Some are confused by Black Friday

The wave of fresh converts to evangelical Christianity appears to contain many who are confused about certain details of this, their first holiday season.

“I’m still learning my way around,” admitted Sonya Bennett. “I mean, I believe in Jesus and all that stuff; I’m just a little hazy on the reasons for some of these celebrations.”

Much of the bewilderment is becoming apparent during today’s so-called “Black Friday.” Large numbers of newly minted Christians showed up at post-Thanksgiving sales at Wal-Mart, Target and other retailers, thinking they were observing the day Jesus was crucified at Calgary.

“I guess I was thinking of — what is it? — Good Friday,” said Heather Thompson. “I thought Black Friday was the day the altar was draped in black cloth, and a somber service acknowledged our Lord’s ultimate sacrifice for mankind. Turns out, it’s more about low, low prices.”

Thompson said many of her friends were also confused about the day. She said she felt that the Church of Christ, of which she became a member earlier this year, and the nation’s retail sector were “just asking” for there to be such widespread misunderstanding.

“I mean, think about it: Good Friday marks an occasion when something bad happened, and Black Friday marks a good day, a day of door-busting bargains. That’s just plain screwy,” Thompson said. “You’d think it would be the other way around. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only one expecting up to 60% off the cost of my salvation.”

Bennett, a recent convert to the Evangelical Lutheran Synod, said the church calendar at first didn’t make sense to her. She said she had time to meditate and reflect on her faith while waiting in line from midnight till 4 a.m. outside the Valley Hills Mall in Seattle.

“I finally puzzled through it,” Bennett said. “It just wasn’t possible that Jesus was crucified in late November, then born in late December, and then ascended into heaven in March or April. I know He can do some amazing things, but this just seemed totally whack.”

Similar puzzlement was expected during next week’s “Cyber Monday,” which has become the day on which close to a third of on-line Christmas gift sales are made. Either that, or it’s something to do with Simon Peter, or maybe the Immaculate Conception, or maybe Zhu Zhu pets.

“The one that always messes me up is Maundy Thursday,” said Oscar Bennett, who joined the Southern Baptist denomination in February. “I mean, is it a Monday or is it a Thursday? I’m all for talking in tongues, but come on. How can we have effective outreach to non-believers with this kind of double-talk?”

Raymond Price, a new member of the fundamentalist Mercy Schmercy Catholic Church in suburban Atlanta, defended Christianity’s elaborate calendar as something that novices should study and become comfortable with.

“It’s really not that complicated when you put your mind to it,” Price said. “Ash Wednesday is the day we remember volcano victims. Palm Sunday celebrates the day Jesus rode into Jerusalem in triumph after inventing the handheld personal digital assistant. Corpus Christi, in mid-June, marks the beginning of beach season on the south Texas coast.”

Price said his personal favorite day on the liturgical calendar was Ruby Tuesday.

“Any day that honors both the Rolling Stones and the Seaside Sensations combo platter is truly a holy day in my book,” Price said. “Ruby Tuesday — Fresh Taste, Fresh Price.”

A look at the turkey

As part of my occasional series titled “Lives of the Dead,” today’s post will look at the turkey.

This fabled American bird takes its place at the table with the likes of Christopher Columbus, Caesar Augustus, St. Patrick and Martin Luther as subjects of a DavisW’s blog profile. Not dead as a species but with plenty of specific casualties by this time tomorrow, the turkey becomes the first to be a living topic in this space. Let’s take a brief look at its history before we examine its innards over pumpkin pie and coffee at dinner Thursday.

In a way, it’s fitting the turkey be granted this exceptional treatment. As much as his species is appreciated as both a symbol of gratitude and a meat product, there have been no individual turkeys to rise above the rest and distinguish themselves. Other animals at least have had animated anthropomorphs to speak out on their behalf — Donald Duck, Porky Pigg, Sylvester the Cat, Fernando Lamas, the late Senator Robert Byrd (D-W.Va.). There’s never been a single famous turkey.

It’s probably due in part to what’s come to be known in zoology circles as the “K Factor”. The K Factor is that rule which says any animal with a “K” in its name is automatically funny and disrespected. Your monkeys, your donkeys, your yaks and your kangaroos all suffer from this syndrome and can’t get anyone to take them seriously. We laugh at the poor dumb turkey even as we enjoy his succulent thighs simply because it’s fun to say anything that rhymes with “jerky” or “quirky”.

The turkey first came to the attention of an increasingly hungry Western Civilization when 16th-century Europeans exploring America encountered a bird similar to their familiar guineafowl. Since their larger poultry were imported into continental markets through Central Europe from Turkey, they thought of calling the wild Meleagris gallopavo a “Serbian” but eventually settled instead on “turkey”. (That’s why we also get the word “grease” from Greece, and the word “chili” from Chile).

The wild turkey can weigh up to 100 pounds and has a wingspan of almost six feet. They can fly for short distances, mainly when they’re being pursued by predators. Turkeys have a distinctive fleshy wattle that hangs from the underside of their beak which, when combined with their huge breasts, make them resemble actress Pamela Anderson. (You can tell the two apart because the birds have too much sense to go anywhere near Kid Rock). They also have another protuberance growing off the top of their beaks and dangling off to the side called a “snood”. Links to recipes for these appendages, including the famous Wattle Supreme and the underappreciated Stewed Snood, will follow this article.

There’s a fairly extensive fossil record of the early turkeys, starting from the Miocene Epoch over 20 million years ago. Ancient remains have been found throughout the Western Hemisphere and, when they are, inevitably the wishbone is broken in two. The Aztecs called the creature huexolotl, and it was associated with their “trickster god” Tezcatlipoca when it wasn’t being killed and eaten. (Even then, the turkey was laughed at. Aztecs would’ve told each other “that wacky huexolotl and his pal Tezcatlipoca are at it again” if they could’ve pronounced either of the words.)

It’s only been in the last century or so that turkeys became a popular form of poultry. Though it’s likely the meat was served at the first Thanksgiving attended by the Pilgrims and the Indians, that’s probably only because they kept running around the food preparation area. It was actually too expensive to become a staple at holiday meals until just recently. Before World War II, goose or beef was more likely to comprise the common holiday dinner.

When the wild turkey was domesticated, its life became both easier and harder. Today’s birds could live to be ten years old if they weren’t slaughtered at about 16 weeks. They grow up on a factory farm, bred to have magnificent white feathers to make their carcasses more appealing. The male is the tom, the female is the hen, and the baby is a poult, though they don’t spend near enough time together as a family. Mature toms are too large to “achieve natural fertilization,” as Wikipedia delicately puts it, so their semen is manually collected and hens are inseminated artificially. Neither much care for this arrangement, but what are they going to do? Break out on their own and find a nice apartment they could afford on a turkey salary?

Turkeys are popularly believed to be unintelligent. Claims are made that during a rainstorm, they’ll look up at the falling precipitation until they drown. Recent research has shown, however, that many aren’t simply stupid but instead suffer from a genetic nervous disorder known as “tetanic torticollar spasms” that causes them to look skyward. Like human parents embarrassed by the poor performance of their offspring, turkey parents can point to a disorder similar to ADHD as the reason their brats are running around like madmen, toppling lamps and unable to stay focused for more than a few moments.

The turkey is now solidly a part of American lore, especially at this time of the year. Schoolchildren trace outstretched hands to create likenesses of the animal for fall craft projects. Coworkers abandon casual conversation in the breakroom and opt instead to gobble at each other. The turkey lobby brings one lucky tom to Washington so it can receive the traditional presidential pardon, though in an attempt to be seen as moving toward the political center after recent election losses, President Obama is considering slitting its throat this year.

By Wednesday of Thanksgiving week, all we really care about is how to prepare the bird for dinner. Available in the market as either fresh or frozen, the meat typically requires several hours baking or roasting in the oven to become fully cooked. A recent trend has seen the rise of a new method, deep-frying the turkey in an outdoor vat of hot oil for 45 minutes or until the entire set-up explodes and is next seen on YouTube under the title “Butterball goes fireball.”

Ultimately, the dish is surrounded by cranberry sauce, stuffing, sweet potatoes, corn, and whatever that awful casserole is that your sister-in-law keeps bringing year after year. Extended families come together to share an all-too-brief moment of togetherness before heading back to their separate lives watching televised images of Dallas Cowboys and Detroit Lions facing their own slaughter. Soon, the notorious “tryptophan coma” descends on the gathering like a cloud of carbon monoxide until participants awake to find themselves waiting in line for Walmart to open at 2 in the morning.

As we pause during the next 24 hours to give thanks for all the bounty we share, let’s not forget to express appreciation to the noble turkey for his contribution. If Ben Franklin had his way, the creature would be our national bird, seen all over our money and other national emblems instead of all over our shirts and tablecloths. And we’d be eating bald eagles for dinner, arguing over who gets the bald spot rather than who gets the drumstick.

I’ve had deep-fried eagle before and, trust me, it’s not something you’d want to eat.

Note: To read more about Lives of the Dead, please visit the following posts:

http://davisw.wordpress.com/2010/10/11/happy-columbus-day-sort-of/

http://davisw.wordpress.com/2010/08/13/lives-of-the-dead-augustus-father-of-august/

http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/03/16/lives-of-the-dead-st-patrick/

http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/01/19/lives-of-the-dead-martin-luther/

He’d say “Happy Thanksgiving,” but the snood keeps getting in the way

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 several days into the future by the magic of the blog. This is the scene I left behind at yesterday’s office celebration of Thanksgiving, long 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 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 made 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 a lingering downturn 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.

All ready for the office reorganization

My boss asked to see me in her office Friday. This is far from an everyday request so – considering the state of the economy and particularly concerns about the so-called “jobless recovery” we’re experiencing in which the unemployment rate still hovers near 10% and new job creation is at a virtual standstill – I was, like, freaking out.

A manager who wants to discuss potentially bad news with an underling is at a distinct advantage if they play their cards right. In this environment, the employee automatically assumes the worst is about to happen. Anything less than a pink slip, a box to collect your personal effects and a security-guard-escorted walk to the parking lot becomes welcome news.

If they put enough drama into the meeting, closing the door behind you as you enter and remaining grim-faced as you settle into your chair, you’ll accept almost anything else they have to say with enthusiasm.

“Dave, I’ve called you in here today to discuss some new directions we see your career here taking,” they can say.

“New directions,” you hear. As in, make a left as you leave the building, then a right at the second light, and you’ll see the unemployment office on the left? you wonder.

“We’ve got some new duties we want you to add to your current skill set,” they can continue.

“New duties,” you hear. A sign of hope?

“We need someone to scrub the floor of the men’s room each day using only their tongue,” they can offer. “And we think you’re just the man for the job.”

“I still have a job!” you think. Relief floods your mind. “That sounds like something I can handle,” you answer. “I’m all salivated up and ready to go. When can I start?”

So when my boss started talking about the reorganization our department is about to undertake, and how it will affect the hours I work and the place where I sit, I was more than happy to listen respectfully and nod my head in an affirmative motion at all the right places. I was not losing my job after all. That was what they call in the corporate world my “key takeaway.”

But now that I’ve had a few days to think about what she said, in the context of not having to trade my comfortable suburban house for a homeless shelter, I have some concerns about a few of these changes.

I’m not going to have to get used to a new chair, am I?

We all have the same type of chairs in my office, but after several years of use, not all of the features still work on every chair. I need more than just a flat horizontal surface to place my can. I need a certain level of lumbar support. I don’t like the armrests to be so high as to interfere with my typing, or too low to provide rest for my arms when I’m reading. The wheels need to work properly so I can scoot to the coffeemaker with a single thrust of my legs.

What about mousepads? Can we keep the ones we currently have?

I like the kind that has the little mound of gel you can rest your wrist on. I don’t like the kind that advertises Office Depot or the pharmaceutical industry’s latest anti-depressant. My wrist tends to get tired after a long day of clicking and dragging, and I’m not sure I can put in a full eight hours with a weary forearm.

The carousel of supplies at my current desk is organized just as I like it. Can I take it with me to my new desk?

A few years ago, in the throes of another reorganization that saw us sticking labels on everything that didn’t move, the different storage slots on my carousel got signs for what goes into each area: “staple remover” reads one, “red pens and pencils” reads another, “black/blue pens” reads a third. This seemed silly at the time, but I’ve grown used to it since then. When I’m through using a rubber band or a paper clip, I want to know where it should be returned to. These labels are the lifeblood of my sanity, and my whole worldview will be affected if I don’t know where to put the medium-sized sticky notes when I’m through with them.

Will I have a stapler and scissors at my new desk?

Right now, I don’t have ready access to these seemingly essential tools of office work. I don’t know whether we just have a shortage, or whether there might be some safety issue involved. I feel I’ve demonstrated a level of responsibility during my 30-plus years with the company to show I can be trusted to handle sharp instruments. If there is some training involved in how to properly attach one piece of paper to another, I’d be eager to learn. I believe learning is a lifelong pursuit and am always eager to gain new skills.

Can I be positioned directly beneath an air-conditioning vent?

Most people in my office seem to be suffering a chronic hypothermia that requires them to constantly fiddle with the thermostat until the room becomes a sauna. I’m originally from Miami, and grew up there in the days before air-conditioning. I appreciate a nice draft as welcome refreshment. You can even put me near the door if you want to; it’ll make it that much easier to slip out five minutes early at the end of the day.

Please don’t make me sit next to Kelly. Please. I beg of you. Have some basic human compassion.

Kelly is our office loudmouth. She chatters endlessly about every detail of her personal life. I don’t want to constantly be hearing about how her son has done at soccer practice, how she has a new cat, how her husband is going back to school again instead of getting a job, how she has this lump on her side that she needs to get checked out. If I want to know these things, I’ll sign up for her online newsletter.

Finally, I need both a recycling bin and a trash can at my new desk.

I’ll often work through lunch, eating a sandwich at my work station. When I’m done, I’ll usually save the Zip-Lock bag I packed it in, unless it’s been stained by mayonnaise dripping out the side of my turkey sandwich. When this happens, I’d like to be able to throw it away without getting up. I don’t want to put it into recycling, because that would destroy the Earth.

Oh yeah, and one more thing: Don’t make me share a desk with Edwin on second shift.

Edwin is notorious for eating three-fourths of an onion-packed Subway sandwich and tossing the rest in his desk-side garbage can instead of — as we were specifically instructed in an email dated September 27, 2003 — putting any smelly trash in the breakroom receptacle. The maintenance people usually empty the office trash cans at mid-morning, so whoever shares a desk with Edwin has to smell old onions for half the day. This, I will not abide.

Somebody in management needs to have a talk with Edwin. Let him think he’s getting the ax, and he’ll be more than grateful to stop putting his onions in the regular trash.

Turkey time at the office

The food for the office Thanksgiving luncheon was all set up and ready to be eaten. Workers summoned for the feast from different departments stood about awkwardly, hungry but mindful of the need to wait for some kind of “GO!” command.

First, the district manager had a few words to say. He welcomed the 50 or so white-collar staffers, and spoke of an old tradition that he greatly admired. He’d heard of a family that asked everyone in attendance at their holiday dinners to talk briefly of something they were thankful for in the past year.

A few sidelong glances were exchanged among the famished professionals — “at this rate, we’re never going to eat” seemed to be the unspoken consensus. The manager sensed the crowd’s reluctance to talk about home and family matters at work.

“Anybody have anything they’d like to share?” he asked.

There was some lame muttering from the back about being thankful for friends. Another person said they had suffered a lot in the last year while recovering from a serious motorcycle accident, then realized this wasn’t much of a reason for thanks and instead turned it into a “deep gratitude” that another accident hasn’t happened again.

I felt embarrassed by the silence and sorry for the well-intentioned manager, and almost spoke up myself. I was going to say I was just thankful to have a job in these difficult times, then realized it might prompt him to wonder “why is he still working here?” and decided to hold my tongue. When it became apparent that no one else was going to speak — unless we wanted to ask the people ringing our phones off the hook while the receptionist was away microwaving the green bean casserole — he moved on.

After a pause, he again looked around the room and asked if anybody wanted to say “a word” before we began eating.

Were this any other region of the country besides the South, the word people might’ve offered would be something like “c’mon” or “let’s go, already.” Down here, though, “a word,” especially when requested immediately prior to the consumption of food, means a prayer. Finally someone accepted the challenge, and asked everyone to bow their heads. I used the opportunity to study what a nice pair of running shoes the person next to me recently purchased, and how well their color coordinated with the office carpet.

The prayer (prayist?) proceeded through an acknowledgement of the usual litany of Christian superheroes. He thanked an unseen timekeeper who granted us the opportunity to join together. He gave a brief preview of the available entrees, specifically mentioning both turkey and ham. He said he did all this “in Jesus’ name” (though I bet he’d be resuming his usual role as Bobby in just a minute), then everybody said “amen.”

I’m really glad that I, an agnostic, have never been forced to deliver an impromptu invocation at a company function. I’ve had years of Lutheran training and could probably recall a doxology or two if pressed. I think I could fake my way through it.

Actually, I’ve been known to invoke the various names of the Almighty and His Posse on numerous occasions throughout the average workday. I’m not sure how good a prayer it would make, but I could improvise something like the following.

Good God
I can’t believe the last person to use the copier didn’t hit the reset button when they were through.
Now I have 50 copies when I only wanted two.
And they left blue paper in the legal tray.
Christ Almighty
Those people on the night shift have been using our creamer again.
And doesn’t that guy over in Legal realize that you’re supposed to pay to be in the coffee fund?
Mary, Mother of God
Why have these maintenance people vacuuming while I’m on this important call?
They now wear portable motors and bags on their backs.
I wish those were jetpacks and they’d fly the hell away.
Sweet Jesus
I’m out of sticky notes again.
And I think someone slid a different chair over here, because this one just doesn’t feel right.
Is there no respect for personal property in this place?
Holy Cow
They’re cranking up the thermostat again even though it’s already 150 degrees in here.
These women need to ditch the sleeveless tops already or else bring their Snuggies to work.
God Damn It
It looks like there’s another network outage coming in five minutes.
Tech says it’ll only take about thirty seconds, but by the time you have to restart and bring all your programs back up, you might as well call it a day.
They’re probably doing some upgrade that blocks even more websites.
Jesus H. Christ
Those new paper towels in the men’s room are so thin, they’re practically toilet paper.
I’m sure it’s cheaper than the old stuff, but don’t they realize we’re using twice as much?
I am sick of tiny disintegrated shreds of saturated paper sticking to my hands.
God Almighty, what is wrong with these people?

 

Sweet Lord

Watching too many TV commercials

Open with exterior shot of long white limo driving down a country road. Graphic points to car’s “blacked-out windows”.

Announcer overdub: “A lot of people don’t think food companies are honest about the source of their ingredients.”

Cut to interior shot of focus group sitting around a conference room table. Facilitator asks: “Do you think Domino’s wants you to know where their ingredients come from?”

Hispanic woman: “You should be able to know.”

Anglo woman: “Yeah. With Domino’s you assume the worst, so it would be reassuring to at least believe the ingredients are carbon-based.”

Black man: “I don’t know about that crust, man. Kinda reminds me of chipboard.”

Walls of conference room fall away.

Asian man: “Oh, my god. It’s an earthquake! The building is collapsing! Hand me that pizza so its rock-hard shell can protect my head from falling debris!”

Collapsing walls reveal exterior shot of expansive paper mill. Focus group surprised to find it’s now inside a large warehouse. Safety-helmeted plant worker approaches group and speaks:

“No, it’s not chipboard. Domino’s crust is made of only the finest corrugated cardboard, formed right here in this mill from virgin stands of California hardwood.”

Hispanic woman: “What’s that horrible smell?”

Worker: “That’s the smell of raw wood pulp being boiled and processed to make the grade-A cardboard that forms the base of our famous pizza.”

Black man: “So that’s how I can now order two medium-sized two-topping pizzas for only $5.99 each. You save on production costs by cooking the packaging right into the pie.”

Worker: “That’s right. By eliminating the box and building the pizza out of triple-laminated paper products, we save you money while also offering you the best quality possible.”

Announcer overdub: “Be sure to visit behindthepizza.com to see what else we’re baking into our product that you wish you didn’t know.”

Anglo woman: “I had a friend who worked at a Domino’s once. She said it’s not what’s behind the pizza you should worry about, it’s what’s behind the ovens, behind the counter, in the bathroom, under the fingernails of the workers. But seeing this paper mill somehow makes me feel better. Or at least light-headed. What are those chemicals I’m smelling, anyway?”

Asian man: “I always thought Domino’s was only slightly better than the rise of Nazi Germany in the 1930s and the subsequent world war that killed over 60 million people. My opinion of them is now much higher, considering the paycheck I’ll be getting for this commercial.”

Announced overdub: “Order your all-natural Domino’s pizza today.”

Small disclaimer type at bottom of screen: “Not responsible if delivery man slays your family. Our drivers carry less than $20 in change and make less than $15 per day. Must purchase at least 50 pizzas to receive advertised price. Must specifically ask for ‘limited time offer’ and use a cartoonish high-pitched squeak to place your order. Prices, participation, delivery area and charges may vary. We reserve the right to substitute a picture of a pizza for a real pizza.”

Possible alternate ending for release later in current advertising campaign: Focus group questions quality of meat toppings, and conference room walls fall away to reveal a slaughterhouse. Panicked cows cry out as they’re stunned before butchering. Focus group participants comment favorably on freshness of meat. “You can almost taste the blood,” one says. “Or is that the tomato sauce?”

+++

Fed up with partisan bickering among the nation’s three branches of government, Americans appear ready to install a new regime headed by the three most prominent insurance pitchmen currently on commercial television.

An all-powerful triumverate consisting of Progressive’s “Flo,” Nationwide’s “The World’s Greatest Spokesperson in the World,” and State Farm’s “Vaguely Mexican-Looking Guy Outside a Coffee Shop” has agreed to rule the land with a sympathetic but iron fist.

“I’m ready for any change at all that will get the Republicans and Democrats out of Washington,” said Alyce Jones of Chicago. “Those insurance folks offer a goofy sincerity that seems right for these troubling times.”

“The World’s Greatest Spokesperson in the World has really come into his own since being lured out of his backwoods cabin and back into insurance sales,” said Rob Fallon of Las Vegas. “He’s convinced me that Nationwide wants to know everything about me so they can tailor a product that meets my needs. Have you seen the one where he’s dealing with a lady named ‘Pam,’ and he offers to change the name of the company to ‘Nationpam’? That’s the type of can-do spirit we need if we’re ever to convince the Chinese to allow their currency to float on the open market.”

“Like a good neighbor, that Mexican-looking guy is there, always hanging outside of cafes and introducing people to State Farm agents,” said Ronald Henderson of Atlanta. “He puts a real friendly face on the problem of illegal immigration. I’d rather see him outside a Starbucks than offering to do day labor outside a Home Depot.”

The trio would govern by fiat, announcing a new round of federal laws several times an hour on all the major networks. Viewers who don’t follow their every command will be banished to a world where modern insurance products don’t exist, and yet people somehow survive by simply being careful about how they live their lives.

Tentative plans call for Flo to head up the nation’s judiciary as a one-person replacement for the Supreme Court. The World’s Greatest Spokesperson will replace both houses of Congress, and the Mexican guy will become the nation’s first Hispanic president.

“Flo’s perky haircut and headband will look just darling accented by judicial robes,” said Jones. “And the Nationwide Guy, with that signature blue rotary phone hanging from his hip, should be able to reach across the aisle in both the House and Senate to compromise with himself. I’m finally excited about the direction our nation is headed.”

“I think the new president is hunky,” said Phyllis Lee of Oklahoma City. “That could carry some real weight in the START Treaty negotiations with the Russians.”

Cancelling the Gutter Guy

Sometimes, voicemail can be a blessing. Other times, it only delays the inevitable.

Yesterday morning I had to call and cancel an appointment with a pushy salesman trying to get me to buy new gutters for my house. Under the mistaken impression that his firm would simply clean my gutters rather than propose a whole new installation, I made this poor man drive all the way from Charlotte to Rock Hill last week. I dashed his planned two-hour sales pitch about 15 minutes in, when I had decided that I (and he) urgently needed to be someplace else.

To peel him off of me, I had to promise he could come back when I’d be better prepared to carve out a good eighth of my waking hours to learn about the advantages of Guardian Gutters (or perhaps it was Gutter Guardians). Now, only hours from the appointed time, I was going to back out.

I called his office and listened carefully to their voicemail options, as it seems they had changed recently. Patience paid off when I learned that option 6 was to cancel a sales presentation. It looked like my rejection could be done automatically.

Unfortunately, after a few rings on the other end of the line, a machine belonging to “Ed Reynolds” picked up and claimed he was out of the office but would return my call when he returned. I didn’t dare simply leave a message and hope that my salesman, some non-Ed Reynolds guy whose name I think was Mike Something, would get word in time to abort his 2 p.m. appointment. So I hung up and re-dialed the main number.

This time, I chose option 2, to speak with an office manager. I mentally rehearsed the reasons I would give for ditching a perfectly serviceable gutter guy on such late notice:

• My aunt’s recently diagnosed hair cancer looked like it was spreading to her eyebrows and mustache, and family had been advised to prepare for the worst, plus

• I was expecting an urgent call from Interior Secretary Ken Salazar, plus
• I damaged my hearing at a Mannheim Steamroller concert and couldn’t hear a word he was saying, plus
• It’s pretty hectic so close to the holidays, maybe we can reschedule after the new year.

The office manager was all business regarding my request and, to my relief, she didn’t demand an explanation. She did press for a January meeting, and I agreed, but didn’t settle on a year. When they do call back to remind me of that perceived commitment, I’ll deny all knowledge of gutters, eaves, fascia and soffits, and will adamantly insist that roofing in general is all a big hoax.

I did, however, want to make sure that the salesman was absolutely, positively not coming. I didn’t fancy the thought of again having to resist his sales superpowers and escort him off my property at the same time.

“You’ve definitely got the right appointment cancelled?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “You’re in Rock Hill, on Brookshadow Drive. The 2 p.m.”

That’s the one. I thanked her for her time, apologized for the inconvenience, and ended up pretty confident that the salesman wouldn’t return that afternoon.

I got off early from work so I could be home in time to lock all the doors, draw all the curtains and hide under the covers of my bed until at least 3:30. Just in case.

From this angle, the gutters don’t look that bad after all.

Wallowing in the gutters

I am not what you would call “handy.” I do have hands — two, I’m proud to say — but I use them primarily for eating, typing and pointing at ugly people, not for do-it-yourself jobs around the house. My idea of a home-improvement project is buying a big-screen TV or spraying a room with air freshener.

Somehow, I’ve still managed to be a homeowner for most of my adult life without having the structure collapse around me. I’ve accomplished this through a strategic combination of not caring when the small stuff breaks, and hiring a contractor to take care of the bigger repairs.

If the sliding glass door is permanently stuck or the lights don’t work above the vanity, I can adapt to the small inconvenience. The tile on the floor of our half-bath is warping from shower seepage that may eventually rot the flooring, but who can name the day I’ll slide nude and lathered into the crawlspace beneath our home? We might all be living under North Korean rule by the time, which would make a hole in my bathroom floor pale by comparison.

As long as the embarrassing demise of my residence is happening in private, I can look the other way. But when it is taking place outside in public view, there are certain covenants in our subdivision’s homeowners association agreement that require me to give a shit.

I’ve had to deal with two of these issues in recent weeks. First, a windstorm sheared a backyard hardwood in half, dropping about 25 feet of lumber into a stand of shrubs. We called a tree service to offer an estimate of what it would take to fix. In just a few minutes, the tree guy told us he could cut down the rest of the trunk and haul everything away for $350. He made it sound so simple that we hired him on the spot, and within a few days the tree was gone. Once again, we were in compliance with the provision that commercial logging of old-growth timber should be kept to a minimum in Brookshadow Acres.

While we were outside and looking up, we also noticed that the gutters meant to collect rainwater from our roof had become packed full of fallen autumn leaves. I could scale a ladder and waste a perfectly good Saturday afternoon digging decayed biomass out of the trough, or I could pay someone to do it. Much as I might enjoy the satisfaction of going elbow-deep into a 30-yard tube of acorns, mud and squirrel remains, I’d rather hire some poor bastard who does this for a living.

I noticed that our next-door neighbor recently had some gutter maintenance done on his home by a company called Guardian Gutters. I took down the phone number and set up an appointment for the next day to meet with a gutter professional.

Mike arrived promptly at 2 p.m. and barged into our sunroom with the breezy confidence of a well-polished salesman. He admired our decor, repeated my name frequently to show that he had remembered it, admired the decor again and remarked that — imagine the coincidence! — his wife was also named Beth. He had already launched into his carefully practiced sales pitch when I reminded him that the gutters were affixed to the exterior of the house, something you’d think a pro would know. I ushered him back outside, where I felt it’d be easier for me to run away if things got out of hand.

We stood shivering in a cold breeze as he began his presentation. The modern roof is the culmination of eons of trial-and-error by ancestors looking for the ideal way to shelter themselves from the elements, he said. Early dwellings were often covered only with twigs or animal hides, and did a poor job of protecting residents. The caves of the Neanderthal provided better protection, but since the collapse of the grotto bubble with the recession of 1 million B.C., these were generally outside the price range of most primitive families.

“If you look right up under here,” he directed, “you’ll see this long panel of wood stretching the length of your house. This is called the ‘eaves.’ Attached to the eaves is a strip that we call the ‘fascia,’ and it’s behind here that poor gutter work can lead to trouble.”

“And you can fix that?” I interrupted. “You can clean those things out for me?”

“Well, no,” he chuckled. “These gutters you currently have are going to require constant maintenance. We sell a far superior product called the Guardian Gutter, and we’re the only contractor in the area that offers this patented technology.”

While I had originally been interested only in having my gutter cleaned, I’d be open to the idea of getting a replacement that would free me from fascia-related worry. But I was getting cold, and he was getting nowhere near the bottom line of what his company’s work might cost me.

“If you notice that small bit of separation right there along the edge, you can see why the French aristocracy first used gutters in the early 18th century,” he continued. “Now, if we walk around to the front of the house…”

“Look,” I interrupted. “I’m kind of interested in wrapping this up pretty quickly. Is there any way you could hit just the high points for me in about 10 or 15 minutes?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I want to make sure you and your wife understand fully the value we offer with our product. We can finish this exterior inspection in probably 20 to 30 minutes, but then I’ll need another hour or so inside to lay out all the options we’re prepared to offer you.”

“Can you at least just tell me the price before we go any further?” I pressed.

“No, I can’t really do that without you knowing our features thoroughly,” he said. “If I told you right now that it would cost — say, $8,000 — you wouldn’t be able to appreciate all that your money would buy.”

Eight thousand dollars? I thought in italic. I’m not paying that kind of money to make sure rainwater is corralled down a drain spout unencumbered by putrefied leaves. I had obviously gotten in over my head, and needed to explain to this guy that I wasn’t prepared to make such a big investment, neither in thousands of dollars nor in hours of study about the history of modern roof drainage.

I would just have to explain that I misunderstood what his company offered, thank him for his time, and send him on his way.

“I’m sorry, we had an emergency visit to the hospital last night and I’m still a little distracted,” I lied. “My daughter was diagnosed with an immune-deficiency disorder, and I’m not going to be able to allow you in the house. Sorry.”

A salesman of this caliber, however, was not about to take “no” for an answer.

“Perhaps I could return at a more convenient time,” he offered. “While you’re thinking it over, let me show you this list of satisfied customers in the area. We have pages of names and phone numbers in here, and I would encourage you to call several of these folks to hear for yourself how they feel Guardian Gutters have made all the difference for them.”

“Okay, okay,” I relented. “Maybe we could have you back next week. Maybe Carla’s immunity will have returned by then, God willing.”

“Great,” he said, and dialed his home office to officially set up another appointment for 2 p.m. Monday.

Be sure to read tomorrow’s post, in which I describe how I call and cancel the appointment at the last minute.

My clogged gutter: A shame I may have to live with

Cleaning out some old pictures

I’m told our home computer is getting too full, that it has memory problems. Since I can relate to both of these issues on a personal level, I told my wife and son — the two resident computer experts in my home — that I’d do what I can to help.

I haven’t noticed any performance concerns myself. I looked behind the monitor to see if any bits or gigs had overflowed out the back and, unless they look exactly like common household dust or small dead spiders, I didn’t see anything. I have noticed a slight bulging in the tower but attribute that to the Reuben sandwich I accidentally inserted into CD-writer slot when I got confused at lunch one day.

Response times still seem quick enough for the programs I use, even a little too fast sometimes: I barely have enough time to feel triumphant about laying down a ”VULVA” in Scrabble before my computer opponent counters with a “QUIXOTIC”. Not only am I suddenly down 87 points, but I’m reminded of my own quixotic quest for the vulva.

As far as I can tell, the system’s memory is fine. I tell it to save a file in subfolder “STUFF” inside subfolder “BLOG” inside subfolder “DAVIS” inside subfolder “MY DOCUMENTS”, and it’s I who can’t remember where to find it, not the computer.

Beth said she needed to “de-frag” or “de-frog” or “de-something” the system to consolidate files and free up more storage capacity. I told her to go for it, as long as she wore one of those bomb suits like in The Hurt Locker in case shrapnel suddenly erupted from the keyboard. Or frogs.

What I could do to help, I was told, was to get rid of all the photos I’ve taken over the past two years for use in my blog. There were also some other pictures that might be worth saving that I could offload onto a ”thumb drive,” though somebody’s going to have to tell me which slot I need to stick my thumb in to make this happen.

It was kind of fun going through all the pictures I’ve collected. Many can be easily deleted, as soon as I figure out what I was thinking when I took a picture of a featureless patch of grass. Others represent fond memories of family life: a wedding picture of me and my wife, my son’s graduation from elementary school, the time our cat thought it would be fun to go for a swim in the toilet. Still others are from my business trips overseas.

There were a few I felt deserved one more chance in the light of day before they were consigned to the trash bin icon of history. And so, I present those here.

Then I right-click and I select “delete.”

 

This is a bunch of garbage. You might immediately recognize the soiled mattress and the rolled-up carpet, but it takes a discerning eye to pick out the broken office chair in the back. Why I would take a picture of garbage, I don’t recall.

 

That’s me, enjoying a 2007 vacation to New York City. You can tell what a wonderful time I’m having by the crossed arms and the sidelong grimace. When the city workers to my left finishes painting the fire hydrant, he’ll begin work on my gigantic walking shorts.

 

This is the office where I worked in Sri Lanka training a team of outsource proofreaders. I still recall my first lesson with this group of eager young office workers: “DOITRIGHTTHE” is four separate words, not one.

 

This is a mountain bike my wife won in a drawing. We thought it was a regular bike, so we don’t use it, except to take up space in our sunroom. I’d like to donate it to some deserving youngster who lives in a mountainous region — perhaps in wartorn Afghanistan — but I have no idea how to do that. I suppose I could sell it on eBay, but I don’t know how to do that either.

 

During one trip to an Asian nation that will remain anonymous, I encountered this sign in the men’s room. Note the mortification on the face of the worker who peed himself, and the stern condemnation from the supervisor who points out his error. It’s management techniques like these that have catapulted the powerhouse economies of the East right past the U.S.

 

In Hong Kong, a street vendor of meats and meat byproducts proudly displays his inventory. “How are the pig colons today?” I ask. “Only average,” he replies. “The elk diaphragm, however, is most excellent.” In the end, I opted instead to vomit on a side street.

 

Speaking of disgusting masses of sagging flesh, enjoy this world’s worst self-portrait as I wade in the waters of Subic Bay, near Manila. Moments after this shot was taken, we were hit by a simultaneous volcano and civil insurrection.

Trying to figure out the new cell phone

Often, I’ll write about being flummoxed by new technology.

When I first started this blog over three years ago, I wrote that one of the slots on the side of my laptop must be malfunctioning because twenties were not flowing out, like is supposed to happen when you have a blog.

When I discovered Wikipedia, I thought it was an online shopping site. I tried to buy three Christmas presents for my uncles there: Flucindole, a never-marketed antipsychotic drug; an Australian Wood Duck; and a Chartered Economic Analyst (ChEA).

I’ve told of the time I mistakenly recited my fast-food order into a trash can that I thought was the speakerbox interface to the order-taker.

“Ha, ha,” as we say in the humor business. “Very funny.”

Today, that is not my theme, although you’d think it would be considering that I bought a new cell phone on Monday. Today, I get to describe my mastery over at least a small sliver of the Digital World.

My old phone was so ancient that Motorola was still a respected producer of handheld sets at the time it was made. I had the Razr, a state-of-the-art device for about a month back in 2005. It had all the latest features, including a camera, internet access and text messaging. Some telecommunications analysts were even reporting you could make phone calls on it.

What I fell in love with was the text messaging. No more phone calls. No more “Hi, how are you?”, “Fine, how are you?”, “Fine. How’s the wife and kids?”, “They’re fine. How about your family?”. Now, telephonic communication could be done in a direct, efficient, soulless manner.

And the bonus was, you got to typeset. I love typesetting, as my 35-year career in the business can attest. Now I could do it anywhere.

The problem with the Razr is that it has one of those old-fashioned keypads with three or four letters to a key, so to type something like the word “feces,” you had to punch different buttons 35 times, complete with occasional pauses. I might like typing and I might like the word “feces,” but that amount of time and effort was ridiculous. The more I got into text messaging, the more I realized I needed one of those slide-out QWERTY keyboards.

When we went to the local wireless provider, my wife and son helped me consider the dozens of sets on display. My primary criteria were that my new phone have a user-friendly keyboard and be less than $100, after mail-in rebate, with a two-year contract renewal, today only. Because I have a heavy swipe finger, I also would’ve chosen to avoid touch-screen technology if that were possible, but apparently it is not.

We settled pretty quickly on the Pantech Ease. Pantech is a South Korean company that has a long tradition in the telecommunications industry, going back to at least April. The Ease is one of their most popular models.

I cracked open both the phone and the Quick Start Guide as soon as I got home, and started noodling around with the features. A certain long-tenured female in my family believed that I should read the 200-page User Guide cover-to-cover (including the last half, which was upside down and written in Spanish) to figure out how it worked. I made a different choice, and basically just started pushing random buttons.

I looked occasionally at the one-sheet overview and for some reason, a certain phrase caught my eye.

“Ease is about options. You can get quick access to the features you need in easy-to-use, easy-to-read Easy Mode,” read one paragraph. My son noticed all these “easy” references too, and made a succinct observation.

“What you’ve got there, Dad, is one step up from a Jitterbug,” he said. I think he’s probably right.

Reading further, we saw other clues that confirmed this suspicion. In a segment on mobile email, the sample address is “silverfox2″. The Cool Tools section describes how to use the “pill reminder,” a kind of alarm to prompt you to remember your heart medicine. This feature even comes with a “snooze feature” to give you an extra 15 minutes in case you’ve already passed out from your bout with angina. A box describing the available accessories called the Velcro belt-attached carrying case “fashionable.”

That doesn’t mean it didn’t take me a while to master the Ease’s rather limited offerings. I’ve spent the last 24 hours puzzling through the different screens and have figured out how to send a text, how to text a picture, how to shoot video and how to send an email from my phone to my office. With an attachment. I think that’s pretty impressive.

My studies haven’t come without some trial and error. I wanted to see if I could receive video, so I asked my son to make a short film of what our three cats were up to yesterday morning and send it to me at work. It came through loud and clear. Too loud, in fact, as I couldn’t find the volume button and when I did it wasn’t very responsive.

“Kitty, kitty, kitty,” rang a high-pitched chant audible throughout the department.

“What’s that?” snapped Regina over in customer service. “There better not be a cat in here.”

When I woke up at 4 a.m. earlier that morning to get ready for work, I grabbed the phone from my dresser and apparently hit the “Say A Command” button on the side of the device.

“Say a command,” instructed a woman’s voice in a stern but friendly tone.

I was only half awake during all this after maybe five hours sleep, and you can probably imagine how aback I was taken with this middle-of-the-night directive. I thought I was caught in the midst of some S&M-themed dream. Fortunately, the Ease’s voice-recognition software didn’t know what to make of the command “Wuh? Huh? Shit! Ouch!” as I stumbled through the dark. I’ll have to come back to this feature later.

I really think I’m going to like this cell phone. There’s still a lot to be learned, so I am starting to make my way through the large User Guide. I’ve already learned you can toggle over from the Easy Mode home screen to an Advanced Mode display with three pages of apps icons if you want to attempt things like mobile social net, mobile banking and mobile web. Frankly, though, I have enough trouble doing those things standing still.

The only thing I miss so far about my old Motorola Razr was the resounding metallic thunk it made when you were done with your telecommunications business. It made me feel important and plugged-in to the larger world. People standing nearby would look admiringly at me, whispering to their friends “Hey, that guy’s got a cell phone!”

Sliding the QWERTY keyboard soundlessly back into position after firing off a text doesn’t draw anybody’s attention. But maybe, if I keep studying hard, I’ll find there’s a feature to record everyday sounds, and I can capture the sound of my slammin’ Razr for use as a ringtone.

Out with the old …

… In with the new

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 is “BRP,” pronounced “burp.” If you’re going to “burp a job,” you’re not going to hold it on your shoulder and pat its back; instead you’re going to run the blackline removal program.

 

When we’re traveling on business, coworkers will often ask each other at dinner whether a particular expense is “RBE-able”. The RBE is the “refundable business expense,” and applies to travel costs like food, taxi trips and lodging expenses, though not Spectravision, massages and bootleg DVDs bought on the streets of Hong Kong.

 

Lastly, there’s a step called the “notice of completion,” or the “NOC” (pronounced “knock”). This happens when we’ve finished work on a particular document and we send a notification to other offices that it’s ready for them to print. I was working on several related documents at once not too long ago, and wanted to get help from others in my office who could take care of this step. The unfortunate way I phrased the question, however, was “can I get some NOC-ers?”

 

The incredible thing is that nobody laughed.

 

Don’t shoot til you see the whites of my eyes

Just when I thought I was starting to get over this brutal bronchial cold that I’ve had for the last week, I awoke Friday morning with the feeling that my left eye was stuck shut. It didn’t seem that alarming at first, in part because by “Friday morning” I mean 1:10 a.m. Friday morning when I was called in early to work. At that hour of the day, I’m usually not that surprised by an orifice that won’t open.

When I arrived at work I realized that proofreading was something you needed well-functioning eyes to perform. I faked my way through most of the day by answering “looks good to me,” a pretty non-committal judgment of whether something is right or not. I didn’t want to speculate too openly about my affliction because I feared it was a highly contagious condition, which wouldn’t go over too well after I’ve been coughing so loudly into the office coffeemaker all week.

After work I went online to WebMD to research “pink eye.” It’s also called conjunctivitis, which I would’ve guessed was a grammatical malfunction rather than something affecting your vision. Pink eye is a redness and swelling of the mucous membrane that lines the eyelid and eye surface. The membrane is normally clear but will become red if irritation or infection occurs. Though relatively common and minor, it is so highly contagious that it’s been known to sweep through an entire kindergarten class in just a dozen or so hours.

There are several kinds of conjunctivitis, the most fearsome being viral and bacterial. WebMD was thorough enough to run some really gross photographs of both conditions, and the main difference seemed to be in the amount of yellowish “matter” that was seeping out from the edges of your eye holes. I had rather minimal matter compared to the poor sick bastards shown in the slide presentation, though it was still enough that I probably needed to return to the same doctor I had just visited only two days before. So I called his office and left a message asking his nurse to give me a call.

When Anna called, I briefly spelled out my situation and she proceeded to ask how my heart was. I was confused and more than a little concerned, as WebMD had not mentioned any potential cardiac involvement with pink eye. It sounded unlikely that a little eye inflammation would work its way halfway down your body to your heart muscle, but ever since I heard that cavities can cause arterial clogging, I’m ready to believe almost anything.

“I think you probably ought to come in right away, Frank.”

“This isn’t Frank,” I answered. “This is Davis.”

“Hang on. I think I have the wrong chart. Let me call you right back.”

Once we had our patients and their conditions straight (Frank is to heart transplant as Davis is to minor bronchitis), she still wanted to see me – what doctor is going to sneeze at a $109 office visit in this economy? – so I went in the next afternoon.

Dr. Johnson was able to see me quickly on a quiet Saturday. He remembered my Wednesday visit and that I had just started a week-long regimen of antibiotics, and had me jump up on the examining table to get a good close look at my eye. He agreed that the parts that should be white instead had become pink, but was a little evasive as to whether I had a pink eye rather than the pink eye, which seemed like an important distinction to me. And more importantly, would I have to use eyedrops? (Because I really hate eyedrops.) Are you sure I have to use eyedrops?

The antibiotics I was already taking were going to help, but a prescription for eyedrops was still necessary. It wasn’t that I’d had a particularly bad experience in the past with drops; it’s just that I had no experience with them at all. The logistics of the application didn’t seem that difficult if you could just will yourself to keep your eye open while an unknown and possibly caustic fluid was dripped directly onto your eyeball. It shouldn’t be that hard to miss getting them in the right spot, since you had to be looking directly at the nozzle of the small bottle anyway. But what if there had been a pharmacist error? What if, instead of Gentamicin Sulfate Ophthalmic Solution USP 0.3% (sterile), he had accidentally given me Mountain Dew?

I carefully read the label to make sure I could be ready to experience any of the rare side effects that were observed in test subjects. I took particular note of the warning that these drops were “not for injection into the eyeball,” as if that were something I would consider allowing even in my wildest nightmares. Then I steeled myself, and went to ask my wife if she would do it for me.

Beth, a veteran of years of contact lens use, was kind enough to help. I figured anybody who could slide tiny slivers of razor-sharp glass under their eyelids on a regular basis would be able to handle a few drops and, sure enough, she did an excellent job. I had two applications four hours apart on Saturday evening, then got an overnight break (“do NOT administer drops while sleeping,” the package had warned), then got another dose early Sunday before heading off to work. The problem now: how would I get the dose I’d need in the middle of my eight-hour workday?

“Is there anyone in the office today you know well enough to ask for help?” Beth wondered.

I’m thinking you’d have to know someone pretty damn well to ask them to put drops in your eye, but maybe I’m just old-fashioned. I certainly wasn’t going to ask any of my female coworkers, even though they’d be far more likely to know what they were doing. Besides, it seems like you’d need to dismiss yourself to the closest thing a modern office has to a surgical suite, which in our case would be the men’s room. I did know that Bob was going to be working with me today, and I knew that he was a grandfather and, as such, had probably done some pretty invasive things to relative strangers.

Still, I didn’t relish wondering what everybody else would be thinking as Bob and I headed off to the bathroom together, non-descript plastic bag in hand. Once inside, we’d have the privacy we needed, though I knew it was possible to hear conversations from the hallway. What if someone overheard us make the following innocent remarks?

“Look up at the ceiling so I can make sure it goes in the right way.”

“Are you sure you can’t open any wider?”

“Sorry, I think I dripped a little onto your cheek.”

In the end, Beth was kind enough to stop by my office during one of her mid-morning chores and give me the dose I needed. Two drippings later it’s Monday morning, and I think I see the whites of my eyes returning.

I definitely prefer having white eye to pink eye.

Fake News: North Dakota still a disaster area

WASHINGTON (March 30) – President Barack Obama said today that his pronouncement last week that North Dakota be declared a disaster area in the wake of widespread flooding in the region will be left open-ended.

Sources close to the president said he decided on the move after coming to the conclusion it would be easier to assume the state is always a disaster area. Future declarations on the subject will come only in those relatively rare cases when the state is not suffering from some awful natural calamity.

“So, he’ll just have to announce periodically that, for a few days at least, North Dakota is not a disaster area,” the source said. “Otherwise, the standing assumption is going to be that it is.”

The state saw a near-record crest on the Red River over the weekend after an early spring thaw had combined with heavy rains to the south to inundate parts of Fargo and surrounding counties. The flooding was complicated by ice dams north of town that contributed to the river’s backup. But as rain gave way to blizzard conditions a few days later, the excess water again froze in place, at least temporarily delaying another catastrophe.

“Look,” the president told a group of reporters as he headed to the Marine One helicopter. “If it’s not a flood, it’s a blizzard; if it’s not a blizzard, it’s a drought; if it’s not a drought; it’s just everyday life in a hellhole. The status quo is ruinous, so I’m not going to waste my time declaring a new state of emergency ever y other week. I’ll let you know if and when the place ever becomes habitable again.”

Pathetic scenes of entire towns gathered to fill sandbags only to see them frozen solid and cracked a few hours later apparently had little effect on the president. Nor did equally depressing images of dark slush-filled streets dotted with stoic people in at least six layers of clothing shuffling about as a fresh snow fell around them. Bare tree limbs, grey skies and the occasional brown patch in an otherwise covered snowfield instead reinforced the belief that you had to be nuts to live there.

Privately, the president wonders why the country needs two Dakotas anyway. Many geologists have long argued that North Dakota is actually a “vestigial Dakota” that long ago lost its use, much like the human tailbone. At the very least, sources said, Obama thinks it’s comparable to your second kidney and could easily be donated to Canada, perhaps in return for some beaver pelts.

As a new storm system swept over the northern Plains, high winds were expected by Wednesday throughout much of the region. The winds will likely combine with heavy icing to topple trees onto power lines, leaving most of the state without electricity.

“See, I told you,” said White House spokesman Joe Perino. “We’re not going to trot the president out again for this one, especially since he’s preparing so hard for his trip to Europe. The disaster-area declaration from last week works just as well for flooding as it does for wind damage.”

Overheard, whether I wanted to or not

There’s a popular website I visit every now and then called “Overheard in New York.” It takes the snippets of conversation heard from passing strangers throughout the city and publishes them, completely out of context. Some are intentional witticisms, though most are based on the speaker’s cluelessness, lack of common sense or downright stupidity.

I’ve collected some similar fragments from my daily interactions and am posting them here today. Some are from my office while others may have come from the gym, the coffee shop or the grocery store. Virtually all will make you fear for the future of any democracy that’s intended to survive on the basis of the intelligence of its citizenry.

“I’m going to be late today. I have to put the bunny back in the box.” – Phone call from tardy employee.

“Did you hear that Harry Potter died?” – Actually, it was a minor actor from the movie.

“Anybody order Chinese food?” – Announcement made when Asian repairman from Xerox buzzes for entrance.

“He’s really sick. I think he has bronco-itis.” – Someone confusing my recent illness with an inflammation of the horse.

“I hate that we’re having six more weeks of winter.” – Said on Groundhog’s Day by someone who believed annual appearance of the groundling was a scientifically proven indicator of when cold weather would be ending each year.

“’House’ was in that movie.” – An endorsement of a new animated film featuring the voice of actor Hugh Laurie, who also stars in TV’s “House.”

“My new puppy is so cute. He’s a Staffordshire Bull Terrier.” – Said by someone who didn’t realize they’d accidentally adopted a pit bull.

“I saw that Apple guy on ‘Dancing with the Stars.’ Bill Gates?” – No, it was Apple cofounder Steve Wozniak.

“I heard about how vaccines can cause artistic children.” – No again. First of all, it’s “autistic” children, and second of all, it’s proven to be untrue.

“And John’s name is Jim, right?” – Confusion over proper names versus nicknames on company’s internal messaging system.

“They got $180 billion in bailout money and gave out $165 billion of it in bonuses.” – Oral report on AIG scandal, reflecting confusion between “million” and “billion.”

“She’s all baby.” – Said about a coworker’s daughter-in-law who hadn’t gained much weight so far in her pregnancy.

