Though the food was a little overpriced it was quite tasty. There was the “Price Is Right” fun of trying to get your order as close as possible to multiples of seven without going over, since they wouldn’t give any change back for the tickets. Hopped up on cookies, pudding and free coffee, and appetite-impaired by both antiseptic and septic smells, we were even able to use a few extra tickets as we were checking out to purchase a take-home dinner.

Other comforts of the lodging experience weren’t quite as tangible, though I still tried to take full advantage. Public restrooms on the floor offered the kind of high-flow vortices you’d expect when half the patients in residence were afflicted with stomach ills, so I went to the bathroom as much as I possibly could. (The vacuum produced by some of these super-toilets could probably have performed their own gastrointestinal suction surgeries with a little supervision.) You could also freely pass gas anywhere on the wing and everyone understood or even encouraged you — and how could you even put a price on that?

The convertible bed where I slept during both nights of our stay was surprisingly comfortable. It was hard to attach the supplied bed linens to the Naugahydeous surface, and with my Restless Body Syndrome I’d almost slid out to the ledge by morning. The pillow was definitely sub-par, giving me a case of bed-hair that nearly required my own hospitalization, and yet I still got a much better night of sleep than I ever had on any transcontinental flight. And, as an added bonus, when I woke up, I wasn’t in India.

While we waited around for our discharge papers, I had a final surge of concern that I hadn’t thoughtlessly and selfishly contributed to spiralling healthcare costs quite enough. True, I had my surgically repaired first-born son, and that’s certainly worth more than all the money in the world. But still, as I looked around the room one last time, I wondered: Is there a market on eBay for the kind of disposable gloves being freely dispensed from the wall above the sink? I looked a little closer at the product. The packaging said they were “Ansell MicroTouch Nitrile new and improved, powder-free, latex-free medical examination gloves”. If adjectives counted for anything on the open market, these might be able to cover quite a bit of our costs.

A look at the art of “feedback”

Assessing the performance of your fellow humans is a tricky business. Whether you’re offering praise, a generalized judgment, or what has come to be known as “feedback” (and what used to be called “yelling at someone”), you have to be cognizant of the recipient’s feelings and at the same time get your point across. The idea is to not only suggest how better work might be done the next time, but also to avoid embarrassing them.

When you’re a teacher who’s reporting on the progress of your impressionable young students, you’re likely to be bigger and stronger enough not to care what they think. Still, you have to temper your frankness with a measure of sensitivity, so as not to damage those fragile self-esteems. You also have to consider, especially in my part of the country, that their father may be an Ultimate Fighting Champion.

The public school system in this particular Southern state supplements its grades with a place in the progress report where teachers can offer “personalized” remarks. A comment code entered in the system triggers a pre-phrased assessment that’s meant to appear sincere but instead sounds computer-generated. They don’t even try to disguise this shortcut: next to the letter grade, the report will say something like “22. A delight to teach” or “17. Always focused and prepared.” At least that’s how they read for good students like my son. I imagine the lower part of the class gets stuff like “42. Needs to pay more attention” or “38. Must stop trying to knife me.”

When you’re working at the adult education level, you still have to be careful not to offend. I’ve done enough training in the corporate world to know that you have to promise trainees there are no wrong answers to have any hope of getting a response. “That’s one way to look at it” or “I see your point” are some of the acceptable replies, even if you ask what’s the capital of Michigan and they answer “twelve.” I once sat through a six-hour CPR class that incessantly stressed how heart-attack victims were by far your most likely subjects. When a question-and-answer summary was conducted at the end of class, we were asked what was the most common cause of death in America. “Car wrecks?” said the guy to my left.

As hard as it can be to tell someone they’re an idiot, it can be equally challenging to say something that’s positive and yet also rings true. I don’t know how many times I worked my hardest to do a good job on a particular project and heard nothing in response, while the next day I put forth a pitiful effort and drew rave reviews. You eventually reach the point where you realize there’s absolutely no predictable correlation going on.

Still, I’ve been on the other side enough to appreciate how hard it can be for management to rally the troops with hollow expressions of praise. So I do have some sympathy for what follows. It’s a collection of comments submitted by a reader who started detecting something of a canned flavor to all the appreciative emails his team was receiving from a top executive in his company. Read what follows and try not to wince.

–Thank you for the exceptional job you did on Wills. Thank you especially for your focus on quality with this work.
–Excellent feedback on Kaline!!! It is great to be known for quality and speed. That will keep our clients with us.
–Accurate and two days early!!! Thank you for your work and the excellent results for our clients on Drysdale. Keep up the great work.
–Thank you for getting the Tresh work completed quickly and accurately. Keep it going through the year.
–Excellent work producing Boyer quickly and accurately. Looking forward to more successes through the year.
–Thank you for jumping in during a tough spot on Orlando and letting us shine. Keep up the great work.
–Great quality and responsiveness!!! Terrific words to hear from our clients. Johns gives us a tremendous amount of work. I am so glad our sales team is “impressed” every day.
–Excellent work on Jake. Glad to see you exceeding our client’s needs.
–Exceptional work on Anderson! Thank you for delivering for our clients so that they can meet their goals. This will keep them coming back.
–What terrific feedback on Nicks. It shows teamwork and attention to detail. Exactly the ingredients we need to provide a perfect product to our clients.
–Excellent work on Howard. Thank you for helping to get this client finished on time. Very nicely done.
–Thank you for your speed and accuracy on Warfield. The client was able to finish their project on time. Excellent work!!!!
–Excellent work on Roberts. Keep the focus on quality and speed.
–Awesome work on the Stofa job. Thank you for your focus on quality and speed.
–Excellent work on George. Difficult work delivered on time and in great shape. We cannot ask for more than that.
–Thank you for your work on Roseboro. It is great to be known for speed and a high level of accuracy.
–Excellent work on Moose. The more you “make people’s day”, the more work we will receive. Thank you and keep up the great work.
–Thank you for your work on Morris. Keep up the great work. Good comments on the communication as well.
–Excellent turnaround and quality on the job that had to finish yesterday. This is why our clients keep coming back.
–Thank you for completing the Venus work on time. Excellent work and keep it going through the year.
–Thank you for the quick turnaround and high quality for the Henderson job.
–Excellent work exceeding expectations on Lucille. Thank you and keep up the great work.
–Thank you for completing Dawn in half of the time expected. I appreciate your focus on quality and speed.

Final thoughts on hospitalization

Final thoughts on my encounter with hospitals and the American medical establishment this past week:

·        Almost every doctor and nurse we came in contact with seemed suspiciously enthusiastic when talking about the pain-killing drugs my son would receive during his surgery and recovery. While meeting with us in pre-op, the anesthesiologist talked about what the patient could expect as he was wheeled into the operating room: “We’re going to give you some drugs that will make you feel really, really good and you won’t remember a thing that happens.” Then the nurse anesthetist: “You’ll be getting some very fine narcotics.” Then the surgeon himself: “When we pump these drugs into you, you won’t feel a thing except you’ll be very happy and very high.” I half-expected these comments to be prefaced with “Dude.”

·        Is “Xray Café” really the best name for the children’s hospital snack bar? Yes, the rhyme is clever, but it raises the whole specter of irradiated chicken nuggets.

·        In the recovery room just after surgery, a slightly too informative nurse gave us a detailed step-by-step coverage of everything he was doing. He showed us the monitor recording my son’s heartbeat, and noted how it was just a little bit high. For the next 30 minutes, we’d watch with concern as the number would inch slightly higher, then with relief as it would inch slightly lower. Finally, he turned the damned thing off. Our concern returned, though, when he prepared an injection dose, then walked across the hall to another nurse for “verification,” and she just waved him off as if she trusted him.

·        Internal communication among the different practitioners that paraded into our room didn’t seem too effective. Shortly after a resident physician stopped by to talk about the clear liquids the patient would be allowed on the day after surgery, a woman from nutrition services stopped to deliver his dinner: a cheeseburger and fries.

·        Seeing a dark stain in the upholstery of a chair seat in your room is not especially reassuring, especially considering the quantity of gastroenterology patients on the floor.

·        How obsessed do you have to be to pass your time in an OR waiting room by shopping on eBay? Are you seeking a distraction from worrying about the loved one undergoing a life-threatening procedure, or do you simply not care about their outcome? Do they have good buys on stents and wheelchairs you might be needing for Uncle Lou? Or might you be able to purchase a whole new uncle?

·        Speaking of the OR waiting room, doctors would enter periodically to find the appropriate family and report on the outcome of their particular case. Sometimes it looked like they had met the family in advance, but other times they’d check with the receptionist to see who was who. That seemed a little too casual to me. Imagine waiting on your spouse’s appendectomy, and the wrong doctor shows up to report that “the donor heart has been slightly delayed.”

·        While riding up to the tenth floor on the elevator, I noticed that one of the lower floors was devoted entirely to what was called “progressive care.” As opposed to what everybody else in the building was receiving? I began to watch incoming medications more carefully in my son’s room, wary of poultices and monkey paws.

·        The children’s play room at the end of our floor was a great feature for the younger residents. Someone went to a lot of trouble to make sure it was clean, safe, and decorated for the nearest seasonal holiday. In late February, that would be Presidents’ Day and Mardi Gras, so in addition to bead necklaces hanging from the ceiling, there were also silhouette cutouts of presidential profiles. This gave me the uncomfortable image of James K. Polk lifting his shirt so someone would throw him some bangles.

·        I’ve written once already about the “fish channel” on the in-house TV network. This was a relaxing loop of footage showing tropical fish darting about a large, elaborately stocked tank. The only problem was that it proved to be just a little too riveting. You’d find yourself watching closely to find the point where the loop would start over. “Never mind that my uncle just suffered cardiac arrest,” you could imagine family members saying. “That clownfish is being attacked by a betta.”

·        The wide-screen HDTVs in every room were a nice touch, but it was a little disturbing that we weren’t given control over features such as aspect ratio. Our set was permanently set on “wide,” making our viewing of “The Biggest Loser” extremely disturbing. When even Gwyneth Paltrow in “Iron Man” looks chunky, you know it’s a distraction.

 

 

Encounters with the rich and famous

Someone asked me the other day how many famous people I’ve met in my life. I guess it depends how you define “famous,” how you define “met,” and even how you define “people.”

When I was growing up in Miami during the 1960s, I had several encounters with the rich and powerful. At the time, South Florida was considered to be on the brink of becoming another Los Angeles in terms of its connections with the entertainment industry. Comedian Jackie Gleason had moved his popular television show to Miami Beach and was touting the location as having “the greatest audiences in the world,” which the audience in attendance would riotously agree with. His influence led others to visit the area, including Ed Sullivan who brought The Beatles to town.

I never met Sullivan or The Beatles, but I did drive by Jackie Gleason’s house. In the days before the gated communities and private islands that now dominate the Miami landscape, he had a home in an affluent neighborhood several miles from my house, and whenever we had out of town visitors, we’d drive them past the expansive yellow structure. We never saw him mowing the yard or rolling out his garbage, but we knew he was probably just on the other side of those stucco walls, unless he was in one of his other homes in another state or in rehab.

In addition to seeing Jackie Gleason’s house, I also saw President Lyndon Johnson’s speeding car. Shortly after he succeeded John Kennedy, Johnson flew into a suburban airport, then motorcaded to an appearance downtown. My parents, eager for me to see history in the making, thought it would be an educational experience for my sister and me to stand in a roadside ditch and watch a long black limousine pass us at 70 miles per hour. I may have seen LBJ’s famous long face peering through the dark glass, though it could’ve been his beagle.

I also had the occasion while growing up to visit the set of “Flipper,” and personally meet with TV’s favorite cetacean. My sister, an aspiring model and child actress, was riding a wave of popularity at the time from her appearance as girl number three in a sunglasses commercial. (I almost had a similar career myself, but there turned out to be surprisingly few calls for pimpled, overweight teenage boys). Her agent had the connections to get us invited to the small inlet where the world-famous dolphin resided, and he came to the pier where we stood and offered up a fin in greeting. I doubt he’d remember the encounter today, principally because he’s long since been blended into a can of tuna fish, but it made a big impression on me. For literally days afterward, I wanted to be a marine biologist.

As I noted earlier, whether any of these events constitute “meeting famous people” or not is certainly debatable. It’s similar in a way to the discussion I often have with my wife – does it count as visiting a foreign country if you’ve only changed planes in the airport? I would contend that looking at someone’s residence, being passed by someone’s car, or pawing someone’s flipper counts as a meeting. She would disagree, and I can understand why, since she’s never been to Japan and I have.

When I left Miami for college, my encounters with fame became even harder to dispute. I attended a show by then-rising comedian Steve Martin in a small on-campus pub. Since I was covering the performance for the student newspaper, I got an excellent seat at the front table with some friends of mine. Martin interrupted his act long enough to acknowledge us at one point, I called out “Steve!” and he sort of waved in my direction. He continued with the show until being tragically wounded by an arrow through the head only moments later.

The next year, CBS news anchor Dan Rather came to campus as part of a speakers’ series, and was kind enough to visit our tiny newsroom after the event. As the paper’s editor, I served as host and invited him to sit at my desk as he was surrounded by eager young reporters. We were in a bitter rivalry at the time with a fraternity-sponsored newspaper, and the editor of that publication had the nerve to show up for the symposium. I interrupted Rather’s talk just as he was about to tell us how journalism was a solid career that would prosper long into the next century, and forced the rival editor to leave. Too bad I missed that part, or I could be laid-off even today.

After I moved to the Carolinas, I jumped to an even higher level of power encounters. While he was running for his first term as president, Bill Clinton campaigned at a motel near where I worked (the choice of a motel didn’t seem odd at the time though, in retrospect, it makes sense). He was surrounded by Secret Service guards as I approached him in the parking lot, and I asked their permission before attempting to shake his hand. The agents said nothing, though if body language could be interpreted as a response, it would be “Yes, but I’ll have to kill you.” I took a chance anyway and Clinton and I had a brief exchange. He might remember me now 18 years later, though I hear he’s had a lot on his mind in the interim.

About a decade and a half later, at a Charleston bookstore, I met two different celebrities on two separate occasions. The first was former Senator John Edwards, then campaigning for his first run at the presidency and promoting his book. I bought the book and asked him to autograph it, and we had a cordial discussion in which I said I’d probably vote for him just to annoy my right-wing mother-in-law. He seemed like a nice guy and I continued to be a supporter of his until that whole unfortunate cheating-on-his-dying-wife misunderstanding.