“Did you see that thing about what happens when you put Mentos in Coke?” – A discussion of the YouTube video quoted about a year after everyone else was talking about it.

“I’m going to be late today. It’s cold.” – A mid-winter tardiness excuse.

“That one I got when I fell off a ladder. It was only a bad sprain; the doctor said I was too tough to break a bone. And that one’s from when I stepped on a leech.” – From discussion in YMCA locker room about the source of all the scars on an old guy’s legs.

“Just give me a call if there’s anything I can do to help you.” Then, five minutes later: “Yeah, I just finished talking with Sue. She’s looking for a job. She will NEVER get hired with that background.” – Sympathetic but eventually mean man in business suit after meeting a former coworker in the coffee shop.

“I wonder if Rick could Photoshop Jessica’s head onto Gabriella’s body.” – Doting mom making plans for her “High School Musical”-crazed daughter’s birthday.

“I like the shower curtain where you can see through part of it … I like that. I want one of those.” – From a spirited discussion of bathroom accessories.

“Yesterday on Oprah they were talking about children who had been neglected. One little girl lived in a dollhouse. Poor thing.” – From a wrap-up of the previous day’s talk show highlights.

“You have to apply for a copyright. There’s a special agency in the U.S. government where you have to apply for a copyright.” – Discussion of business law.

“I’m going potty.” – Giving a reason why a particular project will have its start time slightly delayed.

“I bought a double towel thing … it’s silver … I got it on clearance a long time ago … it’s still in the box … I love it.” – But apparently not enough to actually install and use it.

“I do declare. I might could fix you right up, sugar.” – Improbably proud Southerner laying it on thick to New Yorker on the phone.

“We went to Sam’s and Juliette loved those things. I got me a banana, I got me a English muffin.” – Report on a recent mother-daughter shopping trip.

“I have decided I want a magical eight ball for my living room.” – Announcement of the latest interior decoration decision.

“I did buy a huge thing of detergent and it had this pour spout. I hadn’t got stocked up on canned goods or anything like that. Tom likes to buy a big piece of meat, and then he’ll cut it up. I do buy the big things of Folgers because that’s cheaper. I really don’t have much that’s close to me where I’m at, except Food Lion. I buy frozen chicken breasts and I just pull them out and thaw them … I love that.” – Wide-ranging discussion of another shopping trip and its various outcomes.

“Look at the postcards! Look at the postcards! Aren’t they just the most darling?” – No, they’re not. They’re trite and stupid and cheap-looking. Please don’t talk about them anymore because we’re tired of hearing about them.

 

Fake News: Nancy Grace loses pencil

ATLANTA (April 2) – CNN talk show host Nancy Grace reported yesterday that a pencil is missing from her desk and that police tell her she should assume it has been snatched.

Grace, the popular TV personality best known for her nonstop coverage of Caylee Anthony and other missing-children cases, said she believes the pencil was forcibly removed from her office some time during the overnight hours between last Monday and Tuesday. It was last seen by her secretary Monday evening after Grace gave up halfway through the USA Today crossword puzzle when she couldn’t get the five-letter word for a “savage, monstrous, winged female.”

“I will not rest until I get all the facts in this case and that pencil is returned to me,” Grace announced in her trademark overbearing tone. “It’s a part of my desk-set family and should not have been so callously ripped from its home.”

Grace described the missing pencil as a Ticonderoga 1388-2/HB with soft lead. It had been sharpened down to about half its original size, and significant parts of the eraser had been worn away.

“There’s was just a little curl of loosened rubber at the top,” Grace said. “It was such a cute, little pencil, so undeserving of such a horrible, twisted fate.”

Producers of Grace’s show released a grainy videotape of the host using the pencil to take notes as she observed parents attending the birthday party of her niece last year. The pencil seems to have several teeth marks along the length of its yellow body, but Grace denies there’s been any history of abuse.

“I took care of that pencil like it was my own child,” Grace said. “Except for the occasions when I forced it into a mechanical grinder to shred off enough wood so I could expose more graphite.”

Police sources report there was evidence in Grace’s office that the pencil may have violently resisted its apparent kidnapping. Random markings were found at several locations on the wall, though one detective admitted those could’ve been ideas Grace was brainstorming for future episodes of her show.

Police also said that Grace’s secretary was not considered a suspect in the case. The woman, identified as Cheryl Wertz, does not appear to have any criminal record. Grace said, however, that at this point in the investigation, “we’re not considering anybody as above suspicion.”

Later in the day, Atlanta police issued an “Ambling Alert,” warning that it was likely Grace would be talking on and on about the missing pencil on tonight’s show, and that viewers are advised to avoid the area.

 

Website Review: RockHill.com

I’ve lived in the same small South Carolina town for almost 30 years now. How a sophisticate like me ended up here is a long story. Still, Rock Hill is not a bad place to raise a family and have a happy life.

Its biggest advantage, even as described in its own self-promotional literature, is not what it is but what it’s near. It’s only a two-hour drive from the Blue Ridge Mountains and a three-hour drive from the beach. It’s 15 miles south of the big city of Charlotte, N.C., and about 30 miles beneath the shining city of Bible-Belt Heaven. It’s close in many ways to being a typical Southern hick town populated by Men with Necks of Red, and yet a population of over 60,000, the presence of Winthrop University, and the aforementioned proximity to a real city get it at least to the twentieth century if not the twenty-first.

This modernity is reflected in its website — www.ci.rock-hill.sc.us – which I’ll mock in this week’s Website Review.

The home page includes a welcome from our doughy mayor, the honorable Doug Echols, who describes us as a place “where the excitement of progress and quality of life blend to form a unique city,” which probably just about any burg can claim. Featured pages nearby show how we’re looking to the future, both the nearby one where all homes will have the “YardCart” to collect shrub trimmings, or the more-distant one outlined in the 2035 Long Range Transportation Plan, when city trash trucks are powered by giant windmills on their hoods and the sanitation workers hover about in jet packs.

The “About Us” section gives a short history of the town and how that history has been preserved, sort of. The name is derived from a perhaps-apocryphal story of rail crews working on the Charlotte to Augusta line in 1852 and struggling with the excavation of a small, flinty area, which they dubbed “Rock Hill.” (I guess we could’ve just as easily ended up being “Stone Nob,” “Boulder Mount” or “Broke My Damn Shovel.”) The railroad brought business to the region, which incorporated as a village in 1892. The growth that has happened since is symbolized at the Gateway intersection with four statues holding circular emblems to signify Gears of Industry, Flame of Knowledge, Stars of Inspiration and Lightning Bolt of Energy, and a couple of stone columns salvaged from an old bank in Charlotte.

Once you get past these opening introductions, the site gives a good overview into the internal workings of a modern American town. There’s a list of the boards and commissions, including the cemetery committee, the gas and mechanical board and the always-popular plumbing and cross connection advisory board. There are minutes to these meetings – for example, you can find that the January 21 traffic commission session had everyone welcomed at 10:05 a.m., and that the panel was looking at strengthening a “no parking” sign on Ebenezer Avenue with the additional warning of “towing enforced.” No word yet on whether the February agenda might’ve included adding “seriously – we mean it” to the sign.

Elsewhere is a Frequently Asked Questions section that reads like it was harvested from a log of complaints by a group of particularly whiny citizens. “Why hasn’t my trash been picked up?” gives an opening to discuss how that depends on the type of trash – debris versus garbage versus junk versus refuse versus rubbish. “This carpet and padding has been on the street for two weeks” is answered with the address of the county convenience center, formerly known as the dump. “I have one driveway but want another one” is patiently addressed with a policy statement of how the city is only responsible for one entranceway per home. “I have four children at home and can’t afford another rollcart” brings a plug for recycling as one way to reduce waste output but stops short of suggesting how to cut back on the quantity of kids.

There’s also a nice link to a complete listing of municipal ordinances that help to keep a city and its people civilized. “The city council” – apparently doing public health research in its spare time – “has found that smoking poses a significant risk to the health of smokers” and so smoking or carrying a lighted cigarette is prohibited, except by performers in any theatrical production. I guess that explains the recent production of “Our Town” with an all-smoking cast and audience.

Section 6 is a little something for the town’s animal population, making it unlawful to maliciously cut, shoot, maim, wound or otherwise injure or destroy any animal, then goes on to cite a number of creative ways this might be done. Animals and “fowl other than cats” are not permitted to run at large or to fight within the city (I’m going to have to inform my own cats about this one, lest their pre-dinner tussles land me in jail). No person shall keep any live chickens, geese, ducks or turkeys inside any building where food is exposed for sale. It is unlawful for any cow, hog, goat, sheep, horse or mule to run at large within the city limits or to copulate on any public street. (The emu and llama, apparently, are given free range to do as they please.) The keeping of any hog or pig creates “noxious odors and atmospheric pollution or contamination offensive to the senses and obnoxious to the general welfare and comfort of the community” and so too is banned.

Back on the subject of humans, there are ordinances that forbid climbing on or damaging fences and shrubs in city cemeteries. Also, no unauthorized person shall open any closed cemetery gate. Eerily, there is no mention of illegality with regard to the toppling of gravestones or the disinterment of crypts, perhaps as a concession to our powerful local zombie lobby. It is unlawful to play or loiter on railroad tracks, nor can you attempt to board any railroad car in motion (hobo lobby not as powerful, I guess). Nuisance trees are defined and warned to behave themselves, as are “porta-pot” contractors, who are limited in the amount of effluent being they can dump into the sewer system.

Finally, I looked at the website’s list of core values for the city. These are usually the high-minded aspirations of how civic leaders see their communities rising to the challenges of a diverse and modern America. When I saw an “en Espanol” pulldown, I was hoping these values would also be shown in Spanish, which is close enough to Latin to make them sound even more honorable. Instead, that section was only one page that talked about something called “lucrativa que ofrece”, which if my high-school Spanish serves me has to do with bribing somebody’s mouth.

So instead, I’ll mention a few in plain English: the city should operate as a multimillion-dollar business, it cannot exist in isolation, its young people represent our future, its employees are its greatest asset, and it will conduct business in an atmosphere where all opinions are welcomed, even the crazy people who make it a practice to attend city council meetings.

All worthy goals befitting today’s civic website.

Comments from the readers

This weekend marks the six-month anniversary of my adventure in blogging. It was on September 1 last fall that I started an alpha version of this site on a rival service (rhymes with “blognot”). Early posts were primitive, sporadic and mostly involved indiscriminate rants about my work life. In mid-November, following a WordPress conference in Charlotte, I launched this blog, which has now been daily without fail since December 15.

I thought one fun way to honor the date would be to respond to some of the very generous comments made by my readers. As of yesterday afternoon, I’ve received over 300 comments on my 150 posts (6,444 total views, but who’s counting?). Here are a few of my favorites, with a brief response where appropriate:

This (post) is real, right?

Yes, it’s real, or at least as much as anything on the Internet can be real. Obviously, the “Fake News” installments are complete figments of my imagination. Much of the rest, though, is what I like call based on a true story. Otherwise, even my friends would sue me.

Wouldn’t it be fun to install some kind of stupidity sensor chip in our brain and have it root through everything we’ve ever said looking for the crassest, most cringe-worthy comments we’ve ever made?

Fun? Not the adjective I would choose. Definitely interesting, though.

Canada already has Manitoba.

Yes, that’s true. Thank you for that observation.

I don’t want to hear about (an orifice that won’t open). Do you understand?

Technically, you didn’t “hear” it from me, unless you have some kind of read-aloud software you use to read blogs. And if that’s the case, that’s really quite sad. But yes, I do understand, and it won’t happen again.

You damn blindy.

The politically correct term I was taught back in college is “blind-o” (as in “lame-o,” “deaf-o,” etc.).

You can’t administer eyedrops? That’s kind of like not being able to use a spoon or put on socks properly.

I’m intrigued by your examples. After I wash and dry my socks, I typically don’t take the time to sort and pair them properly. My dresser is right next to my bed, and on these cold mornings, the sock drawer is the first thing I reach for when the alarm goes off, so I’m not cold while walking about making coffee, feeding cats, vomiting, etc. And yes, because I do it in the dark, I sometimes make sock-donning errors. I consider it a good start to the day if they’re only mismatched styles rather than accidentally put on the wrong appendage. As for the spoon, I know very well how to use it, as well as the fork, the knife, the spork, the spife and my thungers (the two digits I had surgically fused to my thumb to make finger foods easier to handle).

Since I built a fish a while back, I’ve been creeped out.

I guess so.

Your photographs (of misty mountains, water lilies, etc.) were very good.

For those of you who didn’t get the joke last weekend, I stole those from the generic photo file in Microsoft Office. Don’t tell Bill Gates.

Wow – I almost had to pack a lunch for that one.

Your point is well taken. I realize that some of my posts tend to get a little wordy, but I’m from the old school where a proper essay was about a thousand words, so that’s the number I’m watching in the bottom left-hand corner of my screen. Not the right length for the Twitter generation, I guess, but I am trying to reduce the vast extent of some of my more extravagant pontifications. Sorta.

Have you checked for glandular fever? Epstein-Barr virus? Infectious mononucleosis?

Remind me never again to tell the online world that I’m not feeling well.

I thought you said the post was going to be short. If that is short, next time I will pack a lunch.

Again with the packed lunch? What is this, grade school?

Thank God for my Kegel exercises. My pelvic floor is in great shape.

I’ll take this as a compliment about the sophistication of my humor, but if it’s instead some kind of come-on line, I’ll have to tell you that I know all about Kegeling from our natural childbirth classes 18 years ago, and I don’t appreciate the implication. Or maybe I do.

What are you, some kind of idiot?

The once-accepted classification system for people with learning disabilities is fortunately no longer in use and is now considered offensive, you moron, imbecile, half-wit, numskull, dolt, dunce and/or fool.

Tomorrow, more from the readers.

Comments from the readers, part two

This is part two of a look back at some reader comments I’ve received over the last six months. Yesterday, I tried to make funny responses to each one, but I think today’s comments are good enough to stand on their own. Enjoy.

·         Why do most people think their pet would have an accent?

·         I do not advise eating ice cream.

·         We can have three-legged races in the winter now

·         I snorted coffee up my nose.

·         Did he happen to flush any goldfish down the toilet?

·         Hyenas are one of the most disgusting of God’s creatures on this earth

·         I have spent most of the time dwelling on the fact that I will probably die alone. And I suspect as terrible as this might sound, it will be the smell that finally gives me away.

·         I hope I die in the most unobvious place possible and in a hundred years someone will finally find me and be all surprised and get all curious about who I was and stuff.

·         I seem to be called upon to write in (greeting) cards of people I don’t really know very well or don’t like very much, and that is what I would like to write in the future: “I don’t know you very well or like you very much.”

·         How would you like to unplug your house from your electrical company, knowing that you are 100% powered by nature with renewable energy?

·         None of those count, except maybe Dan Rather.

·         One can’t help wondering if Hitler’s performance appraisal might read something like “Adolf is very committed and persistent in all his endeavors, and his work ethic has enabled him to realize many of the goals he set out in his job plan, Mein Kampf.”

·         I go to the cashier who is moving her hands fastest.

·         I may have soiled myself.

·         I like watching a public beating in public, and the cops aren’t going to show up to ruin the party.

·         Living in Montana we get random comments, things about sheep.

·         I was a big fan of the discontinued no-sugar-added apple cake at Starbucks.

·         I wonder what made you forego your budding career in journalism au natural and enter the world of high finance.

·         I beat Federer in straight sets in Antarctica.

·         I know what you mean about 19.

·         Any semi-competent identity thief knows that no social security number begins with 834. The highest SSN’s begin with 5XX and that’s only for people born in the Philippines.

·         It’s nice to hear someone else experience a haircut.

·         I think I need more advices.

·         My parents wouldn’t even let me say “pee” as a child and now I curse like a truck driver.

·         I shall not be hunting any Parisian squirrels in Jardins des Plants, but I may take my hangover for a walk there later in the day.

 

World’s smallest economies meet

TRENTON, New Jersey (April 5) – Representatives of nations in the B-20 met this weekend in Conference Room Number 2 of the East Brunswick Township Fairmont Suites to talk about the challenges they face as the smallest countries in the world.

The summit of the world’s tiniest states comes in the wake of last week’s meeting of the G-20 in London, where President Obama joined other leaders of the largest economies to discuss global financial matters, the banking crisis, and environmental and security issues. The B-20 group, on the other hand, met to address concerns that they alone share, including where everybody in the country was supposed to sit, and what to do about citizens who can’t seem to keep their hands to themselves.

The B-20 (the “B” stands for “bottom”) group finished their three-day conference late Sunday, and issued a joint communiqué on the results of their discussions.

“We come away from this meeting with many mutual understandings,” said Uday Maranathan, prime minister of the Seychelles (area: 107 sq. mi.; pop.: 69,000; you probably thought it was: French for “seashells”). “We have a fresh resolve to work together to solve our many unique problems.”

Conferees addressed a number of concerns that they face back home, including the issue of rising sea levels among the island nations, the need for a more diverse economic base, and the lack of awareness among much of the world that they even exist.

“I think just the publicity we got from having this meeting will go a long way toward helping us,” said Nelson Johnson, premier of Turks and Caicos (area: 166 sq. mi.; pop.: 30,000; you probably thought it was: a sandwich). “If we can just get more tourism dollars into our economies, that would make a big difference in our gross domestic product.”

The leaders were also looking for ideas on how to improve agricultural techniques among their native farmers so that the nations could move closer to self-sustenance, rather than relying on their larger neighbors for take-out.

“Most of the member states have a severe shortage of dirt,” said Heinrich Schwess, foreign minister of Liechtenstein (area: 62 sq. mi.; pop.: 29,000; you probably thought it was: a Hebrew sausage). “That makes it very hard to grow things. We’re going to be working together as a group to see where we might find some common ground. I hear they might have some at Lowe’s so I’ll be stopping by their lawn and garden center before heading back to my country to pick up several bags.”

Countries that have found a way to maintain at least a small agricultural base are hoping to move away from traditional cultivation of bonsai trees, baby corn and frosted mini-wheats to the kind of plants that can more easily be converted into other products. This would not only aid farmers but also allow a food-processing industry to emerge that could employ those who are unable to work in the fields.

“Tourism and agriculture seem like natural fits for relatively underdeveloped states such as ours,” said Dominic Arazanno, prime minister of San Marino (area: 24 sq. mi.; pop.: 25,000; you probably thought it was: former quarterback of the Miami Dolphins). “But I also think there’s a chance we can support at least a small amount of manufacturing or perhaps even some high-tech research facilities.”

Though most of the B-20 members have populations that are uneducated, there are a few that have a relatively large percentage of their people with a college-level education.

“We’re very proud of the skills that exist in our work force,” said cultural affairs attaché Philippe Ponduro of Malta (area: 122 sq. mi.; pop.: 362,000; you probably thought it was: a kind of milkshake). “Those two kids can really ramp up the production when they have the right incentives.”

Peaceful cooperation among the member states could continue to be a challenge if the league wants to work together to solve all the problems they share. Though they lack any kind of standing army, that didn’t prevent two governments from engaging in a recent skirmish in the south Pacific. Palau (area: 191 sq. mi.; pop.: 16,000; you probably thought it was: rice) and Tuvalu (area: 9 sq. mi.; pop.: 9,700; you probably thought it was: 2007 Ultimate Fighting Champion) fought a bitter battle over rights to large stone located halfway between them. Palau’s rowboat eventually defeated Tuvalu’s three guys in life preservers but not before both sides spent large portions of their national treasuries on the campaign.

“We must make peaceful coexistence our number-one priority,” said B-20 chairman Manaloa Huvanaram, a parliamentarian from Tonga (area: 289 sq. mi.; pop.: 112,000; you probably thought it was: a toy truck). “We shouldn’t even pick on someone our own size.”

One option raised in the communiqué was the possibility that several of the tiny lands could merge to form larger entities. A few that have already tried this option – Antigua and Barbuda (area: 171 sq. mi.; pop.: 83,000; you probably thought it was: two separate countries), and St. Vincent and the Grenadines (area: 150 sq. mi.; pop.: 109,000; you probably thought it was: a doo-wop group from the fifties) – held a convocation Saturday to give tips to the other members. One leader said he’s already made a tentative agreement along these lines to increase the profile of his minuscule nation.

“We had a very promising discussion with (Canadian rock icon) Neil Young, and I think we laid out enough economic incentives for him to consider joining us,” said president Herman Lodgeworth of St. Kitts and Nevis. “If we can rebrand ourselves as ‘St. Kitts, Nevis and Young,’ I think a lot of business leaders will sit up and take notice.”

 

To all my readers in Great Britain

Judging from some of the reader comments I’ve been getting lately, I’ve developed a small following in the United Kingdom. The random insertion of the “u” into their notes – “my neighbour and I endeavour to honour the colourful flavour of your humourous behaviour,” read one recently — indicate to me that either they’ve spilled clotted cream into their laptops or that they come from the mother country, or probably both.

To show our appreciation for all that the English have contributed to our American culture, and to apologize for that whole Queen-touching thing last week, I’ve decided to kick off a new feature of my blog with a tip o’ the hat to the British. Much like I’ve done with my Friday “Website Review” installments, I’ll be periodically reviewing entire nations and giving them a rating based on several key categories.

First, let’s look at a little history of those splendid lands known as the British Isles. The nation we now know as “Eng-land” was first settled in prehistoric times by explorers from China’s Eng Dynasty, who made a seriously wrong turn trying to find Japan. Little is left from this early Asian influence except for an otherwise inexplicable love of weak tea. Over the course of centuries, the Engs migrated to the nation’s midlands, where they changed their name to the more Anglo-sounding “Druids” and made their living off a wild strain of wheat they baked into a hardened material called scones. Each year during the winter solstice, a particularly large scone would be baked to honor their pagan gods, and these were later assembled into what we today call Sconehenge.

The Romans showed up to conquer the parts of the country they could find in the fog not long after the birth of Christ. It would be another millennium before the isles would again be invaded, this time by an army from Normandy under the leadership of William the Conqueror, who like the Engs would leave little lasting evidence of a Normal culture. (William did begin a long tradition of famous Britons who adopted “the” into their names, as later shown by a long line of kings – Edward the First, Richard the Lion-Hearted – as well as infamous murderer Jack the Ripper and glam rockers Mott the Hoople). A few hundred years later, the first recorded pact between a monarch and his people, and between the people and their then-unstable geology, was written and published as the “Magma Carta.” No longer would power flow unchecked from the king, and no longer would lava flow unchecked from British volcanoes.

As the Renaissance flowered across Europe, England too saw a spike in its cultural output. The language’s greatest writer, William Shakespeare, emerged at this time, producing great theatre, sonnets, poetry, screenplays, haiku and a blog that was totally off the hook. His most famous work, Romeo and Juliet (which roughly translates from the Middle English as “Fast and Furious”), has everywhere inspired what he described as “two young lovers with nothing better to do/than sit around the house, get high and watch the tube.” This same atmosphere also saw one of the rare early examples of women in a leadership role as Queen Elizabeth I ruled the realm, in a path made possible by her father, Henry VIII, who had been known instead for putting women on a pedestal, and then cutting their heads off.

Through various military victories around the globe that in retrospect seem hard to believe, the British Empire ascended to the point where the sun never set on it. From Australia to India to Africa and the Americas, viceroys and governors ruled with a keen understanding of what it would take to foment revolution among the locals. We Americans, for example, used a ragtag army of tea-crazed colonists to kick royal British butts off the continent, at least till 1812 when they returned to burn down the White House, which we didn’t care about anyway because James Madison was living there, and nobody liked him, even though his wife Dolly made some great snack cakes, including her Zingers which are way better than any scones.

The “stiff upper lip” of the dour Brits was at its tautest when Germany swept through Europe during World War II and threatened the very shores of England. Seeing their island home under the peril of imminent invasion, citizens of London and elsewhere came together to resist almost nightly fire-bombings in truly heroic fashion. The Nazis were finally pushed back to the continent in what Winston Churchill called Britain’s “finest hour.” (Unfortunately, the war lasted over five years, so the hour was helpful but a little longer would’ve been nice.)

When, by the late twentieth century, the British couldn’t even hang onto the Bahamas, it was obvious the days of empire were over.

Today, Britain flourishes in a more understated manner as the cultural motherland of billions of English-speakers around the world. Modern maps refer to England, Scotland and Wales comprising what we call Britain; if you add in Northern Ireland you then have the United Kingdom, and then throw in Ireland and it’s the British Isles. Plenty confusing, certainly, yet no more so than why it’s still referred to as “Great” Britain. It’s definitely a “Very, Very Good” Britain but the use of a more proud adjective seems a little presumptuous at this stage in history.

I’ve actually been to Britain twice and so would like to offer a few personal impressions. My first trip was in 2003 and was a very brief one. I visited a lovely little traditional village called Gatwick that met all my expectations of what the country life was like: small shops selling hot drinks, newspapers and souvenir umbrellas, lining a narrow street filled with the bustle of Englishmen carrying their wares to market in dark suitcases or loudly beeping mini-trolleys. Every now and then a town crier would announce where those arriving and departing the lovely little settlement were from, and groups of townsfolk would gather in open-air pubs with evocative names like Gate 24A or the Business Class Sky Lounge.

A few years later, I got to spend a whole week in London as part of a business trip. I arrived on a Saturday morning at the St. Gregory Hotel on Shoreditch High Road, just up from Bishopsgate and the heart of the financial district, confusingly called the City. I spent Sunday on a whirlwind sightseeing bus tour, cramming Big Ben, the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, Trafalgar Square, St. Paul’s Cathedral and a thousand years of history into about five hours. I did “hop off” at Buckingham Palace to see the Changing of the Guard, which struck me as an overhyped shift change with all the majesty of the Punching of the Timeclock that happens every day in my office. I tried to ride the Eye, an eyesore of a ferris wheel that got left on the Thames by a bankrupt traveling carnival, but it was broken. I had to work non-stop the rest of the week and so did not get a chance to explore outside the city. But I heard that areas such as Essex, Sussex, Rufsex and Nosex were positively lovely, as were Stratford-upon-Avon, Stoke-on-Trent and Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, though all I got to experience was Howard-on-Margaret, banging the headboard in the hotel room next to mine.

All in all, I’d rate Britain as an undeniable member of the First World of nations, a warm and caring long-time companion of the U.S., a loyal ally of freedom-loving peoples everywhere and a wonderful place to view as the backdrop to a movie. On a scale of one to ten ampersands (which I chose because it’s the keyboard character that most resembles the Isle), I’d rate Britain:

&&&&&&&& (eight ampersands)

 

Fake News: Twittering Octomom? God help us

LOS ANGELES (April 7) — The international community was on high alert yesterday when it was reported that the California woman who recently gave birth to eight babies had acquired the technology for nano-blogging.

It was feared that Nadya Suleman, the so-called “Octomom” who’s been much in the news recently, might begin to use the Twitter social networking site to launch the communication of her every thought to the world.

Families of multiple-birth children were among the first to come forward and express their concern.

“We can’t stand by and let a technology of such terrifying proportions fall into the wrong hands,” said Multiples Against a Twittering Octomom (MATO) spokesman Gerald Levine, who identified himself as a 28-year-old carpenter and septo-dad. “Just the thought of a reference to ‘Octomom’ and ‘Twitter’ in the same sentence should be enough to scare us all into action.”

Levine was joined on the stage of a Beverly Hills hotel conference room by Evelyn Johnson, a legal secretary and sexto-cousin, and by the Hayes quintuplets, Gary, Barry, Larry, Harry and Lucinda.

“We’ve all been through the multiple-birth experience and we know how difficult it can be. There are a lot of mouths to feed, your personal finances are in chaos, and don’t even get me started on the South Koreans,” said Johnson, whose niece gave birth to sextuplets last year. “But if she turns to Twittering, it could raise tensions worldwide and create an international incident. And folks like us don’t want to suffer in the backlash.”

Media experts confirm that the recent onslaught of stories about both the Octomom and the Twitter phenomena have battered news consumers with an endless barrage of trite, pointless and boring reporting. Were these two subjects to be combined into the same story, it could prove to be beyond the capacity of Americans to endure.

“Should the headline ‘Octomom to Twitter’ ever make it onto the newsprint or video screens of this nation, all hell could break lose,” said USC journalism professor Fielding Moore. “The only thing worse would be for her to hire publicists for each of the eight babies so they could do their own individual tweeting.”

Moore paused to compose himself.

“I don’t think that’s a world that any of us would want to live in,” he said, swallowing hard.

Speculation about the Octomom’s intentions grew over the weekend as it became apparent that she had exhausted the interest of just about every other media outlet. A neighbor noticed that she had acquired a Blackberry and appeared to be thumbing a message in her front yard yesterday, while eleven of her children played in traffic nearby.

“She may have just been texting a friend,” said the neighbor, who asked not to be identified. “Someone else asked her about it, and she claimed that’s all she was doing.”

However, spy satellites flying high above the unemployed temp worker’s home, as well as telemetry obtained from her local phone company, appear to confirm she’s about to stage a Twitter test.

“I hope to God that’s not happening,” said Harry Halperin, one of the quintuplets. “I can barely stand my brothers and sister, and that’s just from talking to them. Imagine a world that has a tweeting Octomom. It’s just too horrible to conceive.”

Help me, Honda

So there I sat recently in the waiting room of my local Honda dealer. The oil light came on as I was starting my 2001 Civic the other morning so I guessed it was time for another regularly scheduled maintenance, estimated “with a special we have” to cost me about $120. Funny how they always have those specials going at just the right time.

I’ve been a loyal customer of this same dealer for over 20 years now, so I suppose I trust them to do the right thing. I’ve bought at least six or eight cars over that time, and I’ve always felt obliged to get the service done there, even though I’m sure I’m spending more than I have to. At least I feel they won’t cheat me too badly and, if they do, they’ll do it in a professional and courteous fashion, not like I’ve had done too many times in the past by scruffy half-wits working in their yards.

Part of that extra premium I’m paying goes toward the comfortable waiting room. It looks very much like the break room you might see in any office, though instead of tables to sit at while you eat your lunch there are three rows of attached upholstered chairs. A couple of vending machines line the opposite wall but if you play your cards right, a salesman will treat you to a bag of Doritos for the price of a test drive. The other people currently occupying the room are faced in the general direction of a television playing General Hospital, primarily because no one has the nerve to change the channel. I’m at a counter with my back to the room, alternately sitting in a barstool chair and being afraid I’ll fall from its unstable height. There’s an outlet for my laptop, and more signs and brochures cluttering the surface than I care to read.

If I shift around a little here, I’ll get a look at my fellow patrons. A woman and her daughter were just called back to the cashier’s desk by their service representative, who tells them “everything went well,” much like you’d expect a surgeon to report on how the operation went. That leaves a mom and her young son, an older woman with red shoes and weird earrings, and another woman doing a crossword puzzle who brought her father along for protection from the mechanic/predators.

Hang on a second. I’m being called back to the shop. This could be bad. Please keep me in your prayers.

We pass through an “employees-only” door and my service person asks if I want to borrow her safety goggles for eye protection. I’m good, I say. We maneuver underneath several elevated vehicles to where my car sits exposed on a lift. I avert my eyes, not so much for safety reasons as because I feel I’m looking up someone’s clothes. I bump my head on a tire, but try to pretend I did it on purpose.

My mechanic – “this is Glenn”– calls me over to look at part of the undercarriage. I’m really nervous now, as this is the part where I’m supposed to innately know what I’m looking at just because I was born male. He motions toward a wheely contraption and a belty thing and a moist greasy blob, and starts talking about what looks like an oil leak. I do know enough about auto mechanics to realize that when I hear the word “bad seals,” we’re not talking about misbehaving marine mammals but rather at least $1500 in repairs. Like an abusive father confronted with his child’s bruises in the emergency room, I desperately start trying out excuses.

“When the oil light came on yesterday, I tried to add a quart of oil,” I say. “I may have spilled some around the edge. Could that have caused it?”

“Well, that could be it, I suppose,” says Glenn. He seems disappointed, but my ever-perky customer service rep is as happy with this hypothesis as I am (apparently she’s not on commission).

“I bet that could be it,” says chipper Connie. “I bet you’re right. Yeah, that could definitely be it.”

We all agree that Glenn will clean up the spot, I’ll keep an eye on the driveway underneath my car for oil leaks, and I can return to the waiting room with my son’s college fund still intact.

Man, I didn’t realize how hot these soap opera actresses are. Currently there are three young blondes talking excitedly about something urgent, probably who’s pregnant and who’s not. Extreme close-ups reveal tiny pores and perfect teeth, apparently much easier to maintain than the cheap sets behind them. Just as I’m starting to get an inkling of what’s going on with what passes for a plot, we’re interrupted by the federally mandated thrice-a-day showing of Oprah. “How many people here want to live to be over a 100?” she asks her audience. As the camera pans the crowd, it appears most would rather be getting a free car, but a few sheepishly raise their hands and agree to outlive all their loved ones warehoused in an understaffed rest home.

“Dr. Oz travels to Costa Rica on today’s show to demonstrate how it can be done,” Oprah announces. At first I’m intrigued, but soon realize living that long in Costa Rica also involves back-country poverty, toothless neighbors and smashing my own corn meal.

I spend the rest of my waiting time checking out the brochures that surround me on the counter. I see that my “tires are talking,” trying to tell me about their pressure. I see a factory-style pin-striping offer, which will allow me to have 4-point double rules adhered to the length of my car (cool, I guess). I’m encouraged to ask my dealer about splash protection, a cargo tray, wheel locks, a remote engine starter system and UV protection. Did I know that quality starts from the inside with a Honda Genuine oil filter? I did know that.

Finally, my customer service rep reappears to tell me my car is ready, and I can report to the cashier’s window to settle my bill. As I approach, a young couple arrives from around a blind corner and gets to the counter just ahead of me. I soon realize this could take a while, as they have questions – How can it cost that much? Are you sure there aren’t any discounts we can get? Will you take a check? How much was that again? How do you spell “Honda”?

These sound like the kind of people who could recommend me a good gap-toothed shade-tree mechanic.

 

Fake News: Former execs still keeping busy

NEW YORK (April 7) – Titans of corporate America who have lost their jobs in the current economic downturn may have their golden parachutes to keep them financially secure, but for men whose hard-driving work ethic no longer has an outlet, the transition to retirement can be difficult.

Some of them are taking on new careers that may not provide the monetary incentives they’re used to, yet still put a sense of purpose into their days. We tracked down several of these former masters of the universe to see how they are surviving as, at most, the night manager of a star.

Or, in the case of former General Motors chief executive Rick Wagoner, a Starbucks.

Since his highly visible ouster last month by President Obama, the 30-year GM veteran was able to get on as a second-shift barista at a midtown New York coffee shop. His drive to come up with innovative solutions to satisfy customers seems to be serving him well in his new position.

“Even though my experience is mostly executive, I’ve always had a keen interest in both R&D and in sales,” Wagoner said in an interview during his 15-minute smoke break. “I’m trying to put some new ideas out there so my supervisor might recognize my talent and move me to first shift.”

Wagoner has been suggesting new products that have met some initial resistance from customers. He believes, though, that if the company will continue to offer the products, they will eventually become a success in the marketplace.

“I think I have a pretty good idea of what Americans want from my days at GM,” Wagoner said. “So I’m pushing three new product lines: hot toddies, sassafras soda-pop and, as a seasonal offering for the upcoming summer months, a thick, steaming-hot cup of heavy cream.”

Wagoner said that although he’s learned a valuable lesson from his experience offering car buyers mostly SUVs and Hummers as gas prices soared over $4 a gallon, he’s not going to stray from his core belief that people have to be told what they want.

“I had a guy just an hour ago who begged and begged for a tall light mocha no whip, but I wasn’t going to give in,” Wagoner said. “I was determined to sell him the hot toddy. He finally stormed out and said he was going for some green tea at the Japanese place next door. He’ll be back. Just you wait. You’ll see.”

Meanwhile, across town at an east-side convenience store/gas station, former Merrill Lynch CEO John Thain was sharing a late-night shift with co-worker Habeeb Alawi. Thain worked the cash register behind a thick pane of bullet-proof glass while Alawi hosed down the pavement and watched for drive-offs outside.

Thain famously lost his job at the iconic Wall Street investment firm shortly after it was acquired by Bank of America. Stories soon emerged about Thain’s extravagant spending habits while at Merrill, including over $1 million to redecorate his office.

“I learned some hard lessons in that experience, but I think I’ve come out of it a wiser man,” Thain said through a small metal vent in the glass. “Your priorities definitely change when you’re making $9.50 an hour.”

Thain said that he still enjoys the finer things in life, and that he’s dipped into the $83 million salary he earned in 2007 to make his current work a little more comfortable. The rubber mat he stands on for six hours a day is about twice as thick as standard issue, and he’s gilded the edges with ermine fur and gold plating. And the small cubby hole back behind the men’s room where he stashes his coat and other personal belongings is padded with thick Irish leather infused with a fine Italian cologne that helps disguise the smell of stale urine nearby.

“I like keeping busy here and, who knows, maybe this will lead to an executive position in the energy business,” Thain said.

“Hey, I saw you put that candy in your pocket! Put back the damn candy before I come out there and rip your arm off,” he said to a customer. “I said, put the … Oh, no! No, don’t shoot! Don’t kill me! Please!”

Finally, we caught up with former Lehman Brothers chief Richard Fuld, whose investment firm imploded after a series of highly complex financial transactions fell apart last fall. Fuld is working 15 hours a week at the front counter at McDonald’s on Times Square but soon hopes to increase his hours to 20.

In between working the cash register and handing out bags of burgers and fries, Fuld talked about how he hopes to turn his current labor into a new business model that could employ some of the wheeling and dealing techniques he perfected on Wall Street.

“What we could do is offer customers the option to buy a Big Mac for about a quarter of what the actual burger costs, then if our prices go up later, they can cash out the option and make a profit on their fast-food purchase,” Fuld said. “We could sell French fry futures and McNugget derivatives, which would allow us to charge a fee for the transaction itself, then put that money into convertible debt obligations and leverage these to position ourselves in the commercial paper market for sausage and cheese McGriddles with no egg.”

Fuld said he hasn’t yet been successful explaining his plan to his boss, franchisee Desai Muktananda, but will keep trying.

“I guess maybe there’s a bit of a language barrier there,” Fuld said. “I don’t think his English is good enough for him to understand when I talk about the notional value of forward hedging and off-balance-sheet swaptions.”

Website Review: EquestrianMinistries.com

While leafing through the York County Agri-Tourism Guide recently (don’t ask), I came across a small ad for the Equestrian Ministries Drill Team. This is a group of horsemen – fanciers, not centaurs – who “want to share the gospel with other horsemen in our area. We perform at rodeos, churches, horse councils, really anywhere the Lord leads us.” The associated website, www.equestrianministriessaddleclub.com, seemed like a great candidate for my weekly Website Review. And maybe I’d learn what a “horse council” was, since I’m having a hard time imagining these noble beasts in a deliberative setting.

First, I should probably reveal some preconceptions I had going into this effort. I’ve never really associated horses with the gospel of Jesus Christ. I was born and raised a good Lutheran, so I know a little something about His life and times, and I must say that I can’t honestly recall a significant equine influence.

I know Christ was born in a manger, where you’d think there’d be some horses running around, but the plastic crèche my family hauled out every Christmas had only cows, sheep and maybe a donkey or two. Little is known about His childhood and adolescence, though I suppose a more-thorough Biblical account could’ve contained a chapter titled “The Equestrian Years.” Maybe it’s in the Apocrypha. As His ministry emerged during His adult years, there always seemed to be plenty of lambs and doves around, and we know how He could transform a single fish into a meal for the multitudes. (If He did the same thing for horses, might that be the horse council?)

As we remember His final days during this holy week before Easter, I do vaguely recall some pictures from a Sunday School coloring book where Jesus was riding a mule in the Palm Sunday procession, but I think He was riding side-saddle and I can’t imagine today’s Christian horsemen endorsing that. I know for a fact there were no horses at the Last Supper, no horses in Gethsemane, and no horses at Calvary. (Unrelated side point: Can you imagine the difficult logistics of crucifying a horse?) Some velvet painting artists do imagine an ascension into Heaven on the back of a unicorn, though I think this is highly speculative at best.

Even in popular culture references, horses and evangelical Christianity never seemed to mix. Mr. Ed was obviously Jewish, the Lone Ranger’s Silver was probably Mormon, and Tonto’s Scout was obviously an animist like his loyal rider. Secretariat, widely believe to be gay, could’ve been a member of one of those metropolitan community churches, but that’s not the brand of Christianity these guys in South Carolina had in mind. Let’s go to the website to see some of what it is they do believe.

The Equestrian Ministries Saddle Club starts immediately with a recruiting pitch on its home page: “Do you love Jesus Christ and want to share with others how they can have a personal relationship with Christ? Do you love horses? Do you love to ride, care for and be around this most magnificent animal?”

EMSC offers training to help you be prepared to share your faith at equestrian events. “Through this training, you learn to minister at a campground, whether you ride horses or not; witness and minister at rodeos, races and horse shows; or serve as a chaplain at your local stable.” Apparently horses must experience salvation in this life in order to get into Horse Heaven. I remember something from confirmation class about camels being unable to get through the eye of a needle, so I guess it seems natural that the same would apply to horses.

One of the more enjoyable ways that club members use to spread their faith is through their drill team. This is where the righteous riders parade about on horseback while swinging multi-colored flags high over their heads, hopefully without gouging out the eyes of their mounts. The colors represent the plan of salvation – blue for sky, red for Jesus’ blood, white for purity, black for sin, green for spiritual growth, and yellow for … I’m going to say bananas. “We use Christian and Bluegrass music. We are always looking for new stuff. We are self taught. With many mistakes in the beginning, our team motto is ‘follow your leader.’ Thursday practices are stress relief with fellowship.”

There’s also a PDF of the February club newsletter that gives some behind-the-scenes insight into how that fellowship manifests itself on a regular basis. Typed in all caps to emphasize that it truly is the Word of God (Who apparently didn’t use spellcheck), I’ll offer some excerpts here:

WOW! OUR DRILL TEAM PERFORMED SATURDAY AND ALL WENT WELL. WE HAD WITNESS BRACLETS (bracelets) AND HANDED OUT TRACKS (tracts) IN THE CROWD AFTER OUR PERFORMANCE. WE ARE SO PROUD OF OUR KORI FOR COWGIRLING UP WITH THE AMERICAN FLAG. YOU GO GIRL. WE HAD A GOOD CROWD AT OUR FEURARY (February) MEETING. WE ALL LOVE TO EAT SO COOKING CHICKEN AND DUMPLINS (dumplings) WAS A GREAT IDEA. HATS OFF TO WANDA.WE HAD A FABOULOUS (fabulous) DEVOTION ON BEING PERSISTANT (persistent) IN OUR PRAYERS. WE HAD A GRAT (great? grating? grave?) TIME OF SHARING. ALWAYS CARRY YOUR CELL PHONE ON YOUR BODY.

The memo board section makes mention of members and friends who are having troubles and need “prayer concerns.” LINDA WALKER KNEE REPLACEMENT, DANIEL BARRETT LAP BAND, SHERRY CONNOR BACK SURGERY, TED AND WANDA FINANCIAL, SYLVIA BROWN’S BABY HORSE HAS A VIRUS. For those of you unfamiliar with the condition, I believe “lap band” is either a gastric bypass procedure or an aggregation of mites in your crotch. I suspect it’s the latter, considering how these folks are regularly sitting astride the hide of a farm animal.

There’s really not much more to the primitive website than this. There are minutes to a meeting where it was agreed the “lack of horsemanship” at a recent parade should be met with a letter of concern to the organizers. There’s a “sermon from the saddle” with typically cryptic Bible verses: “Even though I don’t care about men, yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will see that she gets justice so that she won’t eventually wear me out with her coming!” There’s a horse trailer for sale for $1500 (842-7424, ask for Wilbur).

Maybe it’s because today is Good Friday, but I feel a little guilty making fun of these earnest country folk and their beloved steeds. It’s healthy and admirable to have some fervor in life; I’m just not sure you necessarily have to combine your hobbies when there’s more than one. I like both blogging and running, yet I don’t feel compelled (or safe) doing them both at the same time.

I’m going to end this post in the spirit of Easter and wish the Equestrian Ministries Saddle Club all the best as they pursue their passion for the one who carries them from the hardships of this life to a spiritual height where peace and love are all-consuming. And I hope the Christianity thing works out for them too.

 

GM-Segway joint effort — what could be cooler?

If you’ve ever heard grandma talk about her new “hi-pod,” or your dad say that he’s getting into “tweetering,” or Uncle Jack admit that he likes some of “Little Wayne’s” music, you probably had the same feeling I did when I read a story out of New York earlier this week.

General Motors executives announced that they’ve joined with Segway in an effort to produce a spawn of Satan called the PUMA. The two-wheeled, two-seat vehicle is designed to be a fast, safe, inexpensive and clean alternative to traditional cars for cities across the world.

With a bulbous design that reminded me of one of those claustrophobic motion-simulation pods you occasionally see at the mall, the 300-pound prototype was seen scooting about Manhattan on Tuesday in an introduction to the press. The vehicle runs on a lithium-ion battery and uses Segway’s characteristic two-wheel balancing technology and dual electric motors to reach speeds of up to 35 m.p.h.

GM apparently thinks there’s a market for people who want to be as cool as a Disney World employee while potentially being on the losing end of a collision with a SmartCar.

The GM marketing department engaged in some “acronymnastics” to come up with an abbreviation that is more catchy than it is descriptive. PUMA stands for “Personal Urban Mobility and Accessibility,” when having the last word start with “V” for vehicle or “D” for doo-dad would make better sense but a more awkward acronym. Selling a product that doesn’t even have a noun in its name sounds like a risky proposition, or just about right for GM.

To make it even sexier for that hard-to-reach demographic of people who want to buy a Detroit-made car, the PUMA project would involve “a vast communications network that would allow vehicles to interact with each other, regulate the flow of traffic and prevent crashes from happening.” The network would use transponder and GPS technology that would let the devices drive themselves. They would “automatically” avoid obstacles such as pedestrians and other cars, assuming they would ever be allowed on the road.

And therein seems to be the problem. Current traffic laws in virtually every major U.S. city make the Segway too big and fast to be allowed on sidewalks with pedestrians, but at the same time too small and slow to drive on regular roadways. Executives at both firms said they were confident that urban planners would adapt their cityscapes to build news lanes and additional infrastructure for the PUMA. Yeah, that could happen.

In the meantime, the automaker is looking for a place, such as a college campus, where the vehicles could be put to use and grab a foothold in the market. Because, apparently, they’ve heard that college kids are cool.

Sunday photos

The best international business trip I ever took was a 2006 excursion to Manila in the Philippines. Me and about a dozen others from the States spent five weeks setting up and training a “vendor site” (later called “outsource”, then later “offshore”, and eventually “what used to be my job.”) All the young Pilipinas were friendly, smart and eager to learn, and it was a real joy to work with them. We worked long hard hours during the six-day week but always had Sunday to enjoy a little sightseeing.

In the hammock

 The first excursion we took was to Subic Bay, about two hours outside the city. This former U.S. Navy base is trying with some success to remake itself as a tourist destination. We ordered up a seven-passenger van to take us there, but unfortunately it held seven petite locals rather than seven wide-ass Americans, so we had a rather unpleasant drive getting there and back. But for the eight hours we spent at the White Rock Resort, we had a splendid time. (The beautiful sunset you see in my masthead was photographed that afternoon). Here, I’m overflowing a hammock in one of the beachside cabanas.

In a boat

 If you ever had a chance to read my post about climbing the Tal Volcano while in the Philippines (http://davisw.wordpress.com/2008/11/08/adventures-in-volcano-climbing/), this is what I looked like on the boat ride over. I’ll admit my face is pretty huge, but it’s not twice as big as the captain of my boat, as this perspective might suggest. Note the forced smile, as I’m pretending to have fun while in fact I’m scared to death.

In the classroom

 This last picture shows me in my official role as Wise Old American Teacher, training in a makeshift classroom. The hand gestures and animated look on my face suggest an enthusiasm that apparently isn’t shared by the young lady to my right. Actually, though, they were a wonderful group of students who continue to run a successful operation today.

It seemed like only yesterday…

FRIEND: Jay, are you in there?

JAY: Mmmph. Go away.

FRIEND: C’mon, man. You gotta get up. Let me in, dude.

JAY: Hang on, hang on. I’m comin’.

FRIEND: What are you doing, man? Why are you still in bed? Aren’t you supposed to start your new job today?

JAY: I guess I slept through my alarm. Man, I feel awful. This is Saturday, right?

FRIEND: No, this is Sunday. Dude, did you sleep all day yesterday?

JAY: I guess I did. Last thing I remember it was Friday night. Man, it was a rough week. I can’t believe I slept almost the entire weekend.

FRIEND: Well let me at least help you get ready. I’ll put on some coffee while you start getting dressed. You can still make it in time if you hurry. Jeez, what is that smell? It’s like somebody died in here.

JAY: Sorry, I guess I let the place go a little. Haven’t had much chance to clean with all that was going on last week.

FRIEND: You can’t screw up this new gig, you know? This is the big promotion you worked so hard for. The job is a breeze and the benefits are fabulous. You’ve already done all the hard stuff to get there … you can’t blow it now.

JAY: I know, I know. You’re right. Thanks for helping, man. Let me grab my shirt. Ow! Oh, man, what did I do Friday night? My shoulders are killing me. I think one might be dislocated.

FRIEND: I didn’t stay as late as you did. You were just hanging out when I left. I don’t know what happened after that, but you look to me like you’ve been through Hell and back.

JAY: I gotta tell you, it’s all a haze to me. I barely remember anything about Friday at all. Seems I was being chased by some Italian guys – maybe Mafia – and the next thing I knew I was up in front of this big crowd, and I was supposed to give some kind of presentation but I was unprepared.

FRIEND: Were you wearing your underwear?

JAY: Yes, I was! How did you know?

FRIEND: Typical anxiety dream. You’re just worried about this job.

JAY: I don’t know – it seemed pretty real, but maybe not.

FRIEND: Last time we really talked was on Thursday, at that big dinner we had with all the guys. I wonder if you got some kind of food poisoning. Did you feel OK after that?

JAY: You know, I do remember being a little queasy. I wonder if we got some bad fish or something. But everybody else seemed alright, didn’t they?

FRIEND: From what I could tell they did. That jackass Jude cut out early and he did look a little shaken as he left, but he wasn’t green or anything like that. You left early too, right?

JAY: Yeah, I remember thinking I needed to go out and get some fresh air. I went and hung out at that park for a while and … wait, now I remember … I got busted by the cops! I remember they were just hassling me at first, giving me a hard time about talking to myself. Then they hauled me away.

FRIEND: Jesus Christ! This could really mess you up with your new job, man. If they find out you’ve got a record, they may not want you after all.

JAY: I gotta get in there fast and try to cover up as much as I can. How did I get myself into such a mess, anyway? I don’t know even know if I want this job. I can’t believe I have to work on Sundays.

FRIEND: From what you told me last week, Sundays are your busiest days. But you said you got Mondays and Tuesdays off. Maybe this first day will just be an orientation kind of thing – get your ID badge, get your email set up, etc. Maybe they won’t work you that hard. What’s that noise?

JAY: Hang on, I’m getting a text message. Ah, heck, I don’t have time for this. It’s Mary Mag – she said she’s on her way over.

FRIEND: She’s probably worried about you, man. You disappear for three days like that and your friends are going to wonder if you’re okay.