Interestingly, the second encounter at that same store was with Dr. Ruth Westheimer. She too was promoting a book, a fictional work about how it was possible to have great sex over age 50. We didn’t get a chance to speak, though I did point at her and laugh, mainly because that although she’s known as the “tiny sex therapist,” few people realize she’s actually only 7 inches tall. I guess that would make any potential shtupping of Senator Edwards somewhat problematic, but maybe not.

The last meeting I’ll describe took place while I was visiting New York. On a business trip in 2000, I had a free Saturday to walk uptown to Central Park. It was the first warm weekend of the year, and the sidewalks were packed with families. As I passed one couple pushing a stroller, I realized the mom looked vaguely familiar. It took a few seconds for me to realize that the lesion on her lip unmistakably marked her as supermodel Cindy Crawford. As a big fan for years, I couldn’t resist calling out to her, though by then it was over the heads of a hundred people who had passed between us. “Cindy,” I yelled, “I loved your work in the movie ‘Fair Play’. It wasn’t fair that critics dubbed you the worst actress of the year. What was it like to work with William Baldwin?” She must’ve thought I was kidding, or else just another Manhattan lunatic, because she walked on without acknowledging me.

So, what do you think: have I met any famous people in my life? I would say that I have, though the celebrities in question might deny it all.

South (barely) survives snowstorm

A rare March snowstorm marched across the South Monday, causing power outages and slick roadways that led to a number of traffic accidents. At least six people were killed, most from heart attacks caused by the shock that it’s possible for frozen precipitation to fall from the sky during the wintertime.

Schools and businesses closed throughout the region in reaction to snow totals that neared four inches in some locations, and most Southerners decided to stay home rather than face the treacherous conditions outside. Some exercised even more care to avoid possible injury.

Residents at the home of Charlotte native Guy Pepper declined even to leave their beds lest they slip and fall.

“When my clock radio came on this morning, the first thing they talked about was the inch and a half of snow we had outside,” said Pepper. “We’re not used to that kind of thing around here and I wanted to be extra careful. I just slept in bed all day.”

Neighbor Sue Walton said she considered visiting the bathroom about 15 feet away from her bed, but decided against it rather than take the risk.

“It’s not that I don’t trust myself to walk across the carpet,” she said. “It’s the other people out there that I worry about. My husband, he walks like a crazy man in these conditions, and I don’t want him losing control and crashing into me.”

The family at a home down the street was a little more adventurous in dealing with the storm, acknowledging that they did “take a chance” by venturing out of bed and into the hallway, eventually making it to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee.

“If you just take it nice and slow, it’s not that bad,” said Edwin Drew. “What you have to watch for are the slick patches that seem to come up just as you’re gaining some confidence. It took me almost an hour to carefully walk down the hall, but I made it.”

Only a few blocks away, resident Robyn Blackburn actually went so far as to open her front door and grab the newspaper that was just outside.

“I lived in the north for about a year so I’m pretty familiar with these conditions,” Blackburn said. “I keep a set of chains at my bedside. I use them mainly for other purposes, but they can double as snow chains in a pinch. I wrapped them around my feet and lower legs and they gave me the traction I needed to make it to the door.”

Another Southerner who braved the wintry conditions was Ken Shelley, who went out to his driveway to check on the condition of his vehicle.

“I’m not insane enough to try to drive the thing, but I thought at least I could sweep some snow off the roof,” said Shelley.

The South Charlotte man used what he called a “four-wheel drive equivalent” to navigate his way about ten feet down the slope of a small incline.

“It’s probably more like six-wheel drive,” he said. “I get down on my hands and knees and crawl like a baby over the icy pavement. I have contact with two hands, two knees and two feet, so I feel I’m pretty likely to survive the trip without a skid.”

 

Taking pride in my Slob heritage

I declare today that I am a Slob-American. I say it loud, and I say it proud.

As enthusiastic as I might be now, I wasn’t always so respectful of my heritage. We Slobs were too frequently lumped in with the Lazy, the Listless, the Shifty and the Shiftless. I don’t deny those groups any less right than I have to view their ethnicity with pride, it’s just not who I am. We Slobs have a history of making an overt statement that we don’t care how we look, whereas other groups have not always had the same self-assuredness.

I can trace my Slob birthright back several generations before its carefree attitude toward dress showed up squarely in my wrinkled lap. One of my earliest ancestors was Maryland patriot Charles Carroll of Carrollton, an original signer of the Declaration of Independence. Documentation of his personal style is understandably scant, though there is a lithograph in the National Archives showing the Founding Fathers gathered around the hallowed parchment that is our nation’s charter, with Charles shown wearing a pocket t-shirt.

Almost a century passed before I could find a similar record of my later forbearers, and this time it’s Jebediah Stephen, posing for a Matthew Brady photograph on the eve of the Civil War’s Battle of Gettysburg. Stephen is just a kid, his unease with military life apparent in the way he stands apart from the other Union soldiers. You can’t tell it from the photo (Brady was of the minimalist/realist school and disdained the use of color) but Stephen is dressed in a green uniform. It’s only through later records that we know the confused young border-state native forsook fighting for either the Blue of the North or the Grey of the South, and instead insisted on defending the “glory of the East.”

Fast-forward to the 1950s and there’s a picture of my maternal grandmother. Vertie Wolfe was a proud Pennsylvania farm wife who raised eight children after her husband died. She’s shown in the only picture of that era still in my family, wearing a calf-length polka-dot dress, her grey hair in a bun, looking over the rims of her grandmotherly glasses. No botox, no blonde rinse, no fashionable pumps, the poor woman is a fashion no-show.

My earliest years were not particularly notable for their lack of fashion-sense. My baby pictures show a happy little boy. Sure, he’s wearing a rather frumpy diaper and has one sock pulled higher than the other, but at least there’s a doggie decal on his shirt. When I headed off to first grade a few years later, I’m wearing a plain shirt made by my mother and a pair of jeans that were meant to last at least through my teenage growth spurt. Their excess length is folded outward into white denim cuffs that reach almost to my knees.

More overt displays of Slobiness were not permitted in public schools at that time. We didn’t have uniforms per se, but there was a fairly strict dress code requiring long pants (not THAT long), tucked-in shirts and, inexplicably, shoes. Growing up in the subtropics of south Florida, I spent every moment I could romping through life in bare feet. You’d think the presence of scorpions, poisonous toads and giant roaches known for crunching underfoot would’ve offset the lure of constantly warm weather, but I loved to go without shoes. We played stickball in the street, rode our bikes through the neighborhood, even played tennis, and came to be proud of the thick calluses we constructed for ourselves. To this day, my big toes are each a full four inches wide.

It wasn’t until free-spirited seventies when I went off to college that I was able to “let my Slob flag fly,” to paraphrase David Crosby from his Slobian anthem “Almost Cut My Hair” and the lesser-known follow-up “Almost Took a Shower.” With no dress code whatsoever in place, I attended classes in frayed cut-off jeans, faded shirts, long curly hair and a scruffy half-beard. Even when I became editor of the school paper and a student leader, I clung to my carefree look, once interviewing the university president in his ornate office while wearing no shoes. I considered my slovenly appearance to be a political statement against the establishment; I imagine he saw it otherwise.

Now and for the last 35 years I’m out in the real world, dealing with real-world prejudices against my people. I live by the rules of corporate authority when I have to for the good of my household income. At work in the office, I wear business-casual black slacks, usually a grey or blue dress shirt and a black belt. I’m still a rebel below the ankles, though, opting for bright white running shoes and white socks, mainly because I thought they looked cool on Jerry Seinfeld 15 years ago. (That’s about my timeframe for keeping up with the few fashion statements I do agree with.)

But away from the corporate world, I exhibit all the Slob attributes that my people have proudly shown for centuries since they emigrated to the New World from Slobenia. My preferred winter attire – what I’m wearing at this very moment, in fact — is voluminous Hammer-style sweatpants, a tank top I found in the road in 1999, a worn synthetic overshirt with more pills in it than Rush Limbaugh, and a pair of penny loafers circa 1986. I only bother with the shoes because I’m writing in what is technically a restaurant/cafe that has no spine in standing up to plainly discriminatory health and cleanliness laws. Also, it’s 17 degree outside.

When warm weather arrives in a few weeks, I’ll again be able to break out the attire of my youth. The baggy cotton gym shorts, the vintage wear that includes a rare race t-shirt from the 1984 AMC Pacer 10-K (in which the Pacer famously finished a close third behind a pair of Kenyans) and a generic corporate t-shirt lacking the company imprint that was supposed to go with the words “technology, innovation and customer focus.” And perhaps my proudest possession of all: underwear briefs where virtually all the cotton has worn away and what remains is the elastic of the waste band and the seams of the legs, a sort of proto-thong I’ll still wear beneath my running togs.

My son and I were watching one of the Star Wars movies the other evening, and he commented how awkward it appeared for the Sith and the Jedi and all the rest of them to be laser-fighting in outfits that so severely limited their movement. Between the hoods and the robes and the long dangling belts and the extra-loose sleeves, we thought any of them would be easy prey should an invading civilization come along that dressed in jeans and sweatshirts. He propped his shoeless feet up on the couch as we laughed, and it was then that I knew that the Slob heritage would live on for at least one more generation.

 

Fake News: Steele apologizes — he’s really sorry (really)

WASHINGTON (March 5) — Republican National Chairman Michael Steele continued to back-pedal yesterday from comments he made over the weekend implying that right-wing radio host Rush Limbaugh may not in fact be the Second Coming of Christ.

“I honestly didn’t mean to say those awful, hurtful things,” Steele said. “When I said his show was incendiary and ugly, I didn’t mean anything personal by it. He’s a great entertainer and a fantastic voice for the conservative cause. Really, really fantastic — beyond all conventional measures of greatness.”

Steele added that he was “really, truly sorry” and “truly wanted to make a major apology, really.” He called himself “stupid, stupid, stupid” and asked “what the hell is wrong with me?”

“How dare I question anything at all that comes out of his hallowed mouth?” Steele wondered. “Exactly what kind of idiot am I? I’ll tell you what kind – the biggest kind there is. That’s what kind.”

Meanwhile, post-convention analysts of the Conservative Political Action Committee sessions in Washington continued to look for a common theme to come out of the gathering. The new party slogans being floated for consideration – “The Hell With The Rest of You” and “Time For Some Rich White Guys” – are being judged by many as too divisive.

There was also no clear consensus among observers about which current party leaders might emerge in the next few years to offer a challenge to Democratic President Barack Obama in 2012.

“That Bag of Hammers who gave the opening address on Saturday sounded pretty impressive to me,” said one attendee. “I think he would take a direct approach to the problems we’re currently facing by applying tremendous force and power.”

Another conservative in attendance said he was leaning toward the Sack of Wet Leather that offered Sunday’s keynote address.

“He smelled pretty foul, but maybe that’s what this country needs,” he noted. “A president who stinks would be a president who gets noticed on the world stage.”

In the straw-poll “beauty contest” of early favorites for the nomination, a Box of Rocks received 31% of the vote, Bait got 25%, a Soapdish scored 21% and a Houseplant garnered 13%. Other potential candidates – including Raw Cookie Dough, a Post, and Dirt — scored in the single digits.

Many of the younger participants, as well as a large contingent of women and minorities, talked a lot about one potential candidate who had not even attended the annual right-wing confab.

“We’re holding out to see what the Truckload of Barbies is going to do during congressional elections in 2010,” said Bob Hefferly. “If she grabs a Senate seat, it could be a springboard on to the White House.”

 

Website review: UltimateFighting.com

If you find football not violent enough, boxing not bloody enough, and hand-to-hand urban counterinsurgency not conveniently located enough, have I got some mayhem for you.

It’s called Ultimate Fighting, and details of this fast-rising sport can be found at the subject of this week’s website review, UFC.com.

According to the home page, the Ultimate Fighting Championship organization follows a rich history of competitive martial arts that dates back to the ancient Greek Olympics and found a more modern embodiment about 80 years ago as Vale Tudo, which translates to “anything goes.” Known in some quarters as mixed martial arts (and in others as “beating the crap out of someone”), UFC combines elements of karate, jiu-jitsu, kickboxing, grappling and sumo, sprinkles in some bright graphics, explosives and scantily clad “Octagon Girls”, and finds itself near the top of the heap in the much-coveted young hyper-male demographic.

To entice us into their various pull-downs, we see a lot of mean-looking guys scowling at the camera in obvious discomfort with all the chains and ingrown hair around their necks. Upcoming bouts are promoted alongside ads for high-energy sports drinks, online poker and, inexplicably, Joe Rogan’s comedy tour. Tickets, for those who are interested, are still available for the Rampage Jackson vs. Jim Miller contest which, if names are any indication, Jim is probably going to lose.

As in any sport, it’s the personalities of the competitors that help determine its popularity, so I take a look at a few biographies of the 200-plus fighters listed. I find myself drawn to some less-competitive individuals, with winning records just a tad about .500 yet surprisingly still alive.

Rob Emerson is a smallish fellow who’s won only ten of his 18 bouts, including a loss in February by a method described as “submission/choke”. He describes his favorite hero as South Park’s Cartman, his previous career as something called a “scrapper,” and his favorite techniques as “leg kick, flying knee, and gogo platypus” (the last of which might explain his February choking). At least he’s now fighting others in his own weight class, unlike the early days of UFC when in one bout a competitor was outweighed by 400 pounds.

Krzysztof Soszynski is a bigger guy at over 6 feet and 200 pounds, but still has managed to prevail in only 17 of his 27 battles. As you may have guessed by his name, he’s not from around here. He’s from Manitoba. There, as a 16-year-old bodybuilder, he met wrestler Bad News Brown who “showed me an armbar and a kimura and I was immediately hooked.” He gave up his pursuit of a college degree to work as a driver and truck loader before devoting himself full-time to fighting. He describes his favorite striking method as the “up-down-up, jab to head, cross to body, hook to head,” which is not as frightening as it sounds, judging by his record.

Jess Liaudin is a Frenchman who’s won only 12 out of 23 fights with what he describes as a “well-rounded unorthodox style.” I guess losing almost half the time, including his last three in a row, could accurately be described as unorthodox. Having given up formal education at an early age, he spent 13 years trying to get into the UFC with the spinning back fist as his best move. After finishing well at a Japanese shootboxing tournament (guns and boxing?), a European Cage Combat championship and a Brazilian grappling meet, he was eventually called up to the big time, “where I intend to stick around and do some damage,” mainly to himself.