JAY: Let’s hurry. Maybe we can still get out before she gets here. I bet she brings that Thomas guy she’s been hanging out with lately. Man, I hate that guy – he’s always poking me in the side and laughing, just giving me a hard time.

FRIEND: Here’s a tie you can wear. You can put it on while we’re on the way.

JAY: Grab me a toaster strudel too, will ya? I’ll eat it cold. I’ve got to get there on time and make a good impression. If I can make it in this job, who knows how high up I might get the next time they’re looking for a top executive.

FRIEND: And it’s only a limited-time contract you’ve got, right? Just 40 days — isn’t that what you told me?

JAY: Well, that’s when the probationary period is over, yeah. I’m not real sure what happens after that, but surely I can hang on and do almost anything for 40 days. The job description I read was pretty vague and didn’t sound that hard – mostly making a few personal appearances, then a chance to move upstairs.

FRIEND: You’re right. How hard can that be? And there’s a fatty paycheck too, right?

JAY: I think they said something about my reward being in the next world. It’s related to how the deferred compensation packages are structured.

FRIEND: Alright, you look good to me. Let’s hit the road. If we hit all the lights, you’ll make it right on time.

JAY: Man, thanks a million for all you’ve done. I never would’ve made it without you.

FRIEND: Christ, you’re something else.

 

Fake News: ‘Pirates’ considered too lovable

LONDON (April 14) – The World Terminology Assembly met in emergency session yesterday in an attempt to reach consensus on a word to describe the Somali “pirates” that made them sound more menacing.

Representatives from more than 130 nations arrived in Britain over the weekend with one mission in mind: the creation of a term that didn’t evoke images of sports mascots or Disney characters. A spokesperson for the group said the danger to international commerce posed by the so-called pirates that are threatening shipping lanes off the Horn of Africa was being trivialized by each new incident report.

“Whenever the news comes out that the ‘pirates’ have struck again, everyone kind of chuckles and thinks about Johnny Depp or perhaps some big-headed costumed character at a Pittsburgh baseball game,” said Abdul Ramahani of Malaysia, current chairman of the WTA. “As we’ve seen from events in just the past week, this threat needs to be taken more seriously.”

The morning hours of the conference were comprised of a “blue-sky” session where conferees tossed out suggestions for more-threatening synonyms that might be adopted. A facilitator stood at the front of the meeting hall, listing the ideas on a large whiteboard.

Among the dozens of substitute terms that were initially floated were buccaneers, brigands, rapscallions, swashbucklers, rogues, scalawags, racketeers, bootleggers, villains, rascals, Jolly Rogers, scamps and imps. Ultimately, though, all of these failed to rise to the level of implied dread that organizers were seeking.

“I know I said before there are no bad ideas, but you guys can’t be serious with some of these,” facilitator Johan Berkeley told the assemblage. “Scamps? Jolly Rogers? Villains? It sounds like we’re writing a screenplay for a Merry Melodies cartoon. These guys are threatening the high seas, they’re not tying damsels to railroad tracks.”

After a themed luncheon that featured servers with eye patches, shoulder parrots and leg amputations, participants seemed to “swashbuckle” down for more serious discussion in the afternoon. This meeting appeared to yield more original ideas, including seajackers, oceaneers, tanker wankers, aqua-terrorists, nogoodniks and horn dogs.

“We were trying to stay away from terms like ‘terrorist,’ ‘hijacker’ and ‘evil-doer’ because they have connotations associated with jihadists from the Arab world,” Ramahani said. “The threat that the Somali bandits pose is a serious one, but nowhere near that level.”

The American delegate to the conference, industrialist billionaire Harold Hayes, was a leftover political appointee from the Bush administration and seemed not to grasp what the point of the group’s effort was. His suggestions included the White Sox, the Thunder, the Panthers and the “Somali Tamales.”

“That last one suggests a ready-made mascot,” Hayes said. “I can imagine some natural tie-ins with Taco Bells that should really draw the Mexicans out to the ol’ ballpark.”

The WTA failed to reach a consensus by the end of the day and was forced to adjourn without a new term. In the meantime, Ramahani suggested that the international media adopt the term “bad guys” until the group could meet again later this summer.

“We’ve just got to eliminate ‘pirates’ as soon as possible,” he said. “We’ve even seen cases in some newspapers where typos got through and these guys were referred to as ‘pilates.’ The global community will never take this scourge seriously if that kind of thing keeps up.”

 

O America! I file now my taxes

There’s a little-known provision in the U.S. Tax Code that I think I’m going to use with this year’s income tax filing. Even though the Internal Revenue Service provides taxpayers with dozens of different forms to make it easier to communicate all the appropriate information, you are not in fact required to use any of these forms. As long as they get the data they need in a timely fashion, other formats are acceptable.

So instead of using Form 1040 like I might normally do, I’m going to file my 2008 income taxes in free verse, with inspiration from America’s greatest poet, Walt Whitman.

O America!

Thy gleaming towers of commerce lie in rubble and ruin

Your once-proud people shamble through unending off-lays and sizings-down

They struggle to find work, both the learn’d and unlearn’d

The homefires they thought were theirs are possessed anew

Usury stalks the land where once there was a reasonable credit market

Lo, I watch the dark clouds of fate gather, yet hope I must

As it is in my American spirit!

 

Yes, you must levy a surcharge upon your citizenry

It is how we will pay for the stimulation and the bailing and the eventual recovery

That will someday soon return our land to its promontory on the mesa on the hill

Return its people to their hurrahs, so as to squelch the fury of rous’d mobs

(I’m looking at you, Fox News).

 

The security of thy corpus is bound up in a social net that numbers tens of myriads

My number is but one of these – 287-39-6312

This cipher is mine and mine alone, and I glory in its individuality

My love, my spouse, my lifemate, she too is joining me in this annual celebration

And her number too is of interest to thee – it is 365-08-4118

We file jointly, for we are married.

 

And, yea, we do want to pay the tripl’d dollar

To go toward the Presidential Election Campaign

Though we desire as well to register our strenuous protest and objection

To the ongoing war with Mexico.

 

You wish to know the assembled value of my wages, my salaries

You wish to know the value of even my tips, tho they pale in comparison

To the worth that was visited upon me by my father in heav’n

Forthwith I will divine these and show thee to a cent

The integer is sixty-seven thousand

Seven hundred and thirty-six dollars

Or so that is what I deign to report.

 

I have interest in life in all its aspects

In the brown ants and the little wells beneath them

And mossy scabs of the worm-fence, heap’d stones, elder mullein and poke-weed

I have interest in how you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d me over

And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart

But I report no interest of the taxable kind

And no unemployment compensation and no Alaska Permanent Fund dividends.

 

No one shall claim me as dependent, for I am so fiercely independent

That sometimes it makes my head hurt, and my acquaintances annoy’d

At this point I shall claim a deduction of seventeen thousands and nine hundreds

For so it has been direct’d by statutes in the rule of levies

I shall subtract this from the previous line to arrive at my taxable income

Despite the horror of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news, the fitful events.

 

O America!

You have already withheld substantial fractions of my annual fortune

As I can see from the box numbered two on my Form W-2

I do not begrudge this contribution to thy welfare and that of my fellow citizens

For we all must labor together to build a nation of brothers, a nation of sisters

Tho I sure wish you didn’t spend so much on that folly of a program

To build a cow museum in the land of the Nebraskan.

 

I claim no earned income credit

I claim no nontaxable combat pay election

I claim no recovery rebate credit

For I have seen the worksheet on pages 17 and 18

I only claim to celebrate myself, and sing myself.

 

I will now add my total payments to calculate my tax

As it is express’d in the tax tables I must now consult

As once I consulted with the boatmen and the clam-diggers

The butcher-boy and the blacksmith and the runaway slave

(I think that butcher-boy had a thing for me, tho that shall be another sonnet)

And now, because line 10 is larger than line 11, I shall subtract line 11 from line 10

This is my refund, and I glory in its amount, even as I had hop’d for more.

 

I hereby direct that said sum shall be directly deposited

With all alacrity and without undue delay

To an account I designate as one of “checking”

And with a routing number that aspires to be the lofty 4732985

And yet in reality will never reach those hallowed heights.

 

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean

But I shall be good health to you nevertheless

I stop somewhere waiting for you

And so I affix my signature here

So you know that it is me.

 

Fake News Briefs: Entertainment Edition

Deejay uses restraint

SEATTLE, Washington (April 15) — A morning deejay with the Spokane “J96 Zoo Crew” is reportedly the only media funnyman in the nation thus far to pass up making a joke about the new White House dog surviving tax issues to land his new position as First Pet.

Al “The Lunatic” Roberts barely avoided the nearly universal joke Wednesday when he did make mention of a “vetting process that involved de-worming and a flea treatment.” But unlike his high-profile cohorts on The Tonight Show, The Late Show and The Late Late Show, Roberts did not raise the tax question.

“Of course, it did occur to me immediately when the news came out, especially several days before April 15,” Roberts said. “But it just seemed so trite and obvious that I couldn’t bring myself to say it.”

The AM radio veteran, who writes most of his own material, did join the rest of America’s comedians by saying the new pet, named “Bo” by the Obama children, was “the first dog in the White House since Bill Clinton” and that “if the president thinks cleaning up the economic mess is a dirty job, wait till Bo has chili for dinner.”

Veteran actor wants to talk music

HOLLYWOOD, California (April 15) — Veteran TV actor Ed Asner made an erratic appearance Wednesday on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, refusing to talk about his long sitcom career and instead focusing exclusively on his new polka band, the Asnertones.

The 79-year-old entertainer, known primarily for his role as Lou Grant in two popular TV comedies of the 1970s, looked disheveled and disoriented during his eight-minute segment with Leno, stopping at several points to wander toward the camera asking “Where’s my stapler?” He also removed his shirt at one point, revealing a tattoo he described as “a map of Croatia,” and demanded that band leader Kevin Eubanks replace his guitar with a mandolin.

The former Screen Actors Guild president and long-time political activist said he’s retired from acting to devote all his efforts to an upcoming tour with the Asnertones, which he described as a “grunge/doo-wop/accordion combo unlike anything you’ve ever heard.”

“I sing and I dance and I do a little light housework with the group,” Asner told an obviously perturbed Leno. “We open next week in Australia, then continue a world tour for the next three months. Or until I die.”

Asner’s bizarre appearance follows several recent attempts by actors to transform their careers from acting to music. Joaquin Phoenix staged a similar act on David Letterman earlier this year to promote his new hip-hop tour, and Billy Bob Thornton ranted through a Canadian radio spot last week trying to drum up publicity for an ultimately failed tour by his band.

“Let me tell you something about that Mary Tyler Moore,” Asner told Leno. “I’m going to ask her to be in my band.”

’Tea party’ event misunderstood

The convergence of college spring break with yesterday’s nationwide protest dubbed the “Taxpayer’s Tea Party” caused considerable confusion among revelers in several major U.S. cities.

Conservative and libertarian activists blended with hard-drinking undergraduates at a number of locations where the latter group thought free alcohol, music and scantily clad coeds would be making appearances, rather than loopy right-wing has-beens looking to advance their hopeless agenda.

“Woo-hooo! Partay, partay, partay,” said Neil Johnson of Tulane University, who attended the San Antonio Tax Day Tea Party, which featured Fox News personality Glenn Beck as a speaker. “I love Beck and can’t wait for the concert to start. I hope he plays ‘Loser’ and ‘MTV Makes Me Want to Smoke Crack.’”

Conservative organizers of the anti-tax event tried quickly to reclaim the agenda, with varying degrees of success.

“We are moms and dads, businessmen and women who are concerned for their country,” said U.S. Senator Jim DeMint of South Carolina. “We are worried that our nation is quickly being taken in the wrong direction by politicians more concerned about the next election than the next generation.”

Another Fox newsman, Neil Cavuto, appeared at the Sacramento, California, tea-party rally, but also met with perplexed members of a large crowd.

“They call this ‘SAC Town’,” said hospitality services major Jeff Greene of nearby UC-Davis. “Imagine that – there will be tea-baggin’ in SAC Town. That is off the hook, man. That is totally crunk.”

Mike Leahy, co-founder of Top Conservatives on Twitter, a primary sponsor of the protest, said organizers plan to deliver one million teabags to a Washington, D.C. park to demonstrate how the common man is fed up with high taxes and excess spending.

“This is about citizens who believe America can only survive if we protect the principles of liberty from a federal government that is out of control and must be reformed now,” Leahy said. “And that’s the real message of hope.”

Scott Glenn, a junior marketing major from Dearborn, Michigan, who attended the tea party in nearby Lansing, seemed to agree with that sentiment.

“I know what I hope for – I hope that ‘T’ stands for tequila and Tanqueray,” said Glenn. “I hear Joe the Plumber is going to be at this event. He may need to be standing by, because my buds and I plan on barfing our brains out. Yeee-owww!”

Website Review: Muzak.com

My wife arrived home from a bread-making class the other night with nearly a dozen still-warm, fragrant loaves. Within the next ten minutes, I found myself humming the following:

If a picture paints a thousand words

Then why can’t I paint you?

The words will never show

The you I’ve come to know

And when my love for life is running dry

You come and pour yourself on me.

 

As much as I’d like to consider myself a romantic, I don’t think this qualifies. Just about anyone who survived the soft-rock trends of the 1970s probably recognizes this as the song “If” by a miserable band known as Bread. Somehow, deep in an obscure neural pathway within my brain, I had made a connection between freshly baked bread and half-baked pop music from a quarter-century ago.

It’s probably a synapse much like this one that is responsible for the success of a company headquartered not far from my South Carolina home. Muzak, Inc. is now celebrating its seventy-fifth anniversary, if it’s possible to “celebrate” on the brink of bankrupt dissolution. The firm responsible for making music as ubiquitous as the air we breathe is the subject of this week’s Website Review.

The original technology for Muzak was developed by inventor Maj. Gen. George Squier. For a time, it consisted of old-fashioned turntables playing records over a microphone, though the cost of sending out a repairman from the central office every time it started to skip quickly became prohibitive. Soon switched over to radio waves, it was pumped into factories during World War II to increase production, and later found its way into post-war offices with a signature bland background style that wouldn’t intrude on foreground tasks. This is where it acquired its label of “elevator music.”

When some members of the public discovered its attempt to manipulate behavior on a subliminal level, it was accused of brainwashing and hauled into court. It was later exonerated to such an extent that President Eisenhower had it installed in the West Wing and NASA used it to soothe nervous astronauts in space, where it’s well-known that no one can hear you scream. In 1989, rocker Ted Nugent offered $10 million to buy the company and shut it down but the bid was refused. Maybe showing off his collection of automatic weapons could’ve sealed the deal, though it’s too late for that now.

Today, Muzak is desperately trying to rid itself of a stodgy image, and claims at its website that it’s actually in the business of “audio architecture.” Clients can choose from a list of more than 80 programs, ranging from traditional categories like Environments (adult contemporary), Aura (new age) and Moodscapes (more new age) to modern offerings like Half Pipe (skate punk/hip-hop) and Ink’d (power metal). You can also customize a playlist that’s exclusive to your brand, as was probably done to torture detainees at Guantanamo Bay and dislodge loitering teenagers from convenience store parking lots. (It’s easy to worry that this weaponization of music degrades the beauty of the arts, but consider how the North Koreans might settle down if we laid a little dinner theatre on them.)

Muzak scientists can cite considerable research about how creating the right ambience in a business encourages clients to buy more, stay longer, spend higher amounts or even resist robbing the cashier. Customer Linda L. is quoted as saying “I’m so impressed with the music that’s being played at the 99 Cent Store that I found myself shopping longer just to hear the music.” So the addition of Hot Chocolate’s “I Believe in Miracles” to the retail experience has the potential to turn $1.98 in revenues into something approaching $4.95.

To broaden its appeal in our increasingly multimedia age, Muzak now offers not only music but also voice (professionally produced on-hold messages), video and, following a 2005 distribution agreement with ScentAir Technologies, fragrance systems that enhance the customer experience using smell. A press release at the time describes “aroma marketing solutions (that) create a unique in-store experience by engaging memory and emotions through patented scent-delivery systems.” Muzak uses a chocolate fragrance system in New York’s Hershey’s store, a leather aroma in Marshall Field’s furniture stores and, presumably, a cat-urine scent to keep people from tying up gas station restrooms for any longer than they can hold their breath.

As Muzak tries to evolve to meet twenty-first century demands, it faces more challenges than just the $438 million in debt that’s due to be paid in 2009. Fairly or not, it’s still saddled with a reputation that’s not exactly modern. The frequently asked questions portion of the website addresses this issue head on. “Is Muzak still elevator music?” is answered with a firm “No way!” A protest as vigorous as that is always suspect, and others in the industry acknowledge that although “they’ve been working hard at being perceived as hipper, Muzak has a giant elevator on its back.” Though being temporarily imprisoned in cramped box with strangers who could join you at any moment in a 50-story plunge to your death can be made marginally more enjoyable by Dexys Midnight Runners, it doesn’t seem like the best basis for a marketing campaign.

Muzak is also trapped by a level of brand recognition so high as to be almost detrimental. They are dangerously close to becoming the kind of term that passes into the public domain as a generic, much like Kleenex-brand tissue, Post-It-brand sticky notes and Syphilis-brand STDs. Nowhere in the website is there any hint of a possible name change – though CEO Steve Villa’s letter to customers mentions “many exciting opportunities” in the year ahead. If its proposed merger with rival DMX is ever approved, I suppose they could always work an “X” into their name. Perhaps Muxak, Muzax or Xuzak could create the kind of edgy, post-modern ambience that sounds and smells have thus far failed to deliver.

Twittering with Ashton, Oprah and Jesus

Yesterday may turn out to be the day we look back on from future generations to say that Twitter finally took over Western civilization.

Ashton Kutcher triumphed over CNN in their closely watched race to be the first to reach a million “followers,” while Oprah Winfrey sent her very first tweet then, moments later, discovered she already had accumulated 130,000 followers.

“We have shown the world that the new wave is here,” pronounced Leader Kutcher shortly after his victory. “It is present and it is ready to explode.” Then he added the somewhat perplexing “I can’t follow me,” implying he would if he could.

Newbie Winfrey’s first tweet was broadcast on her talk show.

“HI TWITTERS. THANK YOU FOR A WARM WELCOME,” she shouted. “FEELING REALLY TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY.”

So today seems like it might be a good time to reprint an article that appeared in our local newspaper last Monday about a hip, young church that incorporated Twitter into its Easter service.

 * * *

STALLINGS, N.C. — As Pastor Todd Hahn sermonized onstage Sunday about St. Paul’s take on Jesus’ resurrection, Scarlett Hollingsworth bowed her head and brought her hands together.

She wasn’t praying, though. Her eyes were open, and her thumbs were busy. She was pounding out a short message on her BlackBerry.

It was time to Twitter:

“I’m listening to the teachings of Paul,” wrote Hollingsworth, known to those following her tweets as beingscarlett. “& wondering how many people need to hear that we can face hardship in life without fear.”

Most churches ask worshippers to turn off cell phones when the service starts. But at Union County’s Next Level, a rock ‘n’ roll-style church where Hollingsworth attended the 11 a.m. Easter service, members of the flock were encouraged to Twitter away on their cell phones, iPhones, BlackBerrys and laptops. Their messages landed on other cell phones – as well as online for those who looked in from a personal computer at home.

“I hope many of you are tweeting this morning about your experience with God,” Hahn announced before launching into his sermon.

Churches have been using the latest technology since the 15th century, when the Gutenberg Bible – a product of the printing press and movable type – paved the way for mass distribution of Scripture.

Later came radio, then TV, then the Internet, and now Twitter – 140-character message bursts designed to pass on what the sender is thinking at that moment.

Still, some of those tweeting Sunday couldn’t quite believe where they were doing it.

“So excited for the nextlevel Easter service!!” wrote GamecockCB. “Tweet from church?! Are you kidding?!”

Hahn, 40, said the idea was hatched by the church’s Creative Team of twentysomethings. They wanted to do something special for Easter.

With so many old and new churches competing for young people, some like Next Level are trying to stand out by embracing the latest technology: Web sites, blogs, and now Twitter.

Charlotte native Hahn acknowledged that the church’s accent on Twitter is partly a marketing tool. But he said it can also enhance members’ religious experience and build community.

Hahn said evangelical churches have focused so much on the me-God relationship – with services full of what he called “prom songs to Jesus” – that “we lose the communal aspects.”

“Twitter is a social network … that can remind us we are worshipping with other people. We’re not in a bubble,” he said. “And when people read some of the (tweets) they may have an ‘a-ha!’ moment, and say, ‘A lot of others look at things like I do.”

On Sunday, photographer Kristen Hinson, 24, felt liberated by the Easter message – and her ability to pass it along via cell phone.

“I love Next Level Church,” she Twittered. “The resurrection is like a sales receipt from God, a guarantee of what’s to come!!!”

Hollingsworth, 44, a designer at Central Piedmont Community College and a self-described techie, said it was hard sometimes to pay attention to the sermon and tweet. But, she added, the world is changing, and the church needs to change, too.

“If you don’t jump on the new technology, you’re going to lose opportunities,” she said. “We use it for work and for life. Why not church?”

Tweet Tweet

Here are some of the Twitter messages from Next Level Church on Sunday.

melissajackson3: Awesome foo fighters song to start the service at nextlevel.

imkay: Nothing u do 4 the lord is in vain.

desimae: I remember the day when Easter meant dressing up against my will and being bored for three hours at church …thanks, nextlevel for change!

psalm46: Resurrection is real; … He is still raising us day by day from this level on to the nextlevel, higher up and further in.

renwicks_lady: Getting ready for Nextlevel church, getting my texting thumbs stretched and ready to go!!!!

charburns: nextlevel had awesome music today and yes i am twittering in church.

 

Sunday photos: Hong Kong

Last Sunday I wrote about my “best business trip ever,” the five weeks I spent in Manila in 2006. During one weekend of that period, a co-worker and I took a flight north to Hong Kong for a quick two-day excursion through one of the world’s most exciting and international cities. It was a whirlwind 48 hours, with my co-worker – who had been there before on a month-long assignment – serving as my personal tour guide. Here are a few pictures from that memorable weekend.

Arrival in Hong Kong

 Two cool things about the airport, besides its incredible architecture and modernity: when we arrived, we had to go through a scanner that read our body temperatures to make sure we didn’t have SARS; and when we left, we had a small snafu because we had to prove our return to the Philippines was only temporary and we were in fact eventually going to the U.S. As if a couple of pudgy middle-aged white guys would conspire to illegally immigrate to Manila when they were really supposed to return to America. Actually, though, that may not be as far-fetched as it sounds, considering all the creepy Anglo guys we saw predatorily stalking attractive young Filipino women.

Vegetarians, look away

My sincerest apologies if you happen to be reading this over breakfast (or any meal, for that matter). This is an open-air meat cart we encountered on the side streets of the Kowloon district. I won’t attempt to identify any animal types or body parts, since knowing that the leg-like pairing that’s hanging in the foreground were actually monkey lungs wouldn’t make them any less disgusting.

Me and James at high tea

Right before we flew out on Monday afternoon, we stopped in at one of the most exclusive hotels in greater Hong Kong, the Peninsula, for high tea. I was vaguely familiar with the concept and only mildly interested, but my fellow traveler had it “high” on his priority list, so that’s what we had for what I would’ve called lunch. Interesting fact: apparently it’s called high tea because the food (mostly muffin- and scone-like objects) is stacked three levels high, and because there’s tea on the side. Note the glazed look on my face as a bolus of scone attempts to travel from my stomach into my upper intestines.

Come see spring celebrated in Rock Hill

 Starting last Thursday and continuing until April 25, my little Southern hometown is celebrating its spring festival. Much like the SpringFests and SpringAlives and FestiFuns commemorating the arrival of warm weather you’ll find in other locations, the Come See Me Festival sponsors a variety of events to get people outdoors to experience the fresh air and sunshine of spring.

When I first moved here, I admit I was a little taken aback by the odd name. At the time, Rock Hill’s primary industry was an acetone processing plant that gave off a constant chemical smell, and it seemed to me that “Come Smell Me” might be a more appropriate label. As I got to know a few locals, they explained the name originated from the common expression of goodwill that Southerners would offer as they emerged from their winter hibernation. “Y’all come see me,” they’d say, warmly reflecting an earlier era of friendliness and civility when people kept constantly clean homes and there was no cable TV. Nowadays, you’d have to add, “but be sure to call first so I can vacuum the couch and set up the DVR to record ‘CSI’.”

Since then, the name has become second-nature to me, and the phrase “when is Come See Me?” no longer sounds like a recent immigrant trying to schedule a urologist to make a house call. My family doesn’t attend as many of the events as we used to; the large percentage devoted to children’s activities no longer appeal to my 17-year-old (who’s probably done his last “jumpy house” until he’s an inebriated collegian), and the number of marginally interesting activities has exploded as organizers try to fill the calendar from sunrise to sunset.

One event we do try to make is the so-called “Gourmet Gardens.” What began years ago as an opportunity for local restaurants to sell small samples of their specialties in the lovely venue of a flower-filled garden has gradually devolved into what we experienced Saturday – mostly out-of-town purveyors selling mostly barbecue and gyros at mostly ridiculous prices. One vendor sold his “gyro only” for $6 and his “gyro plate” for whatever amount it is when you handwrite an “9” on top of a “8,” or perhaps vice versa. Whether it’s $17 or $72, that’s one damn fine shaved-lamb sandwich.

My wife and I milled around the gardens, which is now actually the concrete-paved slab separating a collection of softball fields, trying to find something both palatable and affordable. After several loops around the circle, she settled on fried mushrooms and an ear of cheese-covered corn (the “fried” and “cheese-covered” modifiers would normally be implied, but I add them here for any readers overseas.) Looking for something a little different, I decided to experiment with the “Louisiana Boudoin Balls.” The guy selling them joked he wouldn’t sell me any till I attempted to pronounce the product, so I gave him my best French-inflected “boo-dawn.” He laughed, then handed over the fried, breaded and balled sausage-and-spice concoction. There were (disconcertingly) two of them, hot and peppery, rattling around the bottom of a cone cup, looking thoroughly not worth $3.50 per ball. I tried to convince myself the flavor was exotic, until halfway through the final ball I decided “bad” was a better description.

I’m pretty sure we won’t be attending many more Come See Me events this week, but I thought I’d describe a few of the other highlights still to come in case anybody out there wants to jet in for next weekend’s finale (rooms are still available at the Super 8, Rodeway and Microtel motels).

There’s both a Mayor’s Frog Jump and a Mayor’s Prayer Breakfast (the frog, in the person of a “Glen the Frog” costumed character, is the festival’s mascot). In the frog jump, kids can either bring their own frogs — remember, we are in the South — or purchase one on-site. The youngsters then encourage the slippery hoppers to make the biggest jump in the competition by pounding on the ground behind them, blowing air up their hind end, or slipping them a little of Uncle Sonny’s crystal meth. The Prayer Breakfast is basically the same thing, except with city councilmen instead of frogs and pancakes instead of meth. You may be fortunate enough to attend one of these events in a year when organizers get a little confused, and you’ll see either a prayer jump or a frog breakfast.

 

Glen the Frog frightens children at Gourmet Gardens

 

There’s a Tuba Choir Concert, one of many musical presentations staged by the local college in the vain hope their musical performance students can get some experience in front of an audience. (Can you imagine a graduate trying to find a job in this economy with a tuba degree?)

There’s a community theatre performance of “Father Knows Best” running for several nights. I’m not sure if this production distills the entire story arc of the eight-season 1950s TV series down to a single night, or whether a selected episode is recreated (maybe the one where Latin dancer Rita Moreno plays an exchange student from India). But I don’t intend to find out.

There’s a highly regulated Tailgate Party in a grassy field near Winthrop Lake where no vehicles are allowed, no tailgating is allowed in the lot where you can leave your vehicle, and glass containers, beer kegs, pets, household furniture, wheeled toys, golf carts and tiki torches are prohibited. They don’t specifically disallow improvised explosive devices, kangaroos or investment bankers, so maybe those are permitted.

There’s a Be Seen Green Parade in which participants where green clothes to show off their environmental awareness and get one more use out of those St. Patrick’s Day ensembles. “We’re going to have some hybrid cars going through the parade this year,” said one organizer, though with any luck their weak acceleration will be such that anyone who’s struck won’t be hurt.

There are a number of other frog-themed events giving Glen a chance to show his humongous felt mug around town. There’s something called Frog Hoppin’ Fun that showcases amphibian-related games and crafts for the 2-to-6-year-old set while their parents can take advantage of free dental screenings. There’s a Frog Float where sponsored rubber frogs race toward a finish line with the winner getting a $1000 gift certificate (deceased participants from the Mayor’s Frog Jump are ineligible to join, as their bloating gives them unfair buoyancy). And, there’s a Frog Coloring Contest that’s totally fixed, as last year’s winner didn’t even stay inside the lines.

Rounding out the other highlights, there’s a barbecue competition featuring chefs and their smokers from throughout the Southeast (samples can be purchased, though pork is off the menu); there’s a mass kazoo march in which participants are asked to donate a bottle of lotion to a local children’s home; there’s a sheep-shearing, presumably because you can’t shear frogs; and there’s something called Everything Trucks!, where everything is a truck.

The festival finale takes place on the last evening this coming Saturday. In what I earnestly pray is a carefully scheduled climax, a team of airborne acrobats from the Carolina Skydiving Team will give a parachute-jumping exhibition, while a Fireworks Extravaganza will fill the sky with brilliant pyrotechnic displays. I can’t believe the organizers of these two separate events wouldn’t vigilantly coordinate their efforts to ensure the jumpers aren’t blown out of the evening sky by rocket-propelled mortars, though maybe the risk of that prospect is meant to draw even bigger crowds to the final night.

Only a dissection of the beloved Glen would be a more horrible way to end this year’s Come See Me.

Fake News: El Presidente in Espanol (sort of)

PORT-OF-SPAIN, Trinidad (April 20) – President Barack Obama wrapped up his attendance at the three-day Summit of the Americas Saturday promising greater cooperation and a new era of respect for our neighbors to the south.

The president acknowledged that his high-school Spanish “may be a ‘poco rustisimo’,” but still made a symbolic effort to communicate with most of the Latin American leaders in their native language. Some of the conversations may not have been quite what Obama intended, though State Department specialists were quick to step in with clearer interpretations where they were needed.

“Se me olvido mi cuaderno,” Obama announced to the cheers of assembled leaders. “La pluma esta en la mesa.”

Though literally translated to mean “I forgot my notebook; the pen is on the table,” U.S. ambassador to Mexico Ronaldo Lopez said that what the president meant was that the portfolio of past American tactics was being left behind, and that all parties could now work together to write new guidelines for the relationship.

The president asked those in attendance to bring a fresh perspective to how relations could progress between the increasing number of leftist governments in South America and the economic and social powerhouse to their north.

“Es esto la caja?” Obama asked rhetorically. “Es esto la lampara o la silla?”

By asking “is this the box?” and “is this the lamp or the chair?”, Ambassador Lopez said the president was requesting that delegates “think outside of normal conventions and consider whether it was more important to illuminate past differences or sit together and find similarities.”

“El arroz con pollo es la especialidad,” the president continued. “Yo quiero pina fria y una taza de café puro.”

“Yes, he did point out that chicken and rice is the special, and that he prefers cold pineapple and a cup of black coffee,” Lopez interjected. “I think what he’s trying to say is that agrarian reforms being carried out in large parts of the continent are producing better agricultural yields and addressing many nations’ chronic problems with hunger.”

“Para bailar La Bamba se necessito una poca de gracia. Los cuadrupedos viven en la tierra,” Obama told the crowd before boarding the presidential helicopter for his return to the airport. “Yo no tengo cortaplumas; no puedo cortar el papel. Nos disgusta mucho el ruido cuando queremos dormer.”

A look of exasperation crossed the ambassador’s face as he made his translation.

“I can only tell you what he said: ‘To dance the Bamba requires a little grace. The quadrupeds live on the ground. I have no penknife; I cannot cut the paper. We dislike noise when we want to sleep’,” Lopez recited. “I’ll leave that for the peoples of Latin America to understand for themselves.”

 

A word or two against Earth Day

If I may, I’d like to raise a contrary word during today’s celebration of Earth Day.

Surely there’s nothing more universally accepted across the political spectrum than the premise that our Earth is a good place, worthy of our devoted stewardship. Whether you’re on the religious right and believe it was created by God in six days, or on the scientific left and believe it’s a remnant of the Big Bang, or somewhere in the middle and believe it was coughed up by the Great Turtle, you still respect and honor the big blue orb. It is beloved by us all as our nurturing mother, our protecting father, the annoying little brother we can pick on with impudence.

Is this love we have for our home planet grounded in a verifiable reality? We feel affection for our families, our hometown and our country primarily because they are ours; they must be the best available because they’re associated with us. There’s no objective comparison involved, since few of us with all our teeth can claim to have lived on another planet.

While I too like the Earth, I’m not quite so terra-centric as to believe it’s necessarily the best of all possible worlds. In the spirit of skeptical curiosity that prompts us to demand the best of those we love (with the exception of spouses), I’d like to honor our globe today by pointing out a few flaws it could stand to work on.

For example, there’s the whole concept of plate tectonics. Exactly whose idea was it to have our land masses floating on a worldwide sea of searing magma? And even worse, these plates aren’t even moving in the same direction, so they periodically collide into each other causing catastrophic earthquakes. Or the lava erupts through a volcano and obliterates helpless villagers and camera crews. It’s not a requirement of habitable planets that they follow this model. I probably wouldn’t rather live on a gas giant like Jupiter, where it’d be hard to get your footing, but a simple solid rock with no fancy innards would suffice.

Then there’s the related issue of topography. Mountains and valleys certainly make for some nice scenery, but they become terribly inconvenient if you’re trying to traverse them, especially in a four-cylinder Honda Civic like mine. And they’re strewn about so randomly. You’re headed cross country on the wide open Great Plains, then all of a sudden there’s the Rocky Mountains, showing up out of nowhere (at least according to MapQuest). If we need a little variety, might I suggest something like the dimples of a golf ball, so you could easily negotiate your way around the variations if you wanted.

I’m also not thrilled about the whole concept of air. I know that we theoretically need it to breathe, but having it be invisible doesn’t give me a lot of confidence in its availability. You walk into a room and you can’t tell immediately whether it has any air in it or not. And on the occasions when it is visible (smog alert days, windstorms, anywhere in urban China), you really don’t want to be inhaling it into your body. My ideal would be to have this life-sustaining vapor instead manifest itself in a solid state. It would condense in the space around us, then become weighty enough to fall to the ground, and we could eat it for our oxygen requirements. A nice raspberry flavor would be pleasant.

The prevalence of water collecting into various depressions around the globe is another notion worth challenging. I know that stuff about it being the basic building block of life and all, and yet I don’t understand why it so often has to be muddy or salty. There are also fish, amphibians and reptiles living there that are bound to give it a less than flavorful taste. I’d propose removing all the bothersome creatures, put down a nice sealant to prevent soil and other organic matter from seeping in, and replacing the water with a more popular beverage, either Fanta Orange or Pepsi.

I think we could also demand a lot more of our non-human animal life. Too much of it is either microscopic or threatening or, in the case of viruses and bacteria, both. I’d like to see a lot more of it be of the cute variety (like kittens, baby bears, Sarah Palin) or the docile yet delicious variety (beef cattle, decapitated chickens, etc.). I understand that there does need to be some class of creature that can rival man for his dominance at the top of the food chain, yet I don’t think lions and wolves and rhinos are doing their job. We need something about 50 feet tall, with fangs of steel and fire-breathing capabilities. Let’s see the weekend hunters tackle that.

Speaking of the great outdoors, I’d like to weigh in on our plant life too. I know “going green” is the theme of the day today, in honor of leaves and grass and various shrubberies. If you think about it, though, that’s not really the predominant color we see in nature. Go outside right now and hug a tree and tell me what you find in your face: that’s right, it’s scabby, resinous tree bark. Now try to get that stickiness out of your eyebrows – good luck.

I’d be remiss if I also didn’t mention one of my least-favorite forces of nature, gravity (the most-hated is centrifugal force, which always knocks my groceries all over the back seat of my car whenever I make a hard left). We tend to take it for granted that we’re attached to the surface of the Earth without ever considering whether that’s really necessary. It doesn’t just have to be in science fiction or on the space shuttle that we can float about freely. I know they’re called the “laws of gravity,” but it’s worth acknowledging that there exists a judicial appeal process in modern liberal democracies. Perhaps if President Obama gets a couple of Supreme Court appointments in the next few years, we’ll have the votes needed to challenge such an arbitrary and archaic statute.

Finally I’m going to mention a particular peeve of mine that I think we’d all be better off without. The Van Allen Belt is a band of charged particles about 75 miles above the Earth, held in place by our magnetic field. While it may not technically be considered an everyday part of our world, it still hovers menacingly above us, compressed by the solar wind into the ominous-sounding Chapman Ferraro Cavity. Theorized about for decades, its existence was finally confirmed in 1958 by Dr. James Van Allen. (Coincidence? I think not). As our planet grows larger and larger with obese humans, discarded trash and greenhouse gases, the belt will gradually tighten around our waist until it no longer fits our enlarged form. My idea: let’s switch to Van Allen suspenders while we can still claim it’s a fashion statement rather than a requirement of our girth.

Oh, and one more thing: the name, Earth, itself. Or, more formally, the Earth. Any geographic location preceded by “the” is almost always a loser-land: the Sudan, the Ukraine, the Bronx, even the Moon. Seems like only the Discovery Channel and well-educated guys with English accents drop the “the,” and they’re usually mispronouncing it as “uth” anyway. All the other planets in our solar system have cool Roman names, so I’d propose something similar for us. We should consider Terra, Lasagna or Urethra.

So as we all do our individual parts to celebrate Earth Day today (for example, I just ate my Styrofoam coffee cup rather than throw it in the trash), let’s also remember that our home is far from perfect and let’s continue to look for ways to improve it.

Fake News: Pirate (hearts) NY

NEW YORK (April 25) – Captured Somali pirate Abduwali Abdukhadir Muse arrived in New York earlier this week to face federal charges in connection with his role in the hijacking of an American container ship in the Indian Ocean.

 

 

 

Happy to be in New York

Smiling broadly for photographers as he entered the huge federal courthouse in Lower Manhattan, Muse spoke in broken English describing events of recent weeks that have thrust him into the international spotlight. He is the sole survivor in a foursome of pirates who briefly captured the Maersk Alabama, then held its captain hostage for several days before Navy Seals freed him by killing Muse’s three cohorts.

“I so very happy to be here in New York,” Muse said in a brief statement. “This is greatest city in the world. I never dream that poor desert goatherd like me would make it here.”

Muse was charged by Judge Andrew Peck with five counts in Tuesday’s hearing, the most serious of which was “the crime of piracy as defined by the law of nations.” Though his father, speaking by telephone from Somalia, said Muse was only 15 years old, the judge declared he was an adult and ordered him held without bail.

But before he headed off to jail, Muse planned to take in the sights of the city and capitalize on his new-found fame.

“I want to see Empire State Building and Times Square,” Muse said. “I want to go to ESPN Zone and Museum of Modern Art and Apple store. I very hungry and want to have apple.”

Authorities made the unusual move to honor Muse’s request for a brief period of freedom before he likely spends the rest of his life behind bars. New York police detective Frederick Gallaway said he agreed to allow Muse one day of what he called “shore leave” before his imprisonment.

“Just look at the smile on that little guy’s face,” Gallaway said. “He’s so absolutely thrilled to be here that we just couldn’t bring ourselves to say no.”

Muse did a round of souvenir shopping in the midtown area, where he at first had a bit of difficulty purchasing the requisite “I (Heart) New York” caps and t-shirts. Merchants were reluctant to accept the $100,000 bill he presented for payment, though most eventually gave the items away when they saw the throng of reporters accompanying Muse.

Before heading downtown, Muse stopped by the studios of “The Regis and Kelly Show” for one of several television interviews he said he had scheduled.

“Regis keep asking how I felt winning Boston Marathon,” Muse said. “I say, ‘no, no, I am Somali, not Kenyan,’ but he just laugh. He funny funny man.”

Muse then took a taxi to the financial district after a brief and accidental detour through the Lower East Side. Cab driver Hakim Akbar, also a Somali native, let Muse take the wheel for the final half of the drive and “he took to the sidewalks and curbs like a natural,” Akbar said. “It is in the blood of our people.”

Muse made a brief visit to the floor of the New York Stock Exchange while on Wall Street. He was surprisingly well-versed in trading operations despite having no formal education and little contact with the outside world while in east Africa.

“Our pirate union had set us up with the 401(k),” Muse said. “I thought I was well-diversified and taking conservative approach to long-term growth, but still lost money. I wanted to shake my fist and put the ancient camel curse on Morgan Stanley.”

Muse next wanted to take the Staten Island Ferry to get some pictures of the Statute of Liberty and Ellis Island, but that plan was scrubbed by security officials for obvious reasons.

“He’s a freakin’ pirate, for cryin’ out loud,” said ferry captain Emmet Anderson. “Jeez.”

Muse ended his one day of freedom with a trip to Queens to see the day-night doubleheader at brand-new Citi Field between the Mets and the Pittsburgh Pirates. The Mets took the first game 4-1 with a strong two-hit performance by Johan Santana, but the Pirates rebounded to squeeze out an 8-7 win in the nightcap.

“The Bucs, they look good,” Muse said before returning to federal custody. “But that Santana, whoa. He a horse.”

 

 

 

 

Website Review: Panera.com

This week’s Website Review is going to be a bit of stretch for me because I’ll be looking at a company I actually admire and whose services I use virtually every day. Panera Bread is a chain of bakery-café restaurants that sells breads, sandwiches, soups, salads, bakery items and, most importantly, this amazing frozen chocolate coffee drink. I tend to loathe in principal any corporate entity that boasts over $600 million in annual sales and three founders. So I’ll try to be as snarky as I can while trying to keep my enthusiasm wrapped up as tightly as one of their succulent dark chocolate croissants.

First, a point or two of disclosure is probably in order. I discovered Panera about ten years ago on a business trip to Pennsylvania. I spent two weeks having the cinnamon crunch bagel for breakfast, then loaded another several dozen onto my return flight. When I found the closest franchise to my home was only 100 miles away, I made not one but three trips to restock my stash. When a store finally was built in my hometown, I showed up the night before the official opening to discover the inexperienced cashiers needed to practice on their registers (“we’re not trained to accept cash yet,” one told me) and I walked out with a complimentary armload of baked goods.

Now, another one has opened within a five-minute drive of my office, so that’s where I spend my mid-morning break reading humor blogs. The wi-fi is free, there are plentiful electrical outlets, bread samples are given out next to the coffee urns and there’s usually a New York Times abandoned in a rack next to the trash can. I’ll typically buy a fountain drink out of guilt as much as thirst (though I’m not so responsible that I’d forego getting my frequent-customer card stamped toward a free chai tea latte), but recently I’ve become such a regular that the manager on duty doesn’t even charge me for the drink.

So you probably see some of my motivation here.

The corporate history page reveals that Panera began as the St. Louis Bread Company in 1981 in St. Louis, or else in 1987 in Kirkwood, Missouri, they’re not sure. It was largely a local concern until a complicated transaction in either 1993 or 1999 brought about the current name. St. Louis Bread was renovating its 20 cafes, which motivated Au Bon Pain Co. to purchase the company by selling all its own Au Bon Pain franchises to the Compass Group, then renamed itself Panera, except in Missouri where it’s still known as St. Louis Bread.

The company now operates or franchises 1,252 locations in 40 states and Canada employing almost 5,000 full-time employees. In 2005, it ranked number 37 on BusinessWeek’s list of “Hot Growth Food-Service Companies,” which I presume is a good thing unless there are only 38 total.

On the Company Overview page, we learn that the company has a mission statement and that it is, quite simply, “a loaf of bread in every arm.” This mission is also reflected in the company logo, which looks like a windblown Virgin Mary looking adoringly at a curiously oblong Baby Jesus cradled in her arms. Turns out, He’s a baguette.

This page also takes the opportunity to discuss the company’s philosophy of “bread leadership,” which it describes as the singular goal of making bread broadly available to consumers across America. I’d speculate that the creator behind this concept has never been along the entire back wall of any major grocery store, but instead spent his time working on noble language for the website. For example:

“Every day, at every location, trained bakers craft and bake each loaf from scratch, using the best ingredients to ensure the highest quality,” he writes. “Panera showcases the art and craft of bread making, helping customers truly appreciate and enjoy a great loaf by studying its crust, crumb and craft.” Except, perhaps, at the Rock Hill location near my home, where the display window to the bakery area was mysteriously walled off not too long ago. (So much for the next disgusting YouTube sensation.)

Of course there’s an online menu, both for bakery and café items, and a nutrition guide based on “standardized recipes, representative values provided by suppliers, analysis using industry standard software, published resources and/or testing conducted in accredited laboratories, expressed in values based on federal rounding and other applicable regulations.” In other words, if your sandwich guy slathers on a few extra tablespoons of smoky chipotle mayonnaise at your request, you may experience your own case of “federal rounding” despite what the official calorie count says.

Let’s take a look at a few specific products that Panera describes. Of their coffee, they say “we believe that making coffee requires the utmost attention,” not only to make sure olive oil isn’t accidentally substituted for water but to be sure nobody gets burned. They’ve recently started offering a line of breakfast sandwiches with a thick slice of Vermont natural white cheddar cheese, freshly baked Ciabatta bread and eggs “freshly cracked-to-order.” I’m not sure how the customized cracking makes that much difference in the taste, though I usually ask that mine be bounced off the ceiling just for the entertainment value. A healthier option for breakfast is the strawberry granola parfait, inspired by the 5-year-old daughter of the head chef. “He scrutinized everything in the granola – even the exact size of the coconut pieces,” though presumably he omitted her suggestion to place a Barbie head on the top.

Finally, I’ll mention some of my very favorite items. The sandwiches are excellent, especially the paninis (paninae?) and the Asiago roast beef, with creamy horseradish sauce. There are some great soups, including the forest mushroom soup, made with three flavorful types of mushrooms, none of which are fatal. And there’s possibly the best salad ever in the form of the Fuji apple chicken salad, with sweet apple juice and balsamic vinegar dressing, mixed field greens, pecans, gorgonzola and apple chips. It’s especially delicious when they remember to include the chicken.

My full assessment of the Panera website? The hell with it. Just go to the actual restaurant with a hearty appetite and an ability to withstand jazz saxophone Muzak, and you’ll enjoy yourself immensely.

 

Robots gaining on humans (or ARE they?)

The following is an article recently published in a national newspaper and online. Most of it is hard to believe but true. However, there are six paragraphs inserted randomly throughout that are just slightly more absurd (and entirely more false) than the rest of the article. See if you can spot the places where we step over the line from science fact to science lunacy. (Answers are at the end)

WASHINGTON — Robots are gaining on us humans.

Thanks to exponential increases in computer power — which is roughly doubling every two years — robots are getting smarter, more capable, more like flesh-and-blood people. Matching human skills and intelligence, however, is an enormously difficult — perhaps impossible — challenge.

Nevertheless, robots guided by their own computer “brains” now can pick up and peel bananas, land jumbo jets, steer cars through city traffic, search human DNA for cancer genes, play soccer or the violin, find earthquake victims or explore craters on Mars.

At a “Robobusiness” conference in Boston last week, companies demonstrated a robot firefighter, gardener, receptionist, tour guide and security guard. You name it, a high-tech wizard somewhere is trying to make a robot do it.

A Japanese housekeeping robot can move chairs, sweep the floor, load a tray of dirty dishes in a dishwasher and put dirty clothes in a washing machine.

In one of the first Chinese entrants to make a public appearance, a yard work robot could mow the lawn, sweep sidewalks and clean roof gutters. An attempt to use a leaf-blower backfired, however, when it accidentally switched to the vacuum option and had a hand sucked into the machine.

Intel, the worldwide computer-chip maker, has developed a self-controlled mobile robot called Herb, the Home Exploring Robotic Butler. Herb can recognize faces and carry out generalized commands such as “please clean this mess,” according to Justin Rattner, Intel’s chief technology officer.

In a talk last year titled “Crossing the Chasm Between Humans and Machines: the Next 40 Years,” the widely respected Rattner lent some credibility to the often-ridiculed effort to make machines as smart as people.

“The industry has taken much greater strides than anyone ever imagined 40 years ago,” Rattner said. It’s conceivable, he added, that “machines could even overtake humans in their ability to reason in the not-so-distant future.”

One test could take place as early as this fall. Fox News Channel will premiere a new Sunday roundtable political discussion program made up entirely of robots. Producers declined to release the name of the show, as they didn’t want to prejudice viewers against their current lineup of human commentators.

Programming a robot to perform household chores without breaking dishes or bumping into walls is hard enough, but creating a truly intelligent machine still remains far beyond human ability.

Artificial intelligence researchers have struggled for half a century to imitate the staggering complexity of the brain, even in creatures as lowly as a cockroach or fruit fly. Although computers can process data at lightning speeds, the trillions of ever-changing connections between animal and human brain cells surpass the capacity of even the largest supercomputers

“Eventually, we’re going to reach the point where everybody’s going to say, ‘Of course machines are smarter than we are,’” said Paul Saffo, a technology forecaster at Stanford University in Stanford, Calif. “The truly interesting question is what happens after if we have truly intelligent robots. If we’re very lucky, they’ll treat us as pets. If not, they’ll treat us as food.”

Some far-out futurists, such as Ray Kurzweil, an inventor and technology evangelist in Wellesley Hills, a Boston suburb, predict that robots will match human intelligence by 2029, only 20 years from now. Other experts think that Kurzweil is wildly over-optimistic.

According to Kurzweil, robots will prove their cleverness by passing the so-called “Turing test.” In the test, devised by British computing pioneer Alan Turing in 1950, a human judge chats casually with a concealed human and a hidden machine. If the judge can’t tell which responses come from the human and which from the machine, the machine is said to show human-level intelligence.

“We can expect computers to pass the Turing test, indicating intelligence indistinguishable from that of biological humans, by the end of the 2020s,” Kurzweil wrote in his 2005 book, “The Singularity Is Near.” To Kurzweil, the “singularity” is when a machine equals or exceeds human intelligence.

He predicted, however, that he could see that date moving up by as much as ten years if the concealed humans were beauty pageant or “American Idol” contestants.

Intel’s Rattner is more conservative. He said that it would take at least until 2050 to close the mental gap between people and machines. Others say that it will take centuries, if it ever happens.

Some eminent thinkers, such as Steven Pinker, a Harvard cognitive scientist, Gordon Moore, a co-founder of Intel, and Mitch Kapor, a leading computer scientist in San Francisco, doubt that a robot can ever successfully impersonate a human being.

It’s “extremely difficult even to imagine what it would mean for a computer to perform a successful impersonation,” Kapor said. “While it is possible to imagine a machine obtaining a perfect score on the SAT or winning ‘Jeopardy’ — since these rely on retained facts and the ability to recall them — it seems far less possible that a machine can have true imagination in a way that matches everything people can do.”

A contestant robot was scheduled to appear on the game show “Deal or No Deal” earlier this year, but backed out at the last minute. Programmers denied it was possible for the robot to feel the human emotion of embarrassment, and claimed instead that the android had a case of food poisoning.

Nevertheless, roboticists are working to make their mechanical creatures seem more human. The Japanese are particularly fascinated with “humanoid” robots, with faces, movements and voices resembling their human masters. A fetching female robot model from the National Institute of Advanced Industrial Science and Technology lab in Tsukuba, Japan, sashays down a runway, turns and bows when “she” meets a real girl.