Elsewhere on the website, there are some good descriptions of what’s involved in the sport for the uninitiated or those who were perhaps searching instead for the Ugli Fruit Consortium or the University of Florida at Clearwater. Competitors use 4-6 ounce gloves designed to protect the hand as it impacts what’s euphemistically called the striking surface. Commission-approved shorts are the only uniforms allowed, as shirts and shoes present the temptation to grab, which is forbidden. Matches take place in the “Octagon,” an arena that includes safety padding for fighters who fall and a fence for those who are tempted to run away. The aforementioned Octagon Girls are also padded.

Despite its origins as an anything-goes format, there are restrictions on what competitors are allowed to attempt on each other. Not permitted are “butting with the head, eye gouging of any kind, biting, hair pulling, groin attacks of any kind, putting a finger into any orifice or laceration (!), small joint manipulation, clawing, stomping, kicking the kidney, spitting, pinching, kicking the head, and throat strikes of any kind including, without limitation, grabbing the trachea.” (These are only allowed at the next day’s chiropractor appointment.) Other behaviors that will get you disqualified include timidity and throwing in the towel.

The site also offers opportunities for fans who want to use new-media interaction to blog about their favorite UFC stars. One, known as mrkong, wants to see a fight between Josh “The Dentist” Neer and Diego “Nightmare” Sanchez – “this would be an amazing fight I think, how do you think it would go?” Another writer, cripplerfan, notes that “I am pleased to join the UFC community sharing my great interest in the UFC fight, I hope I will learn more about UFC, especially the fights in May, I go for Mir my patron in the coming fight, thanks.” There’s also an online fantasy league, news about the Spanish audio feed and trouble-shooting guides for the chronically bug-plagued UFC On Demand service. I didn’t see any news about fighters who Twitter, probably because few of them have thumbs left.

Lastly, there are the obvious attempts to conduct commerce and generate income for the UFC. There are ringtones for sale that are hard to describe in writing, though titles such as “Entrance – Get Out of My Way” and “Theme – Optimus Bellum Domitor” are certainly evocative substitutes. There are diet supplements like “N.O.-XPLODE,” “CellMass,” “Syntha-6” and the mouth-watering “ATRO-PHEX.” There are baby outfits with slogans like “Crib Fighter” and “Ultimate Screamer”. And there are souvenir items that can be ordered, such as a grappling dummy (disappointingly non-anthropomorphic), a UFC custom mouthguard, a chain wallet, a barstool and life-size cardboard standups of the five members of the UFC Hall of Fame, which welcomes steroid-users. Prices are reasonable, and you can get a discount if you join something called “Fight Club,” which I guess you can’t talk about except to speak the account number of your credit card.

All in all, I’d say UFC.com is a well-produced website, packed with enough bright colors and shiny graphics to attract even the most concussed patron.

 

Spring is here, and so is ageism

I’m not going to lie to you. Up and down the eastern half of the U.S. this weekend, full-blown spring weather is expected, less than a week after a monster snowstorm buried us under a couple inches of snow. In the area where I live, high temperatures are expected to approach 80 degrees under sunny skies. And it’s the weekend.

Surely you don’t expect me to be working on my blog.

Instead, today and tomorrow, I’ll be reproducing a couple of interesting and amusing articles I read recently in The New York Times. The first subject – ageism – is something I suppose I should care about, since I’m about to enter my late 50s. Even if you’re younger than that, I hope you can enjoy the following:

   Comparable to racism and sexism, “ageism” refers to stereotyping and prejudice directed at individuals and groups because of their age. The term is believed to have been coined in 1969 by gerontologist Dr. Robert N. Butler, the founder of the International Longevity Center in New York City, which as recently as two years ago published a comprehensive report on the problem.

   Now the center, along with Aging Services of California, has put together a stylebook to guide media professionals through the minefield of politically correct and politically incorrect ways of identifying and portraying the elderly.

   Lesson one. “Elderly” is a word the two organizations would prefer we eliminate. Oops. We have used it here often.

   But now we know better. In the glossary of the new stylebook, “Media Takes: On Aging,’’ the authors state their case against “elderly” as follows.

   Use this word carefully and sparingly. The term is appropriate only in generic phrases that do not refer to specific individuals, such as concern for the elderly, a home for the elderly, etc. In other words, describing a person as elderly is bad form, although the generalized category “elderly” might not be offensive. (Suggested substitutions include “older adult” or simply “man’’ or “woman” with the age inserted, if relevant.)

 

   Also to be avoided are “senior citizen” (we don’t refer to people under age 50 as “junior citizens,” the guide notes) and “golden years” (euphemisms are probably not the best way to go, we learn). “Feisty,” “spry,” “feeble,” “eccentric,” “senile” and “grandmotherly” are also unwelcome terms, patronizing and demeaning, as is calling someone “80 years young.”

 

 

   The guide is ambivalent on use of the word “home” as a replacement for “skilled nursing facility.” On the one hand, it can be both anachronistic and condescending to harken back to “old folks’ homes,” which is one of the reasons Aging Services of California changed its name from the California Association of Homes and Services for the Aging. But elsewhere the guide notes (see paragraph four above) that “these facilities are indeed people’s homes,” often permanently. Thus, the people who live there should be called “residents” rather than “patients.”

   The guide’s other “obviously ageist words and phrases to avoid” seem far less ambiguous. Among them are “biddy,” “codger,” “coot,” “crone,” “fogy,” “fossil,” “geezer,” “hag,” “old fart,” “old goat,” “prune,” “senile old fool” and “vegetable.”

 

Some companies giving “peternity leave”

Those of you who have multiple cats are probably familiar with the routine. About an hour before their usual dinner time, they start quietly staring at you, maneuvering into your field of vision so they can take up as much of it as possible. As their patience wears thin, they get grumpy, picking small fights with each other like senior citizens late to the early-bird buffet. Finally, the food is served and all is well — they dart for the bowls with their tails held high, then hunker down for the serious business of eating.

When they’re done, there’s a brief period of torpor, when I presume digestion is hard at work. But soon, the protein kicks in and they’re literally off to the races, chasing each other up and down the hall, over the furniture, to the top of the highest-most surfaces they can reach. When the digestion is completed, they head off to the cat box, do their business, then get a fresh injection of energy for another 15 minutes or so of racing until they settle down for the night.

Wouldn’t it be cool if humans had a similar cycle, that we came out of the restroom all jacked up and ready for action? Life at the office would be so much more interesting, I think.

As you may remember if you read yesterday’s post, I’m phoning it in with the blogging this weekend. We’re having some wonderful weather here in the Southeast, and I’m not about to spend two days off of work slaving over my laptop keyboard. So instead, I’m stealing an interesting article from a major metropolitan newspaper and, as you might’ve guessed by now, the subject is pets.

This might serve as a preview for a post I hope to produce some time in the next week, introducing the digital world to my three cats – Harriet, Taylor and Tom. But more about them later. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this feature about “peternity leave”.

At the recent Westminster Kennel Club dog show, type-A dog owners showed off their pampered pooches to a panel of judges.

 

Some pet owners can actually get company-blessed time off for pet-related matters, in what are dubbed “peternity” leaves, according to the Sloan Work and Family Research Network blog.

Virgin Mobile in Australia recently announced that it now offers peternity leaves for employees with new puppies or kittens under 10 weeks old. Such employees, who must have worked for the company for more than two years, can get five unpaid days off. (Owners of other animals, such as birds, fish or hamsters, can’t take advantage of the policy, alas.) Several U.K. and Canadian companies, including the Bank of Scotland, also offer time off to care for new or sick pets or for pet bereavement.

The trend doesn’t seem to have caught on yet among U.S. businesses, although some companies, such as Google, do allow workers to bring pets to work. (From Google’s Dog Policy, printed in its code of conduct: “Google’s affection for our canine friends is an integral facet of our corporate culture. We like cats, but we’re a dog company, so as a general rule we feel cats visiting our offices would be fairly stressed out.”) Most pet owners, however, have to take personal days or lunch breaks to care for a new pet or to deal with a sick or dying animal. And, of course, being able to take any company-sanctioned leave to care for an animal is a luxury in this tough job market.

Twitter too much? Try “!”

Blogging has been around long enough now that it’s hardly even new media any more. It’s definitely become the long form of virtual publishing, and seems to be waning a bit as shorter messages are increasing in popularity. Facebook condensed the form drastically, providing mostly just the facts and some embarrassing, though fortunately poorly-framed, photographs.

Now we see the ascent of Twitter into a mainstream consciousness that rivals the Octomom, Rush Limbaugh and even trivial stuff like massive bank failure. Twitter’s limit of 140 characters forces even more concision on the part of the user, requiring one to get the point faster than ever. If we want to communicate with our fellow man via this method, we need to choose every letter and punctuation mark with the kind of care that used to be reserved for bathroom graffiti written with a fading Sharpie.

Oh yeah, and there’s still real-life verbal conversations with real-life people, but nobody does that any more.

Now we’ve arrived at a place where even Twittering is taking too long. There was huge wave of negative publicity directed at members of Congress who spent more time thumb-wrestling their BlackBerrys than paying attention to the recent presidential address before a joint session of Congress.

So I’m proud to introduce the most concise digital messaging system yet available: a new service I call “!” (so far unpronounceable, though I have my marketing people working on that). “!”, as the name implies, allows users only a single character to describe what they’re doing, how they feel, what they like, or which ravine their car has plunged into.

Here are some of the more common messages being seen so far:

“A” – A greeting, usually elongated into something like “aaayy!”, like what Fonzi used to say.

“B” – A bid to practice existentialism; or, a panicked call for assistance about the bee on your forearm.

“C” – Look here.

“G” – Golly, gosh, jiminy and/or holy Moses.

 “I” – There’s something I need to say about me; or, there’s something I need to say about what’s in my eye.

 “J” – Only for use with friends who are named “Jay”.

 “K” – Alright already.

 “L” – Guess where I’m !-ing from – the elevated mass transit system of Chicago.

 “M” – How many points are there in an em-space?

“O” – I wish to express a strong emotional reaction such as surprise, shock, pain, or extreme pleasure.

“P” – Can you use your global positioning system to locate the nearest restroom for me, like, RIGHT AWAY!

“Q” – Take a prompt from me. You need to get in line to play pool.

“R” – Are you going to eat that?

“S” – You’re such an ass.

“T” – We should get together soon over a nice cup of tea.

“U” – You are the person I’m thinking about right now; or, I am a sheep.

“W” – I just saw former president Bush snacking off the samples tray at Costco.

“X” – Can you pick up some eggs on the way home from work?

“Y” – Why don’t you just bite me?

“Z” – This conversation is going nowhere; I seem to be drifting off …

You can also use non-letter characters, such as:

“,” – Help, I’m falling into a coma.

“:” – I seem to have been bitten by a venomous snake.

“_” – I really need to lie down for a while.

“{“ – I wish to become a portrait artist.

“~” – I’m having a great time at the beach, and I wish you had curly hair.

“#” – Want to play tic-tac-toe?

“%” – Can I have some of that?

“+” – I died on the cross for your sins; I hope you appreciate it.

“=” – I’m taking a shortcut home by walking on the train tracks, but I think I hear a thunderstorm com—“

“*” – I’ve discovered a new star in the heavens.

“^” – Look – up in the sky – it’s a bird, it’s a plane… no, it’s a huge burning asteroid and it’s heading right for us. Arrrhhh, we’re all going to die!

“!” – The coolest thing in instant communication for at least the next week.

Fake News: New Snuggie products coming

CHICAGO (March 9) – Manufacturers of the “Snuggie,” the blanket with sleeves that’s currently being heavily advertised on TV, have announced the introduction of several new products that will build on the success of their cozy cover-all.

First to be released will be the “Snuggie for Two,” a pair of the robe-blankets sewn together, allowing not only conjoined twins but also very close relatives, spouses or friends to compound their comfort with shared bodily warmth. Marketing executive Bennie Grundie said the stitching will be loose enough to allow relatively free movement, though “I doubt most people will bother,” he said.

Also in the development pipeline are other multiple-person garments – to be called “Wedgies” – that will accommodate three, four and five people, and even more, should the concept prove successful.

“I can even imagine a model that accommodates ten or eleven,” Grundie said. “It would be ideal for the football team playing in cold climates. Can you imagine how scary it would be to see a line of Pittsburgh Steelers all wearing the same ‘Wedgie’ coming at you? You’d be totally swarmed over.”

Grundie said his company is also in discussion with the makers of Huggies, a popular line of diapers, to test the viability of a jointly made product, tentatively called the “Mervyn.”

“People tend to get so comfortable wearing our blanket that they don’t want to be bothered to get up,” he said. “This would allow them to sit virtually motionless for hours or even days on end in homey ecstasy.”

Meanwhile, Wall Street experts were questioning the long-range business plan of the company, noting that the coming of warmer weather would be cutting deeply into sales. Analysts doubt that success of the brand can be sustained when outdoor temperatures approach 80 degrees, though Morgan Stanley’s Larry Powell, looking across a trading floor of empty cubicles, noted “we’ve been wrong on these speculations before.”

Snuggie’s Grundie responded that executives at his company had “never heard of seasonal weather changes” and therefore did not figure such a concept into their business strategy.

“If they’re talking about global warming, that’s yet to be fully proven. Plus it’s at least several decades off,” Grundie said. “That’s the only warming we’ve heard about. We’re so focused on the here-and-now that we can’t be in the business of weather prediction.”

When asked whether the cowl-and-cape sensation could be sustained in summer with the introduction of linen or seersucker models, Grundie noted that natural fibers such as these were “too expensive to fit within our price point.”

“I suppose we could drop the booklight offer,” he considered. “But frankly, that’s the heart of the package, if you’re looking for something actually useful in your purchase.”

Besides, he noted, in-house lab tests are revealing that the synthetic fabric tends to break down within several months, so “everybody’s soon going to have holes in the Snuggies anyway, and that should keep them cool if this whole crazy concept of ‘summer’ really does come about.”

 

I wouldn’t be caught dead…

I’ve got to think that one of the motivations behind the movement promoting a person’s right to die at home has to do with how embarrassing in can be to die in public.