“People become emotionally attached” to robots, Saffo said. Two-thirds of the people who own Roombas, the humble floor-sweeping robots, give them names, he said. One-third take their Roombas on vacation.

The most popular destinations for human/Roomba vacations tend to be in developing-world countries. Often, the people will be involved in a charity project like Habitat for Humanity while the Roomba roams the streets feasting on filth.

At a technology conference last October in San Jose, Calif., Cynthia Breazeal, an MIT robot developer, demonstrated her attempts to build robots that mimic human and social skills. She showed off “Leonardo,” a creature that reacts appropriately when a person smiles or scowls.

“Robot sidekicks are coming,” Breazeal said. “We already can see the first distant cousins of R2D2” the sociable little robot in the “Star War” movies.

Other MIT researchers have developed an autonomous wheelchair that understands and responds to commands to “go to my room” or “take me to the cafeteria.”

The wheelchair will respond to any request it can physically perform that is made by its occupant. Researchers are still working to set up a filter that will block requests from rest-home residents to inflict physical harm on staff members.

So far, most robots are used primarily in factories, repeatedly performing single tasks. The Robotics Institute of America estimates that more than 186,000 industrial robots are being used in the United States, second only to Japan. It’s estimated that more than a million robots are being used worldwide, with China and India rapidly expanding their investments in robotics.

Fake paragraphs below:

In one of the first Chinese entrants to make a public appearance, a yard work robot could mow the lawn, sweep sidewalks and clean roof gutters. An attempt to use a leaf-blower backfired, however, when it accidentally switched to the vacuum option and had a hand sucked into the machine.

One test could take place as early as this fall. Fox News Channel will premiere a new Sunday roundtable political discussion program made up entirely of robots. Producers declined to release the name of the show, as they didn’t want to prejudice viewers against their current lineup of human commentators.

He predicted, however, that he could see that date moving up by as much as ten years if the concealed humans were beauty pageant or “American Idol” contestants.

A contestant robot was scheduled to appear on the game show “Deal or No Deal” earlier this year, but backed out at the last minute. Programmers denied it was possible for the robot to feel the human emotion of embarrassment, and claimed instead that the android had a case of food poisoning.

The most popular destinations for human/Roomba vacations tend to be in developing-world countries. Often, the people will be involved in a charity project like Habitat for Humanity while the Roomba roams the streets feasting on filth.

The wheelchair will respond to any request it can physically perform that is made by its occupant. Researchers are still working to set up a filter that will block requests from rest-home residents to inflict physical harm on staff members.

 

A revisit to NextLevel Church

A little while back, I reprinted an article about a local church that described itself as “rock ‘n’ roll-style,” and had spent large parts of its Easter service Twittering about members’ love for the Lord. The Next Level Church includes a number of creative twenty- and thirty-somethings who aren’t interested in evangelical churches that focus on what they call “the me-God relationship, with services full of prom songs to Jesus.” Instead, they wish to be with-it hepcats, as we fity- and sixty-somethings used to call them.

Today, I’m going to look a little closer at the Next Level Church through the blog they maintain on their website, nextlevelchurch.org. Here are some highlights:

–In an economy like this, it flat out doesn’t make sense to give things away for free. I went to lunch yesterday at SubStation 2, which is AMAZING by the way, and they charged me 10 cents for water and 10 cents for ice. And that totally makes sense to me. (The name SubStation 2, however, does not make sense to me. Was there a SubStation 1? Is the sequel better than the original, which RARELY is the case? If history proves correct, there is a SubStation 1 out there that is the Mecca of sub shops. And I’m sure if I simply googled SubStation this mystery and my ignorance would be erased. I choose, however, to savor the unknown). My point is this: giving away free stuff just doesn’t make sense. Everyone is hurting financially and people should charge money for whatever people will pay for. Uh-oh. We have a problem. Next Level Church is an organization that exists to help people take their next step in their relationship with God, whatever that step is. Our teaching on the weekend is specifically geared towards helping people connect with God. We record these teachings every week on CD. Dilemma! To sell or not to sell?!

–The week after Easter is traditionally one of the most “dead” weeks of the year at church. Well yesterday, you never would’ve known it was the week after church. Our volunteers were sharp and energized. The worship team did an incredible job with a tough Rascal Flatts tune – even being guys who don’t like country. The new high school service was borderline insane. (Actually, it WAS insane. As part of a game I drank an entire McDonald’s Happy Meal that had been blended up into a shake. It tasted like puke long before any of it came back up. Needless to say, the students LOVED it.) You guys rock!

–We continue to get notes and emails from around the country as media attention to our Easter Twitter experiment has spread. I love the unintended consequences of this sort of thing. Go God!

–The whole Twitter experiment hit hard (in a good way) this week! What’s that? You demand evidence?! Fine. Exhibit A: Check out the front page of the Charlotte Observer, fools!! Exhibit B: Check the local news, suckers!! Exhibit C: We were on CNN, what now!! Exhibit D: And Creative Loafing, woot woot!! (I’m not linking to their website because it can be a wee bit inappropriate). Your participation in the Twitter experiment allowed thousands of people disconnected from God and His Church to hear about Next Level. And on top of that everyone in people’s twitter-spheres (I just made that word up) heard about the amazing things God is doing.

–Easter Sunday was pretty fantastic. Pastor Todd kicked butt, and the band flat-out rocked. Here’s some background on how the service was planned: Harrison picks out music for the Easter service. His original choice, “Circus” by Britney Spears, is chided by the rest of the staff. Instead we decide to play “Come Alive” by the Foo Fighters and “Magnificent” by U2. Decision is made to film the Schweigers for a FamReality promo video. Orders pre-teen brothers to fight each other on film for a truly churchy moment. Band practice irons out all the kinks in Easter songs. Drummer threw down some hot beats. We are mad impressed and ready for Sunday.

Fake News Briefs

Captured Somali readies his defense

NEW YORK (April 25) – Captured Somali pirate Abduwali Muse revealed plans for his legal defense strategy through his attorneys this weekend, and it appears to rely heavily on influences he has felt during his ten-day stay in New York.

Attorney Malcolm Campbell said Muse will claim during his upcoming piracy trial that the alleged attack on the Maersk Alabama was merely a “performance piece” by himself and three fellow “actors,” and should be protected as an act of artistic expression.

“If you look at the circumstances carefully, you’ll quickly recognize that it wasn’t that different from much of the work being staged at venues throughout this city on a regular basis,” Campbell said. “The only difference — instead of off-Broadway, this was off Somalia.”

Muse will claim that the five-day hijacking that ended when the ship’s captain was freed by Navy Seals earlier this month was “a work of post-modern irony comprised of three acts.”

“The first act, throwing a line onto the deck and scrambling on board, is a modern dance statement inspired by the early works of Martha Graham,” Campbell said. “The second act, when the terrorized crew babbled incoherently while locked in a small supply closet for nine hours, uses elements of absurdist theater. After a brief intermission, the climactic third act was what we considered a floating installation, bobbing in a life boat on the open ocean, much like modern man drifts through an aimless, meaningless experience.”

Muse and his attorneys will assert that the production could’ve been a success if appreciated in the proper light. Though virtually all of the civilized world condemned the act as one of international criminality, Campbell noted that local reviewers gave it three gunshots on a scale of one to five.

“Those who were really close to the action and could feel the passion of the performers gave them what you could call very high marks,” Campbell said of the Navy marksmen who closed the show prematurely. “They felt my client had captured something special. It’s just very sad that it ended up being such a limited run.”

 

Stretching the meat

WASHINGTON (April 27) – Animal husbandry experts at the Department of Agriculture revealed several revolutionary new techniques yesterday that could profoundly affect livestock yields, especially in developing-world countries.

Following in-depth research at the agency’s genetics lab, scientists were able to devise a process that would allow farmers to market their cattle at a slow and steady rate rather than all at once after the annual slaughter.

“Basically, our technique involves harvesting only small parts of the cattle’s meat on an as-needed basis,” said Dr. Robert Rachel, professor of animal science at Maryland A&T and a researcher with the FDA. “With carefully calibrated surgical procedures, we can remove portions of beef while the animal continues to live and grow.”

Rachel described how chunks roughly the size of a hamburger can be cut away from a steer’s hide, and the wound can then be covered with a sterile dressing and allowed to heal. Larger cattle might even be able to survive the removal of an entire shank, which could be treated with skin grafts grown in a culture of the animal’s own cells.

“For centuries, this has been the primary dilemma for herdsmen throughout the world,” Rachel said. “They have this tremendous financial asset that can’t easily be redeemed. If they can market their meat gradually over the course of several years, and also sell an entire carcass at full maturation, that extra income will be all gravy. So to speak.”

Rachel also theorized that an entire leg, or even several legs, could be removed and replaced with prostheses. Tails could be removed for use in oxtail soup, and organ meats such as liver and kidneys could be taken in a surgery resembling transplantation.

“They could either collect just a single kidney, allowing the animal to live off the remaining organ, or they might be able to take it all and transplant replacements from a similar animal, like a buffalo, yak or moose,” Rachel said.

The researcher dismissed criticism from animal-rights activists that hacking off chunks of cow would compound the already significant suffering these animals face at the slaughterhouse.

“We’d be working with appropriate anesthesia in all procedures,” Rachel said. “We’re not butchers. Well, actually we are butchers, but in the very best sense of the word.”

Asked why this research was done at the FDA’s genetics lab, Rachel said his group was “just borrowing the equipment while it wasn’t being used over the weekend.”

“We figured it would sound a little better if we mentioned genetics in some way,” he said.

 

 

Obama’s first 100 days: We expected more

With today marking the 100th day of Barack Obama’s presidency, both supporters and detractors are evaluating his performance thus far. In the kind of overkill that only the American mass media can accomplish, pundits from the left, the right and every data point in between are weighing in on what kind of start the president has achieved. While all observers admit there’s a lot to be done, they also maintain that the economy should’ve been fixed, the wars should’ve been finished, and healthcare and education should’ve been reformed by close of business yesterday, at the latest.

Sadly, Mr. Obama has failed. I use a genuine, heartfelt adverb there because I voted for the man and had great faith (and hope – don’t forget hope) that he had the smarts and the energy to do everything that needed to be done. A hundred days is a long time – almost half a term in dog years – and it seems we can reasonably have expected more.

So I join here with other commentators to look back at what we all wish could have and should have been done.

·        He shouldn’t have let Bea Arthur die.

·        He should have foreseen the rise of the Octomom, and taken steps to prevent it.

·        He should have kept the St. Louis Cardinals out of the Super Bowl, by executive decree if necessary.

·        He shouldn’t have allowed the flooding in North Dakota, using his substantial influence with the Creator to arrange more favorable weather patterns.

·        In addition to firing Rick Waggoner, GM’s top executive, he should’ve terminated that loudmouth that sits two cubicles behind me.

·        Satan and his minions still run the Underworld. Why is this allowed to continue?

·        In addition to the “Craigslist Killer,” we should’ve caught the “MySpace Skyjacker,” the “Facebook Jaywalker” and the “eBay Tax Evader.”

·        He shouldn’t have allowed my cat to get a kidney stone resulting in over $600 of veterinary bills. There should be health insurance reform for pets.

·       Instead of shaking hands with Hugo Chavez, he should’ve done a fist bump with the Queen.

·        It was way too hot this past weekend for so early in the spring. Summer temperatures should not start for at least another month. Also, there’s too much pollen this year, and birds keep pooping on my new car. This is not what we expected from a Democratic administration.

·        Tainted peanuts should not have been allowed to enter the food supply. I expect a hands-on commander-in-chief who will personally inspect field legumes if necessary.

·        He may have appeared on The Tonight Show, but I also would’ve expected guest stints on Project Runway and Samantha Who?

·        Despite all logical reasons to the contrary, Casey Kasem has not yet died of old age.

·        Efforts to make a more transparent government have largely succeeded, but we failed to take into account that transparency means we can see things better. And that’s not what we want when we’re looking at the ugly mugs of press secretary Robert Gibbs, Kentucky Senator Mitch McConnell and Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Please give us more physically attractive appointments, along the lines of Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sebelius (hubba, hubba) and Attorney General Eric Holder.

·        Captain “Sulley” Sullenberger, pilot of the jet that crash-landed in the Hudson River, should’ve been allowed no more than one week to take a victory lap around the country celebrating his fame.

·        I know executive powers are strictly limited and defined by the Constitution and Supreme Court interpretations thereof, but that’s still no reason Katie Perry should be allowed to walk among us.

·        The scourge of Twitter still stalks the land. Make it stop now.

·        We are still not sure whether colon cleansers work as advertised.

·        There is no reason that Elisabeth Hasselbeck should be pregnant for the third time.

·        The tuna sub, which you would think is a relatively healthy sandwich, actually can have as much as 1700 calories.

·        He should do something to keep my grass from growing to the extent that it needs to be mowed every single damn weekend.

·        We continue to cement solid relations with India, that invaluable geopolitical counterweight in south Asia and the world’s largest democracy, and yet Anoop is allowed to be eliminated from American Idol.

·        We should be better protected against makeup mistakes that make you look older.

·        On January 30, not two weeks after the president’s inauguration, the Orlando Magic defeated the Cleveland Cavaliers despite a 35-point performance by Lebron James.

·        The position of White House pet was left vacant for far too long. Even though Bo has now received full confirmation from the Senate, the right-wing blogosphere is correct in continuing to ask the hard questions: Was Bo born in the U.S. and, if so, where is his birth certificate? Why does he seem so reliant on a teleprompter for every little woof and growl? Did he sniff the Saudi king?

·        We want not only a White House dog but also a budgie and a ferret.

 

OINK, I tell you. OINK!!

ATLANTA, Georgia (April 30) – A spokesperson for the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported yesterday that THERE’S A GUY IN SIERRA LEONE WHO’S BEEN DIAGNOSED WITH GUINEA WORM DISEASE, A COUPLE OF KIDS IN MALI WHO HAVE RIVER BLINDNESS AND A WOMAN IN BANGLADESH WHO IS SHOWING SYMPTOMS OF BURULI ULCLER!!!

Dr. Harold Densmore, chief epidemiologist with the U.S. Health Service, told a packed room of reporters that early information is sketchy, but there seemed to be enough evidence to dictate an increased level of concern from the medical community.

“I know these places are half a world away. Still, preparation is vital,” Densmore said. “Who knows when they might climb onto a plane, fly into your town, come to your home and borrow your hankie?”

Densmore also noted that several other rare tropical or infectious diseases seem to be making a comeback in regions where they were thought to be all but eliminated.

“I JUST SAW A FIELD REPORT ABOUT SOMEBODY WHO HAD THE PLAGUE OF JUSTINIAN!” Densmore reported. “AND WE’RE SEEING INCREASED INCIDENTS OF HYPOVOLEMIC SHOCK, CLOSTRIDIAL COLITIS AND SNAIL FEVER!!”

In the wake of the recent outbreak of swine flu now sweeping through a couple of places, CDC officials wanted to be as forthright with the information they have as possible. Some observers had criticized their initial reaction to the new strain of influenza, saying they earlier had failed to show the proper level of urgency by talking only in caps and lower case.

“I WANT TO STRESS AGAIN THAT WE TAKE THIS VERY SERIOUSLY,” Densmore said. “PUBLIC HEALTH IS OUR BUSINESS AND WE NEED TO BE IN THE FOREFRONT FOR EVERY CASE OF MONKEY POX, EBOLA AND AFRICAN SLEEPING SICKNESS!”

The flu outbreak, which first became widely reported over the weekend, appears to have begun in rural Mexico at a site near a hog production farm. The ailment later spread to Mexico City, where several people reported feeling a little achy, and has since gone global with hundreds of reports of sniffles, tickly throats and a slight queasiness.

Densmore said he and his colleagues were working round-the-clock doing research on Wikipedia, searching for infectious and tropical diseases that could prove to be alarming. Especially promising and scary-sounding were Kallman syndrome with spastic paraplegia, Klumpke paralysis, ZAP0 deficiency, Jansky-Bielschowsky disease and Yaws.

“YAWS WOULD BE HORRIBLE,” Densmore concluded. “YOU START WITH A ‘MOTHER YAW’ WHICH ENLARGES AND BECOMES WARTY. THEN NEARBY ‘DAUGHTER YAWS’ APPEAR. THEN COMES ‘CRAB YAWS’ WITH DESQUAMATION. I DON’T LIKE THE SOUND OF THAT AT ALL.”

 

Website Review: SelectQuote.com

When I was growing up in the Lutheran Church, what I disliked most were the sermons. The half-hour spent alternately standing up and sitting down or plodding through an off-key hymn at least required some involvement from the congregation. When it came to the sermon, though, time would slow to a crawl. Minutes seemed like hours as we heard for the umpteenth time that God was good, Satan was bad and we shouldn’t sin, as if we all had ADD and had to be reminded of these basics ever week.

Fidgety wise-guy that I was, I’d usually pick up one of the visitor’s cards from the back of the pew and amuse myself by filling it out with fraudulent information. Under “name,” I’d put something like “Frank N. Stein.” Under “hometown,” I always thought “the moon” was funny. For the question “what led you to Christ?” I’d write “who?” I’d never turn the card in when the collection plate was passed (I didn’t want to go to hell), but instead stuffed it back in the pew where I hoped someone would eventually read it and get a chuckle.

Sort of like my blog postings, I guess.

Anyway, I was reminded of those early attempts at humor writing recently when I chose SelectQuote.com as my choice for this week’s Website Review. In case you’ve missed their omnipresent ads on every cable news channel known to man, SelectQuote allows you to buy term life insurance either by phone or online. Since 1985, they’ve helped customers shop from competing insurance companies in search of the best offer.

Rather than make snarky comments about all the different threads on their site, what I thought I’d do is actually “apply” for a life insurance quote by filling out their personal profile questionnaire. This turned out to be a relatively intuitive process that I can recommend to anyone who is genuinely interested in having others benefit monetarily from their death. That was not my goal however; I just wanted to have a little fun.

The first of five easy steps was recording some basic data. I decided I would be “Dr. David Weaver.” The title was required information, which I guess was a back-door way of finding a little more about your status than they could legally ask in an upfront fashion. I chose “doctor” for its implied prestige, and because neither “Viscount” nor “Major General” were offered in the pull-down options.

I tried to list my birthday as September 13, 1910 but this was immediately blocked by the site with a note to “please call our licensed insurance representative to discuss your special situation.” I didn’t appreciate being considered “special” just because I was a 98-year-old applicant, though I do understand they have to collect premiums for at least a couple of months before making a payout. To continue, I next tried 1920 and then 1930 birthdates, and finally was able to proceed when I entered 1940. After answering a few more inquiries about my gender (male), my height (four-foot two) and my weight (314 pounds), I proceeded to the health questions. (Funny that being 98 gets you flagged as a risk but being wider than you are tall is perfectly acceptable. Whatever.)

I acknowledged having been treated for high blood pressure, cancer, high cholesterol, heart problems, depression/anxiety, diabetes, alcohol/substance abuse and asthma. I also checked “other significant issues,” just to make sure I was totally upfront about my recent recurrence of Bannayan-Riley-Ruvalcaba syndrome, not to mention the psychological disorder that causes me to lie on insurance applications.

The next page introduced me to my personal advisor, his email address and his 800 phone number. I was also asked about any current coverage I had (none), how much coverage I wished to purchase ($10,000,000, the biggest number available) and what alternate amount would be my second choice ($9,000,000). I also had to select a desired duration of the policy so I picked 30 years, which ironically would make me 99 years old at the end of a policy for someone who was born in 1940.

Already I’m up to page three where they start to ask about my family health history. I gave my father cancer, heart disease and stroke, and my mother cancer, diabetes and stroke (not very nice so close to Mother’s Day, I admit). I gave my siblings a bit of a break, in part to make my situation a little more believable, and only gave them stroke. Strokes for everyone!

Next, I had to answer some inquiries about my lifestyle. I admitted to four traffic violations in the last three years and a DUI citation in the last year. I said that I currently smoke cigarettes and also use other forms of tobacco; nothing like the rush of keeping a chaw going while lighting each new cigarette off the end of the previous one. I said yes, I’ve traveled outside of the U.S. in the last two years and plan to do it again soon, yes, I’ve flown in an aircraft in a capacity other than as a passenger (that time I tried wing-walking) and yes, I’ve done scuba diving in the last three years.

I figured my personal insurance advisor would be impressed with the variety of other sports and activities I participated in, since it would indicate a vigorous and healthy life worthy of insuring. The pre-selected options offered on the pulldown were indeed remarkable: hot air ballooning, mountain climbing, motor racing, bungee jumping, hang gliding, rock climbing, horse racing, speedboat racing, high diving and skydiving. What I really wanted to brag about was Dr. Weaver’s keen interest in the new concept of “extreme hybrid sports,” where two or more of these activities are combined. Unfortunately, they only offered an unspecified “other” rather than any free-form field, so the short, corpulent physician of my imagination was unable to make note of his love for ballooning with a horse or bungee-jumping in a speedboat. Instead, I selected “horse racing” alone, figuring that might explain the applicant’s short stature.

Finally, I gave my fake street address, my phone number (867-5309) and my email address (jennyjenny@gmail.com). After giving all the data one last review, I clicked the submit button and, incredibly enough, I wasn’t laughed off the internet. Instead, I got the following reply:

“Dear Dr. Weaver,

Thank you so much for your request for term life insurance from SelectQuote. With the information you provided, I will research our pick of America’s top insurance companies and call you within 24 hours (except Sunday) with your best buy. I will review your options, answer your questions, and get you all the information you need on the policies you select from our carriers. From there, I’ll be with you every step of the way during the application and throughout the life of the policy. I look forward to working with you.”

I haven’t heard back from them yet though I imagine I will soon – that is, if I don’t die first, which the actuary tables say is in fact quite likely.

Frightening yet funny diseases

While researching scary-sounding diseases this past week for the post I did about swine flu, I discovered there’s a lot of weird stuff out there. Now I know where the writers of “House” get their ideas. There are literally thousands of exotic ailments running rampant through the population, any one of which could send the nation into a panic if ever mentioned on Fox News.

I thought that today I’d publish just a small sampling of these that I found on Wikipedia. Many of them lacked any information more than a name, which in most cases made them even more frightening than seeing details of the symptoms. Note also the large quantity of “syndromes” and their alien names. Aren’t there any diseases discovered by the research team of Jones, Smith and Brown?

For some of these diseases, I’m listing real information. For others, no details were available, so I’m making them up based on how the name reads. For others, I’m just listing the exotic name. Hope you enjoy and, more importantly, hope you don’t catch any.

Abdallat Davis Farrage syndrome is comprised of disordered skin and hair pigmentation, and progressive spastic paraparesis (a condition in which both legs and the bladder have little voluntary control).

ABCD syndrome is the acronym for albinism, black lock, cell migration disorder of the neurocytes of the gut and sensorineural deafness. 

Absence of tibia with polydactyly. This was not formally defined but as near as I can tell, it involves no leg bone but extra toes.

Acral renal mandibular syndrome. Again, no formal definition was available. I do know that “renal” has to do with the kidneys and “mandible” has to do with the jaw, yet I’m totally lost on how these might be connected.

Acrofacial dysostosis ambiguous genitalia. Possibly related to the above condition, this sounds like a malformation of the facial bones somehow connected to indistinct genitals.

Acrokeratoelastoidosis of Costa is a condition characterized by multiple keratotic papules (inflamed, elevated horny warts) on the hands and feet.

Acropigmentation of Dohi sounds to me like a problem with the color of the sky above the capital of Qatar. 

Adolescent benign focal crisis simply sounds like the inability of teenagers to concentrate. 

Aicardi-Goutieres syndrome is also known as Cree encephalitis and pseudo-TORCH syndrome, both of which were once considered separate disorders.

Alar nasal cartilages coloboma of telecanthus is something to do with dysfunctional eyelids.

Alien hand syndrome (anarchic hand or Dr. Strangelove syndrome) is an unusual neurological disorder in which one of the sufferer’s hands seems to take on a mind of its own. AHS is best documented in cases where a person has had the two hemispheres of their brain surgically separated. It also occurs in some cases after other brain surgery, strokes, or infections.

Aluminum lung is, fortunately, not a naturally occurring condition but rather an injury caused by inhaling dust in an aluminum mine.

Anterior horn disease is a complete mystery to me. I didn’t think humans had any horns at all, much less anterior ones.

Arachnodactyly (“spider fingers”) or achromachi, is a condition in which the fingers are abnormally long and slender in comparison to the palm of the hand.

Arnold Stickler Bourne syndrome sounds like some researcher is making fun of the nerdy kid from his elementary school.

Ausems Wittebol Post Hennekam syndrome.

Aarskog Ose Pande syndrome.

Achalasia-Addisonianism-Alacrima syndrome.

Baraitser Brett Piesowicz syndrome.

Bazex-Dupre-Christol syndrome.

Bazopoulou Kyrkanidou syndrome.

Bellini Chiumello Renoldi syndrome.

Ben Ari Shuper Mimouni syndrome.

Baker Vinters syndrome must be someone who is confused about whether they want to be a breadmaker or a winemaker.

Babesiosis is a malaria-like parasitic disease caused by Babesia, a genus of protozoal piroplasms.  Babesia are thought to be the second most common blood parasites of mammals and they can have a major impact on health of domestic animals in areas without severe winters. Human babesiosis is uncommon, but reported cases have risen recently because of expanded medical awareness.

Bannayan-Riley-Ruvalcaba syndrome (BRRS) is a rare disorder with occurrence of multiple subcutaneous lipomas. The disease belongs to a family of hamartomatous polyposis syndromes, which also includes Peutz-Jeghers syndrome, juvenile polyposis and Cowden syndrome. I have no idea what any of that means.

Basedow’s coma sounds like the kind of coma you’d want if you had to have a coma.

Dandy-Walker syndrome (DWS), or Dandy-Walker complex, is a brain malformation involving the cerebellum and the fluid-filled spaces around it, and apparently has little to do with walking funny.

De Hauwere Leroy Adriaenssens syndrome.

Davis Lafer syndrome is hopefully something I cause when people read my blog.

Der kaloustian Jarudi Khoury syndrome.

Dincsoy Salih Patel syndrome.

Dermatocardioskeletal syndrome (Boronne type) is apparently a defect of the skin, heart and skeleton or, basically, pretty much your entire body.

Diaphragmatic defect limb deficiency skull defect is another case of a disease picking random body parts to afflict.

Dissociative fugue (previously called psychogenic fugue) is a rare psychiatric disorder characterized by reversible amnesia for personal identity, including the memories, personality and other identifying characteristics of individuality. The state is usually short-lived, but can last months or longer. Dissociative fugue usually involves unplanned travel or wandering, and is sometimes accompanied by the establishment of a new identity. After recovery from fugue, previous memories usually return intact, however there is complete amnesia for the fugue episode. Importantly, an episode is not characterized as a fugue if it can be related to the ingestion of psychotropic substances, to trauma, to a general medical condition, or to psychiatric conditions such as delerium or dementia, bipolar disorder or depression. I thought a fugue was something that Bach composed, but I am apparently mistaken.

Double fingernail of fifth finger must be one of those fake entries that people sometimes put into Wikipedia for a joke.

Dysmorphophobia (also known as “Dysmorphic syndrome”) is a psychiatric disorder in which the affected person is excessively concerned about and preoccupied by an imagined or minor defect in their physical features.

Hailey-Hailey disease, or familial benign chronic pemphigus, was originally described by the Hailey brothers in 1939 and is a disorder that causes blisters to form on the skin. It apparently has nothing to do with comets.

Tips for on-the-job flu protection

Like all responsible citizens of corporate America, my company is taking steps to help its employees avoid infection by the swine flu, also known as H1N1, also known as influenza A, also known as the biggest false alarm since Y2K. We received an email from top management assuring us that all appropriate steps were being considered, and that our health and welfare were the number-one priority.

Whatever action might eventually be forthcoming from the corporate heights, we decided in our local office to take matters into our own hands. There’s a guy in the shipping department who looks vaguely Mexican, and another guy in accounting who’s a pig, so we figured we couldn’t afford to wait. We appropriated some items that were already in the supply cabinet, applied a little of the same ingenuity we use when coming up with tardiness excuses, and prepared ourselves for the pandemic just around the corner.

In the interest of public health, I thought I’d share some of these inventive ideas with others who might be in a similar circumstance. Like all things of any value within our company, it’s a process:

First step, eat breakfast

It’s well known that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Getting sufficient nutrition will help your body’s natural immunity defense to work at its peak. In the example shown above, we’re eating cereal. What’s most important, though, is to use one of those white disposable Styrofoam bowls widely available in corporate kitchens and canteens.

Next step, finish breakfast. ALL of it.

Being a certified member of the Clean Plate Club is essential before we can proceed. If you had cereal, as shown in this example, be sure to drink all residual milk.

Make 2 small holes with pencil, attach rubberband

Be sure to use one of those big rubberbands and to tie it tightly in both holes.

Attach to your face

This is no time to worry about presenting a fashionable appearance. You need something that can cover all identifiable features except for the eyes, so nobody’s going to be able to tell it’s you anyway.

Smile indicates you feel okay

This feature was drawn with black permanent marker, which is good for the Styrofoam surface which otherwise tends to absorb moisture.

Frown indicates feeling a little swine-y

The problem with permanent marker, however, is that the fumes tend to permeate through the mask pretty easily. You’ll find that you quickly get a headache caused by inhaling these vapors, which may obscure genuine swine flu symptoms. Note how this model’s eyes are starting to look a little spooky.

Household cleaner can serve as antiseptic

To ensure any flu germs that do make it through the mask are quickly dispatched, you can coat the inside of the bowl with any number of readily available cleaning products, including Windex, Raid and spray deodorants.

Late Breaking News: Corporate headquarters is on the move, and we now have an acronym securely in place — the Pandemic Preparedness Plan (PPP). I feel better already, though I never felt that bad to begin with.

Celebrating 100 days of being old

The world’s oldest man celebrated his first 100 days in that position Saturday by not dying.

Eldon Burnhart of St. Louis, Mo., who turned 113 years old in December, took over the position of oldest living human being when the previous occupant of the spot, Yao Wao of China, died in late January after falling out of a helicopter. Burnhart has now held onto the transitory position of world’s most elderly longer than his last 38 predecessors, most of whom died within days of being named to the post.

Burnhart credited his longevity to a regimen of exercise, healthy eating and an extensive network of friends. He said he also keeps a youthful outlook on life by staying up with the latest cultural trends, including keeping an active page on Facebook and occasionally visiting Twitter to send a message to his extensive list of 8 – no, make that 7 – followers.

“Still alive & kicking,” read one recent tweet he shared with a newspaper reporter. “Had two bowel movements since Sunday.”

Any objective assessment of Burnhart’s first 100 days would note a number of achievements that indicate he’s making progress in his agenda of continuing to live. On Day 13 as world’s oldest man, he had solid food for breakfast; on Day 37, he asked a nurse’s aide for a nickel; on Day 83, he remembered something that happened within the last 70 years.

He admitted that it’s been hard to achieve a lot of the goals he’s set out for himself in just 100 days, but asserted that he got a good start on some of the more ambitious ones. He hopes to oversee recovery of the world financial meltdown and end the war in Iraq before his term comes to an end.

“I’m like a shark. I’ve got to keep moving,” he told friends gathered for the celebration of his success yesterday. Either that, or he said “it’s getting dark, it’s very soothing.”

Burnhart’s hazel eyes danced when he talked about how his wife and family used to –

No, wait. That’s not eye dancing, that’s apparently a seizure, and he seems to have died.

 

Note: I want to say thanks to my son for contributing this idea during our dinner last night celebrating his eighteenth birthday which happens tomorrow, May 4. He’s been a great kid who’s endured a lot of hard times while still managing to be almost as funny and sarcastic as his father. Tomorrow, he starts his first day as a great adult.

Fake News: Supremes could be candidates

WASHINGTON, D.C. (May 5) – White House press secretary Robert Gibbs said yesterday that President Obama’s intense focus on the economy, two wars and other pressing issues will make it impossible for him to carefully consider a Supreme Court nominee to succeed retiring justice David Souter.

Gibbs told reporters in an afternoon press conference that Obama would probably outsource the selection process to a group of his fancy Hollywood friends.

Speculation immediately shifted from candidates on the U.S. Court of Appeals and elsewhere in the federal judiciary to more lightweight prospects whose name recognition might be sufficient to carry them through the tough confirmation process.

Three names that immediately rose to the top of the list were actors Judge Reinhold and Judd Hirsch, as well as creator of the animated “King of the Hill” series Mike Judge. Hirsch, veteran of the TV sitcom “Taxi,” could be a leading contender because he’s not currently working in the entertainment industry. All were seen to be on the short list because their names contained the same prefix as the word “judicial.”

Also high on the roster is actor Jude Law, considered a “two-fer” due to his last name. However, the fact that he’s not an American citizen, and his shoddy treatment of actress Sienna Miller prior to their 2004 breakup when he had an affair with his children’s nanny, could prove to be a roadblock with conservatives on the Senate Judiciary Committee.

Calls by many for a woman justice to join Ruth Bader Ginsberg, currently the Court’s only female, could be answered with the nomination of The Supremes, a popular Motown “girl group” from the 1960s. Appointing three co-justices to a single position could be of questionable constitutionality, according to some legal scholars, though having Clarence Thomas holding the same seat as his “little friend” may be cited as precedent.

The Supremes do have an expansive body of work that could complicate their confirmation hearings. For example, opponents could quote lyrics from their 1968 hit “Love Child” as evidence of a too-controversial stance on abortion.

“This love we’re contemplating is worth the pain of waiting,” they sang at the time. “We’ll only end up hating the child we may be creating.”

They may also have to recuse themselves from any case that reaches the high court on the subject of possibly illegal wiretaps. Their smash hit “Back in My Arms Again” could be viewed by some as prejudicial.

“All day long I hear my telephone ring, friends calling giving their advice. From the boy I love I should break away, ‘cause heartache he’ll bring one day,” crooned Supremes front-woman Diana Ross. “I lost him once through friends’ advice but it’s not going to happen twice. ‘Cause all advice’s ever gotten me is many long and sleepless nights. Oooo.”

One additional name being mentioned frequently in Hollywood is that of Paula Abdul, currently on the bench of the four-judge panel of “American Idol,” yet seen as someone who would be willing to make the largely lateral move to Washington. Not only would her appointment please those calling for another female justice, but her background as an extreme Muslim jihadist could dovetail nicely with Obama’s history.

“Her opinions are already widely known from her years on television,” said one observer. “They may seem like ranting and raving to many, but it’s that vagueness that could be so appealing to those who would oppose an activist judicial philosophy. She’d make a real unpredictable swing vote in some of those 5-4 decisions we’ve seen in recent years.”

Time for the annual physical

Last week, I underwent that periodic humiliation known as the annual physical. Like the cautious, prudent 50-something guy I am, I trooped off to my doctor’s office with the proper forms filled out in advance, my insurance preauthorization in place, and my stomach growling like an angry beast. “No food on the day of the physical,” I had been warned, but hadn’t been smart enough to think through exactly what that meant for a 2:30 appointment.

What it meant was that I was in one foul mood by the time arrived at Shiland Hills Medical Center (village motto: “just a ‘t’ short of what it’s really like to live there.”) If the purpose of the NPO order had been to test my grumpiness quotient, I was fully prepared to be off the chart. I knew from previous experience it was actually for the blood tests I’d need to undergo following the physical part of the exam, and it didn’t make me any happier when the nurse noted cheerfully “you know, you could’ve done the exam today and the blood tests on a Saturday.” Yes, and you could be doing a better job of living up to the “care” part of healthcare.

I arrived fifteen minutes early in a waiting room filled with elderly folks in wheelchairs and well-dressed young professionals. It wasn’t hard to tell the patients from the cheerleaders-turned-pharmaceutical reps — the reps had a desperately unwell look in advance of what was sure to be yet another no-sale. I signed in at the front desk, then took a seat between the only non-coughing old guy and a Newsweek magazine.

As soon as I got comfortable reading the latest news on hunger in Africa (growl), the receptionist called me forward. I sheepishly passed those who had obviously been waiting longer and more desperately needed to see a doctor and approached the desk.

“Has your insurance coverage changed since your last visit?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” I replied. “It’s much worse now.”

She took my card, made a copy and buzzed me through to the hallowed inner sanctum. A nurse greeted me just inside, asked how I was (still hungry) and escorted me to the scales. I weighed in at a trim two-oh-migod and was then taken to examining room number eleven, my personal favorite because of a particularly well-rendered watercolor landscape therein. She took my temperature, then affixed the blood pressure cuff to my upper arm and puffed away until she heard something important in her stethoscope. She read out some numbers – I think it was like 400 over 12 – but didn’t tell me if this was good, bad or indifferent. I assumed it meant I was alive.

She left me alone on the finely tissued examining table for just a few minutes before the doctor arrived. Dr. Jackson has been my personal physician (gee, that makes me sound important) for as long as I can remember, and has always treated me well. We exchange handshakes, which I wish were our only physical contact, as well as brief small talk before the prodding begins.

The actual mechanics of the exam always seems a little too cursory to me. He pulls out his little keychain penlight and peers into my throat, my eyes, my ears, every head-based orifice except the nostrils of my nose. I’m not real sure what he expects to find in these recesses, but I’d love to surprise him some time with perhaps a coin or an insect. He thumps my chest, listening to my deep breathing with a nicely feigned interest. After a quick caress of my neck to see if I have glands and lymph nodes, it’s time to drop the trousers and pry into the nether fissures (mine, not his). I won’t belabor these details here; suffice it to say we talked sports the entire time.

We occasionally encounter each other at the Y, so he told how he had changed his exercise routine lately, moving his running indoors to a treadmill because of the effect outdoor concrete was having on his knees. He said he was trying to reduce his speed a little and go more for endurance, as he had recently realized the drive and determination that had gotten him through medical school 30 years ago was wearing him out now that he was in his fifties. He was also trying to eat a little better, no more fast foods on the way home from being on-call at the hospital. I noted that I too exercised, and he thought that was nice.

We talked about the drugs I’m currently taking, whether or not I needed to continue them and if I needed any refills. He sat there dutifully writing out prescriptions for cholesterol and insomnia medicine, almost like a waiter taking my order for a chicken finger appetizer (hold the honey mustard sauce; I’m trying to lose a few pounds). I had the feeling that if I mentioned problems I was having with stress and reality, he would’ve gladly scribbled out a script for heroin. I almost regret not having given it a shot.

Finally we were done and he walked me down the hall to the laboratory, where I’d have various sera drawn and examined. With the lack of food for the previous 18 hours starting to affect my judgment, I was momentarily tempted to have fun with the lab workers. I could either squeeze a little extra blood from my still-dripping vein into the urine sample I was providing, or sneak a little pee into my blood vial. Or maybe I’d cross them up entirely and leave a five-dollar bill in the urine collection jar; that’d be funny.

Now it was time for checkout. There were at least a dozen nurses back there (I think of them all as nurses but I’m sure they were really just insurance specialists, collection agents and people in charge of not getting crushed by the rolling vertical files) yet still I had to wait in a short line. The signs warned me to stand back, so I wouldn’t infringe on the privacy of people like the lady in front of me, who unfortunately had something called watermelon stomach, no insurance and a detectable stench. When my turn arrived, I reminded the cashier I had no co-pay, which sounds like a good thing but just means I have to pay later.

At last I was freed from the medical establishment, judged relatively healthy and able to eat. There’s a Burger King conveniently right next door to Shiland Medical, and I must admit I had the chicken fingers.

Fake News: Obamas’ stroll debated

WASHINGTON, D.C. (May 6) – Women across the country applauded President Obama’s “date night out” with first lady Michelle Obama this past weekend, with many commentators noting that it was “the cutest thing.”

Meanwhile, men across the country condemned the president’s outing with his wife for making them “look bad” and for what they see as a further intrusion of federal government into everyday life.

Obama and his spouse of 18 years dined for nearly two hours at a posh Georgetown restaurant Saturday during their first evening out since arriving in Washington in January. When their motorcade returned to White House, they began strolling on the South Lawn, passing by the West Wing and then their children’s swing set. They kept walking, swinging their hands together as Secret Service agents stood in the distance.

“Aren’t they just the most darling couple?” asked Marianne Herbert, 45, a software engineer and mother of two from suburban McLean, Virginia. “You can tell they’re still deeply in love after all these years. I’m a staunch Republican and disagree profoundly with him on just about every policy issue I can think of, but you’ve got to admit he’s a tender and loving gentleman.”

Herbert’s husband, Allan, who considers himself a Democrat and supporter of the administration, had a different view of the time the First Couple spent lingering over dinner followed by the now-famous stroll.

“Two hours for dinner? That’s absolutely ridiculous,” said Herbert, a consultant with a government defense contractor. “I’d be calling for the check and the takeout boxes after 45 minutes. Did he have a coupon? I bet he didn’t even have a coupon.”

Other women, both those in the media and elsewhere, wondered how a commander in chief with the weight of the world on his shoulders could find time for a quiet night out with his wife when their lazy excuse for a husband could barely be budged from the couch to take out the garbage.

“You’ve got to give the man credit,” said conservative blogger and pro-family advocate Anne Ross. “That was so considerate of him to woo her like that. It’s nice to see that some women aren’t being taken for granted despite years spent together in a relationship.”

“Woo, schmoo,” countered Anthony Morolli, a fellow at the Harvard-based think tank Guys for a More Guy-centric America. “He was pandering directly to female voters at the expense of men who have endured long hours dealing with all that crap at work. They spend the day talking in meetings and presentations and sales calls, and all they want when they get home is to rest their ears and rest their yaps.”

Harold Mesa, 37, a truck driver from Raleigh, N.C., said he thought the postprandial stroll was “really piling it on.”

“I spend all day sitting in the cab of an 18-wheeler, and I know that you have to occasionally stretch your legs,” Mesa said. “But I would do a couple of quick toe-touches or maybe a few extra amphetamines. ‘Strolling’ with the old lady – whether she’s first or last or somewhere in between – isn’t even worth consideration for most of the boys down at the depot.”

“You shouldn’t listen to him. He’s an idiot,” said Mesa’s wife, Arlene. “Harry doesn’t even have a coherent policy on the drawdown of troop levels in Iraq. You couldn’t expect him to have a caring thought about how his wife feels.”

“Don’t get me started,” the burly driver replied. “You’re not bringing up that whole Iraq thing again, are you? We’ve been over that a million times, woman.”

“Oh, go screw yourself,” countered Mrs. Mesa.

Website Review: AssaultRifles.com

Sarah Palin was in the news again the other day when it was announced she’d be speaking at the National Rifle Association’s annual banquet later this month, and would be receiving a very special gift. A small firm called Templar Consulting has “crafted” a customized weapon that Palin will be able to take back to Alaska to encourage that pesky would-be son-in-law to do right by her daughter.

They don’t have shotgun weddings in the Great Wild North. They have AR-15 military-style assault rifles chambered in ought-fifty Beowulf weddings. And they have them now.

On May 14, the NRA Foundation will give Palin the “Alaskan Hunter,” a civilian version of the M-4 rifle carried by U.S. troops overseas. It’s engraved with Palin’s name and a map of her state on its collapsible stock, which was made legal only after the assault weapons ban expired in 2004 (the stock was made legal; not Palin, not Alaska, and certainly not her daughter). The Big Dipper from the state flag is etched onto the magazine. The gun – if that word does it justice – is the same caliber used by heavy machine guns which can take down big game or, in war zones, can disable both assailants with body armor and motor vehicles.

The rifle was assembled using custom components by Templar owner Bob Reynolds, and will come with 50 rounds of custom “solids,” which I guess are something like bullets but perhaps with a nougat center. “Gov. Palin stood up and announced that she was a supporter of the Second Amendment, and I was really excited about that,” said Reynolds. “I just wanted to do something to give back. And since the governor lives in Alaska, I thought .50 Beowulf was appropriate.”

Never mind that Alaska is the forty-ninth state, not the fiftieth. You don’t want to be arguing with this guy. I’m a little nervous joking about him, even from the safety of the blogosphere. I don’t want to go out to my driveway some morning and find out that he’s shot my car.

I was curious about this Templar Consulting firm though. I’ve dealt with some bad consultants in my day but none so awful that they could cut you in half with a one-second barrage of high-caliber ammo. So I thought I’d choose templarconsultingllc.com for my Website Review this week.

As you might imagine, it’s a fairly simple, all-business kind of website. Templar only offers a select variety of products, which include custom firearms, custom DuraCoat patterning and “personal defence training” (I’m pretty sure “defence” is a typo rather than the British spelling, considering they’re located in Apex, N.C.).

The home page features pictures of two very attractive armaments. There’s the Designated Marksman Rifle, a 28-inch barrel model that starts at $3100. It has a forged upper receiver, a billet lower with integrated trigger guard, a Magpul stock and a 9/16×24 flash hider. And there’s the Special Purpose Rifle, starting at $2100, which comes with a Danial defense rail, the ErgoAmbi soft grip, a tactical sling and a phosphate M16 bolt carrier. I can only assume that all these are features you’d want in high-quality killing machines, just like I assume that what they mean by “special purpose rifle” is “will blow your freaking head off.”

There’s also a pulldown for what are called precision rifle components. I think these might be the cute little tripods you see rifles propped up on, much like those used by the prone green army men I played with in my youth. Pictured is the 6.5 Grendel model, above the caption “if you can see it, you can hit it!” It comes with some very impressive ballistic coefficients, including the almost unbelievable 7.62mm M118LR 175gr:BC=0.496. No, I didn’t just whack the keyboard with my bagel; these are the actual specs.

The training section of the site doesn’t give many details, as I imagine classroom instruction pales in comparison to the prospect of buying these magnificent weapons. “We conduct training in armed and unarmed personal defense. We teach North Carolina concealed handgun carry classes,” it says without much enthusiasm. “Call for details.”

Probably the coolest thing I found was the section on custom gun coatings. The certified DuraCoat finish that Templar offers is a two-part coating that was created specifically for firearms. There are over 130 colors to choose from, and you can combine your color choice with a stencil pattern and finish that “will protect your firearm while it protects you.” What makes this part so interesting is the two photos: there’s an all-pink pistol engraved with a peace sign and the phrase “give my piece a chance,” and there’s a gun pointing straight at the viewer with a cheery sunburst design radiating out from the muzzle. If this fanciful graphic is the last thing you see in this life, it doesn’t seem like such a bad way to go.

There’s not much more to the website than a few predictable links. Of course, there’s a connection to NRA.org. Through this, you can fill out a form to join the group for as little as $35 a year, or you can pay $1,000 for a lifetime membership, which doesn’t seem like such a great bargain for people who spend their days playing with rifles. You can also sign up to become a recruiter, but the web filter at my work that keeps us safe from YouTube, eBay and Facebook gave me the big red “halt” hand and the message “access denied!” I suppose it does make sense to keep people on the constant brink of layoffs from such an obvious temptation to gun violence.

So if you’re interested in obtaining some high-powered weaponry, or perhaps already have a pretty good collection but want to spruce it up with splashes of color other than blood red, I would urge you to check out the offerings at templarconsultingllc.com. The all-white piece going to Governor Sarah – described by the New York Daily News as “fashionable until Labor Day” – is only available when a second version will be auctioned during the NRA banquet.

To hear the NRA site tell it, you better act now before President Obama starts revoking the Constitution.

Direct mail from the Lord

The following letter arrived recently at a vacant house near me.

Greetings in Jesus’ name to someone in this home who needs God’s help!

God has laid your address on my heart. I just feel that someone at this address needs prayer for God’s help. Could this be you?

We are a group of praying people who have experienced something so beautiful in our lives that we just have to tell others how happy we are. Our reason for being on this earth to help people in every way we can.

We have prayed over every word in this letter before MAILING IT TO YOUR ADDRESS. WE FELT THE HOLY SPIRIT LEADING US TO PRAY FOR SOMEONE AT THIS ADDRESS AND TO MAIL THIS BEAUTIFUL, BLESSED, GOLDEN, METAL PROSPERITY CROSS TO YOU. IT IS FREE! Do not send any money for it.

It is a beautiful piece of Christian jewelry that can last a lifetime. You can wear it around your neck or just carry it with you. We have prayed over it, according to St. Matthew 18:19. It is beautiful, and you will just love yours. If you ever lose it, we will replace it free of charge, regardless of how many times you lose it. It is designed for Baptists, Methodists, Pentecostals, Catholics and others. Even if you do not go to church, please write. For more than 58 years, I have been a minister. I want to pray for you and be a blessing to you.

DO YOU NEED HELP? DO YOU NEED PRAYER? ARE YOU TROUBLED? ARE YOU LONELY? DO YOU NEED A CONTINUOUS FLOW OF MONEY BLESSINGS? By faith, I want to mail this GOLDEN CROSS OF PROSPERITY to you. As I have mentioned, do not send money for this cross, or the other SPIRITUAL GIFT THAT WE WANT TO SEND YOU. THEY ARE ABSOLUTELY FREE OF CHARGE!

Please complete the enclosed postcard. If you have a prayer request, just check this card, letting me know that you desire prayer. As soon as we receive this postcard back from you, we will mail your free Prosperity Cross, which has been prayed over, to you. We will also pay for the postage for you.

Please read the beautiful testimonials from people just like you. They have been truly blessed with more love, joy, peace and more money. They have been greatly blessed because they have started praying this “Holy Bible way!”

There is so much for you to enjoy in life when you look to Jesus Christ as your total Answer. God put you on this earth for a reason. He wants to bless you and meet your spiritual, physical and financial needs. Remember, God loves you.

This letter is from the heart of a minister who has been preaching the Bible and helping people for over half a century and who loves Jesus Christ with all of his heart. I want to help you with any problems you may be facing, just as we have helped so many others through prayer. Write for your free prosperity cross today! DO NOT SEND ANY MONEY FOR IT. IT IS FREE. We just want to be a blessing to you. In a few days after we receive your postcard, you will be receiving your beautiful Prosperity Cross and another spiritual gift that we believe will be a blessing to you for a lifetime, especially financially. We believe in God’s blessing, based on the Bible (St. John 5:14)

P.S. Read your Holy Ghost faith instructions on the enclosed sealed prophecy only after you have mailed this postcard back to the church for your blessed Deuteronomy 8:18 Prosperity Cross.

Some of the testimonials:

“God blessed me with a home and a gas station.”

“After I received the Cross God blessed me with $1,000.35. I was so far behind, I was almost broke.”

“You prayed and God healed me of cancer and then this lady passed away and left my name on her will. She left me a beautiful 7-room house, 2 automobiles (I can’t even drive) and $9,780.”

“I was in need of $2,492 for income tax. God blessed me the next day.”

“I wrote to you asking you to pray that God would bless me with a larger house. God answered my prayer by blessing me with a beautiful three-apartment building. It is called a triplex, because there are three separate apartments in it and I own them all.”

Tomorrow, I open the sealed prophecy that I’m not supposed to open until I have sent in the postcard.

Adventures in the Y locker room

I just came from the YMCA and boy am I steamed. Actually, I’m not because the steam room is broken again.

It’s a bright Saturday afternoon outside and most people with any sense are slavishly mowing their lawns in the 90-degree heat. I chose instead to catch up on my treadmill work, spending 25 minutes running in place and trying to avoid looking at the idiots hovering above me on Fox News, who also seem to be running in place (“Obama bad; something else good”). I finish a pretty decent workout and head to the locker room.