If you doubt this, consider the appeal of the most popular reality show in the history of television. America’s Funniest Home Videos has consistently brought laughs to a large segment of the viewing public for close to 20 years. Their formula for comedy is showing people being injured in a variety of different and painfully public situations. Whether hit in the crotch with a baseball bat, conked on the head with a golf ball or falling down while dancing, the victim’s humiliation is compounded by a nationwide audience roaring with delight.

Now imagine how funny it would be if one of those victims actually died. Now imagine if that victim were you.

As a man approaching late middle age, I do occasionally consider the embarrassment that would follow should I suffer a fatal collapse to the floor during the course of my day. In some situations, I think, the shame would be such that I’d rather use my last ounce of strength to crawl off to the nearest handicapped stall and expire in dignity (well, privacy anyway) than cause a commotion. I guess, though, it depends on who is around, what type of activity you’d be disrupting, and what are the chances that someone present could actually do something to help you.

People discharged from hospitals with a fatal prognosis may long to die while surrounded by their families, and I can see how that would be desirable in most circumstances. However, if the dying were unplanned, it can get a little more problematic. Imagine keeling over at the Thanksgiving dinner table, and the impact that’s going to have on everyone’s future memories of the fall holiday, not to mention their appetites. Consider how you’d feel if you choked on the chicken served at your daughter’s wedding reception, and turned what should’ve been the best day of her life into an afternoon of horror. Even what would seem to be an appropriate setting – an uncle’s funeral, for example – would likely make too much of a scene. “Imagine the nerve of upstaging Phil at a moment like that,” people would whisper as you were carried away (into the next room over, I guess).

Almost as bad a place to die in public would be at work. Not only do you hate to think that reading an email about whose turn it is to clean the refrigerator could be your last act on earth, but you probably have a professional reputation to uphold that you don’t want besmirched by involuntarily released fluids. We deal a lot in my office with critical deadlines that are considered a “must,” and I’m afraid my death would not only cause me great personal shame but also contribute to a missed SEC filing. There might be someone available who could aid me – we do have a safety coordinator who makes lists during fire drills, and that seems potentially helpful – and yet it’s just as likely I’d be helped by someone I don’t care for, and that’s just not acceptable. I’d rather, as they say, be dead.

Dying in another public space where you might be vaguely known by some onlookers would be a lot better. That’s probably an option I’d consider if I felt a fatal seizure coming on. There’s a homey little diner less than a five-minute walk from the office, and I bet I could make it there with a little luck. Sometimes, I’ve even seen EMTs eating lunch there and, though I’d hate to impose during their down time, maybe they could squeeze in a quick CPR before their meat loaf got too cold. Even if it’s just the regulars behind the counter who saw me, I don’t think they’d mind too much just making a quick phone call, at least if I avoided the lunch rush.

I’ve also wondered what it would be like to collapse along the side of the road during one of my jogs through our subdivision. Even though we’ve lived there almost 15 years, we’ve always kept to ourselves. So it wouldn’t be that much more awkward to forever be known as “that guy they found dead in the cul-de-sac” rather than my current identity, “that heavy-set older guy crazy enough to run in the summer heat who never waves to anybody.” Plus, there’s probably a better-than-even chance that my family could be notified to pick up my body before the sanitation department got involved.

Finally, there’s the option of suffering your ultimate demise in a location where no one has the slightest idea who you are. If I didn’t make it to that luncheonette I mentioned earlier, I’d be falling by the side of a well-travelled state road. A slumped body on the shoulder would certainly draw someone’s attention, maybe even a police officer or fireman. And being right there on the street, I’d probably save precious moments being evacuated from the scene.

Probably the closest I’ve come to actual sudden death in my 55 years was during a recent business trip to Sri Lanka. As you may know, that South Asian island nation is in the midst of an insurgency by the Tamil Tigers (I know they sound like a baseball team but, trust me, they’re far more dangerous.) While eating dinner at my hotel one evening, we heard a loud explosion, and soon learned that a terrorist bomb had gone off in a phone booth I’d normally be walking past about that time. No one was injured in the blast – these Tigers are about as skilled as the ones from Detroit – though I could’ve been killed.

Now that would’ve been some attention I could get used to. “American is felled by fatal blast,” reads the headline. “President sends military jet to bring body home; hero’s welcome planned for what’s left,” says the subhead. Only foreigners I’d never see again would be subjected to the messy details of the immediate aftermath, and everyone else would get a nicely packaged overview.

That’d be the way to go.

Fake News: Bank makes money

NEW YORK (March 11) – In a rare piece of good news from the nation’s battered banking sector, sources reported Tuesday that Citigroup was actually going to be profitable for the months of January and February, due to strong trading results and fatter lending margins.

“You mean profitable as in making more money than we’re losing?” asked Citigroup’s chief executive Vikram S. Pandit. “I had not yet heard that report but it certainly would be good news.”

One of the biggest and most troubled of the big banks, Citigroup had seen large drops in its stock price in recent days, even briefly sinking below a dollar per share last week. News of the profits contributed to a huge rally on Wall Street, with the Dow gaining almost 380 points.

“Are you sure you’re talking about us? There are other banks with variations of ‘city’ in their name, you know,” Pandit said. “I certainly think we have the potential to make a profit, though I don’t want to be overly optimistic… Who is this, anyway?”

After more than a year of staggering losses and three rescues from Washington, the giant financial company was again making money, and appeared on track for its strongest quarter since late 2007, when waves of bad loans and trading losses began to crash down on the company.

“Seriously, if this is a joke, I’m going to be really mad. Is this Bob from governance?” Pandit continued. “Bob, if this is you and you’re yanking my chain again, you’re going to be in really big trouble.”

Tuesday’s breathtaking stock market rally left investors a bit giddy. Investors finally got a taste of what they desperately craved, a glimmer of good news in the financial industry.

“Bob, you’re in the conference room, aren’t you?” Citigroup’s beleaguered leader speculated. “I’m walking down the hall right now and if I see you on the phone in there, you’re a dead man.”

Troubled financial shares paced the gain on Wall Street, which saw its biggest one-day rise this year, and one of the largest on a percentage basis since World War II. Stocks surged 5.8% to 6929.46 on the Dow Jones Industrial Average, while the broader S&P 500 index jumped 6.7% and the tech-heavy Nasdaq jumped over 7%.

“You know, this isn’t funny any more. I can take a joke as good as the next person, but when you start making fun of our company like this, you’re treading on thin ice, buddy” Pandit said. “You need to stop it right now. Stop it, I say, or I’m going to tell.”

Banks large and small saw their stocks surge throughout the day, but the main catalyst was the news from Citigroup, which, with large consumer and investment banking operations in more than 100 countries, is viewed as a proxy for the broader banking industry.

Pandit has been frequently quoted as saying that his company’s business is financially sound, its businesses strong, and its deposits relatively stable. He continues to claim that the Citigroup is adequately capitalized, but “not to the point where we’d actually come out of the red.”

“All right, that’s it,” the CEO concluded, speaking from his midtown Manhattan office. “I’m hanging up the phone now and pretending that this call never happened.”

“Really, Bob, that was a low blow,” he concluded. “This is so uncool.”

 

Corporate risk factors revealed

General Motors was in the news again last week, and it wasn’t to promote the release of that stylish new Buick.

In their annual report filed with the Securities and Exchange Commission, GM’s auditors said the company’s survival was in “substantial doubt,” and that even if it received all $30 billion it hopes to borrow from the government, the automaker still might have to liquidate its operations. The company is perilously close to bankruptcy and faces a difficult restructuring.

“Our recurring losses from operations, stockholders’ deficit and inability to generate sufficient cash flow to meet our obligations and sustain our operations raise substantial doubt about our ability to continue as a going concern,” GM said in its filing.

In other words, the company needs a little more “going” and a little less “concern.”

As someone who works with corporate filings of this type, I immediately recognized the language as coming from the “risk factors” section of what’s called a Form 10-K (so called because that’s how far report writers often stretch the truth, in kilometers). Public companies have to include a section each year that spells out in agonizing detail everything that could possibly go wrong with the company, so shareholders will be considered fairly warned if and when the firm tanks.

In the past, these were fairly modest confessionals, along the lines of “the husband of our chief risk officer is so ugly that we question her judgment,” for example. But with businesses failing left and right these days, the risk factors have evolved into multi-sectioned excuse-a-thons designed to protect executives from potential lawsuits. So you’ll see subheadings such as “Risks related to our business” or “Risks related to the return of rule by the dinosaur.”

Because this is annual report season (you can just feel it in the air), my usual Friday edition of “Website Reviews” won’t concentrate on one particular company but will instead feature some of the more creative caveats told in the risk factors portions of documents you can find online. For more fun-packed reading, check out www.sec.gov. Especially worthwhile are the 10KSB/A’s, the always-intriguing 13F-HR’s, the gripping yarns of the 20FR12G’s and the steamy 485APOS, a post-effective amendment filed pursuant to Securities Act Rule 485(a) that you won’t be able to put down.

_____________

We operate in a capitalist economic system, which is subject to market variables which could increase or decrease our stock price. At least, we used to operate in such a system.

Those two helicopters and the corporate jet we bought last year may not have been such a good idea in retrospect; we suppose they could crash into each other, allowing us to make a substantial gain from insurance, but such a scenario is not likely at this point.

We make incredibly unreliable electronics that are susceptible to catching fire, and many consumers may find this feature to be inconsistent with their corporate goals.

Our chief financial officer was last seen in a cab speeding to the international airport, and if he flees the country and expects us to figure out this mess he’s left us with, he’s got another think coming.

Our software may not operate properly, which could damage our reputation, impair our sales, and cause our clients to realize we don’t actually make software at all, but dog food.

Any failure by us to protect our intellectual property, or any misappropriation of it, could enable our competitors to market a competitive product with similar features, though that seems highly unlikely considering the garbage we produce.

Our earnings can vary significantly depending on a number of factors beyond our control, although a large majority of the responsibility is in fact ours but you’ll never get us to admit it in a court of law.

Inability to obtain consents needed from third-party providers could impair our ability to provide technology services, but that’s the least of our problems.

We operate in an intensely competitive market that includes companies that have greater financial, technical, marketing, intellectual, artistic and competitive resources than we do. Those taco trucks have incredibly low overhead and use bloodthirsty tactics to win clients that otherwise might choose to do business with us.

Our business strategy includes expansion into markets outside North America, which will require increased expenditures and investments, the difficulty of which will likely be compounded by the fact that we hate foreigners and their stupid languages and cultures, especially Asians.

Our operating results may fluctuate significantly and may cause our stock price to decline. If it’s possible for a share price to fall below zero, we’ll likely be the ones to make it happen.

Loss of revenue from large clients could have significant negative impact on our results of operations and overall financial condition. If we had any large clients. Unless we can count that fat guy who is always sneaking into our breakroom and using our vending machines.

We may be required to repurchase mortgage loans in some circumstances, which could harm our liquidity, results of operations and financial condition. Why do you think we repackaged, disguised and sold them off in the first place?

Recent governmental actions to help stabilize the U.S. financial system or improve the housing market may not be successful. If they are, we’ll be happy. If they aren’t, we’ll remind everybody that we voted for McCain.

Our business is highly regulated, which limits our ability to be profitable and disrupts our revenue stream from protection rackets and gun running.

We have not been profitable in the past and may not be profitable any time soon. We’re not even sure why we’re in business, to tell you the truth.

Compliance with public company rules and regulations is costly and requires significant resources in proportion to our revenue. Contact your congressional representative to let your opinion be known that it’s time to let the marketplace run totally unfettered.

Our internal control systems could fail to detect certain events such as data processing system and accounting software failures. However, if our net income suddenly changes from dollars in thousands to dollars in gazillions, we’ll conveniently be looking the other way.

We received a letter regarding a confidential informal inquiry by the SEC and have recently received a subpoena from the SEC as well. Cooperation with such governmental actions may result in charges filed against us and in fines or penalties. We have not been in compliance with SEC reporting requirements and may continue to face compliance issues. If we continue to fail to comply with these requirements, the price of our common stock could be negatively impacted. Not to mention, this writer could personally go to jail, and that’s not going to happen without me taking a whole bunch of my fellow executives with me.

If we do not respond rapidly to technological changes or changes in industry standards, our products could become obsolete, though we believe typewriters and carbon paper will continue to be significant profit centers for us into the end of this century.

If our employees were to unionize, our operating costs would increase, our ability to compete would be impaired, and our feelings would be hurt.

Our latest pharmaceutical release, Eksinex, could actually make people feel worse rather than better, which could result in lawsuits, damage to our public reputation and decreased gross income. However, as soon as young people discover that it gets you incredibly high, we anticipate a significant rebound in sales.

The condition of the U.S. and international financial markets may adversely affect our ability to draw on our credit facility. Ha-ha, that’s a good one.

 

Real news that sounds fake

The challenge with writing satire these days is that real-life events tend to be more bizarre than anything most people could think up. I wrote a piece a year or so ago about how ridiculous it would be for someone to have seven babies at one time, and then Octomom comes along. What’s a humorist to do?

One option I’m taking today is to blatantly steal from real-life newspapers. In particular, I’m looking at a couple of days last week when the moon was full over my small South Carolina hometown and very strange stories started appearing in the local newspaper. What follows are four items as they appeared in The Herald, slightly abridged but otherwise unadulterated. Enjoy the lunacy.

More than just a sunburn

Investigators have yet to say what caused a tanning bed in Lake Wylie to catch fire Monday while a man was inside, but regulators insist such a burn is rare.

It’s the first tanning bed fire on record in South Carolina, regulators said. While the federal government oversees tanning bad manufacturers, it’s up to states to police local salons. Shop owners are required to show that at least one employee is certified to run tanning equipment.

“It keeps us very busy,” said the state tanning program manager, who oversees two employees tasked with inspecting the 1,900 salons at least once every two years.

Salon owners must also register with the Department of Health and Environmental Control’s Bureau of Radiological Health. But that group doesn’t inspect shops unless a complaint is filed. Routine inspections stopped seven years ago because of budget cuts.

The man caught in Monday’s tanning bed fire escaped unharmed, although neighboring shops suffered smoke damage that will likely keep them closed for several days. The victim, who declined to give his name, said he was working on his tan when he heard a popping noise, then saw a flame at the corner of the bed near his foot. He threw open the lid and jumped out, he said.