This is my least favorite part of the whole Y experience. You’d think it would be the best, since the exercise is now finished and all that’s left is a refreshing shower and the satisfaction of 1.84 miles well-run. Instead I have to worry about the denizens of the locker room and the potential interactions they might try to initiate.

Even at my best (i.e., when I’m clothed), I’m not the friendliest guy around. When I’m naked, I’m even less interested in you and your life. My motto – nude or otherwise – is “don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, don’t sense my presence or respond to it in any way.” I know it’s pretty long as personal creeds go, so I’m thinking of having it tattooed on my pale white chest. Perhaps then, I can navigate my way around the benches and mildew stains without feeling obliged to chat with the folks around me.

When I enter the locker room it seems like no one’s there. That can be a good thing, if it’s true, or a bad thing, if there’s only one other guy in there, because then it seems the temptation to initiate contact becomes overwhelming. As I round the corner to where I’ve stored my stuff, I catch a glimpse of a guy’s head lying prone on a bench in the next row over. Fortunately his body is attached just out of view, but that makes me feel only slightly less awkward. I don’t know what he’s doing lying out naked like that, and I certainly don’t want to know. I’m able to quickly hustle to my locker before he engages me.

My locker is just outside the sauna room, and I strip out of my sweaty running gear without incident. I can never tell if there’s anybody in the sauna – unless they’re loudly discussing their latest medical procedure – so I always have this feeling that I’m being watched from those dark recesses. Occasionally someone will emerge, usually wrapped in the tiniest of hand towels because the rules say you can’t be naked in there, and seek a cooling break on the bench in front of my locker. If I rattle around and sigh loudly enough while squeezing past, they’ll usually clear out, but not before leaving an unfortunate vapor impression on the varnished wood where they’ve sat. This leaves me appalled for days.

As I turn toward the shower, my towel draped strategically in front of me, another guy steps into view and we nearly collide. It’s one of the regulars, an elderly cheerful man with more sags than I’d care to be aware of. He’s almost always here at this time of day during the week, but I thought he took weekends off. I remember him from the time I pulled open the curtain after my shower and there he stood, barely able to wait his turn to climb in.

“Hah,” he drawls. “How’r you?”

“Fine,” I reply, trying to summon as much of a don’t-bother-me tone as I can. If the conversation takes that pivotal next step to something like “have a good workout?” or “nice day, isn’t it?”, there could be a public discussion breaking out between two graying, naked men, and that never turns out well for anyone.

I’m able to maneuver past him to the shower room to find that my favorite stall is already occupied. Only one of the four has the kind of ledges that let me put my shampoo up high where I can reach it and has a step down low to prop my legs while drying them. It also has an easily managed faucet handle, unlike the other three which can be bumped while drying your hair, turning the water back on. There’s the open-floor design of a shower room available as well as this aging club’s excuse for a Jacuzzi (a bathtub), although those are out of the question for reasons that should be obvious to all.

I use one of the faulty showers without too much difficulty, careful to stay inside the three-wall enclosure to dry as much of myself as I can still reach before emerging. When I do, I can overhear a conversation taking place in the corner of the room. It sounds like Sagging Man has managed to ensnare Head Man into a discussion.

“Is your mother still alive?” the older man asks, mindful I guess of yesterday’s holiday.

“No,” says the other guy quietly. “She passed just last year.”

See, this is why you should avoid banter with strangers. You never know when an innocent remark is going to trigger a flood of emotions that you don’t have the psychiatric training to deal with. But that doesn’t stop Sagging Guy; he plunges ahead.

“Mah mother died 60 years ago,” he notes not too surprisingly, considering she’d be well into her 140s if she’d survived to today.

“I’m so sorry,” Head Man says. He sounds like he’s shuffling away as I hear his slippers flapping through the room. To continue the talk with an additional response – something like “life is fleeting” or “was she executed?” – seems obviously fruitless to both parties. I finally see Head Man in all his glory arriving at the sink; lathering up his scalp for a quick shave makes him look even more bizarre than he did earlier. The skimpy black briefs that kept him compliant with Y rules in the sauna are pitifully inadequate in the light of day, and I look away.

I hustle back to my locker to get dressed and get the hell out of there. I watch carefully to make sure the maintenance guy isn’t working somewhere nearby. There’s a fire exit door just down a short hallway from where I’m dressing, and the janitor has been known to open that door for a breath of fresh air. He doesn’t consider that the Y’s daycare playground is just outside, and the potential there is to turn innocent but exposed men like me into accidental sex offenders. Trust me, there’s nothing quite as startling to someone just out of the shower as the curious faces of several six-year-olds gazing down from the top of a slide.

I dress like a quick-change artist, gather my damp things and make for the door. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve burned more calories worrying through this awkward postlude than I ever burn on the treadmill.

Direct-mail prophecy from the Lord

Yesterday, I posted the contents of a direct-mail solicitation that was received at a vacant house near mine. It contained an introductory letter (mostly capital letters, actually) about how the occupant of this home had been specially selected for redemption, if only they’d return a postcard. There was also a special, customized, sealed prophecy that you were only to open once you had returned the postcard.

Today, I reprint the warning on the outside of the prophecy, the prophecy itself, and some contents of the postcard. If you get tired of the preachy part, skip to the end and “check out” the handy checklist of things to be prayed for on the postcard.

Warning:

IMPORTANT – Only break open this sealed prophecy after you have put this postcard and your prayer requests back in the mail to this 58-year-old church ministry. If for any reason you are not going to return this Church Prayer Card then this sacred philosophy must be destroyed — unopened and unread — because this is a sacred, spiritual prophecy, sealed word, concerning you and your future. Please do not open these prophecies until after you have sent your Prayer Card back in the mail before sunset tomorrow, or the next day. God will help you do this.

Prophecy:

These “Prophetic Words” are given through inspiration of the Holy Spirit to help you be aware of blessing changes coming into your life. People are hungry for spiritual guidance. Unfortunately many are turning to the wrong place. Psychics, mediums and clairvoyants have no place in God’s plan for your life. The only true source of information about the future is God’s word and his Holy Spirit prophecy is not given to make you curious about the future, but to motivate you to live for God today. Prophecy is a frequent theme in the Bible and a solid foundation of our faith. As you read this prophetic word, your faith can be stimulated and strengthened, and your spirit can be infused in a divine manner. Tell us if this is you and your life or not.

PROPHETIC WORD GIVEN FOR YOUR SPIRITUAL EDIFICATION

My child, receive in your heart and spirit these words for time is moving quickly. I have revealed to you that there is a greater purpose in your life than you have yet discovered. It is my purpose that many mysteries be opened to you. No mystery can be withheld from the mind that is open to my spirit.

Even now you are facing a decision that must be made. My spirit is at work instilling in you a new, greater understanding in the way I am directing you. There are many things which you need to know, but this can only come through your careful, consistent and persistent communication with me.

It is time for you to set new goals in your life. You cannot be happy with life unchanged. The new goals I am helping you establish can remove apathy. You are being set free from the feeling of inadequacy, and a new enthusiasm is being created. This may, in turn, release and regenerate power into your spirit.

The power to speak blessings into you own life is in you. You must discover the ways to use this power. As you daily seek me in prayer, understanding of the gifts in you will come forth, and the evidence of this will become apparent to those around you.

Due to my spirit working in you, greater control of the present and future plans can be at your fingertips. You may feel inner power growing because of your closeness to me. New boldness is being birthed even now. As you are obedient to my instruction, my spirit will create in you awareness of which steps to take and which steps you should not take, concerning plans you have made and those you are still to make. I will direct your steps, and the path I lead you on can take you away from those who would damage the plans I have for you and take you toward the path that leads to the fulfillment you seek. (Editor’s Note: What??)

My dear child, I have much joy planned for you. As you remain faithful in your seed sowing into my kingdom, surely you shall be blessed. Be not weary in well doing, for you shall have your promised reward. I say unto you, meditate on these things I have said, for you shall see them with your own eyes (Joel 2:28,29). Amen.

Postcard:

Dear Prayer Family: Yes, I do want prayer for my needs (checked below) and, please mail me one of those GOLDEN PROSPERITY FAITH CROSSES FREE OF CHARGE.

• Pray for my finances
• I need a job
• Pray for my blood pressure
• Pray for me to be saved
• I’m saved but I need a closer walk with Jesus
• Pray for me, I’m worried
• Pray for my loved ones
• Pray for me to receive a continuous money blessing
• List other needs you have

Fake News Briefs: Media distortions

Liberal mainstream media assailed

Conservative watchdog groups stepped up their criticism of the so-called mainstream media yesterday, following a weekend they said was filled with “distortions and misrepresentations.”

Pointing specifically at the coverage of certain long-running armed conflicts, a spokesman complained that portrayals were “skewed to favorably show the socialist belief that government intervention is the answer to every problem.”

“I found the way our servicemen and women were being shown in their fight against evil to be very prejudicial,” said Bennie Jones of the Media Fairness Project. “Those merciless Romulans aren’t just holding a different opinion than ours. They’re unrepentantly bad creatures.”

Jones claimed that viewers all over the country were subjected to assertions that America could not hold its own against intergalactic terrorists, and needed instead to rely on a federation – “probably the United Nations,” he said – to counter the threat posed by pinecone-shaped spaceships. He also claimed that injecting a giant fiery drill into the earth’s core, filling it with red matter and creating a black hole that would swallow San Francisco, was “not that bad an idea, and shouldn’t be so readily dismissed by the liberal elite.”

“The Hollywood crowd would have us believe the gay agenda, coming largely out of California, is merely a different lifestyle,” Jones said. “My group would counter that creatures from Deep Space rightly see this as an aberrant life form that needs to be destroyed.”

Jones also questioned media portrayals shown this weekend which indicated that waterboarding could be considered torture rather than merely an enhanced interrogation technique. Scenes shown over and over again since late Thursday depict a “Captain Pike” lying in a tub while being tormented by his captor. When Jones was told that Pike was actually an American, he commented “oh” and tentatively withdrew that criticism.

“Well then, there was that scene where the commander appears before the group who is supposed to be holding him accountable, and instead he’s cheered and commended,” Jones said. “How can he be held responsible for his actions by people who think he should be hailed as a hero?”

“Actually, Bennie probably has a point with that one,” said James Hendrick of the liberal People for the American Way. “That White House Press Corps dinner really was way over the top.”

Miss California status still uncertain

Officials with the Miss USA California organization declined yesterday to issue an order that would remove Miss California’s crown, choosing instead to leave the decision up to pageant owner Donald Trump. Meanwhile, a seven-judge panel at the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity house of Florida State University did vote for the removal of the beauty queen’s evening gown, swimsuit, and any other attire she might be wearing.

Carrie Prejean has been under intense scrutiny from pageant executives because of photos taken of her while she was a 17-year-old model. She has also been widely criticized for comments made during the recent Miss USA pageant, where she finished second, that were perceived to be against gay marriage. She’s also risking disqualification for agreeing to serve as a spokesperson for the National Association for Marriage.

“Oh, man, I would so like to tap that,” said Aaron Boskin, president of the FSU fraternity. “She’s way hotter than the winner and, since she’s not the official representative of the pageant anyway, I think she should feel free to stop by the house here and take off all her clothes. Not just the stupid crown – who cares about that?”

In a related story, other representatives of the wiseacre community are speculating that Prejean may have an even more checkered past than already revealed. Some are claiming that her name – which in French means “used to be John” – is a clue to even  more extensive surgery than she has already admitted.

One report has surfaced on the notoriously unreliable blog “hottiemax” that the 22-year-old college student suffered from a botched sex-change surgery in 2003. Allegedly, John’s testes were absorbed into the body instead of being removed, then traveled through her bloodstream until they lodged near her sternum, becoming inflamed. Every other reliable source familiar with the beauty queen says this story is a complete fabrication; however, that doesn’t matter because the false claim is so much more interesting and plus, as was already mentioned, it appeared on a blog.

Those three magic words

We had just come back from a pleasant Mother’s Day afternoon spent at an Indian restaurant and a matinee showing of “Star Trek.” My wife and son and I were settling in for a relaxing Sunday evening of domestic tranquility, lounging in the living room, sipping soft drinks and enjoying each other’s company. Suddenly, from across the room I hear that phrase I’ve heard so many times in the past.

“I told you…”

Oh, I should also mention that I had put my Pepsi on the bookshelf right above our expensive loveseat, and one of the cats knocked it over onto me and the upholstery.

Sure enough, I had been told for the thousandth time that this was a bad place to put a carbonated beverage. But I had not listened to past warnings from my beloved spouse – or if I was listening, I wasn’t paying attention – and once again I was correctly being chastised like so many husbands deserve every day.

Those three little words form more of a foundation for many modern marriages than the more endearing combination that substitutes “love” for “told.” I do indeed love my wife and can show you the Mother’s Day card that says so. If I hadn’t met her over 30 years ago and somehow convinced her to spend her life with me, I hesitate to think what I would’ve become. I suspect I’d be pursuing a social pathology that would eventually land me on television, and not the good kind like the evening news but the bad kind like a reality show. She’s made me a happy man.

However, I don’t make things easy for her with my poor listening. I’m not sure why me and so many of my fellow men have such a difficult time with this most critical of marital skills. (Well, one of the most critical anyway.) Husbands and wives seem to have evolved in slightly different directions from the ancestors who relied on their acute sense of hearing to survive predators and hunt our own food. Men apparently think listening became unnecessary as civilization advanced, sort of like the vestigial tail or Duane “The Rock” Johnson.

Recorded history never would’ve been recorded if our ancient spouses hadn’t encouraged us to write things down if we were going to be so damn forgetful. The annals of time would not be documented so that later generations could learn from previous ones. All the science and mathematics and philosophy of our forbearers, the predecessors to today’s grocery lists and appointment calendars, would be lost. And then we can’t even remember to put orange juice and toaster strudel on there.

I’ve tried several defenses of my thick-headedness yet they always seem so inadequate. Still, I thought I’d pass these on to other husbands who might be out there looking to somehow justify their inexcusable thoughtlessness.

Let me start with one that you’d think might work but actually tends to backfire disastrously. I’ve tried contending that it’s because I’m so relaxed and comfortable in my wife’s presence that I tend to “veg out” and allow entire sentences to float in one ear and out the other. Everywhere else I have to be on constant guard to make sure my surroundings aren’t trying to harm me – be they oncoming 18-wheelers or supervisors looking for a volunteer for the safety committee. In my home, however, I can rest at ease.

Unfortunately, I’ve found that this can also be called taking someone for granted. And this is not somewhere you want to take anybody you care for.

I’ve also tried citing a technique I learned in my days as a corporate trainer that’s known as “just-in-time.” Under this manufacturing philosophy, materials and other inputs are not brought forward to the production line until they’re needed. Applied to verbal interactions, this means that information necessary to do something – remembering to pick up your child after school or changing the air conditioner filter – is not tapped into until the action is ready to be performed. So if “I told you” to stop leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor, this instruction has to be conveyed while you’re still dripping, not at dozens of other times since at least 1980.

This one also doesn’t work very well.

Two other arguments related to each other can have some effectiveness as you approach your senior years. These are the hearing-loss justification and the Alzheimer’s cover. Blaming your poor listening on the deterioration of your cochlea is a risky maneuver, considering a quick exam by a medical professional can cost you not only what seems like a good excuse but a $35 co-pay as well. Alzheimer’s is much harder to prove, and all but the most insistent spouses will stop short of demanding a post-mortem brain autopsy to prove your inattention is disease-related. Raising the specter of potentially debilitating conditions is a pretty cynical card to play just to maintain your reputation, so I’d use it sparingly.

Finally, I’ll mention the Dave Bedingfield rationalization. Dave was a close friend of mine back in college and we spent many long hours together alternating between coma and watching Atlanta Braves baseball (not really all that different when you think about it). He is now a respected legal scholar and barrister in England, but in the seventies even he would describe himself as a worthless, no-good, irresponsible excuse for humanity. If he missed an appointment, lost the mix tape he borrowed or otherwise failed to act in good faith on agreements you had made with him earlier, it was understandable because it was widely known he couldn’t be counted on. “I know,” he’d say before you could make the suggestion yourself. “I’m an idiot.”

Unfortunately, most women recognize passive-aggressiveness on this grand scale and simply won’t stand for it. If you make too strong an argument about what a jerk you are, there’s the risk that you’ll call into doubt her judgment in choosing you for a lifemate, or that she’ll simply agree about your depravity and start separation proceedings.

In the end, I’d have to say that the best way to parry the “I told you” accusation is, unfortunately, to actually start listening. Watch her lips and hear her words. Write notes on your forearm. Carry a PDA. Repeat the message over and over to yourself until the mumbling resonates in your brain like the euro-beat classic “Come On Eileen”. Realize that you’re always going to be the insensitive oaf and your wife is going to be the patient but stern adult.

(Thanks, Dave, and if you’re out there somewhere, send me an email. I might need some advice.)

 

Fake News: More cereals under scrutiny

WASHINGTON (May 13) – The Food and Drug Administration is continuing its crusade against inaccurate claims made by the makers of popular breakfast cereals. Most, it appears, are neither food nor drugs.

In April, Kellogg was slapped on the wrist for asserting in national advertising that Frosted Mini-Wheats are “clinically shown to improve kids’ attention spans by nearly 20 percent.” The study compared children who ate Mini-Wheats against a test group who ate nothing at all for breakfast. “Compared to a kid who’s on the verge of fainting,” noted the St. Petersburg (Fla.) Times, “anybody seems attentive.”

This week, General Mills was told to remove wording from its Cheerios packaging suggesting that the cereal “can lower your cholesterol four percent in six weeks,” which is roughly equivalent to a blood-letting.

Now it appears other cereals will be under the scrutiny of the feds for false or misleading portrayals in their names, advertising or packages. Among those expected to be cited:

• Grape Nuts, which does not in fact make you crazy
• Frosted Flakes, which does nothing to add highlighting to your hair
• Cap’n Crunch, which does nothing to provide you with the rank or benefits of a commissioned officer in the U.S. Navy
• Apple Jacks, which don’t in fact contain any apples or apple-shaped byproducts
• Mueslix, which despite its name contains no phlegm
• Sugar Smacks, shown in laboratory tests to be almost 100% lacking in heroin
• Trix, which have never been shown to be offered during the commission of prostitution
• Lucky Charms, which contain neither small metal trinkets nor leprechaun fragments
• Cocoa Puffs, which cannot be rolled in cigarette papers and smoked
• Corn Chex, which are not the product of any known Slavic peoples
• Fruit ‘n’ Fibre, which contains no apostrophes nor other small punctuation marks, though some of the specks may reflect equally troubling waste matter
• Honey Bunches of Oaks, which contain no trees
• Shredded Wheat, which are completely deficient in mangled limbs
• Special K, which contains no nutrition that can be directly linked to Kaye Ballard, Danny Kaye, or Texas Senator Kay Bailey Hutchison

 

Website Review: VegasWedding.com

The flighty young woman in our graphics department sent out an intriguing email last week. Candi, who improbably mixes post-punk fashion sense and an extremely conservative political philosophy, is “gettin’ married!!!” In that traditional home of family values known as Las Vegas, no less.

“If you want to watch, you can go online and see me get married on the web feed. Crazazy!” she writes.

We’re instructed to go to www.702wedding.com, click on “view live weddings,” then navigate to the “Wedding Chapel”.

“That’s it! Hooray!” she concludes. I can almost see her angular face grinning from skull earring to skull earring. “Hooray again!!!”

I visited the site, known more conventionally as Vegas Weddings, to mercilessly mock the joining of man and woman in holy matri-za-mony for my weekly Website Review.

The home page is a busy place, showing a variety of packages designed to make your special day as memorable as that drunken weekend where you lost $3500 on slot machines, if only you could remember it. Vegas Weddings describes itself as a “5-star wedding planning service and full-service Las Vegas wedding chapel.”

“But don’t feel limited by our walls. We are able to plan weddings just about anywhere in or surrounding Las Vegas, including the Grand Canyon.” I wonder if “anywhere” would include such Western landmarks as Death Valley and Hoover Dam, and if the Hoover might be too obvious a request from most grooms. I want to ask, can you get hitched at the Four Corners of Arizona, Utah, Colorado and New Mexico, with the husband standing in two states and the wife in two? How about the Shady Lady Ranch, one of Nevada’s legalized brothels? We’ll get to my questions later.

Featured wedding packages come in four budget tiers – the Ignite, which unabashedly also calls itself a “cheap Vegas wedding”; the Dream, a slightly pricier option; the Intrigue, as in “I wonder how we’re going to afford this one”; and the Valley of Fire, which is an outdoor ceremony in the Mojave Desert, or maybe the bride’s STD.

Included in the cheap option is a limousine ride, traditional wedding music, a bouquet for the bride, internet broadcast of the ceremony, and use of a bridal suite, so you don’t have to slip into your gown in the gas station bathroom next door.

The Valley of Fire wedding has all of the above, plus that extra bit of excitement that comes from being joined together in nuptial bliss in one of the most hostile environments on earth. If it makes things any more comfortable, you can throw in Native American traditions like the Apache Wedding Prayer (“hunga hoona atwa watha” goes the best part) or a rain stick, not widely available since the Discovery Stores went out of business.

Another very popular option is the Elvis wedding. You don’t actually marry the King – some say he’s dead anyway – but instead you can have him do things like sing, swivel his hips, and pick you up in his pink Cadillac, then come to your honeymoon suite after the service and collapse next to your toilet with his spangly silver suit bunched around his ankles. “The charge for Elvis may vary,” warns the website, though the going rate is generally about $250.

If you want a little less drama than an oily impersonator with identity issues, there’s also the “Tony ‘n Tina’s Wedding/Vow Renewal.” This package somehow incorporates your sacred rite into an interactive, hilarious Off-Broadway show about a wild Italian wedding. It’s not clear whether you simply sit in an audience or actually have to mingle with these rowdy Latins; to me, either sounds incredibly painful.

For the hard-core skinflints and those who think tacky is ironically cool, you can also choose from a drive-through or walk-up wedding. The Love in the Fast Lane choice for $199 is a limousine-based offering that comes with a souvenir wedding scroll. The Lover’s Lane is similar but you have to provide your own vehicle. The Express Lane wedding is probably performed over a speaker box and offers numbered combos, including the “I do” and the “I do with curly fries.”

Speaking of transportation, the high end of the spectrum has a private ceremony performed on a helicopter flying high “over the glitz of Las Vegas’ neon lights from the best vantage point available – the sky!” You’re provided with flowers, a bride’s garter and glass champagne flutes that you can throw out the window at all the waddling losers below. There’s nothing that beats the ambience of vows shouted above the mechanical whirr of a Pratt & Whitney Twin Pac engine. The flight is limited to a party of two and one of them can’t be Elvis because of FAA weight limitations.

Finally, I thought I’d mention what are called the add-ons, an a la carte menu of selections. Two of the most intriguing are a singing harpist and a white dove release. The harpist is referred to only as Ms. Blanc, and the “vibration of her strings and her elegant poise behind the harp creates enchantment not easily forgotten.” She plays standards, ballads, jazz (on the harp?), show tunes and classical music, and has performed for many notables in the New York area. The actual list of these includes Frank Sinatra, Bob Hope, Donald Trump, Margaret Thatcher, Elizabeth Taylor and Ralph Macchio. Which of these is not like the other?

The white dove release represents love, peace, fidelity, prosperity and a trip to the dry cleaner’s for most of the attendees. “These amazing creatures are expected to circle overhead a few times allowing everybody to fully admire their beauty,” directs the promo. “The doves are treated well and return home safely.” You can also contract for a monarch butterfly release, but any other animals involved in your marriage will be strictly confined, including the groom.

Though this very informative and jam-packed website did contain a lot of helpful information, I did have a few questions, and took advantage of the live chat offered on the home page. I was greeted by “wedding coordinator Stephanie,” whose name was Rhonda. “How can I help you?” she asked.

“Just wanted to get some basic info before getting too far with plans,” I wrote. “You do any events other than weddings?”

“No, just weddings,” said Rhonda. “But we can help arrange facilities.”

“My friend wanted me to ask about same-sex weddings,” I lied.

“We don’t do same-sex,” she wrote after a significant pause, perhaps starting to suspect a prankster.

“What if I wanted to marry my dishwasher?” I asked.

I got no response except for a “chat session closed” message.

Hey, maybe I’m a rich guy with an extensive household staff, and I’ve fallen head over heels in love with the unassuming young kitchen worker who against all odds captured my attention and affection. Don’t judge me by thinking I’m just a wise guy looking to spice up his web post a little. After all, this is supposed to be a Vegas wedding, where fantasies come true.

The liquid soap will get you every time

I think I sat next to this person on a flight to India one time:

(AP) — United Airlines diverted a flight bound to London after an incoherent and disruptive passenger, apparently woozy from a combination of pills, alcohol and lavatory hand soap, allegedly tried to bite a flight attendant in the leg.

Galina Rusanova, a British citizen, was charged with interference with a flight crew and assault for disrupting United flight 934 from Los Angeles to London Heathrow Airport on April 29, forcing the plane to land in Maine. She could face up to 20 years in prison and a $250,000 fine.

Fearful of flying, Rusanova had taken four sleeping pills and consumed two or three bottles of red wine to calm her nerves, according to a statement she made to FBI special agent James McCarty.

About three hours into the flight, a United flight attendant said she found Rusanova with her feet on her in-flight food tray, kicking the seat in front of her. Rusanova, who appeared to be very intoxicated according to a court filing, requested more wine and then fell asleep.

A short time later, the same United crew member was told by passengers that Rusanova was incoherent and bothering fellow travelers.

As she approached, she saw Rusanova “drink a bottle of liquid soap that she had apparently removed from the bathroom,” according to the court document.

A melee ensued as flight attendants tried to subdue Rusanova and move her to a flight crew member’s seat at the rear of the cabin, where she was eventually handcuffed.

During that process Rusanova allegedly threw punches, kicked and pushed crew members. At one point, she fell to the floor of the galley in the rear of the aircraft and began “snapping like a dog,” trying to bite a flight attendant’s leg, according to the filing.

In a Monday hearing before a U.S. District Court in Bangor, Maine, Rusanova waived her right to a detention hearing and agreed to be detained pending trial.

Rusanova is described by the British press as a Russian-born artist, actress and author who rubs elbows with the rich and famous. She was returning home to the United Kingdom after traveling to California to visit a man she had met over the Internet, according to court documents.

“Obviously, it’s a case that’s gathered some attention,” said Matthew Erickson, her attorney. “What wasn’t disclosed through the affidavit is that Ms. Rusanova is a very intelligent, charming woman. This comes as a shock to her.”

The outrageous behavior that Rusanova apparently exhibited during the flight is completely out of character, added Erickson. “Her mistake was to mix prescription drugs with alcohol. After that, all bets were off.”

Drunken and unruly passengers have been an unpleasant fact of life for flight attendants for as long as airlines have served alcohol. But today’s crews are better equipped to deal with poor behavior than their predecessors, and far less likely to tolerate it, said aviation consultant Robert Mann.

Airline crews are equipped with tools like plastic handcuffs to restrain out-of-control passengers and trained to quickly land a plane if that person becomes violent.

“Whenever there’s an incident that involves physical abuse or threats to anyone on board, it’s taken very seriously,” said Robin Urbanski, spokeswoman for Chicago-based United. She added that such incidents are rare.

Rusanova told McCarty, the FBI agent, that she remembered little about the flight, aside from fighting with a flight attendant over seating and the quality of United’s red wine.

“She added that what she did was terrible and she feels embarrassed,” McCarty said in an affidavit to the court. While Rusanova potentially faces a lengthy incarceration, sentencing guidelines for cases like hers suggest jail terms ranging from time served to six months, Erickson said.

Case of the awful waffle

Once again, I am able to be proud of my home state of South Carolina and its many fine dining establishments.

Yakeisha Ward, a 29-year-old waitress at a Manning, S.C., Waffle House, has been charged with assault and battery with intent to kill after turning a gun on customer Crystal Samuel, who ordered an all-star breakfast but wasn’t treated like an all-star.

Clarendon County sheriff’s deputies said Ward was involved in a fight about 4:30 a.m. Sunday. Lt. Tommy Burgess says the fight started when Samuel complained about the quality of service in the crowded restaurant.

Samuel’s friends got served first and started eating from carryout trays – a Waffle House no-no – and that’s when the trouble started.

Burgess says Ward went to her van to get a gun.

“I said ‘what is your fuss about?’,” Samuel told a local TV station. “I said we haven’t paid for our food. She (Ward) said ‘well, y’all got to leave’. How you want us to leave and we ain’t paid for the food yet?”

Samuel admits to throwing a waffle, but it “didn’t hit her,” and that’s when the waitress jumped across the counter and fired at the diner.

A bullet fragment was lodged in Samuel’s arm. Ward was unharmed by the thrown waffle.

Life in the fast (food) lane

I do most of my blogging away from my home. Not only can I escape the lure of attractive nuisances like breaking up cat fights, but I can also watch the comings and goings of the general public while drawing inspiration from their activity. Just as J.K. Rowling wrote the Harry Potter series in an Edinburgh coffeehouse and Mark Twain penned his masterpiece Mark Twain from the Super Bi-Lo near his Missouri birthplace, I’m currently visiting a nearby commercial establishment.

Today’s location is different from my usual hangout because of the topic I’ve chosen. I can normally be found writing in the local Panera – where they’ve mysteriously stopped the free samples since I wrote about how generous they were – or in the Earth Fare organic grocery store, watching Rock Hill’s alternative community (all three of them) buying their whole-grain biomass. Instead, this afternoon I’ve got my laptop sitting precipitously on a greasy plastic tabletop in the local Burger King.

I’ve chosen this spot to do on-site research for today’s topic, the purchase of fast food. To witness the experience up close, I should actually be typing away out in the parking lot near the drive-through, because that’s the part of the transaction I find most fascinating. But the smell of run-over Whopper Juniors baked flat in the mid-May sun is a little more inspiration than I wanted.

Drive-through restaurants in America date back to the 1948 opening in California of the first In-n-Out Burger. McDonald’s surprisingly didn’t open its first drive-through until 1975, and all the other fast-food restaurants quickly followed in line behind them. Today, more food is sold at these outlets through the window than is sold over the counter inside.

The typical experience for most diners begins several blocks away when they find themselves stuck behind a slow car with only three hubcaps and half a dozen of what we politely call “country folk.” Inevitably, you can’t pass these bumpkins until you’re at the entrance to the drive-through, and then they pull in ahead of you and up to the menu board. You’re now fully engaged in the fast-food experience, also known as “waiting.”

When you’re finally at the speaker box, you’re likely to be faced with one of two possibilities: you’re given no time to consider the options before someone asks for your order, or you’re met with an eerie silence. If it’s the latter, you should lean in as close to the mike as possible and shout “IS ANYBODY IN THERE?” If it’s the former, you begin considering a perplexing array of three or four different foods prepared in a huge variety of styles and combinations. It doesn’t help when the pre-recorded professional announcer asks “would you like to try our new Badger Bits?”, and you’re regretting how sad is it that Ed McMahon has been reduced to working at a burger joint to pay for his mortgage and neck brace.

Soon enough, the announcer is followed by the actual employee, who sounds like one of those throat cancer victims with the artificial larynx, only with more static and less gusto. Even if you know the item you want, you still have to negotiate whether or not it should be part of a combo, and how many of the items in question you want.

I recently was at the drive-through of the disturbingly named Jack-In-The-Box and for some reason found myself wanting to order hash browns. The following is the actual exchange that took place:

“I’d like to order the hash browns, please.”

“How many do you want?”

“How many do you have?” I responded.

I wasn’t trying to be sarcastic nor was I trying to take inventory of their entire supply room. I wanted to know how many items came in the $1.29 order shown on the menu.

“What I mean is, how many in an order?”

“Three,” I was told.

“OK, then I want three,” I said.

“Three orders?”

“No, three individual, separate and distinct browns. One order, three hash browns.”

“OK, that’s one order plus three hash browns,” came the response. I had to admire the attempt to upsell, then thought of abandoning the entire hash brown experience in favor of French fries. Surely they wouldn’t ask you how many fries you want.

Once your order is complete, you’re told to pull ahead to the window even though you’re impossibly grid-locked in your current position by cars to the front and cars to the back. Those folks just ahead of you are now randomly passing cash and food bags amongst themselves, while an indecipherable conversation takes place between the driver and the clerk. As the pitch and tempo of the talk rises, you sense things are not going well. When food is no longer being passed from window to car and instead the flow has reversed, you can be certain you’re in for a long wait. Finally, the brake lights go off and the car creeps away. Now it’s your turn.

First, a word of warning. Do not, under any circumstances, pay an amount different from the figure shown on the display screen. If you are asked to pay a different amount, call the corporate headquarters immediately. This sign first appeared a few years ago as a way of letting customers know how much the restaurateur trusts that its employees won’t be skimming dimes and quarters from the take. It doesn’t do a whole lot for your confidence that the people who hired these workers have so little faith in their integrity. Just to be on the safe side, I check not only the price on the screen, but also for signs of spittle on my grilled chicken sandwich.

On the window are a number of stickers advising me of the restaurant hours, the credit cards accepted and other information that barely allows you to see inside the facility (I guess that’s the idea.) One of these signs warns that pedestrians are not allowed at the drive-through. I checked this out on Wikipedia and sure enough, under a heading that read “Non-car Usage,” it says “pedestrians sometimes attempt to walk through the drive-through to order food.” Is this really something that sober people do?

Finally, the order is ready and it’s time to pay. You begin a tentative exchange of cash for food – first you hand over the coins, then she gives you the drink, then you give her the bills, then she gives you the bag. You half expect her to continue clutching the grease-soaked sack until all the money is accounted for. The surrender of a quantity of ketchups is agreed upon, and the transaction is officially complete.

Watching all this transpire from my position inside the Burger King gives me a very different perspective. Employees scurry about in their headsets like so many flight controllers, hard-working and honest. There’s little traffic at the indoor counter, with all the focus on getting cars through the queue outside. The yahoos on the other side of speaker system sound almost comical as they stagger through their list of demands, sounding about as organized as the Republican Party.

“Uhhhh… I’ll have the Sarah Palin … no, wait … make that the Rush Limbaugh … what? Wait a minute … uhhh … Are you still serving breakfast? Then I’ll have a pizza … what, no pizza at Chick-fil-A? Uhhh…”

So now I have some sympathy for both the workers who toil at these establishments as well as their customers. And yes, I would like fries with that.

Fake News Briefs: Pelosi and Obama

Pelosi claim raises eyebrows

WASHINGTON (May 17) – House Speaker Nancy Pelosi reiterated her denial yesterday that CIA officials informed her in early 2002 that they were going to hold her down, shave off her eyebrows and replace them with rootbeer-flavored gummy worms.

Pelosi said that her records of the briefing showed only that she was to be taken to a playground not far from her Capitol Hill office and strapped to a see-saw, which was then to be inverted while sand was kicked into her face and eyes.

“I can specifically remember that there was no discussion of my eyebrows being removed,” Pelosi told reporters in a hastily called news conference. “Forced removal of any of my facial hair is something I would recall. Nor do my notes from that meeting indicate that any brow-work was to be done.”

Meanwhile, CIA director Leon Panetta continued to insist that agency documents indicated that Pelosi, who was then minority leader of the House, knew of the plan and agreed to have the sugary gelatin novelty candies implanted in the ridges above her eyes. Panetta said agents told her they thought it would soften her look and nicely complement the pert bob she has sported since her days in the California legislature.

“We conduct these assessments of leading public figures on a regular basis, and if we think we can make them a more appealing presence, we’ll approach them and suggest a procedure,” Panetta said of the long-standing national security policy. “She heard our people state their case and agreed to be admitted to a top-secret cosmetic surgery facility in suburban Washington. That’s where the four-hour procedure was performed.”

Pelosi denied approving such a move, and said she agreed only to the kicking of sand while she assumed a simulated waterboard position. She did acknowledge that she was briefly blinded during the incident, and that when she was returned to her office later in the day, she noticed “a distinct rootbeer or perhaps cola smell.”

“I would never willingly accept eyebrows that look this ridiculous,” Pelosi said, pointing at her face. “It’s apparent to me that the CIA has altered their records to show that I was complicit in this, when that’s simply not true.”

 

Obama tackles abortion at ND

SOUTH BEND, Ind. (March 16) – President Obama declared during a commencement address at the University of Notre Dame Saturday that he supported the school’s right to choose whether or not to abort its failing football program.

“I’m not saying you should; I’m not saying you shouldn’t,” Obama told 1,800 graduates and their families gathered at the on-campus ceremony. “I’m just saying that anyone could understand why you would terminate this half-formed being and get on with the rest of your life.”

The once-storied football team has fallen on hard times in recent years, due to several coaching changes as well as defections of top prospects to the NFL. Current coach Charlie Weis began his stint with the school in 2005 with an impressive 9-3 record, following that up with a 10-2 showing in 2006. But the Fighting Irish were routed by LSU in that year’s Sugar Bowl, then stumbled to a 3-9 finish in 2007.

Last year’s mild recovery to a 7-6 mark was seen by some as further evidence that the school could no longer attract the talent necessary to sustain a nationally ranked program. However, school officials continue to stand by Weis and his ten-year contract extension, despite the fact that his belly looks so pregnant he might want to consider an abortion himself.

Some protesters at the commencement briefly heckled the president – shouting “schedule killer!” and “Syracuse has rights too!” – while others wore caps imprinted with a plus sign and a pair of baby footprints, apparently symbolizing the belief it would take tiny steps before the team could again finish above .500.

 “You and your school have the right to choose between a West Coast offense, more reliance on the run, or perhaps no football at all,” the president said. “We can agree to disagree, and be respectful of all sides of the debate.”

It’s great to be alive (not)

When we dragged ourselves into the office Monday morning, most of us were not particularly refreshed by the weekend. In fact, most of us had spent Sunday “working,” which at my location generally means waiting for work that never comes. (I know that sounds like an easy job, but doing nothing can actually be quite arduous).

Nobody was in a good mood, and it only got worse when one of our resident optimists arrived with cheer for all. Kathy is never sad and rarely quiet, though a recent bout of laryngitis had given us a brief respite for a few days. “Good morning,” she cried out to no one in particular. “How are you? Good to see you. Did you have a nice weekend? Good, good.”

The outgoing personality, or “extrovert,” is generally regarded as someone who’s fun to be around, who reinforces feelings of goodwill in a group, who comes into a room like a breath of fresh air. I don’t like these people. Their enforcement of positivity when all common sense dictates that a different perspective is more appropriate flies in the face of reality. The economy sucks, the environment stinks, and we’re all going to die – get used to it.

I call this segment of the population “the chipper”. Like the mute, the infirm and the Canadian, this is a group very much deserving of basic human rights and equal treatment under the law. We should not disrespect them and we should not run over them with our cars. They are to be accommodated, even occasionally welcomed for the richness they add to our world.

But unlike those other groups, the chipper are very much responsible for their own situation, yet choose to do little or nothing to lift themselves above their disability. In fact, they see themselves as generally superior to others, and try earnestly to rope the rest of us into their perky enclaves. You don’t see the blind going around trying to poke the rest of us in the eye (at least not on purpose); similarly, we shouldn’t expect to have to be cheerful just because our coworkers are.

The dictionary defines the chipper as “a machine that grinds up logs, tree trunks, and other wood products into wood chips.” Though that might be a little harsh, it’s generally a spot-on description of these folks. Any semblance I might have of a good mood is quickly dissipated when someone who’s happier than I could ever hope to be takes over a room by sheer force of personality. I feel like I’ve been chopped into a thousand tiny pieces by their rapid fire of laughter, then disgorged into a compost heap. Okay, maybe not that bad, but bad enough.

Being chipper is not the same thing as being nice. It means being a busybody, pressing your character into every available niche like some kind of social caulk. On this particular morning, for example, Kathy has noticed a coworker is missing and so gives her a call at home to check up on her. “Are you all right?” she shrieks into the phone. “I was worried about you.” The colleague is fine, she’s assured, or at least she was before the sleep that had provided fleeting relief to her nausea was shattered by a phone call. “You take care now, you here?” she’s instructed. “I’ll be thinking about you.”

This overly intense personality style also tends to manifest itself in an excessive politeness that I’d characterize as grating – a good thing for cheese but not for an associate. We actually have at least two of the chipper in my particular office, and they occasionally find themselves in this conversational mobius strip that confounds even them. I call it the “TYNTY loop” because it starts with one saying “thank you” and the other responding “no, thank you.” This may actually continue for several rounds in jest before a concerned friend steps in with the threat of physical harm. There’s usually a “sir” or a “ma’am” thrown in for good measure, and profuse apologies at the slightest sign of any shortcomings by either party. “Oh, I am so sorry,” Kathy says when she’s slightly misunderstood. “No, no, you’re fine, you’re fine,” assures Jerry, her partner in joy. Don’t debate this endlessly, I want to interject. You’re both sorry.

After being around these folks for a while, you begin to wonder if there might be a pathology at the root of such an annoying condition. Since I’m not a clinically trained mental health professional, I turned instead to a website called psychiatricdisorders.com to see if a diagnosis might be possible. Sure enough, I found a condition called Histrionic Personality Disorder. In an entry subtitled “Look at Me!” I learned more about HPD.

“Histrionic personality disorder is defined by a constant need for approval, which reveals itself as constant attention seeking and a need to be the center of events,” reads the article. “In order to stay in the spotlight, people with HPD may resort to emotional dramatics and a ‘theatrical’ self-presentation.”

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present Kathy and Jerry. Let’s give a big round of applause.

Deep down, I probably harbor a secret desire to be as free of cynicism as these carefree sprites. I know I can come across as a misanthropic curmudgeon at times, but it’s only because I despise people so intensely. I too have a deep desire for the approval of others; however, if I tried so obviously to get it, I’m afraid I’d be too humiliated by any perceived rejection to ever recover. They seem to be so satisfied with their place in the world and so happy to be alive. I may be glad I’m not dead, yet that’s about as far as I’ll go.

Maybe I can summon a more modest aspiration. I’ve occasionally stumbled across crusty old Regis Philbin while flipping around the TV dial and he seems to get along well enough with that Chairwoman of the Chipper, Kelly Ripa. I understand they pay him about $21 million a year to do this. For that kind of money, I think I could overcome my petty skepticism, share in the smiley-faced bliss of this wonderful life and fully embrace the Kelly Ripa’s of the world. Well, one Kelly Ripa, anyway.

Fake News: Late-night comedians agree on what’s funny

NEW YORK (May 20) – Hosts of late-night talk shows met at their annual convention this week to select who would be the butt of their jokes on a variety of human frailties in the year ahead.

After experimenting with a number of new faces during 2008, the consensus of the assembled comedians seemed to point toward a return to the classics. In an overall “beauty contest” to name the funniest celebrity regardless of which physical or personality flaw they displayed, former vice president Dick Cheney scored a narrow victory over Donald Trump and Oprah Winfrey.

The hosts come together once every year to decide who is perceived as the oldest, dumbest, fattest, etc. among people currently in the public eye. With that protocol in place, they can then proceed to tell basically the same joke as each other on any given night.

In two examples where a return to veteran buffoons was evident, Angelina Jolie displaced the Octomom as the subject of any jokes about someone who has too many children, while Donald Trump and the beloved “thing on his head” pushed aside disgraced Illinois governor Rod Blagojevich on the topic of hair jokes. Larry King was voted to take the spot previously held by John McCain on the theme of someone who is “so old that [fill in the blank]”.

Madonna continued her 19-year domination in the category of who was the female best-known for dating entire sports teams, though both Brittney Spears and Cher received enough support in the general category of sluttiness to deserve mention on any given night. Amy Winehouse was again the runaway winner to be the subject of jokes about drug use and drunkenness, and Kirstie Alley squashed challenges from Rosie O’Donnell and Oprah Winfrey on the question of who was comically fat. Sarah Palin and Miss California finished in a dead-heat for the title of ditziest.

In the male class, John Edwards bested Eliot Spitzer for the husband who most humorously cheated on his wife. Joe Biden won in a rout for the category of most talkative, and Bernie Madoff scored an equally impressive victory of who was the most-crooked personality. Former president George W. Bush was awarded a lifetime achievement honor for being dumb.

In the fast-changing landscape of steroid use in baseball, Barry Bonds led after the first ballot but could not achieve the majority necessary to be endlessly mentioned during monologues. Roger Clemens overcame Bonds on the second ballot but also failed to put his rivals away. Alex Rodriguez almost took the title on the third ballot before Manny Ramirez landed the victory just before the convention’s closing ceremonies.

Former Idaho Senator Larry Craig, infamous for his arrest on sex-related charges in a Minneapolis airport men’s room, was eliminated in early voting by singer Clay Aiken on the subject of funniest homosexual. But Aiken fell in the end, topped by whichever male finishes highest in the previous year’s “American Idol”.

Dick Cheney took the honor for top mention in the “who shot a guy in the face” class. Talk show host Rush Limbaugh was the biggest multiple winner at the convention, racking up mentions in the fattest, baldest, craziest, most drug-addled (male) and ugliest categories.

 

Website Review: Lawyers.com

Have you or a loved one been injured on the job? Are you unable to work because the pain of your injury makes your life a living hell? Would you like to be?

If you want to spend the rest of your life sitting on your couch and watching the disability checks roll in, then call the attorneys at the law firm you just saw talking earnestly on late-night TV. Or now, you can even contact them on-line. You can rest assured that they have only your interests, plus a 25% settlement fee of any award you might receive, in mind.

For this week’s Website Review, I thought I’d take on one of those self-advertising law firms that will show you how wealth, justice and a permanent indentation on your couch are just an 800-number away. A cowboy-hatted lawyer from the firm of Binder & Binder, which bills itself as America’s most successful social security disability advocates, suggested these might be the folks I could study.

I went to their site, binderandbinder.com, and started to learn more about the legal services they offer and their long history – exemplified by their motto “do what you do, better and nicer” – of helping people get the respect they deserve (and, oh yeah, the cash). I started milling around their pulldowns and making notes about all the features I could make fun of. Soon, however, I realized that these were well-intentioned professionals who were only in business to bring fairness to wronged and injured individuals. Also, I realized they’d probably be in a great position to sue the bejesus out of anybody who slandered them.

So I’ll be taking a rather gentle look at Messrs. Harry J. and Charles E. Binder and the nationwide network of offices they’ve built since starting in the business over 30 years ago. Binder & Binder helps you and your broken, pathetic body take advantage of the Social Security Disability program, what they call “one of our government’s best-kept secrets,” second to the nuclear launch codes, I’d guess, but not by much.

The firm’s history actually dates from 1975 when an injured, almost-penniless New York firefighter walked into Harry Binder’s tiny office with a challenge: his application for disability benefits had been turned down by the Social Security Administration and he needed a “genuine expert” to help in his fight. According to the company’s history page, Harry has always liked challenges, and fire-fighters. “They do stuff I’d be scared to do,” Harry said, so he sidestepped that nasty expertise question and hit the law books to teach himself how to help.

I never saw how that particular case turned out, though I’d assume it went well because Harry’s brother Charles showed up, and together they formed Binder & Binder, since “Harry & Charlie” sounded a little too much like a good-time ice cream emporium. By then it was 1979, described in the company newsletter Disability Digest (subscriptions available through the website – check out the back-breaking sudokus) as tumultuous times.

“President Jimmy Carter was attacked by a swamp rabbit while fishing. Ayatollah Khomeini seized power in Iran. The Three Mile Island nuclear plant had a partial meltdown. The Soviet Union seized control of Afghanistan. The population of China hit one billion people. Billy Joel’s ‘Just The Way You Are’ won the Grammy for best song.” It’s not clear how the Binders were able to help with any of these calamities. I think they’re just trying to give us a little historical perspective.

From that small beginning, the firm grew to the point where it now has offices in major cities from coast to coast and tens of thousands of new clients added each year. They have a sophisticated website that includes a number of helpful features. There’s a social security application form where you can leave a detailed description regarding your disability – “I have carpal tunnel syndrome. Why must my description be so detailed?” is one suggestion – and a representative will contact you within two business days. There are some disability tax tips told in folksy but perplexing similes: “A tax return is like a blood test. Your bad cholesterol should be low and your good cholesterol should be high.” There’s even a fun multiple-choice quiz to see how well you comprehended the newsletter. Some answers: their national department serves “all over America,” not “steak for breakfast,” and President Carter was attacked by “a rabbit,” not by the “Democratic caucus.”

There’s a frequently-asked-questions section that’s so thorough you may wonder why you even need a flesh-and-blood lawyer. “Do I have to be completely incapacitated to get disability?” My predicted answer: You just need to able to reach your wallet. “I have informally adopted a child. Will she be able to receive benefits?” If what you really mean is that you’re living with your teenage girlfriend, no. “You must receive a lot of compliments. What’s the highest compliment you’ve received?” That I seem too human to be an attorney. “I understand there are special rules for the blind.” That’s not a question.

There are also profiles of each individual Binder. Charles believes in a goal-oriented office atmosphere, he’s a big fan of the Lone Ranger and says “just put together some people who are really interested in hearing about social security disability, don’t forget the donuts, and I’ll be there.” He enjoys the improbable trio of Yankee baseball, keeping promises, and teaching his nephews about playing fair. Harry’s hobbies include reforming corrupt nursing homes, New York Rangers hockey and “never looking back,” so be careful if you’re ever driving behind him. He and his wife have five children and he was at Madison Square Garden on June 14, 1994 at 10:58 p.m. (I guess the legal mind tends to remember such details). Both Charles and Harry are pictured in their trademark cowboy hats but Charles, as the managing partner, gets to sling his suit jacket over his shoulder while Harry, the more sober senior partner, is fully dressed.

Finally, I’ll mention a few quotes from testimonials that Binder & Binder has received. “I’m sorry I’m so late getting back to you,” writes one, “but I’ve been busy spending the money you guys helped me get.” Another notes darkly that “people act like they’re jealous but they don’t want my disease.” A third offers a somewhat less-stirring endorsement: “just waiting for the benefits and back pay to get here.”

Before I sign off, I wanted to come back to the company slogan. Actually, there appears to be two of these. The one that appears at the top of the home page is the slightly menacing “we’ll deal with the government; you have enough to worry about.” But the one I like best, the one that personifies to me all that’s beautiful and compelling and humane about the fabulous Binders, is the one I mentioned earlier: “do what you do, better and nicer.” It’s marvelously non-judgmental, it references two traits not normally associated with the legal profession and is just vague enough to cover anything this side of the commission of war crimes. If only all of us – I’m looking at you, Social Security Administration – would try harder to do what we do, the world would be a better place. And nicer too.

 

Banana robbers and black hairy tongues

“Is that a banana in your pocket, or are you just trying to rob me?”

Once again, my beloved South is in the news for the poor quality of its criminal population.

Last weekend, I related the story of the Waffle House waitress who became so incensed at a customer that she went to her car, got a gun and shot the patron for complaining about inadequate service. Apparently, the twin assault of stale waffles and runny eggs weren’t punishment enough.

This week comes the story of man who attempted the hold-up of a North Carolina café using a banana that he led his victim to believe was a gun. Bobby Ray Mabe (always with the two first names) said he encountered a man holding something under his clothing who asked for a Mountain Dew and then demanded cash.

The Winston-Salem café owner said he and another one of his customers decided to resist by grabbing the man and holding him down on a chair.

“If he had a gun he would’ve shot me,” Mabe told UPI. “But he had a banana.”