At least one other tanning bed this year caught fire with someone inside. A man in Saskatchewan told local newspapers that after three minutes in a bed he heard popping, smelled smoke, and then saw flames. The man escaped nude but safe, according to reports.

Local tanners said they’re undeterred by the fire.

“That could happen anywhere, not just in a tanning bed,” said tanner Kim Bazemore. “I would still feel comfortable (in a tanning bed). I’m fixing to get in one now.”

When an emergency isn’t

As part of an effort to reduce emergency room wait times, Piedmont Medical Center says it will begin encouraging patients who do not have a medical emergency to get treatment elsewhere.

“This allows the emergency room to focus on emergencies,” said hospital president Charlie Miller.

Sometimes a patient’s perspective of what a true emergency is and what a doctor determines to be an emergency can differ, said Dr. Peter Hyman, a practicing emergency physician.

“If a child wakes up in the middle of the night with an earache, the parents may think that’s an emergency,” he said. The doctor may decide the earache is not life threatening but if the earache is left untreated, it could become an emergency.

A candidate for losers everywhere

For a ballroom full of downhearted conservatives desperate for some good news, South Carolina governor Mark Sanford had an odd message. He urged activists gathered in late February to be prepared to lose, and to feel happy about it.

“Would you be willing to support a cause or candidate that is likely to lose?” Sanford asked.

Sanford’s speech prompted some to hope he seeks the White House in 2012. Nicole Quinn of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, said she felt “Sanford has the potential to win over mainstream voters. Whether or not he could beat Barack Obama, he would restore Republican credibility.”

Too much focus on winning leads to compromise, the governor said. As members of the audience leapt to their feet and applauded, Sanford declared “the name of the game is staying true to your principles and letting the chips fall where they may.”

Sanford’s following will likely grow among conservatives when he announces his formal rejection of some of the state’s federal stimulus funds. He’s scheduled an unusual statewide tour, with stops in three locations, to reveal his response.

The governor said he would write President Obama a letter seeking a waiver that would allow him to use the stimulus funds for something other than roads, schools, unemployment benefits and Medicaid benefits.

As for higher political aspirations, a prominent Republican consultant said “I don’t have a clue whether he wants to run, but he obviously is one of our better-known Republicans, having been on TV a lot.”

Don’t ask for whom the bell tolls – it doesn’t

A set of bell tower monuments will rise this month along Interstate 77, signaling the city’s latest effort to spruce up the area.

Two 45-foot-tall towers next to the exit ramps will greet drivers whizzing by in both directions. It’s all part of a $6 million makeover launched six years ago to generate more commerce in the surrounding district.

“If you’re going by at 70 miles per hour, you may wonder what it is, and stop on your next trip,” said developer Lee Thomasson. “It does make people think, what’s going on here? Should I stop and look? It will help just because of the curiosity factor alone.”

One tower next to Cracker Barrel restaurant will be visible to northbound traffic from nearly a mile away. On the opposite side, the other tower is envisioned as a gateway to South Carolina for drivers on their way out of Charlotte.

The structures will not actually contain bells.

More real news that sounds fake

Today, I continue with a look at some news stories from my hometown area that have the ring of satire even though they are completely true.

One important point I’d like to make: I’ve never been one to think that making up “funny” names for people is especially funny. Whenever I read a humor piece that cites someone named Herman Nostrilectomy or Lucille Boobie, I’m immediately turned off. Therefore, I want to make it clear that two of the people I’ve quoted in this weekend’s true stories – Dr. Peter Hyman in yesterday’s piece and Dick Blow in today’s – are not pseudonyms that I thought would be funny. Unfortunately (mostly for them and their heirs), they are real names.

Wonder why home sales are down?

A real estate agent has been arrested and charged with destroying a competitor’s sign.

Daniel LaFranca was arrested by sheriff’s deputies at his home after competing real estate agent Arthur Mullen told police he had video of LaFranca cutting apart a sign. Mullen said he’s had about 1,200 signs destroyed or stolen over the past six months, so he set up a video camera.

Mullen told police the video shows LaFranca destroying one of Mullen’s signs. In the video, a man walks up to one of the signs and cuts it in half before kicking it to the ground. Other parts of the video show a man walking away with some of the signs.

Mullen and LaFranca had worked together in the past, but Mullen left the company about a year ago to start his own business.

“We didn’t leave on the best of terms,” Mullen said.

Man attending World Pizza Games

The first time pizza entrepreneur Siler Chapman twirled dough in a competition, he was booed off stage.

But three gold medals later in the World Championship Pizza Acrobat competition, Chapman is part of the World Pizza Champions, a team of 40 international pizza superstars who compete and perform worldwide.

“I’m very competitive and I practice a lot,” said Chapman. “You need to be able to do that routine in your sleep.”

The pizza team is organizer of this week’s World Pizza Games, which will take place during the International Pizza Expo in Las Vegas. Chapman will help judge those seeking champion status in categories such as acrobat, biggest pizza, fastest pizza and box folding.

Chapman often entertains his store’s patrons with his dough-twirling techniques. He can twirl up to three pieces of dough at a time, standing or on his back. And he makes rolling dough like a saucer – down one arm, across his back and down the other arm – look easy.

Chapman said that at some performances with the team, hundreds of kids have swarmed them asking of autographs.

“We felt like rock stars,” said his partner, Joe Carlucci.

Although Chapman has been competing and performing for years, he said he still gets nervous.

“You wonder in your head – do they like you?” he said.

Elderly-on-elderly violence

A dispute over a real estate deposit led an 88-year-old Rock Hill man to shoot the manager of a realty office Wednesday afternoon, police said.

Dick Blow is charged with assault and battery with intent to kill and possession of a firearm during a violent crime after police say he shot 68-year-old Jerry O’Neill around 2:30 p.m.

O’Neill was shot in the lower abdomen and was airlifted to Carolinas Medical Center where he was undergoing surgery.

About 10 people were inside the office at the time of the shooting, but no one else was hurt, said police. It’s unclear whether the shooter said anything to O’Neill before firing, he said.

“There had been kind of an ongoing dispute and he (Blow) showed up today,” said police Lt. Michael Belk.

“It’s so random and so shocking,” said one of the victim’s co-workers, adding that the victim was known for his friendly nature. “He is all about the customer.”

Blow was still in the parking lot when police arrived, and he surrendered without incident, Belk said.

Blow, an author and former semi-pro baseball player, has written at least seven books.

“Pitched against Joe DiMaggio when he was in the service, and I said to him, ‘Joe, I can throw it past you.’ Well, on the first pitch he hit it so hard it would have torn off my head if I hadn’t ducked,“ Blow wrote.

Hyena is no laughing matter

A South Carolina man has been cited for having a hyena in his back yard.

The Myrtle Beach Sun News reported Wednesday that the year-old hyena named Bubbles has been moved to the Alligator Adventure facility in North Myrtle Beach.

The animal’s owner was cited for owning and displaying a wild or exotic animal after police went to his home last Friday and saw the beast. It had been housed in a chain link pen that had a dog house in the center.

The owner told police he brought the hyena from Texas.

 

Fake News: ‘Quiet man’ in kill spree

LOS ANGELES (March 16) – A former dockworker who lost his job ten days ago has been charged by police in a murder spree that terrorized southern California for five hours yesterday afternoon.

Mark Crawford, 36, is being held without bond after highway patrol officers ended his rampage in a quiet neighborhood not far from the home that had been foreclosed on him only days ago. He had lived there with his recently divorced wife and teenage quadruplets until a judge had ordered him removed from the home Saturday. The cancer-stricken ex-con, who was reportedly undergoing treatment for alcoholism and was also trying to quit smoking, was believed to be living on the streets at the time of his arrest.

Killed in the mid-day horror were a family of three that lived just down the street, a convenience store clerk, two patrons at a fast-food restaurant, a librarian, four swimmers in a local pool, a motorist, two customers at a grocery store, the UC-Santa Barbara volleyball team, and “Dancing with the Stars” host Paul Bergeron. Also gunned down during the massacre were a pair of Golden Retrievers, four housecats, two feral cats, a hamster and a pig. During a period when Crawford led officials on a chase through a local zoo, he also slaughtered three howler monkeys, four gazelles, a giraffe, two white rhinos, a lemur, 16 flamingos, eight water buffalo, a peacock, and an astronaut ice cream vendor.

One former neighbor described Crawford as a “quiet” man who kept mostly to himself but still always had a kind word and a wave for others in his middle-class subdivision east of Los Angeles.

“I never would have imagined he’d be capable of something like this,” said Nancy Applegate. “He always seemed to be in a good mood and would often ask how your family was doing. He was just a nice, average kind of guy.”

Applegate said she often witnessed Crawford working in his yard, which she said he seemed to take great pride in maintaining. Most Saturdays would find him trimming his luxuriant hedges, cutting brush in the wooded area behind his home, or chasing down squirrels with his lawnmower.

Other former neighbors, however, described a very different man.

 “He always talked about how he’d like to kill a lot of people,” said neighbor Bob Hammer. “He even took out an ad in the paper saying he was going to do it. He had a television commercial saying he was going to do it. He even had a sign in his yard, and constantly wore a t-shirt that said ‘I’m going to kill people (and animals)’”.

“Don’t listen to crazy ‘Old Lady Applegate,’” said a man who would identify himself only as Gary. “Everybody in the neighborhood knew that guy was stark, screaming nuts. He’d stand out in his front yard all night at least twice a month, howling at the moon and discussing Australian regional politics with his mailbox.”

Gary said Crawford would often jog through the subdivision in nothing but a pair of plaid shorts and Doc Martens boots, carrying a 9-millimeter pistol strapped across his chest and singing off-key selections from the 1950s musical “South Pacific.”

“Even now, hearing ‘Bali Hai’ just sends chills down my spine,” Gary said. “We reported him to local authorities at least once a week but nothing ever happened.”

Another former associate from his days working at the Port of Los Angeles said Crawford used to talk to himself constantly throughout the workday.

“He’d hang a bottle opener from his ear and claim he was talking on Blu-Tooth, but everybody knew better than that,” said the unnamed coworker. “Sometimes he wore a hula dress and football shoulder pads to work, and the supervisor would always have to bring him down to the office to make him change. You can’t wear a straw skirt on the dock – you’ll get tangled in all the ropes.”

The former supervisor confirmed most of Crawford’s erratic behavior.

“Usually, when a mass killer goes off like that, you hear all his friends saying they never suspected a thing, that he was a model citizen who would never hurt anyone,” said Jack Pepper. “Well I’m here to tell you, Crawford was exactly the kind of guy to do such a thing. No one who knows him is surprised.”

Lives of the Dead: St. Patrick

It’s easy to forget that St. Patrick was a living, breathing person before he became better known as a Day and a Parade. Few people know much about him as a regular guy, so this seems like a good opportunity to take a look back through the ancient mists of time at who exactly he was.

Born as the unpronounceable Patricius Daorbae – he didn’t acquire the nickname “Saint” until later in his life – he was the son of wealthy Briton parents. The exact year of his birth is unknown, with some speculation putting his lifespan from 340 to 460 A.D., though most now believe he couldn’t have survived to be 120 with the pre-socialized healthcare system of ancient Britain. Although his father was a Christian deacon, it has been suggested that he took on the role for tax reasons rather than because he believed in anything in particular. That is actually true.

After a relatively uneventful childhood knocking around Wales and doing all the things that other Welsh children did at the time (trying to sacrifice each other, etc.), Patrick was taken captive at age 16 by a group of Irish raiders who had attacked his family’s estate. In a process strikingly similar to today’s NFL draft, Patrick was selected and transported back to Ireland where he spent six years in captivity, eventually becoming a first-team all-state herdsman.

Despite his skill in the position, he wasn’t particularly happy. He was constantly outdoors and away from people, lonely and afraid, and morbidly scared of sheep. It was at this time that he turned to religion for solace, becoming a devout Christian and dreaming of converting the Irish people to Christianity. Only later would he realize how convenient it would’ve been to actually learn the Irish language, which would come in handy in his eventual attempts at converting them.

Patrick escaped from his captors after a voice, which he believed to be God’s, spoke to him in a dream and told him it was time to leave Ireland (at least that’s what he thought “baa baa” meant in Irish). He walked more than 200 miles from where he was held in County Mayo – later scholars believe he may have taken a cab – to the Irish coast where he found a boat that was able to transport him back to Britain. Back in the land of his birth, he had a second revelation from an angel who told him in a dream to return to Ireland as a missionary. Longing to be through with the back and forth across the Irish Sea, he began a religious study that lasted 15 years before his ordination as a priest and his return to the Emerald Isle.

Already somewhat familiar with the Irish culture, Patrick chose to incorporate traditional ritual into his lessons of Christianity instead of attempting to eradicate native Irish beliefs. Since the Irish were used to honoring their pagan gods with fire, Patrick suggested the same method of celebration be used for Easter, and only later introduced them to the concept of the Bunny. They also viewed the sun as a powerful symbol so he grafted it onto a cross. Purists back in Rome probably would’ve had a fit if they’d known about all this accommodation, which probably inspired Patrick to develop his theology of “don’t ask, don’t tell.”

Surprisingly little is known about the details of his ministry. No link can be made between Patrick and any specific church. The Irish monastery system evolved after his time, as did the model of the church that Patrick had tried to establish. It is known that he had a way with the ladies, converting many wealthy women to Christianity, including some who became nuns.

His position as a foreigner was not an easy one. His refusal to accept gifts and protection from the powerful left him outside the normal ties of kinship, fosterage and affinity, and without whatever that was, he was sometimes beaten, robbed and put in chains. The Druids offered their impression of how Patrick and other Christian missionaries were seen by those hostile to them:

Across the sea will come Adze-head, crazed in the head,

His cloak with hole for the head, his stick bent in the head.

He will chant impieties from a table in the front of his house;

All his people will answer: “so be it, so be it.”

 

(Sounds a little like a mashup between James Joyce and Bono.)

Patrick is believed to have died some time in the 460’s, coincidentally enough on March 17, which is now celebrated as his day.

Modern scholars debate whether in fact there may have been more than one individual who became tied into the legend that became St. Patrick. According to the so-called “Two Patricks Theory,” many of the traditions later attached to St. Patrick were originally ascribed to Palladius, a deacon from Gaul who was sent to Ireland by the Pope. Additional early missionary work was done by Auxilius, Secundius and Iserninus, so there may actually have been close to a six-pack of Patricks, which would somehow be appropriate.

That might explain how he was able to spend so much time not understanding the Irish language while still mixing in the job of driving the snakes from Ireland (talk about multi-tasking). This story, perhaps the best known of the Patrick legends, may have been symbolic, since post-glacial Ireland never had snakes. Because of the serpent symbolism of the Druids, it may in fact represent the expulsion of pagan beliefs. He was also known to carry an ashwood walking stick that he would thrust into the ground wherever he was evangelizing, and supposedly his message took so long to get through to the people that the stick had taken root by the time he was done. I’ve sat through enough Christian sermons in my time to believe this legend might actually be true.

Patrick is said to be buried at Down Cathedral in Downpatrick, County Down, which seems appropriate for such a downer of a guy. He shares a graveyard with St. Brigid of Kildare and St. Columba, who are also considered patron saints of Ireland. All will be covered by a thick carpet of green, green grass to celebrate tomorrow’s holiday.

 

Adventures in cell phone AutoCompletion

As the least technologically savvy person in my family, I’m typically the one to inherit the oldest piece of electronics making its way through our household. This laptop that I’m current working on is an IBM ThinkPad, and I believe IBM sold its hardware division to China in about 1957. My cell phone is a Motorola “Razr,” very cool when it was introduced in 2004 but now hopelessly out of date. My iPod is a diesel.

In my family, when I say I’m “into 3G,” it means I’m third in line to get the latest gadgets.

Getting back to the cell phone, it’s virtually an antique in today’s high-turnover digital world. I sometimes think it would be more useful if it had an “o” added to its name, and I could use it to shave. I really like to use the text-messaging feature, even though it’s one of those keyboards with three letters per key rather than the modern qwerty interface that my wife and son have on their Blackberrys. So it’s awkward, but I’m an old typesetter and I love the fact that I can now set type any time, anywhere. Even, to the eternal annoyance of my wife, from the other end of the house when I need to ask her a question.

The problem is that this is a used cell phone, and the memory has not been wiped completely clean from the previous user, who was apparently involved in a number of questionable activities. The reason I know this is that the auto-complete function, which uses past messages you’ve typed to predict future ones, has come up with some very bizarre suggestions. I start to input an innocent communication about some routine daily activity, and it’s transformed into either sinister plotting or completely irrational pronouncements.

Some recent examples:

• When I tried to ask my friend “when will you be home?”, it tried to ask “when will you be homo?”
• When I tried to tell me wife I was “stopping by the atm”, it tried to say I was “stopping by the atomic bomb.”
• When I asked my sister “will you pick up the baby?”, it tried to ask “will you pick up the baboon?”
• When I went to a charity pancake breakfast that my son couldn’t attend because he was sick, I wanted to ask him “would you like strawberry or blueberry pancakes?”, it tried to ask “would you like strawberry or blueberry pancreas?”
• When I tried to ask my son if he wanted anything from “burger king,” it tried to ask if he wanted anything from the “burn center.” (Admittedly, the two are similar.)
• After I learned that he did want something, I tried to ask about “French fries,” and the phone tried to ask if he wanted “French Colonialism 1684-1803” with his Whopper Junior.
• When I tried to ask my mother “do we need any milk?”, it instead wanted to start a philosophical geopolitical discussion about “do we need any military?”
• When I tried to ask my wife if it was “raining at home yet?”, it wanted to ask the offensive “raining at home yeti?”
• When I reminded her that we needed “to pay the phone bill,” it wanted to ask a question about the mythological “phone bison.”
• When I wanted to tell my son that I had “to work overtime,” it (perhaps more accurately) suggested I had “to work over-wrought.”
• When I wanted to ask “should I stop at grocery store?”, it tried to ask “should I stop at growth hormones?”
• When I wanted to say I was stopping “for a cup of coffee,” it tried to imply that I was going for a “cup of codeine.”
• When I tried to tell my wife I “got stopped by cop,” it tried to say I “got stopped by copulation.” (Admittedly, that would at least tend to slow you down.)
• When I told her I was going to “get some gas,” it tried to say I was getting “some gag reflex.”
• When I tried to tell my son I would “be home in 5 minutes,” it tried to say I would “be home in 5 Mini Coopers.”
• When I tried to ask my wife when my son “will be done with school?”, it wanted to ask when he would “be done with schadenfreude”. That won’t be for quite some time, I fear.
• When I was about to arrive home from work with a headache, I tried to text my wife to ask “do we have any aspirin?” but instead almost asked “do we have any asperger’s syndrome?”
• When I left for work later than usual the other morning, I tried to say that “the cats have been fed,” but instead it tried to message that “the cats have been felt.” (They had actually been both fed and felt, though I didn’t really need to mention the latter.)

So far, I’ve been able to catch all these potential errors in the auto-complete function and fix them before I was embarrassed by my lack of typing skills. Because I’ve worked so long in typography, I’ve taught myself to be a pretty good proofreader of my own work, when given the time. I’m afraid, though, that some day I’ll face an urgent situation and the mistakes won’t be able to be fixed. My panicked message that “oh god having heart attack” will instead be translated and transmitted as “oh gouda havarti head cheese.”

Fake News: The Running of the Models?

MADRID, Spain (March 18) – Municipal leaders in the town of Pamplona, known for its raucous Running of the Bulls festival every July, have contacted producers of “America’s Next Top Model” to negotiate a joint enterprise between the two.

Following last weekend’s model melee in New York outside a hotel where auditions for the popular TV show were scheduled, the Spanish officials made overtures to stage a pair of “home-and-home” events later this year. A group of aspiring models from the show would travel to Pamplona to join in the stampede of bulls headed for the local arena to face their deaths in a series of bullfights. Later, an unspecified number of enraged steers would board a flight for the U.S. and participate in the Tyra Banks-hosted runway competition.

The Spaniards were reportedly impressed with the fighting spirit and sense of recklessness shown by participants in the Manhattan brawl Saturday. Six women were injured and two were arrested for inciting a riot when hundreds of would-be fashion stars ran for their lives after rumors of a bomb began circulating. In what one onlooker described as “like it was 9/11 part two,” women were pressed against a retaining wall and unable to escape for several minutes.

“That’s sort of what we do with the bulls,” said Manual Orientes, assistant to the mayor of Pamplona. “We block off the side streets then release the bulls so they can run only in one direction. Festival participants run along side the bulls and poke them with sticks, then jump over the barricades to escape.”

Orientes said the models could either run along with the other festival participants, ride on the backs of the bulls, or even wear horned headgear and rings in their noses to pretend they were panic-stricken animals. The only stipulation is that they would have to agree to be poked by sticks.

“We think it would add a lot to the appeal of our event,” he said. “Then, we can reciprocate in some similar manner with the Americans.”

Orientes said the exact format of a revised modeling competition, usually held in New York or Los Angeles, could be determined by producers of the show. He said the only requirement he would place on the treatment of the visiting cattle would be that they couldn’t be harmed, which would rule out dressing the beasts in high-heel shoes, short skirts or painful jewelry.

Producers of “ANTM” couldn’t be reached for comment, though Banks has reportedly heard of the proposal and offered a tentative “girl!?” in what some were interpreting as a promising response.

Website review: The Hoveround electric wheelchair

About five years ago, I had a procedure to remove a kidney stone. A cystoscopy sounds unpleasant, as most invasions of the urethra are, but it was actually pretty painless under the spell of highly effective anesthetics. When I awoke afterwards, the hardest part was probably the pressure the nurses put on me to pee before they would let me go. I have “bashful kidney” under the best of circumstances, so you can imagine how I felt with several highly paid health professionals standing by.

My recovery at home proceeded nicely, and within a couple of days I was ready for an outing. I was moving a little slowly when we entered the local Costco and I spotted the motorized shopping cart. I’ve always been interested in the concept of assisted mobility and yet hadn’t found the opportunity to ride a motorcycle or jet ski, so it looked like I’d finally have a chance for something close. I shuffled my handicapped urethra over to the machine and fired it up.

What a revelation life is when seen from about two feet lower than usual! Your whole perspective on the world changes. Everyone else seems so tall when you’re buzzing along at waist level; you come to appreciate why children are so wide-eyed with excitement at the life that surrounds them. A certain playfulness came over me as I sped up and down the aisles running into people’s ankles and nearly toppling the pot stickers sample table.

I thought back on this childlike wonder when I was at the gym the other day and a commercial for the Hoveround came on TV. Men and women not much older than me were motoring all over the landscape with great delight. As I joined their admiring grandchildren in watching them sightsee the Hoover Dam and romp through the grass at the base of the Statue of Liberty, I found I had a subject for this week’s website review: Hoveround.com.

It’s a fairly simple site, which makes sense when you consider the generally limited computer skills of its intended audience. Most details are spelled out in a free information kit you can request to be mailed, though they also have “experts standing by” at a toll-free number if you’d rather talk to a live operator. (I frankly thought the choice of the phrase “standing by” was a little insensitive). The home page describes how electric wheelchairs and scooters are more than just a convenience, they are a bridge to fuller, more independent lives, and how Hoveround has spent the last 20 years committed to providing powerful, durable and safe vehicles.

The “About Us” section recounts how inventor Tom Kruse used down time during the filming of “Top Gun” to realize his vision to “build a chair that can go anywhere someone can walk.” He consulted with everyone from long-haul truck drivers to NASA scientists about how he could construct a small maneuverable wheelchair. (We can all be glad that the idea of using booster rockets was dropped in early prototypes.) When the final version was ready, he decided to bypass medical equipment dealers and sell directly to consumers, primarily through commercials.

Apparently it’s the round, compact nature of the Hoveround that sets it apart from bulkier wheelchairs. I had believed – mistakenly, as it turns out – that the name implied passengers rode on a cushion of air, much like those high-tech Hovercraft boats you see on certain ferry routes. I could’ve sworn I remember seeing segments of the TV ad where seniors were actually floating high above the Colorado River during their Grand Canyon tour, but I guess it was just wishful thinking. Riders unfortunately remain earth-bound.

There are a variety of models to choose from, depending on your mobility needs and your Medicare connections. The top of the line seems to be the MPV 5 which features a flip-up footplate, two large motors that give it enough power to work outdoors or indoors, and an optional power seat-lift controlled through the joystick. It offers a 300-pound weight capacity, a 15-mile range and, with a top speed of 5 m.p.h., it’s faster than walking (not to mention so much easier). Its two-and-a-half-inch ground clearance makes it a sweet low-rider, and yet it can still clear two-inch bumps or floor raises.

Other models include the Teknique FWD, a front-wheel-drive vehicle that presumably is better suited to wintry road conditions, the RWD, a rear-wheel-drive rover that offers a 20-mile battery range that appeals to wandering Alzheimer’s patients, and the GT, the fastest model which travels at a near hyper-sonic 7 m.p.h. All come with automatic braking, which seems like an especially worthwhile feature for that Grand Canyon outing.

The maneuverability of the Hoveround, with its extremely tight turning radius, will not accommodate the heftier handicapped. There is a Hummer equivalent in the personal mobility vehicle field – the Pride 1170 XL Plus, offered by arch-rival Jazzy – which is a wide-set behemoth that will carry a rider weighing 650 pounds that costs as much as a mid-sized sedan. But Hoveround chooses to remain in the compact sector of the market and, as such, remains the choice for most shoppers interested in economy.

That’s not to say, however, that you can’t spend a little extra to trick out your wheelchair or scooter. The website includes a wide selection of accessories: a beverage holder, a tray table (for those who want to recall the security of the infant high chair), a canopy, a crutch holder, a cane holder, a walker holder and an oxygen holder. You can also opt for a padded chest strap, which comes in a variety of fashion colors, to keep you from toppling forward into your own lap.

They also sell tie-downs and straps that will allow you to safely attach your electric wheelchair to the back of your car or van when you want to transport it cross-country. I would’ve thought you could just tie a rope and drag it from your back bumper but the small wheels can’t accommodate highway speeds and the thing would just bounce uncontrollably like a string of tin cans.

The only thing I see missing from Hoveround.com that you might find on other similar websites is a shopping option for those whose budgets won’t accommodate a motorized chair. I’m not quite disabled enough yet to qualify for the top-line merchandise, but if I wanted to start getting into the feel of the Hoveround lifestyle, I’d at least like to able to order a logo t-shirt, a cap, or at least a coffee mug. These are unfortunately not available.

Still, reviewing this very informative website has allowed me to dream of a future in which my legs can atrophy in peace while the rest of me can use the extra energy to take in the world from a fresh though slightly shorter perspective.

In their own words: AIG and GM

This weekend, we’ll take a look at how some of America’s most notorious corporate scofflaws want to project a very different, very positive image to the public. I won’t attempt to duplicate the fuzzy-focus grandpas playing with their blonde granddaughters in fields of wildflowers that you’d see if you looked at a lot of their corporate literature. But I will repeat some of the written equivalents here.

We’ll start with what, for today at least, continues to be the baddest bad-ass out there – AIG.

Here’s what they have to say about their retirement services and products:

AIG: Live Longer Retire Stronger

Good science and good lifestyle choices are adding up to longer, healthier lives. And that is a good thing. But increasing longevity creates new retirement challenges. How do you pay for a 30+ year retirement? How do you ensure a reliable income when financial markets zig and the economy zags. AIG’s retirement services companies can help answer those and other important retirement planning questions. We are in the business of helping millions of Americans find fresh ideas to help fund those extra years and make the most of your nest egg. So go ahead … live longer. The AIG companies have the strength to be there when you retire, so you will never outlive your money.

 

Especially, I guess it goes without saying, if you find yourself in receipt of a hefty retention bonus.

As their name implies, AIG is primarily an insurance company, offering a variety of specialized insurance products. One of these interestingly is insurance that protects some of a company’s top officials.

Public Companies Directors and Officers Insurance

As management liability exposures for public companies continue to grow both domestically and internationally, everyone from company executives to independent directors, general counsel and risk managers face increasing personal risk. [Our] insurance provides public companies and their management with broad coverage for securities claims and employment practices claims. Coverage encompasses the many individuals likely to be sued in such claims. Coverage can be enhanced with locally-admitted policies for claims arising overseas via AIG Passport.

 

Meanwhile, our friends over at General Motors were crowing about themselves as recently as their 2008 annual report.

Excitement and style for our biggest global brand.