Forsyth County sheriff’s officers were summoned to arrest the perpetrator, but while the trio waited for them to arrive, the would-be robber ate the banana. By the time police arrived, all that was left was the banana peel. However, Mabe realized that the peel could serve as valuable evidence, so he photographed and then secured it before anybody could suffer a fall.

Charged with attempted robbery was 17-year-old John Steven Szwalla (pronounced “swallow,” which is what he should’ve done with the banana peel). On his next attempt, perhaps he’ll be smart enough to claim that an apple is actually a hand grenade, and he’ll be able to consume all the evidence.

 

Open wide and disgust us all

In unrelated news, there’s actually a disease that goes by the name of Black Hairy Tongue.

BHT refers to a number of conditions in humans and animals that cause the tongue to become unusually dark and/or hairy in appearance. In humans, it’s a harmless condition caused by a fungus which grows on the top surface of the tongue. It’s most commonly associated with the elderly, those using antibiotics, and smokers. While black is the most common color associated with the condition, other colors are possible, including brown, white and green. The hairy areas are usually on the back of the tongue.

Though generally due to overall poor oral hygiene, Black Hairy Tongue can also be caused by Pepto-Bismol.

When bowling was king

Bowling has made something of a comeback in recent years from the decline it had been suffering since its heyday back in the 1950s and 1960s. With the simultaneous rise of “disco bowling” and irony-as-lifestyle, more people than ever – both the cool and the uncool – are taking to the lanes of America’s alleys (recently re-dubbed “fun centers”).

I hadn’t realized it, but when I was flipping through some of the second-tier sports channels the other day, I discovered there’s still such a thing as the Professional Bowlers Association and they still have what can loosely be described as a TV contract. I watched only a few minutes, and this is some of what I saw.

The "king" on his "throne"

There’s this “King of Bowling” title or, more accurately, “the King of Bowling Powered by Amp Energy series.” The reigning king sits on a lane-side throne, wearing a goofy crown and holding a scepter, while pretenders battle before him for a chance to challenge the sovereign one-on-one. In the episode I saw, a chunky guy named Wes Malott from Pflugerville, Texas, sat regally above the fray while Walter Ray Williams won a “thrilling” opening match over Bill O’Neill. The two were tied after regulation and were forced to engage in a five-ball sudden-death “roll-off”. Williams emerged as the eventual winner.

When Williams took on Malott for the $10,000 first prize, he found himself the victim of a royal whirlwind. Malott bowled a perfect 300 for the victory.

“When it was over, I was kinda thinking to myself, what else could you ask for after the season I’ve had?” Malott said. “I’ve accomplished every goal I had except a major. Shooting 300 on TV? You never think about it.”

You can say that again.

“There was definitely some excitement,” Malott continued in a slight over-statement. “I just tried to focus and do the job. I’ve seen some guys fall on the ground and cry after bowling a 300 on TV. Some guys jump in the other guy’s arms. I’m not going to jump into someone’s arms.”

The PBA will award over $4.3 million in prize money this year during its Lumber Liquidators PBA National Tour. In addition to that pathetic excuse for a title sponsor, other predictable brands contributing to the tour include Flomax (the prostate medicine that improves urine flow), Motel 6, Bayer Aspirin, Denny’s and Go RVing.

Watch this space for a future review of the sport’s website, www.pba.com.

Detainees: Have I got a deal for you

There’s been a lot of discussion in recent weeks on what to do about the Guantanamo detainees. We have a pretty good consensus that the prison housing hundreds of suspected jihadists needs to be closed, yet we’re not exactly sure what to do with these guys. A few have been formally charged in U.S. courts and appear ready to go through the judicial process. As for the rest, I think the government is pretty much open to suggestions.

Attempts to foist them off on other countries seem to be going nowhere. State governments and Congressional leaders are steadfast in their refusal to accept them into American prisons. The idea that I floated in a post last February – that the detainees be put on a plane that “accidentally” crashes (see http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/02/26/fake-news-bulletin-detainees-crash-into-ocean/) – seems to be gaining little traction.

Well, I’ve since had a similar brainstorm that I’d like to put forward. Rather than add yet another voice to the near-unison chorus of “not in my back yard,” I’d like to propose moving the 240 prisoners to my back yard.  Literally.

Actually, what I’m offering is a great deal on a rental house my wife and I own that we’ve been having trouble finding tenants for. This nicely landscaped brick ranch-style home is situated on an acre and a half in a quiet northeast Rock Hill neighborhood, with quick access to Interstate 77 leading north to Charlotte. It has three bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths, central air and heat, a large shed in the back yard and a covered carport. There’s a refrigerator and a water heater; no washing machine or dryer is included, but hook-ups do exist in a utility room off the carport. We’re asking $885 a month, and are willing to include two weeks free rent if they move in by the first of the month.

I understand that this 1,140-square-foot residence may be seen by some as rather tight quarters for 240 people, but it can’t be much worse than the conditions they’re enduring now. I mentioned the big shed, right? There’s also an attic, a crawlspace under the house and a covered patio.

I don’t know the neighbors all that well. Most of them are also tenants rather than owners, so I don’t think they’d care that much about so-called “undesirables.” The Guatemalan family down the street already has at least a dozen people living in a similar-sized house, so they can’t complain. And the people next door have had police called at least twice in the last six months for domestic disturbances; if my tenants start causing trouble (loud music, unauthorized yard sales, international hijacking plots, etc.), the authorities already know the area.

The suspected terrorists would be expected to keep the lawn in reasonably good shape. I doubt that any of them have a mower, but I imagine the Defense Department would offer a small release package similar to what freed convicts get when they’re furloughed from prison. Instead of a fresh suit of clothes and $50, might I suggest each man be allocated a government-issued goat that could provide milk, wool, meat and the ability to keep the grass at a city-mandated maximum two-inch height.

I know a lot of these criminals come from agrarian societies, so I’ll point out that the very large back yard has only a few trees on the edge of the property and plenty of room for a substantial garden. Most people in this part of the South plant primarily tomatoes, squash and watermelons, though I have no reason to doubt that opium poppies might also thrive in our summer heat. I would think that locally grown narcotics would be quite an attractive product in the organic farmer’s market held every other Saturday in the next town over from ours.

We don’t really have a viable public transportation system in Rock Hill, and I acknowledge that getting around could be a bit difficult for the Islamist fanatics. There are, however, several reasonably priced private cab companies and, for any individuals who suffered injuries during their stay at the naval base (I remember hearing something about torture), the county provides special-needs buses that go to the hospital area and to state benefits offices. Or maybe the several hundred men could pool their funds and buy a junker car that they could share. There’s a used-car lot within walking distance of the house, and their sign claims that not only do they “habla Espanol” but they also offer on-the-lot financing. And if the whole car-bombing image presents a credit problem, many similarly restricted drivers with DWI convictions find a moped to be quite adequate.

Speaking of businesses in the neighborhood, there’s a major highway (state road 161) only two blocks away — just close enough to be convenient but not bother any of the renters with road noise. Within walking distance is the Mayflower seafood restaurant (a “fish camp”-style eatery that offers both sit-down service as well as a great takeout menu), a Sonic drive-in complete with roller-skating waitresses, and a Subway. I’m not sure if any of these places are familiar with Halal, the Muslim dietary restrictions similar to kosher laws, but check with Chrissy at the Mayflower – she’s always so friendly to everyone. There’s also a new Food Lion grocery store under construction a half-mile down the road, due to open in August.

So, if anybody is interested in helping make the dream of living in a suburban home into a reality for these unfortunate individuals, please contact my property manager, Hartline Realty, at 803-367-6828. (The management services they offer are well worth the 10% cut they take, since I’m not especially handy at dealing with middle-of-the-night plumbing or dirty-bomb accidents). We can have these ruthless killers moved in by this time next week.

Fake News: Graduates get their marching papers

Commencement speakers continued dispensing their valuable advice to graduating seniors across the country this past weekend.

Addressing graduates at the U.S. Naval Academy, President Obama urged newly commissioned second lieutenants to “avoid being wounded if at all possible” and to aim for the highest goals they can achieve, whether in the military or in private life.

“I would urge you to either become an admiral and assign yourself to cruise the Caribbean or, if you leave the Navy, you can do as I did and seek to serve the public,” Obama told a large crowd in Annapolis, Maryland. “I would strongly encourage anybody who thinks they might be interested in the job to get elected president. The perks are incredible.”

Meanwhile, in an address to graduates at San Diego State University, the Octomom suggested students could best serve mankind by getting lip enhancements and giving birth to a litter of children.

“Don’t strive merely to achieve the fleeting satisfaction of fame and fortune,” Nadya Suleman told the assembled class of ’09. “Make a difference in someone’s life. Or in my case, the life of 14 very small yet very annoying, demanding and childish people.”

Fox News commentator Glenn Beck suggested graduates at Atlanta’s Emory University forsake some of the privileges and honors they’ve received in the interest of pursuing a greater good.

“When you march across this stage in a few minutes to receive your diploma, I challenge you to take that piece of paper and rip it to shreds,” the conservative pundit recommended. “A liberal arts education is, by very definition, liberal. If you live by your instincts rather than by your intellect, you’ll be a much happier individual. And, I can get you a job at Fox.”

Two American heroes in the news this year delivered commencement addresses with two very different themes. Capt. Chesley Sullenberger, the USAir pilot who successfully landed his disabled airliner in the Hudson River in January, urged graduates at the University of Illinois “not to fly a jet into a flock of geese thereby disabling both engines and causing you to ditch in the water.” Just a few dozen miles to the north at the University of Chicago, Capt. Richard Phillips of the Somali-hijacked Maersk container ship, told his audience to “not be boarded by pirates, taken hostage in a lifeboat and then nearly get shot while being rescued.”

Appearing at Nova University in Boca Raton, Florida, actor Ashton Kutcher declined to speak directly to the audience of 1,400 seniors. Instead, he stood at the lectern with his Blackberry and “tweeted” his commencement address.

“Just keep trying,” Kutcher wrote. “Never, ever give up, because the only person that can stop u is u.”

“OMG, that is so true,” messaged the crowd in response. “We rock.”

Website Review: Charmin.com

Regular readers of this blog know that I don’t like to traffic in bathroom humor. However, that may be unavoidable today, so I’ll beg your indulgence in advance. I noticed recently that there is a website for Charmin bathroom tissue, and I couldn’t resist the urge to make it the subject of this week’s Website Review.

Bathroom tissue, also sometimes called toilet paper, is distinctly different from facial tissue, in that it is designed to decompose in sewage and septic systems. Also, without putting too fine a point on it, TP is meant to be used on an area that’s at the opposite end of your face (on most people). The earliest recorded use of toilet paper occurred in medieval China, where a traveler from the West noted in 851 A.D. that the locals “are not careful about cleanliness and do not wash themselves with water when they have done their necessities but only wipe themselves with paper.” By the time of the Ming Dynasty, almost a million 2-foot-by-3-foot sheets of toilet paper were manufactured in one year for use in the Imperial Court. Outside of China, however, people were known to use wool, lace, wood shavings, leaves, sand, moss, snow, maize, ferns, fruit skins, seashells, seaweed, sticks, animal furs … okay, that’s enough history.

We’ve come a long way since those ancient and loathsome habits. The products sold by Charmin, a subsidiary of Procter & Gamble, represent the highest evolution of woodpulp-based personal ablutions. The home page at charmin.com encourages viewers to “rediscover Charmin” through two of its premium products: Charmin Ultra Strong, for those who prefer strength, and Charmin Ultra Soft, for those who prefer softness.

It’s the Ultra Strong variety that first caught my attention, in part because it distinguishes itself with what the company calls a “diamond weave texture”. Considering that the diamond is the hardest substance known to man and can be used to cut everything from glass to titanium, it’s not a substance I’d want associated with such a sensitive area of the body. But I’m not the marketing expert.

There are three other products in the Charmin line. Charmin Basic is a “great balance of softness and strength affordably priced to suit most budgets,” Charmin Plus is “the only bath tissue that contains soothing lotion,” and Charmin Fresh Mates are “adult flushable wipes that give you a shower fresh feeling any time of day.” The last of these comes in four different designer series tubs or in a convenient, resealable package for freshness “on the go.” Get it? “On the go.”

Under the Offers and Events pulldown, you can sign up for a free “extender,” whatever that is, or you can read about the efforts Charmin made during the 2008 holiday season to render New York City a more clean and comfortable place. Apparently, the company built a custom-designed portable restroom in Times Square to help visitors deal with certain necessities that most visitors to the Big Apple will admit are too often unaccommodated. Somehow, they were able to record that these facilities were visited 300,104 times through December 31, though the actual number of patrons may be significantly less if they counted flushes rather than individual hinds. There’s an interactive “flush-o-meter” map of the world that will even tell you which states and countries were best represented. (I guess people filled out a dossier during the visit; either that, or there was some kind of funky DNA analysis going on). Of particular interest, I thought, were the 66 visitors from Iceland, the 27 from Cuba, the four from Madagascar, and the lack of any patronage whatsoever from Kyrgyzstan. Also, note that there were five customers from Papua New Guinea and how funny the word “papua” is in this context.

Part of this promotion also included a photo download, from which you could retrieve the pictures you had taken during the event. (Don’t worry about privacy concerns; you have to enter a password to gain access to your bathroom pix.) There was also an official celebrity endorser associated with this effort. The unfortunately named Joey Fatone (the “fat one”), formerly of NSYNC, served as King of the Throne and conducted the ceremonial first flush. And there was an opportunity to sign Charmin’s Plush Potties for the People petition, part of the brand’s efforts to make public johns the “luxurious, dignified lavatories they should be.” If you didn’t sign on to this worthy cause in New York – where tuxedoed attendants escorted guests into bathrooms featuring soothing music, flat-screen TVs and, of course, Charmin tissue – you can do it online.

The site includes an FAQ page, offering advice on some of the dilemmas facing the modern crapper. “The plies on my Charmin Ultra are not lined up, and it’s not tearing in the right place,” writes one troubled user trying to make his way in our complex, modern world. He is told to “hold the roll in front of you with the paper winding over the top, pull the top ply up and drop it back behind the roll, tear away excess and you’re good to go.” (Get it again? “To go.”) This is also where I learn that the previously mentioned “extender” is an extra-large roll holder, and is not meant to attach to your person.

The History of Charmin section starts in the 1920s, when the product got its name from an employee who thought the design was “charming.” Not much happened in the intervening two decades, though 1940 saw a modern typestyle introduced on the product label, a prelude to the great world war that was looming. In the early sixties, Charmin became the first tissue to add perfume (ouch), and soon thereafter brought Mr. Whipple and his classic “please don’t squeeze the Charmin” slogan to international prominence. By 1978, Whipple was the third best-known American, behind only Richard Nixon and Billy Graham. He was replaced (though some claim “eaten by”) by two animated bears who brought the product’s profile into the twenty-first century.

Finally, I have to mention one external link that cannot go without note. This sends you to sitorsquat.com, an online find-a-toilet service. Once here, you simply enter your location and a detailed mapping system pops up showing you all the public facilities in your neighborhood. You can zoom out or in – though hopefully not too far in – and can select from a roadmap version, a satellite version, a hybrid of these two, or a terrain version, complete with elevation listings in case you need a certain height above sea level in order to do your business. Of course, it goes without saying you can also download iPhone or Twitter applications (“What are you doing?” “None of your beeswax.”) This site also has a Humor section featuring posts with highly questionable titles: “Women’s Public Bathroom Toilet Prank/Hidden Camera”, “So You Think You Can PP Dance,” and the obligatory videos of cats interacting hilariously with various plumbing fixtures.

All in all, Charmin.com is an informative and entertaining site and I can highly recommend it. Still, this is definitely one arena where the virtual world will never be able to replace the paper copy.

Smile for your semi-annual dentist appointment

I don’t have a very good record of maintaining good dental health, so when it came time last week for my semi-annual checkup, I was a little nervous. I’ve had enough experience now in the lean-back chair that I usually know what to expect, so the fears borne of uncertainty aren’t an issue. I’m not one of those people who need to visit a sedation dentist to have my blood drained and spinal chord frozen so I can get a good flossing. I can take the “discomfort” and the “pressure” as long as they don’t call it “pain.”

But it had been over a year since I last visited for a cleaning, and my regular maintenance needed to be done. I called Dr. Anderson’s office and made an appointment for “the usual,” which in my case could easily mean a couple of root canals. I showed up last Wednesday for what I hoped would be a quick in-and-out.

Before I go into any detail about this visit, a little history is in order. When I was a child growing up in Miami, we were compelled to patronize the dentist who went to our church. Unfortunately, Dr. Beyer was a student of Ephesians-style dentistry, and tended to take the part about “suffer the little children” too literally. He was as stingy with the Novocain as he was completely unfamiliar with laughing gas, so even the most minor work involved agony I remember to this day.

When I went off to college and became more responsible for my own dental care, I let it lapse completely. I was too busy enjoying the social upheavals of the seventies to be concerned about proper brushing techniques. Besides, a pretty smile seemed so bourgeois in this climate that I could justify my poor oral hygiene as a political statement. When one particularly bad cavity became large enough that a sesame seed lodged in it, I figured, great – a homeopathic filling.

When the pain finally got the better of me, I went to an excellent dentist who got me into serviceable shape. After a few temporary crowns and a couple of extractions, I was ready to leave Florida and seek my fortune in my current hometown. I’d be able to make it through a job interview without having to avoid the half of the alphabet I couldn’t pronounce without fully-formed front teeth.

My current dentist of almost thirty years continued the extensive effort I needed throughout the 1980s. I proudly built a thick folder of paperwork documenting my bridges and implants that showed at a glance what a loyal and profitable customer I had been. So I was a little miffed when I arrived last week and the receptionist asked me to sign a touchscreen to capture my signature electronically. “We’ve gone paperless,” she said excitedly, and my heart fell when I glanced at my screen and saw I had been reduced to just a few computer files.

Once my insurance information is recorded with the front desk – “they’re a good company,” the insurance specialist said ominously of my new insurer – I headed back to meet with my hygienist. After a few words of greeting, during which she eyed my mouth suspiciously (trying I guess to size up how difficult a case I was going to be), we got down to work. I was moved to a reclining position and she pulled up the armrest on my right to get a better angle on my maw. With no support for my elbow, I had to grab my belt buckle and hang on, lest my forearm flop into her lap in what would be the most awkward advance in periodontal history.

After a series of x-ray pictures in that darling anti-radiation apron, she began the three-part cleaning process. First, she moves all along the top, then the bottom, with that sharp metal prod, scraping away tartar in the most primitive medical technique this side of high deductibles. This is the part of the visit I dread the most, not only because it sounds and feels so barbaric, but because I’m being tested on suspicious areas that may need the attention of the drill. Not only do I have to feel the occasional stabs of pain; I have to act like I didn’t feel them to avoid having it cost me money. “Oh, does that hurt?” she asks as I noticeably stiffen at one point. “No, no,” I reassure her, “it’s just a seizure.”

Once the prodding is done, she uses that minty buffer thing that smoothly scrubs the tooth surface. Finally, she brings out the floss to remove any remnants of filth that remain, and asks the question I chronically lie to: “Do you floss regularly?” “Yes,” I answer, figuring that doing it once a week on a religious basis can technically count as “regularly.”

Before the actual dentist stops by for his quick exam, she offers me the optional fluoride treatment, which I agree to so I don’t look like a cheapskate. She paints this sudsy mixture on as I try to remember if fluoride is in that part of the periodic table that’s radioactive or not. She rinses me out with water and that neat oral vacuum cleaner that gives you runway-model-quality sunken cheeks.

Dr. Anderson now appears and does the part of the exam I always forget to worry about – the oral cancer check. While I’ve spent the past few days obsessing about pointy metal prods, the possibility that I may have malignant salivary glands or a tongue tumor has completely escaped me. When the groping of nodes is complete and I seem to have passed, he begins closely examining my two lower canines, technically called “numbers 22 and 27.”

“We’ll probably need to do something about these,” he says.

“Let’s take another picture,” I wanted to suggest. “This time with my cellphone camera. You lean in close so we can get you in there too.”

Instead, he proceeds to show me I need a pair of the following: endodontics, 1 canal; crown buildup, inc. pins; and crown porc.-fused to high nobl. At first I’m concerned that the “porc.-fused” part means I’m going to have a bacon implant and, while I love the taste of bacon, I don’t think I’d want it as the default taste in my mouth. He deciphers the lingo to tell me it’s instead a porcelain fusion, with root canal and crown, and now I’m really concerned, as it seems it is he who is bringing home the bacon, to the tune of almost $3,000 out of my pocket and into his piggy bank.

“You might not need the root canals. We won’t be able to tell until we get in there,” he tells me.

At last, we discuss sedation – I’d like some now, please, but he insists on waiting until the procedure, to be scheduled in about two weeks. I can have an IV drip, where I’m knocked out completely, for $265, or I can opt for the “value menu” nitrous oxide for the low, low price of $51. Considering I want to be awake when the decision is made to canal or not, and that nitrous is more fun than unconsciousness, and that it’s over $200 cheaper, I’m going with the gas. Could I buy one dose and get one free, so my wife can roll with laughter when I mention the $3,000?

I’m ready to check out and set my next cleaning appointment for six months out. My schedule is typically not that tight, so I shrug when they ask if December 3 at 1 p.m. will work for me. I think I have a thing some time in the fall, but my winter is wide open, so I take whatever they’ll give me. Just don’t expect me to remember that far in the future – I may need to take my rocket car into the shop that day. They’ll call to help me remember.

That reminds me: it’s been a week now since the appointment, so it’s probably time to floss.

The latest on “Kim and Kate Plus Eight”

Controversy continued to swirl this week around one of TV’s top-rated reality shows. Following Sunday’s season premiere of TLC’s Kim and Kate Plus Eight Plus Rogue State, the show’s featured mom publicly took her husband to task for neglecting his family.

Kate Gosselin, the mother of television’s favorite sextuplets, said husband Kim Jong Il’s recent behavior fomenting instability on the Korean peninsula represent his attempts to “act out” in response to the pressures of family life.

“He knows he’s not living up to his responsibilities,” Kate told Christian Woman Today magazine. “We’re supposed to be in this together, acting for the good of our family, and all he seems interested in is rattling the nuclear saber.”

Kim has cemented his reputation as an international pariah in recent days with two mid-range missile firings as well as an underground nuclear test in North Korea. Neighboring countries throughout northeast Asia have expressed growing concern that the Communist leader could launch an unprovoked attack against South Korea or Japan.

“At this point in our relationship, I wouldn’t put it past him,” Kate said. “He has eight children here in Pennsylvania constantly asking ‘where’s daddy?’, and all I can say is that he’s more likely to be in the Situation Room than in the family room.”

United Nations Secretary-General Ban Ki Moon and U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton have warned Kim that his reckless actions will be met with the strongest response possible. Even his traditional allies, China and Russia, seem to view events of the past week with alarm.

“He needs to be back on the show with his heart fully engaged in the project as well as the welfare of his family,” said Soviet President Vladimir Putin. “We don’t need more tensions on the Asian mainland; we need wholesome entertainment that showcases a big, happy family. Did you see how that one kid lost his balloon in Sunday’s episode? That was heart-wrenching.”

For her part, Kate says she will go on with her travels around the country promoting the show as well as her book, and hopes that her husband “comes to his freakin’ senses.” She said the show will continue as planned into its fifth season, with next week’s episode featuring the construction of a uranium-enrichment plant in the back yard of the couple’s rural home.

“It’s really Kim’s idea,” Kate said. “He says we’ll save a ton of money on our utility bills, but I’m worried about the effects radiation leakage might have on the kids. We’re freaky enough already, you know?”

The couple’s current rough patch stems from tabloid reports that Kim was seen partying with a college-aged woman, and drinking at local bars with his friends. Kim was reportedly holed up in his parents’ home in Pyongyang and was unavailable for comment.

My advice: Look elsewhere for advice

On December 15 of last year, I changed the motto on my masthead to read “Now Being Funny on a Daily Basis.” I’m sure the “being funny” part is debatable, but the “daily basis” has been absolutely true – weekends included – for the last 165 days, or almost half a year. The closest I came to missing a daily post was one day in late February when my 17-year-old son had abdominal surgery. I managed to get a couple of sentences up while anxiously cooling my heels in the waiting room, so I officially made it that day but only on a technicality.

Now that summer is here and virtually everybody else is into reruns, I’m going to do the same thing with this blog ON WEEKENDS ONLY. Monday through Friday I’ll continue to post (thoroughly) original material; however, on Saturday and Sunday I’ll be reposting some of the “fake advice” columns I wrote on Tuesdays and Thursdays during the winter.

Throughout the summer and on into eternity, I’ll continue doing new humorous essays on Mondays and Wednesdays, fake news stories on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and the riotously popular Website Reviews on Fridays. Please keep the views and comments coming.

* * *

Welcome to my free but awful advice service. My counseling 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 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 over the course of those days, 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 by unusual skin features in the snakes and alligators they treat.

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.

More advice about urinary catheters

This is another 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 ABSOLUTELY 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 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.

Hot enough for you? It is for me

The heat is on

The heat is on

The heat is on

Oh, it’s on the street

The heat is…

On

– Either Glenn Frey or Don Henley, I forget which, and seriously doubt there’s really all that much difference anyway

 

Today’s forecast in my area of the country calls for a high temperature around 85 degrees. Tomorrow is projected to be 88, with the following day topping out in the low 90s. For me, it’s too damn hot already, and it’s only the first of June.

I’m not a big fan of warm weather, probably because I was born and raised in Florida. When I was a child growing up in Miami, we’d have very little variety between wonderful weather and fabulous weather (except for the occasional cataclysmic hurricane) and it got to be very boring. To this day, I remember the excitement one morning during my 17 years there when we awoke to find a clog of ice in the garden hose and a thin frost on the lawn. It was as close to a snow day as we’d ever get.

While people in northern climes were yearning for retirement to the Sunshine State, we had to endure a boring sameness throughout our environment. With no real autumn, we never knew what it meant to see the leaves changing. My grandmother had to mail me an oak leaf from Pennsylvania so I would get some basic idea. We had no mountains and no hills, just an unending flatness. Stairs were exciting. When Dick and Jane cavorted in the fictional snow of our first-grade readers, we thought they were dead and in heaven, frolicking among the clouds.

All heat and no cold made Christmas especially problematic. How would Santa ever be able to come visit us? Sleighs don’t lend themselves well to travel on the high-speed Florida Turnpike. Reindeer will end up run off the road and flailing in the canals, a tasty holiday treat for the alligators. Santa’s going to get a god-awful chafe wearing that wool suit in our heat. How will his swollen legs fit in our chimney, even if we had a chimney or knew what one was? My parents reassured us that he’d make a special trip to south Florida in a helicopter and that he’d wear seersucker golf pants for his trip down through our air conditioning ducts and into our living room. Not quite the picture painted in TV’s Christmas specials.

When I moved to Tallahassee in the northern corner of the state to attend college, it didn’t get much better. I did finally see my very first snow flurry but still had to endure my entire freshman year on the top floor of an un-air-conditioned dorm. Fortunately, we were all so cool that it didn’t matter. My only outdoor camping experience to this day came during a worse-than-normal heat wave when we hauled our mattress out on the grass to sleep. The washer women who handled our bed linens loved us for that one.

Now, of course, I’m a mature adult, living far enough north to at least experience some seasonal changes, and I still say I hate the heat – I hate it, I hate it, I hate it! It’s stupid and it’s gross. You get all sweaty and stinky and, worst of all, extremely irritable.

Fortunately, just about all of the interior world is air-conditioned these days, so I do have the option of adopting a hermit-like existence for the next four months. Right now, for example, I have a wonderful view of this balmy late spring day by looking out the floor-to-ceiling window from my icy perch inside a frigid cafe, complete with working fireplace. It looks beautiful out there – the trees are green and swaying in the breeze, the clouds are wispy, the sun is bright – but I know it’s really a hellish inferno.

The cold comfort of conditioned air serves me well in most spots, though not in my workplace. My business operates in a converted warehouse that wasn’t really designed for a cubicle-farm office. I’ve had my desk positioned in several different locations throughout this large room, yet no matter where I sit I’m always too warm. When I arrive in the morning, the two women from the night shift who sit on either side of me are huddled in their sweaters, portable heaters glowing at their feet. I turn on a small fan aimed at my legs under the desk and a large one that I aim just over my head. (I’d have it blowing right on me if I could figure out how to proofread financial documents while they’re flying through a whirlwind.) The loud roar of the two announces that a man has arrived, and he’s not comfortable.

My coworkers are about 75% female, and I think this is part of the dilemma. We once called a repairman to the office to fix what seemed to be chronic AC problems. He fiddled away with the thermostat for some time before scanning the room and reporting that he had discovered our problem. “Most of your people are women,” he told my boss. “They give off more heat than men.” This seemed to me to be one of the lamest excuses for not doing your job I had ever heard, though it’s something the U.S. Senate might want to keep in mind as they consider the confirmation of Supreme Court nominee Sonia Sotomayor. (Those judicial robes make the Snuggie look well-ventilated.)

In the years since, I’ve occasionally battled with the women in my office on this subject. One argument I thought should be convincing was that we should keep it cooler because, while they can always put more clothes on, I can’t be taking more clothes off. Well, I can, but I’m sure it would mean a rather unpleasant visit with the human resources guy. One lady showed up on a July morning last year wearing a sleeveless sundress to work, and immediately began complaining how cold the air-conditioning was. “Have you considered wearing something that covered the upper half of your torso?” I countered.

Maybe I’m noticing the heat more in recent years because I’m getting older. My wife tells me that men don’t get hot flashes associated “the change,” and she knows about such things (I’m just saying she’s a very knowledgeable person, not implying anything more.) I’ve thought about buying one of those “cooler collars” I’ve seen in the SkyMall catalog, though I suspect that would work about as well as would lugging around an icepack in my pants. Or I could contract one of those tropical diseases that give you the chills.

Maybe I’ll suggest another training trip for myself to India. Their heat makes ours feel bush league by comparison. And there’s a good chance I could come down with Dengue Fever.

News is fake, but quotes are real

Outspoken members of the Republican right wing continued their surprising displays of support for Supreme Court nominee Sonia Sotomayor with several comments made in recent days.

Leading the outpouring of goodwill was conservative radio commentator Rush Limbaugh, who said the Latina that President Obama picked to succeed Justice David Souter was similar to one of his idols, former Ku Klux Klan grand wizard David Duke.

“She would bring a form of bigotry and racism to the court,” Limbaugh said in praising the Bronx-born jurist on his Monday talk show. “Not only does she lack the appropriate judicial temperament, it’s worse than that.”

Former House Speaker Newt Gingrich also joined in the accolades for Sotomayor, calling her a “racist.”

“Imagine a judicial nominee who said ‘my experience as a white man makes me better than a Latina woman,’” Gingrich said dreamily.

Former Colorado Republican Congressman Tom Tancredo agreed with the Georgia conservative’s admiration for Sotomayor by comparing the judge’s membership in a national Hispanic organization to enrollment in the KKK. The 2008 presidential candidate known for his anti-immigration stance spoke glowingly of the president’s selection to be on the high court.

“I’m telling you, she appears to be racist,” Tancredo bubbled. “She said things that are racist.”

Meanwhile, those who remain opposed to the choice persisted in their search for reasons the balance of the Court would be negatively affected by the addition of a second woman and second non-white among the nine justices.

After a CNN report revealed that Sotomayor would become the sixth Catholic on the nation’s highest bench, tilting the panel strongly toward a belief in papal infallibility, other studies showed additional areas where the delicate balance of fairness could be impacted.

• The new judge, a left-handed individual, would join five other lefties.
• Sotomayor is reputed to like tuna, as do seven other justices currently serving.
• Joining an already-strong majority of six, the would-be justice favors a coin-flip in cases where an absent vote could lead to a 4-4 tie.
• Obama’s appointee prefers to remain clothed under her robes, which would leave Justices Scalia and Thomas as the only members who are nude underneath.
• Sotomayor does not believe in “tweeting” her thoughts during closed-door deliberations of major decisions, joining six other current judges who share that belief.
• The first Hispanic female nominee has all her original teeth, drives a sedan rather than a coupe, and prefers dogs as pets over hamsters, much like solid majorities of the court.

Taking measured steps to better health

It’s probably a good sign of corporate health and a reviving economy when you’re company stops trimming headcounts and instead starts a campaign to trim the figures of actual employees.

That’s what we’re seeing at the firm where I work: a three-month company-wide effort to get workers to walk their way to better health – and, not insignificantly, lower health-insurance overhead – through the Green Paces Initiative. Employees sign up to join five-person teams that will count the number of steps taken between June 1 and September 1 at offices throughout the country. (I don’t know if our sites overseas are also participating, but it seems like instituting long treks and reduced caloric intake among our Indian and Sri Lankan staffs would be redundant.) The team that treads the farthest wins a cash prize determined by some complicated raffle system I’ll describe later. Hopefully, this initiative will end better than 2006’s Weightloss Reduction Challenge where, by the final week, people were lopping off limbs to make their goals.

 I first became aware of this corporate initiative during a visit to the men’s room several weeks ago. While the economy was in free fall the preceding six months, all non-essential expenses – travel, employee meals, retirement contributions, quality – were banned by headquarters as too costly. The “green shoot” I saw that morning was a small poster placed at seated eye level on the stall wall. “Get Up Off Your Seat,” encouraged a cartoon frog, somewhat hastily in my particular case. “Join the Green Paces Initiative and Get Healthy.” The frog squatting on a branch didn’t fully appreciate the equal importance of a well-functioning gastro-intestinal system, so I vandalized his protruding butt with several poop drops. (I later had to white these out when a co-worker recognized my work.)

Soon we received an email with more details about the effort. Everyone would be issued pedometers, numbers would be recorded every day and reported to a central office every week, you could pick your own teammates, and a good personal goal each day was put at 10,000 paces. “That’s about 50,000 miles per person per month,” shrieked one of my math-challenged associates. Actually, it’s more like five miles a day. Each quintet would have a Team Captain, and a so-called “Super Captain” would coordinate activities of each site and defend us against evil masterminds out to conquer the world.

Immediately, we had questions, and it soon became apparent why I had made another trip to the men’s room while volunteers were recruited for the captaincy positions. Do other forms of exercise count for anything? Yes, every 15 minutes of yoga, cycling, yard work, mountain-climbing, house-to-house combat, etc., would count as 2,000 steps. What if I forget to wear my pedometer for a day? Enter your average for the preceding week, and don’t let it happen again. What’s with the sign-up waiver? Though the company is interested in your health, they’re not so interested that they’ll assume any legal liability if you die from walking.

The email also contained this disturbing display of distrust by our corporate masters, as well as the germ of an intriguing idea: “Step-count reporting will be on the honor system. Shaking the pedometer is strictly prohibited.” Actually, I wasn’t thinking so much of shaking the thing myself (too much exertion) as I was taking it to Home Depot and strapping it to one of those paint-mixing machines. “If your Super Captain finds out any team member is participating in this behavior, they will be removed from their team immediately.” Yeah, but I’d still have the free paint-stirring sticks.

I decided I truly did want to participate, since I’m already doing daily treadmill work at the Y, and the free pedometers were imprinted with a cool logo. Me and the only other four men on day shift decided we would be a team, as long as we didn’t have to have a nickname, uniforms, team spirit or official cheer. I had one additional concern. As a “team,” would we actually be required to do our walking together, locked arm-in-arm five abreast, strolling through the office park looking like we were marking casual Friday in the Land of Oz? No, I was assured, we could record our exercise as we went about our separate daily routines. We were a team in name only, kind of like a Tour de France bike-racing squad or the Democratic Party.

The five of us, all paunchy forty- or fifty-something family men, did have a brief, informal team-building session, where we joked about how we didn’t really take such corporate nonsense seriously. One speculated whether we could start right at 12:01 a.m. on June 1, so our half-dozen middle-of-the-night trips to the bathroom could be counted. Another wanted to wear his pedometer on his pajamas, to see if his insomniac tossing and turning would register. Someone asked, can you count your steps to and from the shower and, if so, where do you hang the pedometer? I broke off for a quick walk around the perimeter of the room, counted the 95-step circuit, and wondered if downtime would soon lead to employees orbiting the office like obsolete spy satellites.

Last Friday, the final workday before the official start, we were going to have a pep rally to get the entire plant in the proper rah-rah spirit, but then we remembered that the warehouse people in the next room were hourly wage slaves who couldn’t be freed from their picking-and-packing routine for such non-value-added nonsense. They’re probably going to defeat us all anyway, since their entire day is spent pacing from pallet to pallet, like caged zoo creatures.

As I write this piece, we’re now in Day Two of the Green Paces Initiative. I recorded an impressive 12,434 steps on the first day and am just over 9,300 for today. The Restless Leg Syndrome that causes uncontrollable twitching in my calf muscles is racking up additional steps as I sit here and type. Everyone at work is getting in the spirit, except for one unfortunate team that’s been decimated by two weddings (wonder if the brides wore their pedometers on their gowns walking down the aisle), a six-week temporary layoff for one member and a car accident for another.

We’re all striving to keep our eyes on the prize, trying to comprehend the so-called raffle that could result in a prize of $200. According to the published rules, “three separate raffles will occur at the end of each of the three four-week periods based on totals of weekly averages. Teams will receive a raffle ticket based on cumulative miles walked. Fifty percent of those teams will receive raffle tickets and at the end of each period will have their names drawn for a prize.”

I wonder how many steps we can count for the mental effort that’s going to be required to figure that one out.

Greetings from Saudi Arabia

President Obama faced some difficult choices upon his arrival in Saudi Arabia yesterday for a five-day goodwill tour of the Middle East. During his first meeting with a head of state, he’d be greeted by King Abdullah, the same man he was accused of bowing to when they first met at the G-20 summit in London two months ago. Though White House aides insisted at the time that the president was only stooping to admire the socks of the diminutive autocrat, Obama drew flak from the right for having the nerve to respect a foreign leader.

Now he was going to have to greet the guy again at the Riyadh airport, witnessed by the international press corps, and on National Fist Bump Day no less. (It’s true; look it up if you want. Organizers are calling for all global citizens to put aside their differences on June 3 and show their respect by “knocking knuckles.”)

What should he do? Offer a good ol’ American handshake? Possibly okay if they were in the U.S., but here he is in the nation that safeguards the most sacred sites in Islam. Follow the lead of former President George W. Bush, who strolled hand-in-hand with the monarch when he visited Bush’s Texas ranch? Too Bushian. Go all the way to third base as President Reagan famously did with Abdullah’s predecessor? (In local parlance, this diplomatic miscue became the legendary “full camel toe.”)

The world watched anxiously as the president stepped off Air Force One and there stood the king, resplendent in his blinding white robes. The two leaders shared a light embrace and a cheek-to-cheek touch on both sides, called a “friendly but formal greeting” by The New York Times. They stood for several minutes beneath a gazebo in the scorching desert heat, then shared a cup of tea before heading to the king’s place for dinner.

“This time,” the Times reported, “reporters on hand did not see a bow.”

Looks like the coolest president since James K. Polk once again did the right thing, even though he had a world of choices in how to communicate his greeting. He could’ve done like I do every day when passing an associate at work in the hall, look down and pretend to be checking my cell phone messages and walk right past or, if I’m feeling especially friendly, offer a tight-lipped nod. Or he could’ve selected from the large number of greeting gestures described in Wikipedia.

In addition to bowing and cheek kissing, they also list Eskimo kissing (generally thought to be rubbing noses but actually the smelling of another person’s face), the high-five, hand-kissing, hat-raising or hat-tipping (especially difficult with a crown), hugging, kowtowing (it has a bad reputation but it’s really just kneeling and touching the ground with your forehead, in order to show awe or submission), the Indian-style “namaste,” the standard military salute, waving (probably a tad informal) or the Hitler salute. That last one would probably be going too far to appease the anti-Zionist crowd in the Muslim world.

Hey, how's it goin'?

Also rejected by the president’s creative staff were body-sniffing, wiping-hands-on-shirt (symbolic of our nation’s desire to rid itself of our love-hate affair with oiliness), brow-wiping and saying “whew” (appropriate for the 120-degree heat), foot-wiping (to get the sand out of your shoes), the bro-hug, the babe-hug (a sideways clutch designed to keep the breasts out of play) and the fake-shake-with-thumb-away (pulling back your outstretched hand at the last moment and giving the “yer out” sign over your shoulder).

After the president’s brief visit in Saudi Arabia, he heads off to Egypt for a major address at Cairo University that will be seen by many as an attempt to reach out and show respect for the Muslim world. Sources said he plans to be as non-controversial as possible, since these are the folks who so freaked out over a lame cartoon. Advance copies of the speech leaked to the press indicate the president will characterize Islam as “a monotheistic religion founded by Mohammad in the seventh century with approximately 1.5 billion current-day adherents worldwide, generally divided into Sunni and Shia factions, who follow the Koran and the Five Pillars of Islam for spiritual guidance.”

Website Review: Ambien.com

At my annual physical a month or so back, I noted an increase in insomnia as I got older so, following the direction of TV advertisers, I asked my doctor about Ambien. He said it might be helpful for short-term relief of my problem, so he wrote me a prescription to cover me for the next year.

The drug I actually mentioned is the only Ambien currently being advertised, a controlled-release formulation called Ambien CR. The patent held by pharmaceutical giant Sanofi Aventis on the original drug expired in 2007, requiring them to develop a slight variation that not only gets you to sleep but keeps you there. (You’d think they’d have thought of that the first time, so you obviously know very little about Big Pharma.) When this patent expires, I look forward to a chocolate-covered Ambien or perhaps a honey-infused Ambien tea.

My doctor implied the Ambien CR was basically a marketing ploy that had failed to yield any free trips to Bermuda, so I’d be just as well off taking a generic, the less evocatively named zolpidem tartrate. He wrote me the prescription and I’ve been a happy though somewhat groggy user ever since. However, I wanted to learn more about this medicine, so I’ve chosen ambiencr.com for my weekly Website Review.

The home page of this website features a quintet of smiling, well-rested folks standing around the edges of a giant Ambien pill. The pill rotates, allowing each individual to hold up a placard summarizing their particular sleep issue which you can click on to hear more of their stories. The tablet would have to measure about ten feet wide by two feet thick to hold all these people, so the fine print helpfully informs us that this is “not actual pill size.” On the other side of the graphic, we’re also told that these are “not actual patients”. Yet still we’re asked to believe that this is an actual sleep aid. I wasn’t fooled by this shameless ruse, so I read a few of the individual stories to make sure I’m getting the facts.

“Anita,” who is “45,” describes her fictional self as a morning person who started to dread her daily wake-up. She lacked energy and her stress levels at work were “off the charts,” so with a little nagging from her illusory friends she got a pretend prescription from her imaginary doctor. “What a much-needed difference,” the copywriter making up her story says. “Now I’m the early riser again, the pancake-maker, the family alarm clock.”

Another phantom sleeper who I could relate to was 55-year-old “John,” who would be precisely in my demographic if he weren’t actually 30 years younger and probably female. “I believe that if you have a nagging problem, you fix it,” said John. “I went to my doctor and he recommended Ambien CR, and it helps me fall asleep and stay asleep. So now I’m ready for my next challenge. Mountain biking, anyone?”

Thanks, John, but I’ll pass on the biking, even though I’m sure we could be best friends forever if you actually existed. I want to be careful about undertaking any risky physical activity, because if you know anything at all about Ambien from the popular media it’s that there’s this phenomenon called “amnesia for the event” in their side-effect warnings. Apparently, there are many reported cases of this so-called “automatism” where people who thought they were enjoying a restful, Ambien-induced slumber were in reality driving cars, walking around outside their home, conversing with family members or even running for Congress.

“Sleepwalking … as well as behaviors such as being more outgoing or aggressive than normal, confusion, agitation, and hallucinations have been reported,” reads the safety information at the bottom of every page on this website. “In rare cases, sleep aids may cause swelling of your tongue.”

I haven’t measured my tongue lately, but I do think I may have experienced some of this strange behavior. After taking a pill the other night, I “awoke” to find myself spilling a glass of Pepsi all over my chest while talking to my parents on the phone. On another occasion, I fell out of an airplane while wearing nothing but my underwear, landing on top of my high-school girlfriend who then gave me a math test that I hadn’t studied for. Dream or reality – who really knows?

In addition to the blatant promotion of an artificial solution to sleep problems, there’s quite a bit of helpful data about insomnia at this site. They describe the two different kinds of insomnia – the primary kind and the scary-sounding “co-morbid” variety. The primary one is commonly experienced by over half of all adults, due to everyday factors like stress, aging, over-eating, jet lag, shift work, etc. The co-morbid kind is accompanied by other issues, such as cancer, heart disease, lung malfunction, pain, depression and drug abuse. You also might have sleep apnea, where your sleeping proficiency is just fine but your failure to breathe could be a problem, or narcolepsy, where you nod off at inappropriate times during the day, such as while working or swallowing. They’re not trying to worry you into sleeplessness; they just want you to be informed.

To offer a complete picture of all the options available to you, they also have a list of other possible sleep assistance, including the melatonin receptor agonists, the benzodiazepines and the non-benzodiazepines. (For the record, Ambien is a short-acting non-benzodiazepine hypnotic that potentiates gamma-aminobutyric acid.) It’s apparently also possible to improve your nightly rejuvenation by doing things like avoiding caffeine, watching your diet, exercising regularly and having a large, comfortable bed, though it’s probably best to discuss these options with your doctor before beginning any change in your routine.

Finally, I’ll mention an option for sleep inducement located in the games section of this website. Nobody counts sheep anymore in this digital age, except the occasional OCD-afflicted shepherd. Instead, you can play an online competition wherein a cartoon rooster pops up at various locations around a bedroom and you throw pillows at the bird by clicking on him. “Show your rooster who’s boss and give him the beak down he deserves,” reads the instructions. “Peck-a-boo!” Discounting the disturbing idea of trying to sleep while a cock peeks at you from your closet, then from your window, then from behind your dresser, I can really only think of one good reason for having your laptop in bed with you and it has nothing (well, very little) to do with targeting poultry.

To wrap this review up, I thought I’d offer a first-person assessment on the affects of the drug being used as prescribed. As I’m writing this, it’s 8 p.m. on Thursday night. I’m pulling the orange transparent prescription container out of my medicine cabinet, unscrewing the lid, shaking a single dose into my palm and … and …

And I want to assure you that if you elect me to the U.S. Senate, I will serve the interests of all the voters, and I promise not to show up at the Capitol in my underwear.

Advice on the new baby

This is another 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.

Using your cell phone as a defensive weapon

Now that I’m trying to maximize my up-and-down hip movement every day as part of the corporate stepping competition I wrote about last week (http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/06/03/taking-measured-steps-to-better-health/), I’ve started tacking an evening walk onto the end of each day’s physical activity. The pedometer I wear on my belt is somehow recording only about 11,000 paces per day, and I want to report more without cheating.

We have a neighborhood that’s theoretically nice for walking, with little vehicular traffic, huge canopy trees and a nice flat terrain. The animal life that might otherwise be tempted to bother us is fairly well-controlled. Most of the neighbors with dogs have installed “invisible fences” to shock their animals into civility. There is some wildlife – mostly squirrels, rabbits and the occasional field mouse – and I haven’t lost enough weight yet to worry about being carried off by hawks.

The reason that reality differs from theory in this walking wonderland has to do with the other people who are out on the street. Many of them are more interested in using the stroll as a pretext for socializing than as a get-healthy regimen. I don’t mind nodding my head and offering a friendly grunt as we pass other groups in the street, but too often we slow to a stop and begin a trivial conversation that’s burning virtually zero calories.

When my wife asked me to join her on a post-dinner stroll the other night, it was exactly the time of day when almost everyone else was out and about. I feared there’d be very little walking and way too much talking.

“Just keep going if someone tries to stop us,” my wife suggested. “I like to talk. I’ll just catch up to you later.”

It sounded like a workable idea, until I thought it through and realized how strange it would be if we encountered another husband-and-wife duo. The standard procedure seems to be that all four begin the chat session together, then one wife will bring up a subject (fallopian tubes, for example) that the men won’t care to discuss, so the two husbands pair off and talk about lawn-mowing, sports or lawn-edging. How could I walk away from such a scenario without looking like a complete jerk?

Then I had an idea. There’s still one fully acceptable reason to behave like an ass in polite society, and it involves the use of the cell phone. What if I carried the phone with me during the walk, then flipped it open to accept an incoming call at the exact moment an oncoming group is spotted? If I acted early enough, it wouldn’t be seen as rude. Instead, I could be viewed by the neighbors as one of those terribly important individuals who can never be off the grid without widespread societal collapse. You know, like every twenty-something motorist you see.

The secret to success, I figured, would be to have a number of different scripts prepared that could be used on the variety of audiences I would encounter. I would be like the well-prepared telemarketer who alters his selling approach to address any arguments of resistance in his marks (Call recipient: “Can’t talk now; I have to go to the bathroom.” Telemarketer: “Just go in your pants; this wireless offer is too good to miss.”). First, though, I had to figure out which lines would work best on each demographic. I wanted to project an air of importance while at the same time instilling a certain fear, and I knew the same communication would not work on everyone.

For the elderly retirees from the neighboring assisted-living center, I could say: “Yes, Health and Human Services Secretary Sebelius, I agree we should support that amendment to allow those over age 65 to eat at cafeterias for free before 5 p.m. Just make sure that clause about cat food is carefully worded.”

For the numerous dog-walkers leading their pets through the greenway adjacent to the road, I could say: “Commissioner Goodell, we have to face the reality of the situation. Michael Vick will have every legal right to return to the NFL as a quarterback, but that doesn’t mean we have to use the hides of his dogs to make footballs.”

For the kids riding their bikes and scooters down the street, I could say: “Miley, Miley, Miley, I know you’re eager to take on more adult roles, but your public just isn’t ready to see you yet as Paul Giamatti’s promiscuous Aunt Hildie in the next Spiderman movie.”

And for the middle-aged couples, I could say: “Listen closely and carefully to what I have to say, Mr. President. If we don’t launch that preemptive strike on Paraguay, we’ll all be crispy tostadas by this time tomorrow.”

We started our walk, and as I practiced these lines quietly to myself, I noticed my wife walking farther and farther ahead of me. That’s fine, I thought, this will allow me to scope out the lay of the land for potential ambushes ahead. My biggest fear was the local drama professor from the nearby condos. He was known to improvisationally explode from behind a hedge with stories of his upcoming vacation and questions about when his son could come play with mine. (They’re 17 years old, for crying out loud). I fingered my trusty Razr as we passed the location where he was reportedly seen only yesterday.

The street remained clear for almost a quarter-mile until an oncoming SUV wheeled into a driveway about fifty feet in front of us. Cars and such aren’t usually an issue for the walkers but because this one had come to a stop so abruptly, I flipped open the phone and mentally rehearsed the scene I’d trained so thoroughly for the past ten minutes. A woman about our age erupted from the passenger side of the vehicle and ran straight toward us.

“Beth!” she yelled, which I suspected was a local war cry and, also, my wife’s name.

This turned out to be Michelle, an old college friend we had occasionally spoken to during our 15 years in the subdivision. She was on us in an instant, remarking how nice an evening it was, asking my wife questions about her freelance editing business, and asking how her son who wants to work at home now that he and his new wife had their first baby, and her daughter-in-law was going back to work because she had the good insurance but Bobby wondered if he couldn’t make some income online.

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Following behind Michelle was her husband and their college-age daughter, both smiling menacingly. We stood there like the Dave Clark Five, but even more awkward.