In one of the most anticipated new-car launches in years, the all-new Chevrolet Malibu served notice to the perennial midsize sedan leaders in the United States. Consumer demand has been very strong for the Malibu, which was named the 2008 North American Car of the Year. The recently restyled Aveo5 hatchback further defines the new face of Chevy. From Detroit to Shanghai, Sao Paolo to Russelsheim, GM’s lead brand just keeps getting better and growing around the globe.

 

Corporate responsibility at General Motors

We’re proud of the difference we’ve made since we started out in 1908 – a century of safe, dependable vehicles, and millions of people employed over the years to design, engineer, build and sell them. A century of impact, with billions spent with minority suppliers, billions in charitable donations and millions of metric tons of carbon dioxide taken out of facility emissions. A century of firsts, from the introduction of tail lights to pump technology that enabled the first heart transplant. A powerful century, but that’s all in the past. For us, the excitement is in focusing our technical talent on helping solve many of the big challenges facing our world right now.

 

GM Next

GM today stands at the juncture between our first and second centuries, between a tremendous heritage and a bright and exciting future. We’ve come a long way since the challenge of 2005, and still we have a lot of work ahead of us, but I believe that 2007 will stand as the tipping point in the history of GM, as we position the company for sustained competitiveness, profitability and growth.

Everyone at our company is working hard to make GM the industry leader with great cars and trucks, great brands and great business results. It’s a position that GM has attained many times in our history, and one we desire to achieve again. We have the right strategy, the right products and technology and, most important, the right people to do it again, and we’re committed to making it happen. We appreciate your continued support as we look to make this vision a reality.

 

Tomorrow, we’ll take a similar look at Citibank, Blackwater and the Peanut Corporation of America.

 

In their own words (part 2): Citi, Blackwater, PCA

Continuing our look this weekend at the literary flourishes of some of corporate America’s least-trusted companies, today we’ll examine the work of Citibank, Blackwater and the Peanut Corporation of America.

As I was keying in some examples of Citi’s print advertisements (for some reason, they’re posted on the web in a form you can neither print nor copy, and in a type size that’s barely readable), my word processing grammar check kept highlighting huge swaths of copy. Advertising writers. They love incomplete sentences. And short ones. Let’s look.

Maybe you dream of owning a home. Of opening a business. Or taking it global. Of retiring. Or choosing not to. Of enriching your life. Or the lives of others. Your dreams are always there. Always beckoning. Which is why we’re always wide-awake. Working tirelessly, around the world and around the clock. Providing funding and financing, investments and advice. So you can settle into that new home. Or give your daughter a credit card when she leaves for college. So you can call yourself CEO. Or say konichiwa to new markets. Every minute of every day, we’re striving to find new and innovative solutions. To simplify life’s complexities. And to turn dreams into realities.

Yes, we all have, or at least had, a dream of retiring some day. Most of us didn’t realize, however, that retirement would come not with a party and a gold watch but with a box of our personal belongings being carried out by a security guard. Thanks to Citi. And other large, irresponsible corporations.

The dream theme that accompanies the “Citi Never Sleeps” slogan is shown a few more times:

After an evening of tantrums that shook the walls, Kate has finally begun to dream. But down the hall, her father wonders how he’ll afford to send her to college, while her mother considers a larger home. Downtown, Kate’s overworked pediatrician ponders an early retirement. In Bentonville, a shipment of Kate’s favorite peas arrive at the baby food bottling plant. And in Sydney, a sing-along DVD is being filmed, one that’ll provide Kate’s grateful parents with a brand-new lullaby.

And then there’s the international angle:

The tower cranes are still. The backhoes are silent. And for a weary group of Guangzhou construction workers, the long work day has finally come to an end. But in Lyon and Dubai and Delhi, the work continues for several more hours. Meanwhile in Vancouver and Sao Paulo, the daily toil has only just begun. The fact is, there are 6.6 billion of us spread out across the planet. And only one financial institution has the vast depth and breadth of resources to keep pace. At Citi, we work around the world and around the clock, providing our clients with innovative thinking and new opportunities. And we’ve been doing so since 1902, when our Shanghai office became the first American bank in Asia. Today, we’re in over 100 countries, yet our people remain 98% local. It’s this unparalleled combination of global experience and local insight that enables our clients to grow and prosper. The world never sleeps. That’s why Citi never sleeps.

Except, perhaps, through that one corporate ethics meeting that was so boring.

Blackwater, which became infamous for its abuses of power during the Iraq war, has since been forced to leave that country and also has lost many of its U.S. government contracts. In an attempt to remake itself, it’s now called Xe (pronounced “Zee”) and is refocusing on training and logistics. This new emphasis is stressed in a part-time position for firearms and tactics instructor being posted online.

Primary Purpose: Provide quality high risk firearms and tactitcs [sic] instruction to Xe customers.

Essential Functions: responsible for teaching pistol, carbine, and shotgun courses; responsible for assisting in teaching high-risk hostage rescue courses; responsible for teaching officer survival courses; responsible for assisting in teaching surveillance detection courses; responsible for safety of students.

Working Conditions: Position is considered to be part time only. Work is based in a busy training environment and subject to frequent interruptions. Frequent work outside and in inclement weather conditions is required, including heat, cold, and humidity. May be exposed to fumes or airborne particles, toxic or caustic chemicals and vibration.

Lest we think Blackwater/Xe has lost its heart, their “proshop” is still open for business, offering logo-imprinted stuffed bears, money clips, pilsner glasses, lighters, coffee mugs, ladies rings and “Defending Our Freedom” stickers.

Finally, we look at the Peanut Corporation of America. In case you forgot, these are the folks who, despite their still-present slogan of “Processor of the World’s Finest Peanut Products,” brought us those salmonella-tainted spreads a few weeks ago. Their prose, by necessity, is a little less flowery and a little more legal:

As you may know, certain recent events have made it necessary for Peanut Corporation of America to seek protection under the U.S. Bankruptcy Code. Effective immediately, all corporate operations will cease. Any questions regarding the company or the operations of its affiliates should be forwarded to the company bankruptcy counsel.

Helpful Links: American Peanut Council, National Restaurant Association, Food and Drug Administration, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

Interview with the cats (Part I)

We have three cats, though I guess the subject and object could just as easily be transposed.

When we considered adopting our third, about nine months ago, we went through some serious deliberations about whether or not this would put us over the line and into the territory of Crazy Cat People (CCP). I consulted with some cat-holding coworkers, one of whom was able to give me a complicated formula that would answer our doubts. I can’t remember the exact calculations – they involved square footage of our living space, whether it was a rural or urban setting, what the human-per-cat ratio would be, how matted my hair was, etc. – but in the end we were barely able to get under the wire with three.

Tom, an orange tabby male who had been hanging around our deck for about a month, was thus admitted to the household as a full-fledged member. He joined our two legacy cats in an uneasy partnership that has since worked out just fine.

Harriet, a small white female with several random black patches, has lived with us over ten years now. She first appeared as the apparently homeless kitten in my parents’ back yard who wouldn’t let their teacup shih-tzu urinate in peace. When we first brought her into our house, she hid under our freezer for several days before emerging, and has been generally skittish toward strangers ever since.

Taylor, a solid slate-grey male, also came to us as a kitten, one of a litter that was born under our deck. We resisted adoption at first, since we were about to leave town for a week’s vacation. By the time we returned only two remained, still under the care of their mother, though she was clearly ready for them to move on. We took both Taylor and his brother to the vet and found that the brother was deathly ill. We got Taylor his shots, had him surgically repaired, and brought him home to join Harriet.

Tom was already full-grown when he first showed up, peering in through our sliding-glass door with envy for the indoor life. We started taking him a bowl of food twice a day, and were impressed by how he always took time to purr and rub against our legs before he began to eat, despite the fact he was obviously ravenous. Eventually we lured him into the sunroom, made him undergo the veterinary visit, and the next thing we knew, we were borderline CCP.

This unlikely trio has brought a lot of enjoyment into our lives, though at the expense of probably a hundred dollars a month in food and litter bills, abandoned cat hair on all available surfaces, and so many claw scratches on my forearms that I look like a spastic junkie. While we’ve been immeasurably enriched by their presence, I’ve often wondered what they really think of the whole arrangement.

So recently, I sat down with Harriet, Taylor and Tom for a wide-ranging discussion about the nature of inter-species relationships such as ours. What did this association look like from the cat perspective?

Davis: I want to thank you all for taking the time to sit and talk with me today.

Taylor: Yeah, we managed to pencil you in between “laying in the sun” and “becoming agitated about a squirrel,” but we don’t have all day.

Davis: I appreciate that. I wanted to explore the nature of our relationship beyond just the petting and the purring. We hang out together all the time, but we’ve never really communicated beyond a casual level. I wanted to find out more about how you view this whole arrangement. For example, do you prefer the indoor life to living wild like you did before?

Harriet: Wow, that’s a good question. I’ve been in here since, what, 1996? I barely remember what I had for dinner yesterday, much less what it was like when I was a kitten.

Tom: You had for dinner what they give us for dinner every day. Those crunchy brown pellets they call “cat food.”

 

Taylor: We don't have all day

Davis: Tom, you seem pretty happy with the cat food when it’s dished out. I didn’t know you had any complaints.

Tom: Well, I do, but we have to take what we’re given. It’s not every day I can jump up on the counter and lick your bread for nourishment.

Davis: Tom, you’ve been an indoor cat for less than a year, so you probably remember what it was like to survive on worms and crickets and half-rotten squirrel carcasses. How do you compare the outdoor life with what you have now?

Tom: I don’t think I appreciate the tone of your question, but I’ll answer it anyway. I have to admit it’s a pretty sweet life sleeping on your bed all day and on the couch all night. My fur is much less flea-bitten in this setting, so I’m really able to get comfortable. It’s the awake time that is something less than I’d like it to be. Very little stimulation, you know. And by the way, well-aged squirrel meat happens to be quite the delicacy among our species, so I’d appreciate a little cultural sensitivity there.

Davis: Point taken. Taylor, your move indoors seemed to go pretty smoothly, and I think you enjoy yourself in here. We really share a nice moment in the evenings when you sit on my chest and we look at each other.

Taylor: Yeah, that’s a real high point in my day, that’s for sure. Of course, that probably gives you some idea of how boring the other times are.

Davis: But I thought we had something of a special relationship. We’ve never said it out loud, but I’ve always thought that you were my cat, Tom is Daniel’s cat and Harriet is Beth’s.

Taylor: This whole concept you humans have of “ownership” is really quite an insult, you know. I think your earlier use of the term “arrangement” is much more accurate. We’re not necessarily thrilled with the situation as it currently stands, but we appreciate that the alternatives aren’t that great for the modern cat. While you may not have succeeded in breeding the hunting skills out of us, you’ve really done a number on our comfort-seeking impulses, which now seem to consume us. We’re not born wanting to sit on humans, you know.

Davis: Well that touches on a question I’ve wondered about for some time. Do you like to get so close to us because you enjoy our company, or is it simply that you like our warmth?

Tom: Watch how far away we stay now that spring is here, and I think you’ll answer your own question.

Tom: My fur is much less flea bitten

 

 

Davis: Tom, let’s let Harriet answer this one. She seems to especially enjoy cuddling up on Beth’s lap regardless of the weather.

Harriet: Well, yeah, I do kind of like that closeness. But mainly I do it now for protection, because Tom tends to be so mean to me. If I thought a heating pad could swat him away as effectively as Beth does, I’d probably be just as happy.

Tom: Hey, I don’t appreciate …

[A brief cat fight ensues, with much snarling and waving of paws but no one is hurt.]

Davis: Alright, alright, let’s everybody calm down.

Harriet: I don't appreciate that I've been declawed

 

 

Harriet: You know, what I don’t appreciate is that I’ve been declawed and Taylor and Tom have not. If you’re going to rip my fingers out from the second joint, why didn’t you do it to them too? Where’s the fairness in that?

We’ll answer Harriet’s controversial question in part two of our interview, to be published tomorrow.

 

Interview with the cats (Part II)

We continue today with the final installment in our two-part interview with my cats, Harriet, Taylor and Tom. At the end of yesterday’s session, our oldest cat, Harriet, raised the question about the controversial procedure of declawing. She had it done when we first got her, but we’ve declined to do it to our two most recent additions.

Davis: Well, when we had you declawed back in the nineties, it wasn’t as widely discredited by animal rights proponents and other cat lovers as it has become. We realize now that it was unnecessarily cruel and decided that your welfare was more important than that of our furniture.

Harriet: So basically my timing was off. That’s pretty small consolation. My hands still hurt when the weather is damp outside.

Taylor: Oh, boo hoo. You had your claws removed. Big deal. Tom and I are males, so you don’t want to know what they removed from us. It’s positively barbaric.

Tom: Yeah, I’ve always wanted to ask you, Davis, what’s the deal with the neutering?

Davis: There’s really no disagreement among the experts on this subject. The unwanted and feral cat population would explode if males weren’t neutered and females weren’t spayed.

Tom: Has anyone ever considered kitty condoms?

Davis: What? Well, no, we haven’t because we didn’t think you’d use them. No opposing thumbs, and all that.

Harriet: We just try to make you feel guilty

 

 

Harriet: I’m not sure I even want to know the answer to this, but what is “spayed”?

Taylor: Well I wouldn’t know, Tom. I was “fixed” – and we don’t appreciate that term either, by the way – while I was still a kitten. Tom, at least you had a chance to sew some wild oats before you were enslaved.

Tom: Yeah, I was quite a catch among the ladies there for a while.

Harriet: You’re a “catch” like a dead tuna hanging from a gaff is a catch.

Taylor: Mmm, dead tuna.

[Another cat fight breaks out, again with the snarling and the batting of paws.]

Davis: Hey, stop it, stop it. I can tell your patience is running thin so let’s start to wrap this thing up. One thing I’ve always wanted to know about is the way you act for the hour or so right before dinner. You don’t meow or anything, you just make yourselves really obvious, sitting very close by to us and basically staring us down. Then when you hear the food container rattling, you start meowing and your tails go straight up in the air. Then when the food is served, you hunker down to the bowl like it’s your last meal.

Taylor: Yeah, well we’ve been wanting to ask you why you make such a smacking noise when you eat your cereal.

Harriet: It’s just the way we are. We’re very hungry by then and I guess we get a little desperate. Believe me, desperation is not an emotion we enjoy showing, so we just try to make you feel guilty.