Fortunately Beth and Michelle did most of the talking while I smiled and shifted my weight back and forth, hoping that it would register on the pedometer. I heard none of the telltale clicking I had noted earlier; only the friendly conversation and the pounding of my heart.

I momentarily considered hurling my cell phone to the ground, because I’m pretty sure that Motorola diversified to a hand grenade division a few years back and maybe this model offers fragmentation features as well as email access and high-resolution video (I never did read the manual). At least it would be enough to distract our accosters long enough to make our escape.

In the end, though, we found ourselves having a very nice conversation with the Roths, who may be joining us for a picnic when the weather gets warm for good in a few weeks. Al gave me a few tips on how he keeps his yard so nice, the daughter is already looking forward to her junior year at Duke, and Michelle’s ovaries never came up. They’re a very pleasant family, and I regret having wanted to slay them.

Recycled holiday advice

This is another installment in my free but increasingly dangerous advice service. Today’s topic addresses a spiritual matter that has occurrs to all of us during the holiday season, but I’ll also be tackling interpersonal relationships, computer breakdowns, health problems, do-it-yourself issues, travel, and virtually anything else I care to. TODAY’S DISCLAIMER APPEARS IN ITALIC CAPITALS: REMEMBER, I HAVEN’T THE FAINTEST IDEA WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT.

Q. Now that the year-end holidays are here, I find myself once again in the sometimes difficult position of having to explain to acquaintances and coworkers why I don’t celebrate them. I am single, my parents died many years ago, and I have no family. Coworkers take time off at Christmas, but I take mine at other times of the year. Over time, I have found that I would rather spend a so-called holiday catching up on correspondence, taking a walk, reading a good book or sewing. I understand the religious and historical significance of these celebrations and keep them in my heart, but do not observe them in a visible manner. When people ask me what I’m doing for the holidays, it is an awkward moment. How can I gracefully explain that I choose to keep the holidays in my heart only and enjoy the day as a small vacation for myself? – Lonely and Pathetic Yet For Some Reason Upbeat

A. There’s actually a great but largely unknown tradition in Christendom that’s rooted in the activities of sewing and catching up on correspondence. It is written in the Gospel according to St. Mark that, shortly after Jesus was born unto Mary in Bethlehem, that He was asked by a wise man (more of a wise guy, actually) to do something to prove His divinity. The Holy Child proceeded to produce a sewing needle and skein of fine linen from the rear pocket of his swaddling clothes and rapidly stitched the shawl he would then carry throughout his life and which ultimately became the Shroud of Turin. Then, about 15 years later, the Holy Teenager began what would become a lengthy correspondence with the prophet Huldah, who was sort of the “Dear Abby” of her day, about His acne.

All this might be difficult to condense into a short answer for your prying coworkers, so I’m sending you a package of tracts titled “Busy Work Is The Lord’s Work” that you can hand out to your acquaintances. Bring ‘em along when you take that Christmas Day walk along with that pile of books, and you can make yourself a small stage to harangue passers-by to adopt your One True Religion.

What a loser.

Bongo go bye-bye

(Note: All names in this item are real. The quotes, obviously, are not.)

Leaders with funny-sounding names from around the globe mourned the death yesterday of Gabon President Omar Bongo, who died of cardiac arrest in a Barcelona hospital. He was 73.

Bongo became the world’s longest-serving leader when Cuba’s Fidel Castro stepped down last year. Bongo had been in office since 1967, when he succeeded the former French colony’s only other leader since Gabon’s independence, Leon M’Ba. Most of the West African nation’s 1.5 million people have known only Bongo as president.

“The drumming of his heartbeat has ceased,” said Prime Minister Jean Ndong in announcing Bongo’s death. “No longer will his people feel the staccato percussion of his stirring words.”

Leading the chorus of tributes that poured in following announcement of the death were fellow sub-Saharan strongmen Tertius Zongo of Burkina Faso, Yayi Boni of Benin, and Ignacio Milam Tang of Equatorial Guinea. Also issuing statements of mourning were other African leaders such as Abdelaziz Bouteflika of Algeria, Yahya Jammeh of Gambia, Laurent Gbagbo of Ivory Coast, and Moulaye Ould Mohamed Laghaf of Mauritania.

“His weapons were his crystal eyes, making every man a man,” said Fiji’s Frank Bainimarama, secretary-general of the Wacky Named Leaders (WNL) confederation. “Black as the dark night he was, got what no one else had.”

The large representation of south Pacific nations in the group were quick to join in the Fijian’s tribute. East Timor’s Xanana Gusmao, Indonesia’s Susilo Bambang Yudhoyoho, Palau’s Johnson Toribiong, and Vanuatu’s Kalkot Mataskelekele added their condolences, as did Malaysia’s Yang di-Pertuan Agong Mizan Zainal Abidin, the world’s longest-named president. But it was the succinct homage released by Samoa’s O le Ao o le Malo Tufuga Efi that touched a special note.

“He is as if my pa,” Efi said. “O, we no do go on, my my.”

Bongo’s loss was also noted throughout mainland Asia. Igor Chudinov of Kyrgyzstan, Lee Myung-bak of South Korea, Oqil Oqilov of Tajikistan and Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedow of Turkmenistan sent messages of support – largely misspelled – to the people of Gabon. Bhutan’s king Jigme Khesar Namgyal Wangchuck, saying that all the world mourned with him, proclaimed “everyone Wangchuck tonight.” Oman’s Sultan Qaboos said he was so hurt by the announcement that “I felt like I was run over by a train.” Kuwait’s Sabah Al-Ahmad Al-Jaber Al-Sabah told reporters he was “all sad, all gloomy,” but that he would eventually be “alright.”

European dignitaries were not as forthcoming in their praise, in part because Bongo had been widely criticized for failing to promote democracy, and because the Anglo-French-German heritage of many heads of state make their names less amusing to Western ears. But Albania’s Bamir Topi, Hungary’s Laszlo Solyom and Luxembourg’s Jean-Claude Juncker said they would be sending ambassadors to Bongo’s funeral, scheduled for Friday.

“We may not have agreed with all his policies, but he was a man who respected his people,” said Queen Elizabeth II (pronounced “eye-eye”) of England. “It is sad to say bye-bye.”

Weight loss (and other stuff) in the news

Once again, my beloved Carolinas are in the news for a bizarre reason.

We’ve recently endured the embarrassment of being home to a number of news items that brought quite the condescending chuckle from readers. First, it was reported that several participants at a graduation ceremony in my hometown of Rock Hill, South Carolina, had been arrested and charged by police for shouting “woo” when their loved one marched across the stage to accept their diploma. This disruption was deemed to be worthy of a disturbing the peace charge which led to jail time for the offenders. Then came the Waffle House waitress who delivered the ultimate in customer service by shooting one of the restaurant’s patrons. Then there was the armed robber of a convenience store who used a banana hidden in his shirt to form the shape of a gun barrel (he was subdued by the store manager but he ate the evidence while waiting for police to arrive).

Last week, we had the story of a Kannapolis man who had used Craigslist to find a man to come to his home and “rape” his wife for fantasy purposes. Only the wife wasn’t clued in on the husband’s fanciful daydream.

Now there’s the tragic report of a chemical explosion at the factory outside Raleigh that manufactures Slim Jims. Two workers died when the blast tore through the meat products plant Tuesday, punching holes in the building’s roof and blowing employees off their feet. Four people were critically burned, one was still missing and 40 were taken to area hospitals, including three firefighters who needed medical attention after inhaling ammonia gas at the ConAgra Foods site.

“I was getting ready to pick up a piece of meat and I felt the percussion,” said worker Chris Woods. “One of the guys I was working with got blown back. His hat flew backwards.”

The smell of ammonia that lingered in the area for several hours following the explosion probably doesn’t surprise anyone who has ever dared to eat a Slim Jim. The spicy jerky stick, sold at convenience stores throughout the South, is quite possibly the least food-like product that the human body is capable of (almost) digesting. Spontaneous explosion of the meat, or of the person who attempts to consume it, is not unheard-of, though not on this scale.

Apparently unhurt in the blast was recently retired spokesmen/mascot “Slim Jim,” whose commercial catchphrase of “eat me” inexplicably aired for several months without protest.

 

Uninjured in explosion

 

The temporary shortage of beef shafts on the market could be a boon to those looking to drop a little weight in time for swimsuit season. However we all know that diet alone can only take you so far down the path toward a slimmer, trimmer Jim. Exercise also plays a significant role in toning muscles to the point where you get just the right look to turn heads. All those baffling machines at the gym might work great on abs and lats, but what about those hard-to-reach trouble spots on your head and neck?

To turn heads, it turns out you only have to nod your head, repeatedly and with considerable resistance. Paul Younane, who we apparently are supposed to have heard of, is now offering the Neckline Slimmer in a special TV offer. Using this device just two minutes a day will firm, lift and smooth that disgusting flap of skin under your jaw and reverse the effects of aging without cosmetic surgery.

For only $19.99 (plus shipping, handling and a discrete package that won’t embarrass your mailman), you get a device that looks like a cross between an asthma inhaler and a tracheotomy. The base rests on the center of your collarbone just above your sternum while a plunger rises up to meet your chin. Three different levels of resistance springs – beginner, medium and advanced – fit into the piston tube. You push your chin down toward your chest over and over again while no one is looking, and soon you’ll notice that your wattle is no longer quite so wattly. Your profile and chin definition are better than ever; just make sure you strut around the pool always facing straight ahead and looking slightly upward.

Speaking of exercise, here’s an update on how my team is doing in our corporate walking challenge: we suck. Despite my Herculean effort of walking the equivalent of nearly 40 miles last week, my lame-o team is in ninth place out of the eleven teams at our site. The only groups behind us are an even more desk-bound pack of workers in the front office and the team I mentioned earlier that consists of two new brides, one layoff victim and one car accident victim. All the leaders are warehouse workers who spend their day scurrying back and forth between packing shelves and who should, in my opinion, be disqualified from the competition.

I wonder how many steps we could get credit for by moving our heads up and down.

Half-Fake News: Job opening in N. Korea

SEOUL, South Korea (June 9) – Succession plans to name a new leader of North Korea in light of the declining health of current dictator Kim Jong-il took on another wrinkle yesterday as the 68-year-old strongman announced he was now accepting resumes from interested applicants.

The position, listed appropriately on Monster.com, is described as “chairman of the national defense commission, supreme commander of the Korean People’s Army and general secretary of the Worker’s Party of Korea.” Candidates should have a four-year degree in business or management, be willing to relocate, and have a strong contempt for underlings. The selected applicant will receive the title “dear leader” and will need a haircut. Compensation will be commensurate with experience.

The much-feared Kim, whose name is shortened from the family name “Kymberli,” is reportedly unhappy with his three male heirs-apparent. The oldest son, Kim Jong Nam, had been considered the front runner until he embarrassed the family eight years ago trying to sneak into Japan to visit Tokyo’s Disneyland. Middle son Kim Jong Chol was said to be “too wimpy,” according to an insider account written by the family’s former sushi chef. He was last seen at the Ladies Professional Golf Association (LPGA) qualifying school trying to get his tour card.

It appeared last month that youngest son Kim Jong Un would become head of the volatile nuclear-armed nation when the Dong-a Ilbo newspaper wrote that North Koreans were singing a song hailing Un, who we’ll call “Rob” to avoid Kim confusion, as “Commander Kim.” But father Kim may have soured on junior as reports emerged about certain indiscretions witnessed at the Swiss college he attended.

While enrolled at the International School of Bern, Rob assumed the pseudonym Pak Chol, socialized with the children of U.S. diplomats and became a fan of basketball great Michael Jordan, action film star Jean-Claude Van Damme, and former Monkee Peter Tork. Though he reportedly most resembles his father in looks, personality, charisma and thirst for power, Rob is thought to be an intellectual lightweight and even more of a dick.

Kim Jong-il, whose nicknames include “Intelligent Leader” and “Parka Boy,” took over from his father who died of a heart attack in 1994. During his career, he is suspected of having ordered an attack that murdered 17 South Korean officials visiting Burma, and of masterminding the bombing of a civilian airliner that killed all 115 on board. His voice has been broadcast only once, in 1992, when he approached the microphone during a military parade and said “Glory to the heroic soldiers of the People’s Army!” A voiceprint analysis characterized him as a contralto.

Various sources claim that Kim either died in late 2003 and has been replaced by stand-ins since then, or that he suffered a stroke in 2008. Either way, he is said to have a fear of flying and, during a trip to Russia, had live lobsters air-lifted to his train every day, which he ate with silver chopsticks. He is a huge film buff (his favorites include Friday the Thirteenth, Twilight and Rambo), wrote a book called On the Art of the Cinema, and kidnapped a South Korean director and his actress wife to build a North Korean movie industry. He has also composed six operas and enjoys staging elaborate musicals.

Job applicants are encouraged to use Monster’s resume writing service, which will craft a professional, keyword-rich resume that stands out in a crowd. North Korea’s population is about 23 million, so be sure to highlight your people skills.

Website Review: PowerJuicer.com

When I think of a piece of raw nature that’s been processed and warped by modern technology into a strained derivative of its true self, I think of Jack LaLanne and I think of his Power Juicer.

For those of you who may have been living underwater for the last 50 years (perhaps with a large fish strapped to your back and your ankles bound in chains), Jack LaLanne is the near-centenarian who was the original exercise guru. After transforming himself from a scrawny, boil-infested teenager in 1920s California into the well-built muscleman who defined the concept of high-waisted fitness in the fifties and sixties, LaLanne has reached the ripe old age of 95 and now rules an army of food processors on steroids. His commercials advertising this product are a common sight on late-night television.

LaLanne is still alive and kicking – though some might define it more as a twitching and spasming – despite a career that would’ve killed lesser men. He opened the nation’s first modern health club in 1936, his Physical Culture Studio of  Oakland. After premiering the imaginatively titled “Jack LaLanne Television Show” in 1951, he kept himself in the limelight with a series of physical feats that seemed both impossible and ridiculous. He towed a 13-ton boat through the Golden Gate Channel and later swam the entire length of the bridge twice underwater. He swam from Alcatraz to Fisherman’s Wharf with his hands cuffed and his feet shackled. At age 66, he filled ten boats with 77 people and dragged these through the water for over a mile in less than an hour.

Now, in an achievement that puts these insane exercises to shame, LaLanne can claim to have sold over 2 million Power Juicers to an American public starving for pulverized spinach and asparagus sap. To see how it’s done, I’m visiting the Internet’s “official ultimate juicing site,” www.powerjuicer.com, for this week’s Website Review.

The home page shows the three best-selling models of juicers – the Pro, the Classic and the Deluxe – and a mom introducing her young children to the joys of juice. The 3600-RPM induction-powered appliance sits on a counter in the foreground while the kids pose with their juice glasses bottoms-up. Despite the fact that the boy’s left hand, or gnarled stump, is hidden behind a bowl of fruit, the juicer claims to be so safe that not one person has ever died in its whirring maw of “surgical quality stainless steel blades.”

There are actually five models offered for sale at the site. In addition to the three mentioned above, there’s also the Express and the Elite, and sell for between $100 and $150. Though the many features of all five are painstakingly bullet-pointed, I’m having a hard time figuring out what’s different about them. All seem to advertise whisper-quiet operation, non-drip spouts, extra-large chutes to accommodate any fruit short of a watermelon, and special patented extraction technology. The only standout I see is that the Elite comes with something called “soy technology.” If you pay your entire bill upfront, you also qualify for a bonus accessory pack that includes a platform, fruit-based skincare treatments and juice club “mermbership.”

The pulldown of frequently asked questions covers routine information such as how to order, shipping times and weight, and warranty specs, but also contains some fairly disturbing actual customer queries. “Why won’t the power turn on?” asks one. It may have overheated. “Why is my Power Juicer clogged?” We hope you didn’t try to put bananas or avocados in there. “How can I make smoothies if you can’t add milk, yogurt or ice?” You can’t. “How can I juice carrots?” These can be a bit challenging. “Can I use wheatgrass in my Power Juicer?” Why would you want to do that? “Can I put melon rind in the Juicer?” Yes, but no: “we don’t recommend leaving the rind on due to recent cases of salmonella contamination,” but they add “this is a personal preference.”

There’s a “Healthy Living” section with generic tips such as “think local!” and how to get the most out of your compost pile. They suggest you line the bottom of your pile with sticks and twigs to help the organic material break down, and avoid putting meat scraps or bones in your compost because they tend to attract scavengers, not to mention local police detectives.

There are some “reviews,” though they’re really more like testimonials from happy juicers. A soldier in Iraq, in an email described as “unclassified,” says her husband dropped 30 pounds when he “started juicing daily.” (Hard to imagine a fully equipped infantryman lugging a kitchen appliance under his body armor, but combat stress does strange things to people.) Another writes they “want to thank you for making a great juicer, I juice every days, I mix all kinds of fruit and veg. I feel great been juicer with Jack LaLanne juicer since I got about 5 years ago thank again.” “I have had a burning desire to buy this juicer,” says another correspondent. “I forgot to mention that I was told I have level 2 invasive melanoma” (hopefully not from the soy technology), writes a customer who still watches the infomercials. “Thank you Jack LaLanne! You are a blessing to humanity.”

The rest of the pulldowns are considerably less inspirational. The “Press” section quotes InStyle Magazine as saying that Paula Abdul’s prized piece of equipment is a Power Juicer. Terrance Howard juices beets, carrots, celery and ginger with grape juice, according to a 2006 issue of Stuff. There’s Kelly Ripa on the cover of OK! telling how she’ll save her marriage, and Angelina Jolie talking about how she’ll be getting another adopted child, presumably in exchange for pulp. The “Juice Club” part encourages members to “go raw,” and claims that colorful citrus fruits will give the “carcinogens in you a swift kick.” (Personally, I’d rather not make them mad.) A “Juicing Tips” part touts the benefits of not having to use enzymes to digest and break down your food, and offers Bobbi Sue’s Pineapple Wheatgrass recipe – a pineapple spear, a handful of wheatgrass and a handful of spinach.

Ultimately, though, I keep coming back to the “About Jack LaLanne” section to find the true essence of what makes the story of the Power Juicer so powerful, and so juicy. He tells how his first juicer was over a yard wide and weighed 60 pounds. He describes how, when first introduced to good nutrition as a teenager, he went home that night and prayed “Dear God or somebody, I need help.” He talks about how giving your body the right fuel is like giving your automobile the right gas, but stops short of endorsing an ethanol-based energy policy.

In the end, it’s all about being an example for our children, though it’s not clear whether Jack and his wife, Elaine LaLanne (seriously), had any offspring. “Too many (children) are living on hot dogs, candy bars, ice cream and fast food,” he says. “Why not get them juicing? Make them frozen treats out of juice. Get juicing! I cannot stress enough the benefits of juicing.”

Jack with pulleys (NOT David Carradine)

Today’s advice: For new graduates

“You Want My Advice?” is a twice weekly (Saturdays and Sundays) summer replacement feature 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.

I could care less

I’m worried that I’m not worrying as much as I used to.

Worry can be a great impetus to get up off the couch and do something with your life. If you’re constantly contemplating all the bad things that could be happening to you, there’s a survival instinct that kicks in with a plan to anticipate and address these feared outcomes. Anxiety used to be a driving force in my career and other ambitions I had for myself, but lately I’ve noticed a certain amount of mellowing that would be a cause for concern, if only I could make the effort.

I’ve always defended my pursuit of anxiety as simply a way of thinking through problems before they happen, always in search of a solution to troubles that surely were just around the corner. I’m being proactive, I’d argue, in considering what it would mean for me and my family to have the earth impacted by a rogue asteroid. Maybe we could hide under our car, or check into a nice hotel, or eat at an expensive restaurant and charge it to that high-interest credit card I’m always afraid to use.

One of my earliest memories was as a first-grader walking home from school, shortly after learning about the dangers of being outside in a thunderstorm. One loud boom and I was running for my life in panic, certain that I was about to experience the business end of a million volts of electricity. I survived that afternoon, only to find myself five summers later worrying for three months about my upcoming move from elementary to middle school. That graduation meant changing classes every hour (I’d surely get lost), a more challenging curriculum (I’d never master algebra), and taking a shower after gym (I’d be naked).

When classes finally started in September, I somehow found a way to survive, and came to the end of that first week with a sense of relief I chose to perceive as accomplishment. That’s one of the hidden advantages to building up concerns in your mind into giant fearsome beasts; if you manage to make it through, there’s a sense that you’ve been fantastically constructive, regardless of the fact that you finished last in the 600-yard run not only because you were fat, but as a strategy to avoid taking a shower in the presence of your classmates.

Throughout high school and college, I used the ever-declining state of world affairs (Vietnam, the Cold War, Watergate, Hall and Oates) as a reason to avoid planning for a positive future. This was either a total repudiation of worry or, more likely, adopting it as such an all-consuming lifestyle choice that thoughts about tomorrow could focus on near-term gratification instead. By the time I started my first real full-time job, I was even using worry as an investment strategy, declining to participate in the voluntary contribution retirement plan because we’d all be dead by next Tuesday anyway.

But I was maturing, in a way. I was learning to break down the bigger fears into smaller, manageable chunks of concern. When I found out that I’d need to travel to India on business, for example, I managed to avoid thinking about what an enormous fright the entire three weeks would be and instead looked at the experience as one small adventure after another. First, I’d think about how difficult it might be to find the international counter at the Charlotte airport, then I’d worry if I was indeed in the right line, and only then would I be afraid that my luggage couldn’t be checked all the way through to Mumbai. And so on. To paraphrase Chinese philosopher Lao-Tzu, the journey of a thousand mile begins with a single step, and a 12,000-mile flight to a steaming, overpopulated, poverty-stricken subcontinent begins by abandoning hope that you’ll ever return. I expected the worst and came very close to getting it.

When I did somehow survive the experience and make it back home, I saw how my negativity about the trip had crystallized my outlook on life. If you thought through events in the near future thoroughly enough, you’d realize how unlikely a positive outcome was going to be. With such a constant expectation of imminent disaster, the worst that could happen is exactly what you predicted. You’d always have the satisfaction of being right, even if you also had passed away.

Speaking of physical well-being, it wasn’t until I went for an annual physical a few years later that I finally understood how pointless it was to sweat the small stuff. When the doctor identified a tiny dried spot on my forehead as “something we should look at,” I suddenly had a more appropriate perspective on life. “Great,” I commented, “another thing to worry about.” He immediately responded with the kind of carefully designed treatment plan we’ve come to expect from modern medicine: anxiety medication.

He told me about a class of pharmaceuticals called selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, or SSRI. It seems we have a chemical in our brains called serotonin, and a selective portion of it is uptaken on a recurring basis. Apparently, we don’t want that. A prescription for citalopram wouldn’t do anything for my forehead spot, but it would make me worry less about it, as well as treat my irritable bowel syndrome, chronic pain, post-traumatic stress disorder, obsession-compulsion and lichen simplex chronicus, if I wanted to develop any of those at no additional co-pay. After taking this medicine for a week or two, I seemed to be significantly less anxious, and that moss on my back was almost completely gone.

I’m proud to say that I now have my fears under much better control. Tomorrow, for example, is just the latest test of my new-found coping skills. I’m meeting a plumber to get an estimate on some work I need done at my rental house, and it’s always been a challenge for me, a chronically unhandy individual, to interact with engineer types. But I’ve been studying up in advance on the plumber culture so we might relate better in a man-to-sorta-man relationship. I borrowed a pair of my niece’s low-rise jeans (hope he doesn’t notice the Miley Cyrus decal on the left cheek), I found some NASCAR-branded clothing that seemed appropriate for plumbing (a Dick Trickle t-shirt and a Greg Biffle hat), and I’ve had my right hand replaced with a hook, so I don’t have to shake hands or touch toilet water. I am forcefully taking the situation into my own remaining hand and confronting my fears.

By the way, that dry spot wasn’t head cancer after all. I think the clinical name for the condition was worry wart.

My advice: Be careful about trusting your judgment

“You Want My Advice?” is a twice weekly (Saturdays and Sundays) summer replacement feature of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, health, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. Today, we hear from a writer who decided to take a problem into her own hands and do something about it.

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.

Monday miscellany

Gorilla escapes; run for your lives!

REAL NEWS: A gorilla named Mike escaped from his enclosure at the Riverbanks Zoo in Columbia, S.C., Friday, and slightly injured a food service worker before returning to his habitat after a five-minute taste of freedom, with a side order of pizza.

It was not known for certain how Mike, 16, managed to find freedom, though zoo officials theorized that he lowered himself down a thick vine. Witnesses said he furiously beat his chest when he realized he was no longer confined, then turned on the worker, who was identified as the zoo’s pizza guy.

The concessions employee fell to the ground and wrapped his body into a fetal position to defend against the fugitive ape. He reportedly suffered only minor bumps and bruises. Visitors at the zoo were evacuated for about 45 minutes before being allowed to return.

One woman at the zoo said she tried to warn other visitors that a gorilla had escaped, but she said no one believed her. Hard to imagine that “run for your life, there’s a gorilla on the loose,” was ignored by onlookers.

Zoo officials said there would be no negative consequences for Mike. Riverbanks executive director Satch Krantz said the animal was simply “being a gorilla.”

 Why is this restaurant failing?

Have you ever noticed how certain retail locations seem to host an endless rotation of obviously lost-cause business enterprises? You would think that city officials would rezone these sites as “death spots” to keep unsuspecting entrepreneurs from losing their life savings, but it doesn’t happen.

We have one such location on a major road in my home town that you’d imagine even the dumbest capitalist would know to avoid. Why? Because it’s located in a hole. When the road was widened a few years ago, the steep grade that partially hid it from view became even more severe. As it’s now situated, only the top edge of a sign is visible from the road. In order to see the building itself, you’d have to be run off the road and down the face of a cliff, and be fortunate enough to survive the crash with your hunger for casual dining still in tact.

The earliest restaurant I remember at this spot was a Chinese place, followed by a Mexican place, followed by a barbecue place. Now it’s Kathy’s Southern Style Dining.

Perhaps if someone comes along with either a bat cave or deep canyon dining concept, one day a business will succeed here.

Stitchers in a snit

There’s quite a kerfuffle in the stitching community, as two opposing factions are heatedly debating which day should be officially recognized as World Wide Knit in Public Day.

One group, which could be viewed as the traditionalist sect, favors maintaining this past weekend – June 13 and 14 – as the historic occasion on which needleworkers across the globe haul their skeins into the bright light of day. A splinter group is suggesting instead that next weekend – June 20 and 21 – be the designated “KiP” day. They argue that because the United States Needle Arts Association’s bi-annual conference is held on the earlier dates, and presumably they’re weaving in air-conditioned comfort rather than the outdoor heat of mid-June, that conference attendees would be unable to participate in the more public event.

Most of the Thirteenth-and-Fourteenth-ists went ahead with their celebration yesterday and Saturday. Knitters were reportedly seen hard at work on their scarves, sweaters and slippers at a number of locations around the world, including the perimeter of the Green Zone in Baghdad, atop the Great Pyramid of Giza, and in lifeboats near the search zone for the Air France jetliner that went down mysteriously two weeks ago. In the U.S., numerous interstate highway overpasses were outfitted with a descending platform on which knitters could sit and work while high-speed auto traffic rocketed by beneath them.

Spokespersons for the Twentieth-and-Twenty-First-ites said they will go on with their events this coming weekend regardless of the actions of their hated rivals.

Neither group could explain why World Wide Knit in Public Day is in fact a two-day weekend.

 Your release form is so cute!

While picking up a friend at the hospital Friday who had just completed same-day surgery, I found myself waiting near the exit for the Women’s Center wing of the facility. It warmed my heart to see what was apparently a newly enlarged family emerge and climb into their car behind me.

The scene was a darkened garage so I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw the new dad carefully clutching a tiny infant, swaddled entirely in white. He held the package so close to his chest that I knew it was something of inestimable value.

When they opened the door of the car and the interior light came on, I could see that I was right. Sort of. What the man held protectively in his arms was not a newborn at all. It was a large sheaf of what was apparently insurance paperwork.

GI Joe goes for the gut

I’m really looking forward to the release of what is sure to be one of the biggest cinematic blockbusters of this or any summer. “GI Joe: The Rise of Cobra” will debut in theaters across the country on August 7.

As the relative of someone who suffers from a gastro-intestinal ailment, I’m very eager for this much-neglected condition to be the subject of a feature film. The increased publicity certain to follow in the wake of such a high-action romp is bound to increase both awareness and funding for diseases of the digestive tract. I only hope that “The Rise of Cobra” has nothing to do with a newly approved colonoscopic procedure.

The Scooby reportedly wore a tux

MORE REAL NEWS (with exact wording from this morning’s Rock Hill paper): An [amusement park] employee helped a park guest cheat on a carnival game and win a free stuffed animal, a park supervisor told authorities.

The guest made off with a giant Scooby Doo animal valued at $109, according to a sheriff’s department report. The Scooby Doo in question was dressed in a tuxedo, reports stated.

The incident occurred Saturday around 5 p.m. The employee was arrested on a charge of breach of trust with fradulent intent, and booked at the Fort Mill Police Department.

Fake News: Bush the Elder stepping out

KENNEBUNKPORT, Maine (June 13) — Claiming that it was “the risk, the challenge, and the search for adventure” that kept his mind fresh, former president George H.W. Bush marked his eighty-fifth birthday Friday by bounding out of his lavish seaside estate and into a brief taste of the ruinous everyday life that his son George W. Bush created for America.

Bush wore a helmet, protective goggles and a thick jumpsuit as he walked from his oceanside compound and into this small town on the southern coast of Maine. He briefly gave up his government-provided healthcare, the financial security of a lifetime pension and his Secret Service protection to experience the freefall of the middle class. His savings were temporarily cut in half and his position as an ex-president was considered for outsourcing to the Philippines during the hour-long outing.

“I gotta tell you, that was pretty scary stuff,” said Bush, who served in the White House from 1989 until 1993. “My son really screwed up. I survived being shot down by the Japanese during World War II, and it was nowhere near as frightening as this. Ridiculous insurance costs, a horrible job market, two overseas wars, and virtual economic collapse – I could never put up with that on a daily basis.”

“The people with the bravery to dive headlong into these fears and face them every day truly have my admiration,” said the eternally squinting former commander-in-chief. “Junior really did a number on you guys. I’m glad I don’t have to live with that fallout.”

Bush Senior strolled around the small historic district of the downtown area, stopping to chat with tourists and locals as they emerged from shops and restaurants. Many complained to the former president about how his son had so thoroughly wrecked the nation during his eight years in office, but the thick helmet largely protected his ears. He narrowly avoided injury when an executive from Kennebunkport’s only bank jumped to his death from a fourth-story window of the village’s tallest building, just barely missing the octogenarian.

The elderly leader of the Bush clan appeared remarkably steady on his feet, despite having local police chief Edward Brennan strapped to his back in a “tandem” arrangement for safety.

“Barb would never allow me out in public with at least some protection against the mobs who would like to rip me limb from limb,” Bush said.

Meeting with reporters back in the safety of his home after the excursion, the slightly shaken Bush the First announced that for his birthday next year, he would attempt what he called “sky-diving.”

“As I understand it, that involves leaping onto (CNN Morning Express anchor) Robin Meade,” he said. “I would jump that in a second.”

It’s funny because they’re Republicans

WASHINGTON, D.C. (June 17) – The suddenly sensitive Republican Party continued its attack on the American comedy community yesterday, with several prominent representatives calling for repudiation of a number of widely repeated jokes.

Leading the charge was radio talk show host Rush Limbaugh, who strongly criticized the May issue of Reader’s Digest for printing an imagined conversation between a duck and the employee of a drug store.

“What did the duck say to the cashier about his purchase of lip balm?” the periodical asked. “Just put it on my bill.”

Limbaugh said the gag was an inappropriate representation of the type of everyday commerce that drives the American economy.

“To suggest that a duck could communicate on such a level with a human being shows the mainstream media’s strong prejudice toward an excessive respect for animals,” Limbaugh told his nationwide audience. “It shows how the radical PETA agenda is seeping into our society.”

In a similar attack on bird humor, former House Speaker Newt Gingrich condemned the makers of Bazooka Joe bubble gum for asking “why did the chicken cross the road?” The response about “getting to the other side” discounts the danger of having poultry wandering the nation’s highways, Gingrich said.

“To make light of such an obvious traffic hazard just shows poor judgment,” the Georgia Republican told Fox News. “What if a school bus came along and had to swerve to avoid the chicken in question? Would that be funny? Frankly, I don’t think it would be.”

Meanwhile, a quartet of leading Congressional Republicans appeared on the steps of the Capitol to call into question a whole series of supposedly comic yarns that displayed insensitivity toward groups that have traditionally been viewed as largely powerless in society. Each took a brief turn before assembled reporters to show their distaste for the stories while trying not to laugh.

House Minority Leader John Boehner (R-Ohio) admitted that although it was possible to tell that an elephant was in your refrigerator by the footprints in the Jello, such an observation tended to belittle what he called “Pachydermo-Americans,” and could also be viewed as a slur against the GOP in general.

Minority Whip Eric Cantor (R-Va.) re-told the tale of why the math book was so unhappy – “because it’s full of problems” – but said he didn’t find it amusing that children in America’s public schools would hear such an important subject belittled.

Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-Ky.) said he could understand that a sun-burned penguin “is indeed black and white and red all over” but contended he “just didn’t find that suggestion all that funny,” and feared it contained hidden allusions to global warming.

 Sen. John Ensign (R-Nev.), head of the Republican Policy Committee, said that claiming the little moron was carrying a ladder “because he wanted to go to high school” showed a disrespect for the handicapped that bordered on contempt.

“This so-called joke not only defames the mentally challenged but also those of a small stature,” Ensign said. “It infers that certain citizens of our population need the aid of large-scale hardware to gain access to public institutions that should be open to all.”

Ensign added that he was resigning his leadership position within the GOP because he had an affair with a female staffer whom he rewarded with a new position and an increase in salary following their liaison. He confirmed the relationship publicly without first notifying aide Cynthia Hampton or her husband Doug, also a member of his staff. Ensign is a member of the Christian ministry Promise Keepers, which promotes fidelity in marriage.

“Now that’s funny,” said one observer.

The world is a-Twitter

There seems to be no middle ground on the subject of Twitter. People either think it’s a huge waste of time, or they believe it’s the greatest thing since Christ died on the cross for our sins, crying out in his final words “OMG, OMG, y hast thou 4saken me?”

I generally fall in the former camp, but that’s probably because I’m an older gentleman who can’t understand why the world would be interested that I just flossed between my maxillary first molar and maxillary second molar, or took yet another breath, number 12,845 today. However, with the current political upheaval going on in Iran, and few opportunities for the Western press to report on the event first-hand, Twitter and other social media have gained new respectability in recent days for giving at least a narrow, self-involved view of what’s going on.

I wrote back in a January website review (http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/01/16/website-review-cnncom/) of the ridiculous legitimacy given to such commentators by CNN’s afternoon news coverage, hosted by Rick Sanchez and his army of Tweeters. Rather than do a fresh site evaluation this week, I thought I’d check in with CNN.com to see how they’re reacting to breaking events half a world away being covered by people even more amateur than their regular staff.

First, however, I need to participate in the “Quick Vote” on their home page: “Would you like to live in the moon?” I’ll vote “no,” because there is no air there and, if you’ve been following me on Facebook, you’ll know that a 75/25 mix of nitrogen and oxygen like the blend found here on Earth is my “favorite atmosphere.”

Now, let’s see what the social media types are contributing to the international conversation about the Iranian elections and their aftermath (original spellings and punctuation included):

• We are at war in Iraq and Afghanistan who will be next North Korea or Iran
• Iran needs a Leader not a Dictator, oh wait that’s America.
• Sour losers send pictures!!! Hahaha, and Rick supports you. CNN has a history of spreading hatred and lies.
• I need to sell this watch I have
• We (the US) have toops on Iran’s Eastern and Western borders, and have our Navy on their Southern border. I think that’s enough influence in and on Iran.
• If President Obama is the next Hitler, I will make sure I join him and gas your ass you dumb cracker!!!
• David Letterman was just doing his job, he doesn’t right all his jokes, he was doing what he was told to say, and we think we have freedom of speech in America?
• I have respect for you unlike most of the anchors on CNN. Beside you Jack is my fav and Anderson well he is just easy on the eyes.
• If you have years and been diagnosed with schizophrenia, then maybe I’d understand a lot better when a person goes from weighing 130 to 190 in three months and still manages not to flip out ever
• I live in the ATL and never see Ricky Sanchez
• Is anybody covering what’s going on in Peru? What’s influence and and connection, if any, to the US privately controlled banks in Peru by certain individuals from Texas … Hmmm?
• Nancy Pelosi and her husband had stock in AIG.
• Hey Rick, just wanted to drop you a quick note. I think that whoever came up with the idea to interview an 11-year-old a day after his father was shot dead should be terminated immediately, that’s not news.
• Look forward to you covering the overdue firing of Miss California USA
• With cars like that we will be the Flinkstones for real.
• Con-Agra has their own maintenance personnel … he was up on the roof which had not been deemed safe and he was wearing no safety equipment to be dealing with ammonia … did I see a face shield, a gas mask, safety shoes??? NO!!!
• Al Gore may make heavy metal more popular by saying we need to put two parental notices on all music with explicit lyrics.
• I wonder if they will get this page fixed or if Rick is just going to let it run itself into the ground, since he like Twitter so much more?
• Rick Sanchez is an employee of wall street who line his pockets so he will say nothing bad about obama. Obama is also an employee of wall street. They are all puppets.
• By the by, where is Francis? I miss the Dynamic Duo at work.
• On the LA Lakers party … I think its ashame that they “have to” throw a party in a ecomnic crisis. Older people that have alztimers are being sent away while the fans celebrate.
• OK I am on the short bus. You tell me about Africom.
• I am not an employee that works for Rick. I am a normal everyday joe that gets on Ricks page to tell what I think about what is going on/wrong in our country.
• Why is your mom trying to call me? She love me long time!
• The election in Iran is a complete sham! The country might as well abolish election, because it’s merely a finger-painting event.
• Looks like Ali Badri is one of those Ahamadijejad police opening twitter accounts to try to make it look like anyone actually voted for that thug.
• Why doesn’t CNN do a story about all the moms that are sentenced each summer to lunatic kids dragging buckets of water between the kitchen sink and the backyard?
• Democracy is coming baby! We bringing it to all of you guys, don’t worry.
• You can delete my comments but my messages is eternal and they will follow you until the last day of your lives.
• Check this out: former Chicago inmates … were handcuffed while giving birth. Can you please look into this story?
• This man needs no respect from us nergos.

Truck driver robs armed teens — yeah, right

I have no intention of turning this blog into a low-brow “dumb-crook news” site, but incidents keep happening in and near my small Southern city that just can’t be ignored.

The latest crime took place frighteningly close to home, or at least close to a location that I frequent almost every day. I meet my car-pool partner weekday mornings at 4:30 a.m. in the parking lot of a large 24-hour grocery store on a main thoroughfare about two miles from my house. It’s well-lit and close enough to the street that we’ve never felt fearful during our brief transfer from one car to another.

Last Monday, however, at about that exact time, there were a couple of goofballs working in back of the store on their first steps toward the criminal high life.

A bread truck driver was making his delivery when he was approached by a young man asking for directions to a nearby neighborhood. After the brief conversation, he then decided to cover his face with a bandana and produce a shotgun. His accomplice appeared from behind a dumpster brandishing a knife and they demanded money from the driver.

The driver said he didn’t have any money, but threw his wallet at the men while escaping into the store to call police. They took about $300 and ran from the area.

When deputies arrived at the store and began investigating the crime, they received a call reporting that someone had been shot several blocks away. What they found at that scene was two young men standing next to a couple of sweatshirts and a gun identical to that seen with the suspects at the bread truck robbery. One of the men was shot in the knee.

What they then proceeded to tell police was that the shooting occurred while the bread truck delivery guy attempted to rob them. Somehow, the gun had ended up at their feet about a half-mile away from the robbery scene.

Police didn’t buy that loaf of whole-wheat nonsense, and arrested the two teenagers on charges of armed robbery and possession of a weapon during commission of a violent crime.

The stupidity didn’t end quite there. When the suspects were removed from the squad car at the local jail, one of them allowed $300 to fall out of his pocket and into the back seat of the police vehicle.

Some grand fatherly advice

“You Want My Advice?” is a weekend summer replacement feature of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, health, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. In honor of Father’s Day, I’m re-posting some sound words of counsel I received from my grandfather shortly before he passed away. “Need more morphine,” he gasped. “And tell your grandmother that the squirrel who ate her oatmeal that time in 1967 was really your Uncle Ted.” He also offered some good advice about how to navigate through this complicated life, part of which is incorporated below.

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.

Grads, fads and dads

New grads face urgent matters

Following my son’s recent graduation from high school, he received a number of congratulatory notes from family, from friends, and from people who don’t even know us. Most of the latter were from business concerns seeking profits from newly minted graduates with all those crisp 100-dollar bills from Aunt Helen burning a hole in their pockets. But one he received was especially bizarre, writing not of rewards of this world but of the next.

South Carolina State Representative F.G. “Greg” Delleney, a Republican legislator from neighboring Chester County, used official state letterhead to send out his best wishes, and to offer a plug for his particular view of the firmament and man’s place in it. I’m reprinting the entire letter below, with a few comments of my own in bracketed italics:

Congratulations upon receiving your high school diploma. Graduating from high school is certainly a memorable milestone and great accomplishment. I know that your family and friends are extremely proud of you. [Note: Chester County, thanks in part to narrow-minded right-wingers like Rep. Delleney, is one of the poorest counties in South Carolina, which is saying a lot. High school graduation is about as far as most Chestonians get, with about 40% of the population reaching that lofty milestone.]

You will soon be faced with many decisions, choices and challenges as you begin a new and exciting chapter of your life. If you would indulge me, I might offer some advice. First, determine, as soon as possible, what you are going to do with your life. [Urgency in job choice is key in Chester. There’s only one McDonald’s and one Burger King in the whole county.] Once you make your decision, stay the course until you accomplish your goals [assistant night managers get to wear a tie]. Remember, this life is short. [Uh-oh. Here it comes.] However, you were created to live forever, and you will live on in eternity either in God’s presence or outside of His presence. The most important thing in this life is making sure you have the correct relationship with God. This is only possible if you have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. [Of all the thousands and thousands of religious constructs in the world, he has somehow managed to find the only one that’s right. Imagine that.] You can have that relationship by trusting Christ and turning your life over to Him. He will never leave you or fail you. He will be there for you in good times and bad times. He will always have a plan for your life. [Much like the South Carolina GOP, which wants you to avoid birth control, fear those who are different, get a big gun and, of course, vote Republican.] What is most important in this life is your relationship with God, your relationship with your family and being a good steward of not only your wealth but also of your time, health, talents and abilities [But don’t worry too much those wealth and health parts. Remember, you live in the rural South.]

I wish you all the best. [Well, some of it, anyway.]

Longing for TV of the past

Interesting conversation I overheard at work the other day. A few of the middle-aged ladies were lamenting the state of modern-day prime-time television, what with the sexual references and the language and the double entendres. They were longing for the simpler times of the past, when three TV networks guaranteed there’d be little deviation from a narrow selection of family values.

“Can you imagine what Petticoat Junction would be like on TV today?” one of them asked rhetorically. “Bobby Jo would be divorced, Betty Jo would be pregnant, Billy Jo would be living with her boyfriend, and they’d all be riding around on Segways.”

And they’d all probably be living in a town called Hooterville.

 News from inside The Slammer

While waiting in line at the local convenience store the other day, I listened in on a conversation between the two women in front of me. Ronnette and Darlene had similar frizzy blond hair, similarly overdone makeup on their overripe faces, and similar purchases – a Monster Khaos Energy Drink for Ronnette, a Full Throttle Fury for Darlene, and a pack of smokes for each.

They talked openly about visiting their prison-bound boyfriends in the week ahead and compared stories about their caseworkers. As they paid for their items, Darlene reached across the counter and grabbed a copy of The Slammer to add to her purchases.

For those of you who haven’t seen this publication, it struck me as a kind of non-digital Facebook for the trailer set. The Slammer describes itself as “an informative and entertaining weekly newspaper covering crime – up close and personal. The Slammer features ‘all crime, all the time’: breaking crime news, recent arrests, fugitives and the most wanted, sex offenders, deadbeat parents and more. See why everyone agrees that The Slammer is the most entertaining way to kill time.” The newsletter is jam-packed with mug shots, heights, weights, rap sheets and reward-for-capture amounts, and Darlene seemed eager to catch up with all her old friends.

The June 19 edition was a special Father’s Day issue. “This week we look at some fathers in prison who won’t be visited by their children because they killed them, and at some fathers’ sons who won’t receive a visit from ‘dead ol’ dad’ either.” There’s a center spread in the middle showing all manner of miscreants and their various crimes. One Philadelphia father is shown under the headline “No videogames where he’s going”; he was charged with hitting his daughter for messing with his Xbox. Under the heading “Hop on pop,” the story is told of a teenager who stabbed his father while he slept, then got mad at investigators who took the kid’s favorite boots as evidence.

It’s good to see such balanced coverage in an otherwise sensational periodical – there seem to be as many children who harmed their fathers as fathers who hurt their kids.

Along side the display of perpetrators is an informative blurb about how Father’s Day is celebrated around the world. “In Germany gangs of people get drunk and roam the streets while others go on man-only hikes,” writes The Slammer, almost longingly. “In Thailand, everybody dresses in yellow. In Italy, special breads are baked.”

With print journalism facing such difficult times these days, it’s good to see that publishers who find their special niche may be able to survive.

Shoving epidemic in Washington; “quit it!” say officials

WASHINGTON, D.C. (June 22) – FBI officials revealed yesterday they will begin criminal investigations into recent incidents involving top female officials who were thought to have tripped but may in fact have been shoved.

Supreme Court nominee Sonia Sotomayor fell and broke her ankle at LaGuardia Airport earlier this month, and Secretary of State Hillary Clinton shattered her elbow in a tumble last week at a State Department parking garage. Both incidents were at first reported to be accidents, but it’s now suspected that horseplay or hijinks by male colleagues could be to blame.

Investigators became suspicious of a more widespread plot after Senator Olympia Snowe of Maine narrowly avoided a fall over the weekend. She told agents that she discovered fellow Democrat Harry Reid sneaking up behind her on all fours shortly after Sen. Chris Dodd bumped into her in the Capitol dining room. She briefly stumbled before catching her balance and confronting the seven-term senator from Connecticut. A security camera recorded most of the scene.

“Quit it,” Snowe said to Dodd as she fell backward. “Stop being such a moron.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Dodd protested. “I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole. You’re ugly.”

“Harry, what are you doing back there?” Snowe then said, turning to the Senate majority leader from Nevada.

“What are you talking about?” Reid responded. “I… I was just looking for a quarter that I dropped. I swear.”

Snowe then repeated her demand to “cut it out or I’m going to tell” before both Reid and Dodd ran giggling from the scene.

“We take these threats to the security of government leaders very seriously,” said FBI Special Agent Ronald Murray. “Boisterous childishness like this will not be tolerated. These Congressmen are old enough to know better and if they don’t knock it off, we’re going to report them. It’ll go on their permanent Congressional record.”

Contacted by reporters about the charges, Reid said the alleged incident was “all in fun” and that Maine’s senior senator “needs to lighten up a little. Jeez.” Dodd, who is currently shepherding the Obama Administration’s health insurance reform effort through the Senate, said Snowe was “stuck up and whining like a baby” and that her charges were “totally without merit.”

Dodd added that he wasn’t afraid of the FBI, whom he characterized as “stupid,” but later retracted that charge with the claim that he “thought it was opposite day.”

Meanwhile, the Congressional sergeant-at-arms office said it would be beefing up personal security for House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, Maryland Senator Barbara Mikulski and California Senator Dianne Feinstein in the wake of the FBI’s announcement. These three legislators are at particular risk, a spokesperson for that office said, because “everyone knows they’re snobs.”

“They think they’re, like, really cool and stuff,” said the official, who declined to be named. “I’d shove ‘em myself if I weren’t legally charged with upholding the law.”

Arriving early to walk in the warehouse

In my extensive experience working in the corporate world, I’ve seen basically three kinds of interaction between site managers and their underlings.

Most common is the passing remark, usually done in a hallway, a breakroom or, God forbid, at the urinal. This typically addresses only the most trivial of subjects, usually the quality of the previous night’s sporting contest or the weather. “How about that game?” he’ll ask, to which the safest response is “that was some game” and an quickened pace of walking down the hall, or of peeing, or both.

A less frequent contact occurs when the department meeting is called. It’s a little like being in combat, in that you’re confronting two equally frightening options: either being bored by endless hours of ultimately pointless alert, or scared out of your skin by death-dealing action. Our most recent such assembly involved being told that a rumor which none of us had even heard was not in fact true. Which of course made us all believe that it was true, or else why would there be a meeting? Again using the wartime metaphor, this was like being on patrol in the tribal regions of Afghanistan and set upon by a squadron of costumed Disney characters. Boring, scary, and a bit confusing.

Finally, there’s the one-on-one sit-down. I’ve been in managerial positions a couple of times in my career, and I was always tempted to cynically manipulate this setting to get a slam-dunk on a dicey but ultimately minor issue. Ask your employee to see you “immediately,” close the door behind them, strike a serious posture, and request that they run across the street and get you a latte. They’ll be so relieved they aren’t in trouble that they’ll probably throw in a scone.

I had an encounter similar to this with my supervisor last week. He pulled a chair up next to me and said he had a question to ask. There were several night-shift people on vacation Friday night, and might I possibly come in early Saturday morning to pick up four hours of overtime. It would mean getting up on what would otherwise be a restful weekend, but it also meant some extra pay that I wasn’t about to turn down. I paused long enough to make him fully appreciate all that I meant to the department (about two beats), and said yes.

I’ve never really minded getting up early to go to work, preferring instead to focus on the fact it also means I’ll be going home early. My current everyday schedule requires me to be at my desk by 5 a.m., a luxury compared to recent years I spent arriving by 3, and this particular assignment that had me in by 2. I fool myself into thinking of these hours not as the middle of the night, but instead that very ethereal and special time of the pre-dawn when the temperature is cool, the air is still, and the convenience stores are robbed. I’d also like to believe I’m flying on a magic carpet and instead of work my destination is Paris of the 1920s, but you can only take self-deception so far.

When I arrived Saturday morning, I was able to complete my only project in about 90 minutes, yet had to wait around till 6 in case something else came along. Around 4 a.m. I slipped out of the office and into the adjacent warehouse, taking the opportunity to log a few thousand steps on the pedometer I’m wearing for this company-wide wellness effort (see http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/06/03/taking-measured-steps-to-better-health/). The peoples of the warehouse world have too much common sense in their culture to be working at that time of day, so I had aisle after aisle of walking space in which to kill a half hour.

About half the lighting is turned off overnight, so the huge room had an eerie quality to it. The only sound was a loud mechanical hum which I was able to dismiss as merely the air conditioning rather than an imminent electrical short until I realized this space is not air-conditioned. There were other occasional beeps and groans I heard as I paced the floor so it required a conscious effort to keep my fears in check. I don’t mind things that go bump in the night as long as they’re not the sound of teetering shelves about to collapse on top of me.

I was equally nervous about the prospect of being seen engaging in such a suspicious behavior by anyone I might come across. There’s no video surveillance because there’s nothing in there worth stealing, unless you count a pallet of old proxy statements lurking in a dark corner that I temporarily mistook for a buffalo. The only other people in the building, as far as I knew, were some fellow office workers who were unlikely to be joining me. But they’d wonder if I’d suddenly gone Alzheimer’s should they happen across my improbable wandering, and the loss of their respect would be as devastating as a bison attack.