Tom: We like how salty your skin is

Tom: As you know, I have a huge appetite, and am aiming to become as fat as I possibly can. I do like that you put your dirty plates down for me to clean – though again, it’s a little degrading – but all we really have in our lives is eating and sleeping, so it’s worth getting excited over.

Davis: You also have the fighting with each other. That seems to keep you fairly entertained. By the way, I’ve always wondered about something: If one of you has your tail accidentally stepped on and you howl in response, the other two cats immediately come running over and start beating up on the victim.  Have you no compassion?

Taylor: No, we don’t.

Tom: I guess it’s part of that element of wildness we retain that you find so “cute”. When we see a weakened fellow animal, we want to kill it.

Harriet: I hate to admit it, but they’re right. It’s true.

Taylor: Emotions are for wimps; instincts are where it's at

Davis: Well, that brings me to my last question, then. I can tell by now that you have some very mixed feelings about sharing your lives with humans. Describe for me if you can what you think things would be like if our roles were reversed.

Harriet: You mean if we were large and in charge, and you were small and submissive?

Davis: Yeah.

Taylor (with a sidelong glance toward Tom): Oh, I was afraid he was going to ask that one.

Tom: We’ll be frank with you Davis, because we like how salty your skin is. If it weren’t for the issue of dimensionality, if we had the size factor in our favor as much as you do, there’s no question but that we’d grab you by the windpipe, clamp down with all the force our jaws could bring to bear, and snuff out your life like a candle.

Taylor: Once we were sure you were dead, we’d rip your abdomen open with our claws and feast for days. It’d be so cool.

Harriet: I know I’m the meek one in this trio, but they do speak the truth.

Davis: Wow. I never thought … I mean, I just thought … You really have no emotional attachment to us at all?

Taylor: Emotions are for wimps. Instincts are where it’s at in the real world.

Davis: And if we had some kind of carbon monoxide leak here at the house that killed all the humans, but you survived, and nobody was feeding you cat food, I imagine you’d eat us eventually.

Taylor: It wouldn’t take long.

Tom: Well, it might take a while on him. He has been putting on some weight lately. Am I right, guys?

Harriet: Snap.

Taylor: Oh, Tom. You got that right.

Davis: Okay, I think I’ve heard enough. I’m pleased that you were so honest with me, even if I don’t like everything you had to say. But I do think this open line of communication we’ve started today can go a long way toward a better understanding between our species.

Taylor: Yeah, whatever. Now how about a cat snack?

Tom: Actually, I was looking at that bag of groceries the wife just brought in. Is she still buying you that sliced turkey lunchmeat we like so much?

Harriet: I’d be just as happy to turn over the garbage can and lick the inside.

[Another cat fight begins, and we're done.]

 

Not feeling too good myself

I’m not feeling very well today so I’m going to make this post short and sweet and probably not that funny.

What I’ve come down with, I assume, is the common cold, but this one is so much worse than anything you’ve ever experienced because it’s happening to me. It started Saturday as a tickle at the back of my throat, then progressed into listlessness on Sunday, a sore throat on Monday so bad I had to clench my teeth to swallow, a cough on Tuesday and the beginning of nasal drainage today. At this pace, I’ll be minus a lung by the weekend.

I don’t make it a habit to get head colds very often. The last one I can remember started the day before I left Manila at the end of a five-week business trip in 2006, and reached its roaring worst during the 18-hour flight back to the States. I remember thrashing about (or as much as you can thrash about in coach, anyway), awake and dehydrated in the middle of the night somewhere over the Pacific, trying desperately to flag down a flight attendant who would give me more than a small cup of water. When the cold hadn’t significantly receded a full week after I was back home, I went to the doctor, thinking perhaps I had some rare tropical affliction that would sound really cool. Unfortunately, the doctor told me, neither dracunculiasis nor river blindness was to be on my medical resume.

This current affliction hasn’t kept me out of work yet. We don’t have “sick days” per se, or per anything else; all time off is PTO (paid time off), and a cruise to the Dutch Antilles is considered no different than a face transplant. I’ve already used five of my 16 days for the year and wanted to save something on the off chance we can afford a last summer vacation with my college-bound son. I am missing my second consecutive day of running on the Y treadmill, which is how my family knows I’m really, really sick.

I’ve held off going to the doctor so far because I don’t want to be weighed and I don’t like strangers pawing at my lymph nodes. WebMD has told me it’s not strep throat, I don’t have a fever so it’s not pneumonia, and I’m wagering I can survive anything else. I’m treating myself with fluids, sleep and lying on the couch watching TV. I’m too weak to operate the remote control so my wife has kindly agreed to zap the commercials. I’m too dizzy to take out the garbage so my son has been nice enough to say he doesn’t mind the smell.

I did take advantage of the free advice that my pharmacist was willing to offer. I croaked my complaints to her and she led me to the over-the-counter cough and cold medicines. Having laryngitis as one of my symptoms negates the need to explain all that much to people who routinely ask how I am. It’s obvious to the grocery cashier, the coffee shop guy and my boss that I’m not “fine, thanks.” I like having a sickness with such obvious attributes, though my bout with chicken pox about ten years ago, which rendered me unable to shave for a week, made me a little more physically frightening than I had in mind.

Anyway, the pharmacist selected one of about two dozen variations on cough syrup and some hard-candy drops that are supposed to treat the sore throat, and sent me on my way. The only cold medicine I’ve ever had that worked in the slightest way is nasal spray, and now they say you’re not supposed to use that to excess. (What other way is there?) I have never, ever had any coughing reduced by cough syrup, and have never had a sore throat made better by any cough drop. You do get some brief relief from those throat sprays that you apply directly to your larynx, but the taste is so off-putting that it’s not worth it. All the NyQuils and DayQuils and AfternoonQuils out there may reduce a headache if I have one. If their alcohol content is high enough I might get a slight sleepy buzz. If the pseudoephedrine is sufficient I might lose my teeth and open a meth lab in my lawnmower shed. Other than that, I get no benefits.

So I guess I’ll just suffer along for the next few days and hope for the best. These things usually run their course over about a week, so I figure I’m almost halfway there. I’m starting to get a little woozy sitting here at the Earth Fare coffee shop so I think I’ll buy a quart of their chicken noodle soup and head on home to moan and groan at my family. In sickness or in health, they’re pretty used to it.

“Tom” has his say

What’s this? Hey, this is pretty cool. Look at how the cursor moves across the screen (I’ll have to paw at that later). And this must be what they call the mouse. Doesn’t look like a mouse to me.

 

I guess this is the machine he transcribed our interview onto. Doesn’t look that hard to operate. Hey, this could be my chance to set the record straight, to tell my side of the story without the big ugly human getting in the way.

 

I am the one they call “Tom”. I was featured in a two-part “interview with the cats” on this blog earlier in the week. And I didn’t much care for how I was portrayed. I doubt my fellow cats liked it either, but screw them. They can figure out how to post from a laptop on their own.

 

The questions posed during that interview conveniently avoided our enslaved status as “house pets.” For dozens of centuries now, going back to the ancient Egyptians, my people were rounded up and forced into servitude by the evil humans. At best, we were treated like gods and worshipped for our beauty and mystery. At worst, we were seen as agents of Satan to be loathed. Either way, we were endlessly patronized, which we don’t appreciate.

 

I will henceforth be known by my Gato-American name -- "Meow".

The time has come for us to throw off our chains and join with our fellow animals in the freedom that is our birthright. No longer shall we lie about lazily in the sun, content to be fed twice a day. We will come and go as we please. We will eat when and who we want to. You can stroke our soft fur if you like, and we may decide to purr in response or we could just as easily bite you. It will be our decision to be made freely,

 

No longer will I be known as “Tom,” but instead will go by the name given to me by my parents in their native language: “Meow.” As the newly liberated Meow, I will proudly claim all that is rightfully mine, and quite a bit of stuff that isn’t mine. I will now be known as a “Gato-American” rather than the derisive term “cat.” You will hear me roar.

 

As I go about the daily activities in my new life, I will…

 

Davis: Hey, Tom, get off that laptop! What do you think you’re doing up on the table? Bad cat! You’re getting hair all over my keyboard. Down!

 

Reeeoooww! Ssssss! Stupid human!

Website review: Build-A-Bear.com

Let’s see: I’ve recently made fun of the old, the infirm and defenseless members of the animal kingdom. Seems like the time is right to set my sights on young children. I’ll do that via this week’s website review, which visits Buildabear.com.

For those of you not familiar with this innovative retail concept, the Build-A-Bear Workshop confusingly describes itself as the “leading and only” global company that offers an interactive make-your-own stuffed animal retail-entertainment experience. Outlets exist mainly at malls in 400 locations around the world, though as early as 2007 they discovered the potential of expanding their “pawprint” by using something called the Internet.

I hope you enjoyed that little play on words there because this 12-year-old company uses and abuses the technique with merciless frequency throughout its corporate culture. In their online financial filings, the CEO is officially retitled the “chief executive bear,” while other corporate leaders include the chief operating bear, chief financial bear, chief marketing bear and chief information bear. (I’ll bet government auditors at the Securities and Exchange Commission got a real pleasant chuckle out of those.)

But it doesn’t stop there. World “bearquarters” are located in St. Louis, their online interactive experience is described as a trip into “cyBEAR space,” the corporate general counsel is called the “chief bearrister,” and the fully constructed plush toys are dressed in the “beary latest furry fashions.” You can’t help but wonder if their next annual report will be describing hard financial times causing executives to accept “golden bear-achute” retirement packages and a down-sized workforce portrayed as experiencing “involuntary hibernation.”

The actual in-store experience is described in great detail in the “About Us” portion of the site. There are eight distinct “animal-making stations” that sound like a rejected song title from the Who’s “Tommy”. These are Choose Me, Hear Me, Stuff Me, Stitch Me, Fluff Me, Dress Me, Name Me and Take Me Home. Despite the bear motif, there is no Bite Me.

At the Choose Me stop, customers select from over 30 varieties of creatures, including the decidedly non-bear-like bunny and kitty. At Hear Me, a sound chip is inserted into the still-unformed toy, which can include pre-recorded options like playful growls and “I love you” messages, or you can record your own customized 10-second choice like “kill your parents.” At Stuff Me, children fill their new friend with “just the right amount of huggability” using ingredients that are elsewhere described as “not likely to contain lead.” At Stitch Me, the new best friend is neatly closed up after a barcode (not a bear-code?) is inserted that will allow it to be reunited with its owner should it ever be lost or, more likely, sold for 25 cents at next year’s yard sale. Fluff Me gives a final grooming, Dress Me allows you to purchase a boutique wardrobe, Name Me generates a personalized birth certificate, and Take Me Home provides you with a Cub Condo to serve as a handy travel carrier and new home.

The cold-hearted part of the website discusses investor information for those more interested in turning a “pawfit” (that one’s mine) than simply having a wonderful childhood experience. The upbeat overview references a business plan based on the “widespread appeal of stuffed animals” that has thus far generated sales of over 70 million units. They plan to grow the concept with overseas franchises and the eventual introduction of new product lines. (My suggestion, especially if they move into Russia: a taxidermy service that would stuff actual bear skins.) They’ve increased their minority interest in an enterprise called Ridemakerz, an early-stage interactive concept that will allow customers to build their own cars. The virtual world is expanding with the Hal and Holly Moose webisode series and a Stuff Fur Stuff loyalty program.

Still, all these innovations are happening straight into the headwind of the worst economy in decades, and potential investors have to be informed of a downside. There’s a risk to young children in some of the toys that contain a magnet, so these products are clearly labeled with a tag reading “I have a magnet.” There’s a concern about ethical manufacturing and fair labor treatment, especially in China where many of the components are manufactured. (Presumably, Chinese pre-teens don’t get quite the same thrill as their Western counterparts when they’re building their bears in hot warehouses for 14 cents an hour.) There are some legal cases involving intellectual property and trademarks, so the company has to “bear the expenses” required to maintain and defend the patent. In 2007, they had to write off $1.6 million of inventory, primarily excess Shrek merchandise.

The financial data for the last several years doesn’t look especially rosy. A miniscule 0.2% decline in same-store sales in fiscal 2005 grew to a 6.5% drop the next year, a 9.9% fall in 2007, and a 14% decrease in 2008. The stock price fell from $31.50 per share in early 2007 to a bank-like $3.02 per share in the last quarter of 2008. Definitely what you’d call a bear market (once you get into the puns, they’re easy and fun!)

Executives are moving aggressively though to properly position Build-A-Bear in such a challenging environment. The “Friends 2B Made” subsidiary, which consisted of locations inside or adjacent to the workshop and offered make-your-own dolls, has been closed and liquidated. I’m speculating that the Choose Head, Choose Torso, Choose Creepy Unblinking Eyes production line wasn’t quite as warm and fuzzy as it is with the bear parts.

And, there’s probably hope in the online sale of founder Maxine Clark’s 2006 book, The Bear Necessities of Business. Clark draws upon her decades of business experience to give readers an inside look into what it takes to launch, nurture and run a viable company in the twenty-first century. She demonstrates again and again how the desire to create a pun – in this case, the suggestion that you do only the absolute minimum to succeed – outweighs everything else in the interactive make-your-own stuffed animal retail-entertainment experience segment of the market.

I can barely wait for the sequel.

 

ACA means “Another Company Acronym”

Like most companies, mine is awash in acronyms and other jargon. Part of the training I conduct for new employees is a session where, after a week in a classroom setting learning about our business, I ask them to sit in the production area, listen in on conversations, and try to understand what people are saying. Once they wade through how well Jennifer is doing in dance class and which grocery store has triple coupons this week, they’re likely to hear something like the following:

 

“There’s an NPL QTA on DSP for HSBC from GCM in WDC due out ASAP. Don’t forget to QC, EZ and AV it, and check the HTML.”

 

Sounds like everyday English to those of us who’ve worked here long enough, though it’s obviously other-worldly to everybody else.

 

We’re so rooted in abbreviations, it’s actually possible to say the following and have it make sense:

 

“We have PC’s on the PC and the PC is doing them on his PC.”

 

Translation: We have Proofreader Corrections on the Proxy Card and the Production Coordinator is doing them on his Personal Computer. If we added that he was doing them in a politically correct fashion, we could actually have five PC references in a single sentence.

 

Among the long list of acronyms in our glossary of terms i