The walk was pretty boring so it didn’t take much to entertain me. I started reading some of the block-lettered signs that the warehouse clans post in an effort to communicate with each other. They reminded me of ancient cave drawings, though their all-cap sans-serif style and lack of punctuation was more primitive. “HOLD DO NOT TOUCH” read one, asking what seemed to be the impossible. “TAKE TO TEAM LEAD” read another. Yet a third said simply “DESTROY”. Okay, I thought, now I’m scared. I think I’ve walked enough.

As I headed back toward my office, I heard a distant conversation. The source of the almost sing-song discussion was between where I stood and the exit, so I had no choice other than to investigate. I got close enough to make out some of what was being said: “That foreman is a riggity dog and the line boss he’s a fool. Got a brand-new flattop haircut; lord, he thinks he’s cool,” I heard. “One of these days I’m going to blow my top and that sucker he’s gonna pay.”

Uh, oh. The threat of workplace violence was now in the air, and I had a responsibility as one who’s been through safety training to follow a strict protocol to report this threat. I ran through the list in my mind: Call the toll-free HRHelp line (a recent replacement to onsite human resources humans); enter 3 to report my site; enter 1 to report an urgent matter; say “yes” when asked if this is an emergency; say “I don’t know” when asked who else is involved; press 5 for potential violence; press star for a live operator; and say “that sucker’s gonna pay” when asked the nature of the threat.

This sounded like a lot of trouble to prevent a killing spree, so I decided instead to peek around a corner to learn a little more. What I found was both embarrassing and relieving. Somebody had left a radio on, and the country station was playing Johnny Paycheck’s “Take This Job and Shove It.”

All was well, and I could return safely to my desk. But as for the darkened warehouse, I’ll paraphrase Mr. Paycheck – “I ain’t walking here no more.”

Finally proud that he’s my governor

Thank you, South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford, for ruining my post today. Also, too bad about how your ruined your life.

All day Wednesday, intriguing new details were emerging about your six-day disappearance from the governor’s mansion. First, you were hiking the Appalachian Trail by yourself because you needed to get away from the wife and kids on Father’s Day weekend so you could “write”. Then you were spotted by a reporter at the airport in Atlanta, where you confessed you had instead gone to Argentina, of all places, to recover from recent political battles against the federal government. Well, maybe he’d be announcing a new trade agreement bringing two of that nation’s leading exports – honey and sunflower seeds – to South Carolina. Think of the jobs that would generate.

Then, as I get ready to sit down and compose a piece speculating wildly about your adventures south of the border, I check the news to discover that suddenly it’s tango time! As was widely whispered, you’ve been unable to keep your empanadas safely stored in your gauchos (or is it the other way around?). Apparently preparing for a new career in a dinner theatre production of “Evita,” Sanford told a packed press conference that he had spent “the last five days of my life crying in Argentina.”

Then I read this account from The New York Times coverage of the speech:

Surrounded by more than 50 reporters, photographers, aides and spectators in the rotunda of the South Carolina statehouse, the governor spoke with a quiver in his voice and was visibly shaken, tearing up at times and rocking on his feet at the podium. It took him more than a few stumbling minutes to get to the crux of the matter.

“The bottom line is this. I have been unfaithful to my wife,” he said. “I developed a relationship with … a dear friend from Argentina. It began very innocently, as I suspect these things do. But here, recently, over this last year, [it] developed into something much more than that. And as a consequence, I hurt her. I hurt you all, I hurt my wife. I hurt my boys. I would ask for y’all’s indulgence, not for me, but for Jenny and the boys.”

While I might be diametrically opposed to the right-wing governor’s policies, you can’t help but feel for the guy after reading that. Rocking on his feet at the podium? That’s so sad. Suddenly he sounds more like a fallible human being than a self-righteous model of morality.

So you’ll get no jokes from me about how “Miss South Carolina” went from a phrase of ridicule following last year’s Miss Teen USA pageant to a question for the absent governor. No cracks about how secret negotiations to bring a rare Argentinian puma to the Columbia Zoo were disrupted by a cougar. No gags about a South Carolina education that blurred the difference between all those “A” countries (Argentina, Appalachia, Alaska, etc.). No assertions that he was looking for political tips from the corpse of Juan Peron, or that he visited the Falkland Islands to study how he might defend his state from an invasion by Tennessee, or that he became a desaparecido, another of the forced disappearances that characterized the country’s Dirty War of the 1970s.

And, most importantly, no snarky remarks asking how would the leaderless state cope if it were suddenly devastated by an attack that left it in economic and social ruin, then noting that, no, wait, that happened while he was here.

(I’ve been jotting these things down all day – you can’t expect me just to throw them away).

I happen to have lived in South Carolina for the past 30 years, so maybe I’m just feeling protective of a fellow Sandlapper (no joke – that’s really what we’re called). Does he and fellow Republicans John Ensign, Larry Craig, Mark Foley, etc., deserve more shame than disgraced Democrats like John Edwards and Eliot Spitzer? Yes, because they get to have one more adjective attached to their names: “hypocrite”.

Still, you have to feel some positive reaction toward a man who traded conservatism, Dixie traditions and USC football for a yerba mate and a thick steak on the beach of Buenos Aires. If you’ve ever been to Columbia, you’ll know what I mean.

Website Review: Glade.com

Some of my earliest memories are related to smell. I remember the humid South Florida nights filled with the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine, going to church on Sunday morning past the orange processing plant, even the foul odor of the paper mills as we’d drive through Georgia headed north on summer vacation. While I’ve long lost other childhood memories (I only vaguely remember that my mother’s name started with an “M”), there’s something about aromas that sticks in your mind.

I think the sense of smell has this effect on us in part because it’s so hard to evade. You can avoid tasting dirt. You can avoid listening to the White Stripes. You can look away from the results of an auto accident. You can keep from touching your co-worker’s hair. But if you sense there’s something rotten in the air, there’s little you can do.

I’ve never understood why most people, when encountering a foul odor, choose to hold their nose. Our nostrils have evolved over the millennia into repulsive yet highly specialized passages designed to sort out the tiny molecules of stench we occasionally encounter. To breathe through your mouth instead of your nose in these situations is to bypass the elaborate network of filters that keeps offensive materials out of your body. Unless you have hairs and mucus in your mouth, you’re choosing to swallow these stinky atoms instead of plucking them discreetly out of your beak.

Attempts to scientifically quantify odor only began in the late 1800s, when Germany invented the “olfaktometrie” to analyze our sense of smell. Employing a panel of human noses as sensors, participants were presented with “sniffing ports” and asked to report the presence of odor. Ultimately, a measurement designated as the “European Odor Unit” was defined; it can today be used to determine the presence of not only Germans but the French and Dutch as well. There’s even an instrument known as the “nasal ranger” (see photo below) which will measure and quantify odor strength in the field, as well as get you arrested anywhere within 500 yards of a girl’s school.

Although an aroma’s strength can be identified, its quality is harder to pin down. Something called “hedonic assessment” attempts to place particular smells on a spectrum from extremely pleasant to extremely unpleasant, with data points along the way like “fragrant,” “caustic,” “disgusting” and “Burger King.” Whole industries have grown up around our desire to suppress or disguise particular odors. One such company is Glade, producer of sprays, infusions, oils and gels, and the subject of this week’s Website Review.

The homepage for Glade.com shows gently floating icons representing berry, vanilla, spice, outdoor, floral and other scents, adjacent to a thirty-something woman reading a book and smelling her surroundings, her nostrils slightly flared in delight. When you move your mouse across her face, she asks “is ‘aah’ actually a word or just the sound of stress escaping from my day?” Depending on the chemicals in Glade’s products, it could also be what your doctor asks you to say as you’re examined for that mysterious pulmonary condition you’ve developed, though a recent report to the National Institute of Environmental Health Services seems to absolve the company.

Glade delivers its large variety of pleasant fragrances through several different media, but certainly the most advanced is the patented plug-in technology. First developed about 20 years ago, this marvel of unnecessary science gently warms a gel cartridge using an electrical outlet that might otherwise be wasted on less critical appliances like a refrigerator or home dialysis machine. Recent improvements to the design have recognized the explosion of electronics demands in the modern home with a plug-through outlet. The device has a little trouble staying hooked in place, however, inspiring the widely loved commercial jingle “plug it in, plug it in.” There’s also now a Plug-In that uses scented oil to treat larger rooms, like your basement or abattoir.

To address not only malodorous spaces but also those lacking a certain visual ambience, Glade has introduced out the Wisp flameless candle. The gadget combines continuous puffs of fragrance with a warm, flickering glow and virtually no risk of fire. This new offering is still struggling to gain acceptance in the marketplace, as evidenced by some of the questions the website attempts to answer, including “I don’t think my unit is puffing – what should I do?” and “can I turn the flickering glow off?”

The newest hi-tech advancement out of this SC Johnson company is the Sense & Spray product. Sort of a Wii for the redolent, it uses a motion sensor to detect the presence of odor creators and emit a blast of fragrance at them. Once this burst has been released, the device goes into a lock-out mode for 30 minutes, though there’s a manual override that can be launched should Uncle Phil decide he needs to return for another session on the can.

What I’d really like to see is a technology transfer with one of Glade’s sister companies, the makers of Off! insect repellant. They market a mosquito protection unit called the “Clip On,” which you’re able to strap onto your belt for a head-to-toe defense against biting bugs. Imagine being able to wear one of these that’s been crossed with the Sense & Spray – you could freely emit all kinds of stench during your daily activities and not to have to worry how it impacts your social life (not that I do anyway, but still). And having the added feature of a boost button that you could spritz at others would almost make this convenience rise to the level of a sport.

If there’s a particular aroma you’re looking for in any of the Glade product line, the website has a convenient “find-a-scent” feature, using one of those annoying word-prediction programs that guesses what you’re going to request and matches that to what they offer. So if you’re looking for “dog” smell you get “dewberry,” if you want “garbage” you get “garden,” if you want “office refrigerator” you get “orchid,” and “sewage treatment facility” offers you “stream, spa, strawberries and sweet pea.” Why would anybody want the smell of a spa?

Finally, I’ll mention a handy option that seems like just what we need is in this age of over-communication. Through the site, you can sign up for an automated reminder that your Plug-In or flameless candle could be in need of a refill. An email will be sent to an account of your choosing that Glade says “will let us help you keep that fresh, clean home feeling.” My concern would be that spam filters might wrongly think of this as a trivial communiqué and route it to the land of credit and appendage extenders. Surely it’s only a matter of time until the company enters the twenty-first century and instead sends you a tweet and a text message while automatically updating your Facebook page notifying your contacts that your house is starting to reek.

Nasal Ranger (not affiliated with the Lone Ranger)

Actual emails from South Carolina to Argentina

Today and tomorrow, I’ll be reprinting the torrid email exchange between my governor, South Carolina’s Mark Sanford, and his Argentinian mistress. (At least he was still governor last time I checked five minutes ago.)

From Mark to Maria:

Dearest,

You are glorious and I hope you really understand that. You do not need a therapist to help you figure your place in the world. You are special and unique and fabulous in a whole host of ways that are worth a much longer conversation. To be continued …

Have been having a few email problems as I am getting email through an aircard at the farm, where access to computer world is more than tough. Please let me know if you have gotten my last two eamils (sic) so I know it is working in getting to your part of the world …

Another glorious day outside. Hope you are doing well, and am anxious to hear about your week. Know that I miss you. Unbeleivably (sic) hard to imagine it has been a week. Please also send your mailing address as I want to send you an insignificant something next week when I am back in civilization that I think you might find interesting given our conversation.

Want to write an indepth note with some thoughts on our visit when I know you are getting these emails. Hugs and much love. M

From Maria to Mark:

I’am (sic) reading your last two mails sitting outside with a great seaview here in Ilhabela, a beautiful island near Sao Paulo. Have been thinking of you while watching the beautiful blue sea (a) great part of my day and remembering with a great smile on my face, the time we had spent together. As I told you before, you brought happiness and love to my life and (I) will take you forever in my heart. I wasn’t aware till we met last week, the strong feelings I had for you, and believe me, I haven’t felt this since I was in my teen ages, when afterwards I got married. I do love you, I can feel it in my heart, and although I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to meet again this has been the best that has happened to me in a long time You made me realized (sic) how you feel when you realy (sic) love somebody and how much you want to be beside the beloved. Last Friday I would had stayed embrassing (sic) and kissing you forever.

Don’t know why you think you bore me with the description of your farm. I am an urban girl but that doesn’t inhibit me from loving other things, specially if they are the ones you love. I was able to imagine the place with every single detail you wrote and had trassmitted (sic) me the love you have for your farm. It sounds to be a great and peaceful place and loved you had shared it with me.

Thanks for your beautiful words, I don’t know if I do need or not therapy but I have to find my new place in this new stage of my life. Life has been very generous with me and I want to return at least a little bit of what I have been given. I have time and think helping others who haven’t been as lucky as me will do me fine.

My address is (deleted by The State). It will be great finding at home once I am back, whatever you send me, I’ll keep it near my bed so as to feel you nearer.

Miss you so much… love you from the deepest of my heart. Sweet kisses.

From Mark to Maria:

Got back an hour ago to civilization and am now in Columbia after what was for me a glorious break from reality down at the farm. No phones ringing and tangible evidence of a day’s labors. Though I have started every day by 6 this morning woke at 4:30, I guess since my body knew it was the last day, and I went out and ran the excavator with lights until the sun came up. To me, and I suspect no one else on earth, there is something wonderful about listening to country music playing in the cab, air conditioner running, the hum of a huge diesel engine in the background, the tranquility that comes with being in a virtual wilderness of trees and marsh, the day breaking and vibrant pink coming alive in the morning clouds — and getting to build something with each scoop of dirt. It is admittedly weird but one of my more favorite ways of escaping the norms, constant phone calls and formalities that go with the office — and it probably fits with my weakness in doing rather than being — though you opened up a new chapter last week wherein I was happy and content just being. Last point worth further discussion. Afternoon projects had me outside and by days (sic) end I pretty much looked like a homeless person … but in this case a very content one. Enough about my love of heavy equipment and woods at sunrise …

While I was getting exhausted with one project after another at Coosaw work week, you were basking (I’m certain gloriously) on the beach..

Sounds great, hope to hear more about what sounds a great spot.

Will now finally get some sleep and write you a longer note with a few more profound thoughts tomorrow or Wednesday. In the meantime I send my love and hope you know I am thinking of you.. M

P.S. I do not want to raise expectations, when I say I will send something insignificant I promise I will do as I say! It wont (sic) be worthy of bedside placement … was just going to find the movie the Holiday as we had spoken of it last Thursday. Its music was pleasant and made me think of you — its mood and the notion of a holiday (wrapped up in our case over two days) certainly fit as well … (though our visit in some ways for me was as well less of a holiday than it was uncovering and realization of some things and feelings that again are worth longer conversation)

Had also hoped to find the cd of a song that played as I was flying home and also20made (sic) me think of you. Who knows if I can find the music … so all you may be stuck with is a long released movie — and if you put it by your bed I really be worried! Love you, good night and kisses back to you …

My love,

From Maria to Mark:

I decided to rent a car and went by myself to the other side of the Island where it is located one of the best hotels. It’s name is DPNY Hotel and I find it quite interesting. I had lunch there in a restaurant on the beach with great seaview. I sat under a palm and ate a mixed green salad with grilled abacaxi (pineapple) and honey. in the afternoon I sunbathe and read on the beach. I ve started here “The age of turbulence” from Alan Greenspan which I highly recomend (sic) you. At five I left back to the small town had a coffee with pao de queijo (cheese bread which is something tipycal (sic) from Brazl (sic) and it’s delicious) read some magazines, walked around and finally back to meu Pousada that is hotel.

In the Island is taking place the sailing week and Rolex competition and this was the reason for choosing the place and also why luckily I am most of the time by my own. It may sound bad but it’s how I feel it. As I told you I shouldn’t have done this trip but I would have felt worst if I wouldn’t have come because it was too over the date, he is a very nice guy, great heart … but unfortunately I am not in love with him … You are my love … something hard to believe even for myself as it’s also a kind of impossible love, not only because of distance but situation.

Sometimes you don’t choose things, they just happen … I can’t redirect my feelings and I am very happy with mine towards you. Hope you have had a good day, guess with much work.

Send you all my love and goodnight kisses. Sweet dreams from down south. I’ll dream with you.

Sweetest

Miscellaneous Monday

There’s a handwritten sign recently posted in the shower room of the YMCA to which I belong. It’s next to the soap dispenser and it reads “THIS IS BLUE SOAP.”

Ever the skeptic, I put my hand under the dispenser, pressed the release button and, sure enough, a turquoise shade gel accumulated slowly in my palm. It seemed slippery and slightly transparent, and a few small bubbles showed around the edge. It was in fact soap, and it was in fact blue.

I’m not sure what the point of the sign was. I guess someone had questioned the liquid’s blueness or its soapiness, or maybe both, and the management felt compelled to clear the air of any doubt. I learned a valuable lesson that day on the folly of questioning authority. I’ve also learned to start bringing my own soap.

 ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

Coverage of the death of Ed McMahon seems a little over-done now, don’t you think?

 ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

One of the great things about people using wireless-equipped cafes as mobile offices is that you can poach on their privacy and get a tiny peek into other people’s worlds. No, I’m not stealing credit card numbers out of the ether. I’m just catching a glimpse of what’s on their laptop screens, and eavesdropping into cell phone conversations that aren’t being kept all that quiet in the first place.

In one recent example, I was sitting behind a young African-American man who I knew from previous conversations was an active member of the South Carolina Republican Party. When he got up to grab a coffee, I couldn’t help but see that his screen showed a page headlined “What’s on Chairman Steele’s Playlist?”

The chairman in question is national GOP chairman Michael Steele. He’s the guy who promised to inject some urban sensibilities into the party and then, a few weeks later, offered a cowering apology for referring to Rush Limbaugh as an entertainer. Not exactly an “urban” attitude, but whatever.

Anyway, this site was sponsoring a contest to guess which songs in several categories – gospel, pop, opera, hip-hop, R&B, country, blues, jazz, and old school – were on Steele’s music player. You also had to list his favorite black Republican musician, assuming you could name one (my pick would be Justin Timberlake.)

According to the rules, if you donate $5 to the party and you are “the first person to correctly guess the Chairman’s favorite artist in the most categories [you] will win lunch with Chairman Steele.” I filled in all fields but one with the name “Michael Jackson,” reserving opera for the towering voice of brother Tito, and was prepared to play until overwhelmed with guilt – not guilt that I’d be mocking the party, but that they’d use my $5 to buy a collar’s worth of Sarah Palin’s next designer ensemble.

Then, a few days later at another café, a young businesswoman within earshot held virtually the same conversation with several different coworkers via her BlackBerry phone. “Did I place that order last week for those ink cartridges?” “I know I placed that order. Am I going insane?” “You remember when I placed that order, right?” “I am positive I put that order in last week.” “Am I nuts?”

I didn’t stick around to hear the outcome of this crisis, but if she ever needs to order blue soap in bulk, I think I can set her up.

 ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

Please tell me I didn’t see a Jonas Brother testifying before a Senate committee on C-Span the other day. And know this: if I ever see Miley Cyrus walking along the Rose Garden colonnade with President Obama and visiting Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, I will turn in my Democratic Party membership card.

 ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

Already, I hear that the phrase “hiking the Appalachian Trail” is becoming a euphemism for cheating on one’s wife. Following Gov. Mark Sanford’s admission of marital infidelity, and news that his purported communion with the wilds of the Blue Ridge Mountains was actually the congregation of another kind, pundits are driving the new buzzwords home.

I can already the imagination the upcoming frank conversations in far too many broken homes around the country.

“Honey, there’s something I have to tell you,” says the husband.

“What is it dear?”

“I … I’ve been hiking. On a trail. Actually, I’ve been on the Appalachian Trail.”

“Dear! No! No, it can’t be. I can’t believe this.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. I didn’t know how. I just couldn’t pick the right words until now.”

“Did you … Did you go all the way? All the way from Maine to Georgia?”

“Yes and, actually, her name is Maria, not Georgia. And I think you’d like her if you gave her a chance.”

 ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

There’s a so-called dollar cinema house in our town showing movies that are a couple of months past prime theatrical release and just a week or two from coming out on DVD. It used to be one of the main theatres in town until the brand-new stadium seating place opened out by the mall. Now, it’s relegated to a smaller market.

Because it is set back so far back in its parking lot, it has one of those old-fashioned signs with manual lettering up against the main road. The display rows of the sign are arbitrarily divided into twos, so each of the eight films in the line-up is partnered immediately above or below a separate and unrelated movie. Occasionally, the name also has to be truncated to fit the space. This leads to some truly bizarre titles of movies that often sound better than what’s really playing.

Some recent examples:

Sex and … Marley and Me

Pineapple … Milk

Baby Mama … Wanted

Journey to Center of … Beverly Hills Chihuahua

Madagascar … High School

Rachel Getting … Australia

Iron Man … Mamma Mia

Nick and Norah’s … Quantum Solace

Curious Case of … Hannah Montana

27 Dresses … Wanted

Body of … Kung Fu Panda

Chronicles of … Love Guru

Forgetting Sarah … Slumdog

Horton Hears a … Mummy

Fast and Furious … Vicky Cristina

Monster Versus … W

Frost/Nixon … Hulk

 ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

I must pause from my joking here at the end to recognize the passing of a monumental public figure the other day. His voice was like no other. His rapport with his audience was unprecedented. His agility in moving from one area to another was legendary. His plea to buy OxyClean was virtually irresistible.

To read more about the life of TV pitchman Billy Mays, take a look at http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/01/14/this-post-not-available-in-stores/

Governor Mark goes all in

This last piece of the series of email communications between S.C. Governor Mark Sanford and his Argentine mistress is all-Mark, including this misspellings and awkward phrasings. Note especially references to a “world wind tour”, a “full tank of love in the emotional bank account” and “I don’t want to put the genius back in the bottle.” He’s such a poet, yet he doesn’t know it.

From Mark to Maria:

It was indeed a long day. I am most jealous of your salad under the palm tree.

Three thoughts in one note now that I have a moment. One the travel schedule is about to get real busy (and this distresses me for the way it may well make it more difficult to get your notes over the next few weeks), two unfortunately all the feelings you describe are mutual, and three where do we go from here?

One, tomorrow leave at 5 am for New York and meetings. Will think about you on its streets and wish I was going to be there later in the month when you are there. Tomorrow night back to Philadelphia for the start of the National Governor’s Conference through the weekend. Back to Columbia for Tuesday and then on Wednesday, as I think I had told you, taking the family to China, Tibet, Nepal, India, Thailand and then back through Hong Kong on world wind tour. Few days home then to Bahamas for 5 days on a friends boat for the last break of the summer. The following weekend have been asked to spend it out in Aspen, Colorado with McCain — which has kicked up the whole VP talk all over again in the press back home.

Two, mutual feelings. I have been specializing in staying focused on decisions and actions of the head for a long time now — and you have my heart. You have oh so many attributes that pulls it in this direction. Do you really comprehend how beautiful your smile is? Have you been told lately how warm your eyes are and how they softly glow with the special nature of your soul. I remember Jenny, or someone close to me, once commenting that while my mom was pleasant and warm it was sad she had never accomplished anything of significance. I replied that they were wrong because she had the ultimate of all gifts — and that was the ability to love unconditionally. The rarest of all commodities in this world is love. It is that thing that we all yearn for at some level — to be simply loved unconditionally for nothing more than who we are — not what we can get, give or become. There are but 50 governors in my country and outside of the top spot, this is as high as you can go in the area I have invested the last 15 years of my life — my getting here came as no small measure because I had that foundation of love and support so critical to getting up in the morning and feeling you could give and risk because you already had a full tank of love in the emotional bank account. Since our first meeting there in a wind swept somewhat open air dance spot in Punta del Este, I felt that you had that same rare attribute. Above all else I love that inner beauty about you. That gift of yours is going to make a tremendous difference in (The State deleted sons’ names) life — and in anyone’s life who is blest to be touched by yours — you need to rest very comfortably in that fact. As I mentioned in our last visit, while I did not need love fifteen years ago — as the battle scars of life and aging and politics have worn on this has become a real need of mine. You have a particular grace and calm that I adore. You have a level of sophistication that is so fitting with your beauty. I could digress and say that you have the ability to give magnificently gentle kisses, or that I love your tan lines or that I love the curves of your hips, the erotic beauty of you holding yourself (or two magnificent parts of yourself) in the faded glow of night’s light — but hey, that would be going into the sexual details we spoke of at the steakhouse at dinner — and unlike you I would never do that!

Three and finally, while all the things above are all too true — at the same time we are in a hopelessly — or as you put it impossible — or how about combine and simply say hopelessly impossible situation of love. How in the world this lightening [sic] strike snuck up on us I am still not quite sure. As I have said to you before I certainly had a special feeling about you from the first time we met, but these feelings were contained and I genuinely enjoyed our special friendship and the comparing of all too many personal notes (and yes this is true even if you did occasionally tantalize me with sexual details over the years!) — but it was all safe. Where we are is not. I have thought about it and in some ways feel I let you down in letting these complications come into a friendship that I hope will last till death. In all my life I have lived by a code of honor and at a variety of levels know I have crossed lines I would have never imagined. I wish I could wish it away, but this soul-mate feel I alluded too is real and in that regard I sure don’t want to be the person complicating your life. I looked to where I often look for advice and counsel, and in I Corinthians 13 it simply says that, “Love is patient and kind, love is not jealous or boastful, it is not arrogant or rude, Love does not insist on its own way, it is not irritable or resentful, it does not rejoice in the wrong, but rejoices in the right, Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things and endures all things”. In this regard it is action that goes well beyond the emotion of today or tomorrow and in this light I want to look for ways to show love in helping you to live a better — not more complicated life. I want to help (one of Maria’s sons) with film guys that might help his career, etc. I also don’t want you walking20away (sic) from some guy (I take it the younger guy you mentioned a t dinner) because of me — and what we both have to see as an impossible situation. I better stop now least this really sound like the Thornbirds — wherein I was always upset with Richard Chamberlain for not dropping his ambitions and running into Maggie’s arms. The bottom line is two fold, my heart wants me to get on a plane tonight and to be in your loving arms — my head is saying how do we put the Genie back in the bottle because I sure don’t want to be encumbering you, or your options or your life. Put differently, given I love you, I don’t want to be part of the reason you are having less than an ideal week in what sounds like a cool spot.

Lastly I also suspect I feel a little vulnerable because this is ground I have never certainly never covered before — so if you have pearls of wisdom on how we figure all this out please let me know … In the meantime please sleep soundly knowing that despite the best efforts of my head my heart cries out for you, your voice, your body, the touch of your lips, the touch of your finger tips and an even deeper connection to your soul. I love you … sleep tight. M

PS. I will make it a point in NY tomorrow to drop by a store and get that movie I promised to send your way … I am encouraged to know you will not keep it beside the bed least we have tangible evidence of two pathetic figures missing each other far too much to live a few thousand miles apart!

You have not brought complication or are not bringing complication to my life, on the contrary you’ve fullfiled (sic) me with happiness and made me aware how you can feel when you love somebody. I can think with my head but only feel with my heart so I can’t avoid it even knowing is hopelessly impossible. The guy is the one I told you ,just three years younger than me, but I am not in love and won’t fall in love with time so I have to continue my way … be alone for some time and if I am lucky enough will someday feel towards somebody, what I today feel for you. At least you made me realized it can happen.

I don’t know if I did understood (sic) well about what was unsafe or not safe. Before our mails use to have other contents … if you want to go back to that and don’t write love things and so on because is not safe for you it’s ok with me, i (sic) love you and by no way would do something that can harm you, so please let me know.

I don’t know how we figure all this out and I am not interested in knowing. I prefer to think we’ll see each other again somewhere sometime in this life and in next. Will be missing you till then… . .

Have a great trip with the ones you love … they are the kind of trips you will never forget and for your boys will be unworthable (sic) not only because of the places they will visit but for sharing all that time with you.

Send you millions of kisses that will last till we get in touch again. best wishes from the deepest of my heart.

P.S.: I don’t want to put the genius (sic) back in the bottle because I truly believe in freedom. I never gave you sexual details but now you don’t need to imagine you can close your eyes and just remember. I’ll do the same.

Fake News: Confusion reigns in Iran

TEHERAN, Iran (June 27) – Confusion continued to distort the news out of Iran this week as the predominance of Internet reporting and the lack of mainstream media coverage contributed to widespread misunderstanding of election results and their aftermath.

On Sunday, a partial recount of the June 12 presidential vote was apparently conducted, with officials verifying that two does indeed follow one and that six comes before seven but after five. The government-run election council had to verify with ruling mullahs that when you get to nine you have to switch over to a two-digit tabulating system, though this took only several hours to substantiate.

Confirmation still could not be had on why tens of thousands of Iranians had taken to the streets of this capital city in recent weeks, and what the government reaction was to that outpouring. Though there were unverified reports that soldiers and riot police were attacking the crowd, other indications were that the military was merely distributing samples of a new scent being marketed by the incumbent president. Much like kiosk workers are known to do at American malls, the soldiers were offering to spray the perfume and cologne – called Ah Maní du Jod – on passers-by. Only if pedestrians refused the fragrance were they beaten.

Meanwhile, defeated candidate Mir-Hossein Mousavi was disputing earlier claims that he said he’d be willing to “become a martyr” to the cause of political reform.

“What I said is that I’d like to be a ‘marter,’ or merchant,” Mousavi told the Arabic language Al Jazeera news channel. “I’ve grown weary of this insurgency and would like to once again be a simple man of the bazaar. I definitely don’t want to be a sacrificial victim, that’s for sure.”

Other uncertainty on the volatile situation included the mistaken belief that the “clerics” were simply a group of administrative assistants who had to type up the results; that Ayatollah Khamenei (pronounced “hominy”) is a different bearded turbaned guy than Ayatollah Khomeini (pronounced “hoe-may-nee”), who died 20 years ago; and that the former president is actually Hashemi Rafsanjani, not New Jersey rocker “Rafsan” Johnny.

Western media were still trying to corroborate the assertion that citizens who gathered in public squares to demonstrate over the past two weeks were in fact the vanguard of a so-called “green revolution,” or whether that term simply described improved agricultural techniques in the developing world or perhaps a growing emphasis on renewable, non-polluting energy sources.

Check this out — it’s got vampires in it

I’ve been doing this blogging thing for ten months now and I’m still not making the fabulous living that I thought was all but guaranteed. I continue to watch the slot on the side of my laptop for the twenties to start spitting out every time I post and, unless there’s a bad jam in there somewhere, it’s just not happening. Maybe that’s what I should’ve expected when the highest perch in the field is inhabited by Perez Hilton.

I’ve decided with the start of July to try a new tack in my pursuit of fame, fortune and prestige beyond my wildest dreams (even wilder than that one with both Hiltons, Perez and Paris). I’ve noticed that there currently seems to be a vibrant market for anything to do with vampires. And since the only other blood-based business plan I can think of involves the sale of plasma, I thought I’d give this angle a try. To ensure even greater probability of profit, I’ll also be working a significant number of product placement references into my story. I don’t have any contracts for this in place yet; I assume the companies you mention just send you a check out of the goodness of their heart.

Allow me to preview my treatment here, and then readers can tell me what they think the best media might be for my narrative. I’m hoping you’ll suggest film, TV or publishing, though I’ll also consider the idea of nailing single-spaced pages to telephone poles.

The setting is current-day America, though if I have to be specific to achieve a certain ambience, I’ll say it’s suburban Idaho. (Fact check: does this even exist?) A 17-year-old girl named Jelle is spellbound by all things “Twilight,” so she heads down to the local Best Buy store to buy a DVD of the movie. While browsing through the aisles, she notices a striking young male employee in the next department. Over his bright blue company shirt, he’s wearing a cape and a cowl, and the oddity of his clothing choice fascinates her. She tries to get his attention but fails at first because this is, after all, Best Buy.

Finally, after she kicks at the locked glass case under the music player display, the young man approaches. His name tag identifies him as “Edward Associate,” and Jelle decides to call him “Ward.” They chat briefly about the merits of the iPod versus the Zune (ultimate choice based on highest corporate bidder) and she works up the nerve to ask him when he gets off. “Every chance I get,” he chuckles with twinkling eyes, then realizes his error and quickly answers “nine.” They agree to meet at a quarter past over at the Wendy’s.

Obviously, she hopes he’s a vampire and hopes his choice of menu items will give her a clue of that possibility. When they arrive together at the counter, she orders the new Sweet & Spicy Asian chicken, available for a limited time only (for reasons that will soon become apparent), and he selects a dollar-menu hamburger. She had hoped he’d order something made with red meat instead, indicating a proclivity for blood, and she can barely contain her disappointment with his choice. Still, they sit and chat for a while, and he seems like a nice enough guy. Turns out he’s originally from Pennsylvania, which she thinks might be one of the Sylvanias with vampires.

After a while, Ward says he needs to get going. Jelle says she’s enjoyed talking and maybe they can get together again some time. Ward says he’s got a dentist appointment the following afternoon, and asks Jelle if she’d like to come along. She agrees to meet him at his house. She knows the area – it’s in a diverse subdivision that has a blend of ranch homes, split-levels, bat caves and eerie mansions, so again she reminds herself to keep her dreams in check.

The next day is bright and warm. As she arrives at the Associates family home, she is ever more certain that he can’t be a Lord of the Night and still be going out to the dentist on a sunny day like this. But when she pulls into his driveway, she spies Ward through the full-length glass door of his home, slathering on a heavy coat of Coppertone sunscreen. He greets her with a friendly kiss on the cheek, and over his shoulder she notices the bottle is labeled SPF 120. Could a high-enough UV protection factor shield a vampire from the light of day? Maybe.

They ride to the dentist in his car, a Chrysler PT Cruiser, which seems like ideal transportation for the Undead. She accompanies him to the waiting room, and overhears the receptionist confirming his insurance plan as Delta Dental and the scheduled procedure as an incisor sharpening, which has a significant deductible but he says go ahead anyway. Jelle turns to the camera and says (or else she thinks to herself in italic if this is a book) “looking good.” She sits and reads a magazine article about Jon and Kate so she can sympathize with the pain he’s surely feeling.

After the procedure, Ward suggests they head over to the local Golden Corral all-you-can-eat buffet for an early dinner. Jelle tells herself this needs to be the time and place to find out for sure if this guy is the vampire she wants him to be. She’s already vested almost 24 hours in this relationship, and she needs to know if it’s going anywhere. They load their plates high with yeast rolls, buttered corn and small, deep-fried spheres. The waitress takes their drink orders: Jelle asked for iced tea, and the ever-enigmatic Ward has a V-8. Jelle excuses herself and heads to the carving station for a thick slab of steak, heavy on the garlic, which she plans on driving into Ward’s heart if he finally reveals himself to her.

About halfway through the meal, both are overcome with Corral-arrhea and head off to their respective restrooms. When Jelle emerges 45 minutes later, Ward is nowhere to be found. She checks the parking lot, which is filled with Chryslers, but none of them are the blood-red model that belonged to her new beau.

Heartbroken (sort of), she pulls out her cell phone and sends him a text message: “s’up? thought you liked men,” though what she really meant to say was “thought you liked me.” A few seconds later comes his response. “AWOOOO” it says, which she interprets to mean “Also Women (hug)(hug)(hug)(hug).”

A little later, he brutally slays her and drinks all her blood.

That’s all I’ve got so far. I know it needs a little fleshing out, maybe a dash of character development and a few more action scenes besides the Golden Corral meal. But it does mention vampires five times, so I think there’s potential here. Soon the income should be flowing to me like an open vein.

If not, please know that I have a fallback plan. I registered yesterday to sell my posts on Amazon’s Kindle, which could bring me as much as thirty cents a pop. Now I just have to figure which port on my laptop dispenses coins.

Fake News: More celebrities tragically die

HOLLYWOOD, Calif. (July 6) – The entertainment world continued to reel yesterday from tragic losses in its ranks with the sudden deaths of three more giants of the industry.

Shelley Long, 59, the actress who portrayed Diane on the long-running NBC comedy series “Cheers,” was found dead in the rubble of her collapsed home in Topanga Canyon. She was apparently crushed to death when a magnitude 7.9 earthquake struck the Los Angeles area early Wednesday morning.

Tony Kubek, 72, long-time sports announcer and an infielder for World Series champion New York Yankees in the early 1960s, was caught in a massive landslide following the quake in the foothills near his Encino residence, and later died at a nearby hospital. He had been visiting relatives in the area when the disaster struck.

Sharon Osbourne, 57, who managed her husband Ozzie’s rock music career before co-starring in a number of TV shows with her family, was evidently washed out to sea when an epic tsunami engulfed her SUV along a coastal road about 15 miles north of San Diego. Witnesses said the giant wave may have been as large as 35 feet tall. Officials identified her by a pocketbook found later at the scene that contained her identification papers.

The catastrophic seismological event that rocked the southern half of the state for an estimated 25 minutes also killed an estimated three million ordinary residents.

All three stars were mourned by their show business peers, at least the ones who could be contacted amid widespread communications and electrical outages that caused survivors to rampage through the streets in a desperate search for food, water and shelter.

“Shelley was a pure joy to work with,” said actor Ted Danson when told of Long’s death. “This is just a tremendous loss.”

“Tony was a really special man,” said fellow broadcaster Joe Buck of Kubek. “His love of baseball was absolute. What a blow to the sports world.”

“I saw her (Osbourne) on TV a couple of times,” said the similarly named Sharon Stone. “She seemed like a nice enough person.”

Federal officials rushed disaster aid to the state as President Obama declared a national emergency. Most survivors reported, however, that they didn’t see any point in going on with their lives after losing three such brilliant luminaries from the pantheon of American celebrities.

Fake News: Forces in Iraq stuck indoors

BAGHDAD, Iraq (July 1) – Commanders of U.S. forces stationed in Iraq have begun complaining to Pentagon officials that “we really have our hands full” now that combat troops have been ordered off the streets of this nation’s cities.

Top brass in Washington acted to drastically reduce the visibility of the 130,000 soldiers in country to comply with agreements to turn more control over to Iraqi security forces by the end of June. Secretary of Defense Robert Gates noted that “it’s really hot outside, and we don’t want our fighting men and women to get overheated.”

“I know it’s summertime and everybody wants to be outside,” Gates said. “But we have to use good judgment so we don’t risk widespread thirstiness and heat rash. There aren’t that many hoses for soldiers to drink from in the urban areas, and they’ll just keep on playing in the sand and forget to keep up their fluids.”

Army General Ray Odierno said it was his job to comply with orders from the top, but noted pointedly that keeping that many divisions indoors while the locals were able to burn off energy in the 130-degree afternoon heat was a “special challenge.”

“They’re really under foot here,” Odierno said. “It’s only been two days and already they’re driving the general staff crazy. It’s natural that they want to blow off their youthful energy, but I’m not getting any younger. I have a splitting headache.”

“Will you lieutenant colonels please knock it off over there?” the general was then heard to say. “I’ve just about had it up to here with you guys.”

Other top military officials who spoke off the record said that the scheduled arrival next week of three C-130 cargo planes filled with Wii consoles and an estimated 13 tons of the popular “Dance Dance Revolution” game should go a long way toward keeping the confined troops busy. Plans were being laid for several week-long sessions of Vacation Bible School in August in one of former dictator Saddam Hussein’s occupied palaces, and a “ball crawl” was also being setting up in an adjacent swimming pool.

Odierno said he understood that the removal of American forces from the streets of Baghdad and other large cities was critical to the establishment of true Iraqi sovereignty. He also acknowledged his forces still needed to remain nearby in case they had to bolster local police in fighting any renewal of the now-largely-dormant insurgency.

“Maybe there’s something good on TV,” Odierno said. “Or I could get out some of those old board games we put up in the attic last winter. I’m really running out of ideas though. This is not a ‘Scrabble’ kind of crowd.”

The general said, however, he remained confident that summer would soon be over and that armed personnel will probably be invading Iran in the fall, and he had to admit he’d hate to see them go.

“I just hope we can find some good ‘back-to-combat’ sales,” Odierno noted with a sigh. “A lot of our people are probably going to be at least two sizes bigger by then and will need all new gear. I complain a lot about them being all over the place now, but I know I’ll miss them when they’re gone.”

Website Review: America.com

Happy Third of July! This is Independence Day, right?

I’m just teasing; I know that the Fourth of July is really on the Fourth of July. But apparently a lot of other Americans are actually confused on this subject. I read somewhere a survey that revealed a significant percentage of our populace could not name the date that this holiday is held on – even when asked straight out “when is the Fourth of July celebrated?”

I thought of this when hearing some guy on the radio the other day who had written a book about our nation’s earliest recorded history. He had worked as a youth at the Plymouth Rock memorial in Massachusetts, and recalled visitors to the site asking him why the rock had a plaque reading 1620 when in fact Christopher Columbus had delivered the Pilgrims to this country in 1492. Stupid tourists. Everybody with even the vaguest memory of grade-school history should remember that it was Leif Erikson who brought the Pilgrims to America, and that Columbus was actually the first president.

I know it’s all this “I read somewhere” and “I heard some guy” information that is distorting our national narrative, but the reality is that common knowledge is no longer necessary in the age of the Internet. I used to be known as the King of Trivia at my office because I could readily name who performed the song “Hang on Sloopy” (The McCoys) and what year Maury Wills set the major league stolen base record (1962). Now, nobody needs to “know” this stuff any more (as if they ever did). Now you just Google “Sloopy” and it’s the first thing to show up in the search, unless you mistype “Sloppy” and you end up with Sloppy Drunk Lisa Nova on YouTube drinking Pabst in a bathtub.

However, that’s no way to honor America on its birthday, which is what I had intended to do with this post. Since it’s Friday, when I traditionally do my Website Reviews, I thought I’d turn to Wikipedia to learn more about this entity we call the “United States”. It’s quite interesting to read about something you feel you already know so thoroughly. Among the things I learned:

• Our government is a federal constitutional republic
• Our “Gini” is 46.3 and our “HDI” is 0.950, or fifteenth in the world
• We are either the third or fourth largest country by area in the world, depending on a territorial conflict between China and India
• There’s a supervolcano under Yellowstone National Park
• Our ecology in considered “megadiverse”
• Not only were Texas and Hawaii independent republics before their incorporation into the union, but so was Vermont
• The two non-states considered integral parts of the U.S. are Washington, D.C., and the Palmyra Atoll, an uninhabited territory in the Pacific Ocean
• We lack formal diplomatic relations not with only well-known adversaries like Cuba, Iran and North Korea, but also Bhutan.
• One-third of our population is obese, another third is overweight, our teen pregnancy rate is five times that of Europe, we have the most prisoners, we’re the biggest TV viewers in the world, and “being ordinary or average is generally seen as a positive attribute.”
• Among the most popular websites with Americans is Wikipedia.

This isn’t really giving me the kind of picture I had in mind. Let me instead visit some sites whose names alone should give us a clearer idea of what it is that makes us so proud to be Americans.

Usa.com is a travel site for foreign nationals who are considering a visit to the U.S. However, in addition to the services you’d expect, like reservations, immigration information and how to find a job, there are seemingly unrelated options such as video editing, real estate training and free credit reports. I can understand the last one, since that seems to be a required link on every site you visit these days, but the need for these other services is pretty unlikely. Still, they make more sense than links for Christian singles and Russian women, which are also offered.

America.com describes itself as an “independent platform for all citizens looking to voice their opinions.” This had the scent of a thinly veiled political organ and yet I could locate no ranting diatribes among the few posts I read. With topics like the economy, family and health, this is apparently a good-faith effort to increase open communications among citizens. The only mildly disquieting features I could locate were a section on education (“from kindergarten to universits, this is the place to discuss about school”) with the most recent entry titled “Could I attend an high school?” Also, you have to wonder how American this place really is with an address like Grand-Rue 26, CH-1260, Nyon, which I’d guess is either in France or a distant, as-yet-unnamed galaxy.

Now if it’s crazed rants you’re looking for, you’ve got to check out georgewashington.com. This is run by a madman who believes he has somehow dragged his moldering cannot-tell-a-lie corpse out of its Mt. Vernon crypt to “lend my support to the cause of Liberty.” Here’s just a taste of his eighteenth-century perspective:

“The shadow governments and their banks own almost everything. (President Kennedy warned us, but he was silenced.) Their man-made world religion is taking shape. Controlling the major media corporations … they cleverly present both sides of the political spectrum. Their guiding evil spirits are now celebrating imminent victory of their New World Order. Jesus gave us a warning against accepting the ‘mark’ which will allow one to buy and sell. The USA is the Babylon of today. Prepare as you are able (more on that soon).” He signs off – eventually – as “your humble servant, George Washington (.com)”.

UnitedStatesOfAmerica.com apologizes in its introduction that it’s “still in prototype stage, so anything can happen” and, sure enough, clicking through the home page transports you to the seventh dimension. Not really. Basically, it appears to be a database of 23 million business listings they admit needs to be updated, which probably means about half of them are now vacant storefronts. When it’s finally up and fully running, you’ll be able to access info about arts and entertainment, various professional and personal services, and towing.

The rest of the sites I looked at were primarily re-directed searches that take you nowhere near where you intended to be.

FourthOfJuly.com lands you on GreetingCards.com, which reminds me that I’ve forgotten again to send out Independence Day cards to my relatives. You can also print-out greeting cards for a whole host of made-up holidays, including Remote Control Day (June 29), Barn Day (July 10), Cow Appreciation Day (July 14) and Monkey Day (July 21), and you can customize each of these for recipients who may happen to be gay or lesbian, angry or upset, religious, or international.

Cookout.com takes you to something called “Hover” and its hummingbird logo. IndependenceDay.com takes you to Fox Movies, which I guess was the studio for that awful film a few years back. Fireworks.com wasn’t available through the employee-access filters at my office, which makes perfect sense. UncleSam.com contained the cryptic message “See if you can find another spoon. With someone helping, this would go twice as fast.” I thought perhaps “spoon” was some new digital term I should know, but according to Google it’s only an indie band, a Thai restaurant, a collective that has ceased operation, and some kind of table utensil.

Just the kind of diversity you’d expect from America.

Palin hiking the Alaskan Trail?

Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin made a surprise announcement Friday that she is resigning from office at the end of the month. Palin offered little explanation about why she plans to step down, raising speculation that she will focus on a run for the White House in the 2012 race.

The former Republican vice presidential candidate hastily called a news conference Friday morning at her home in suburban Wasilla, giving such short notice that only a few reporters actually made it to the announcement. State troopers blocked late-arriving media outside her home, and her spokesman, Dave Murrow, finally emerged to confirm that Palin will step down July 26.

Palin announced the decision in an often rambling news conference in which she invoked the words of Gen. Douglas MacArthur and the rules of basketball, but offered few clues about her intentions. The news rattles a Republican Party plagued with setbacks in recent weeks, including extramarital affairs disclosed by two other 2012 presidential prospects.

Poised, and ready to start her hike

The following are some actual excerpts from the speech:

Hi Alaska.

People who know me know that besides faith and family, nothing’s more important to me than our beloved Alaska. Serving her people is the greatest honor I could imagine.

Alaska’s mission is to contribute to America. Bold visionaries knew this – Alaska would be part of America’s great destiny, our destiny to be reached by responsibly developing our natural resources. This land, blessed with clean air, water, wildlife, minerals, AND oil and gas. It’s energy! God gave us energy.

So to serve the state is a humbling responsibility, because I know in my soul that Alaska is of such import for America’s security in our very volatile world. And you know me by now, I promised even four years ago to show MY independence… no more conventional “politics as usual”.

And we are doing well! My administration’s accomplishments speak for themselves. We work tirelessly for Alaskans.

We are doing well! I wish you’d hear MORE from the media of your state’s progress and how we tackle SPECIAL interests daily that would stymie our state. Even those debt-ridden stimulus dollars that would force the heavy hand of federal government into our communities with an “all-knowing attitude” – I have taken the slings and arrows with that unpopular move to veto because I know being right is better than being popular. Some of those dollars would harm Alaska and harm America. I resisted those dollars because of the obscene national debt we’re forcing our children to pay, because of today’s Big Government spending; it’s immoral and doesn’t even make economic sense!

We’re protectors of our Constitution – federalists protect states’ rights as mandated in the 10th amendment.

But you don’t hear much of the good stuff in the press anymore, do you?

Some say things changed for me on August 29th last year – the day John McCain tapped me to be his running-mate. I say others changed. Political operatives descended on Alaska last August, digging for dirt.

It’s pretty insane – my staff and I spend most of our day dealing with THIS instead of progressing our state now. I know I promised no more “politics as usual,” but THIS isn’t what anyone had in mind for ALASKA.

Life is too short to compromise time and resources… it may be tempting and more comfortable to just keep your head down, plod along, and appease those who demand: “Sit down and shut up”. But that’s the worthless, easy path; that’s a quitter’s way out. And a problem in our country today is apathy. It would be apathetic to just hunker down and “go with the flow”.

Nah, only dead fish “go with the flow”.

First, a little "stretch," if you know what I mean

No. Productive, fulfilled people determine where to put their efforts, choosing to wisely utilize precious time… to BUILD UP.

But I won’t do it from the Governor’s desk.

I’ve never believed that I, nor anyone else, needs a title to do this – to make a difference… to HELP people. So I choose, for my State and my family, more “freedom” to progress, all the way around… so that Alaska may progress… I will not seek re-election as Governor.

And so as I thought about this announcement that I wouldn’t run for re-election and what it means for Alaska, I thought about how much fun some governors have as lame ducks… travel around the state, to the Lower 48 (maybe), overseas on international trade, as so many politicians do. And then I thought – that’s what’s wrong – many just accept that lame duck status, hit the road, draw the paycheck, and “milk it”. I’m not putting Alaska through that – I promised efficiencies and effectiveness! That’s not how I am wired. I am not wired to operate under the same old “politics as usual.” I promised that four years ago – and I meant it.

It’s not what is best for Alaska.

I am determined to take the right path for Alaska even though it is unconventional and not so comfortable.

I’ve determined it’s best to transfer the authority of governor to Lieutenant Governor (Sean) Parnell; and I am willing to do so, so that this administration – with its positive agenda, its accomplishments, and its successful road to an incredible future – can continue without interruption and with great administrative and legislative success.

Let me go back to a comfortable analogy for me – sports… basketball. I use it because you’re naive if you don’t see the national full-court press picking away right now: A good point guard drives through a full court press, protecting the ball, keeping her eye on the basket… and she knows exactly when to pass the ball so that the team can WIN. And I’m doing that – keeping our eye on the ball that represents sound priorities – smaller government, energy independence, national security, freedom! And I know when it’s time to pass the ball – for victory.

I have given my reasons candidly and truthfully… and my last day won’t be for another few weeks so the transition will be very smooth. In fact, we will look to swear Sean in – in Fairbanks at the conclusion of our Governor’s picnics.

In fact, this decision comes after much consideration, and finally polling the most important people in my life, my children (where the count was unanimous… well, in response to asking: “Want me to make a positive difference and fight for ALL our children’s future from OUTSIDE the Governor’s office?” It was four “yes’s” and one “hell yeah!” The “hell yeah” sealed it – and someday I’ll talk about the details of that… I think much of it had to do with the kids seeing their baby brother Trig mocked by some pretty mean-spirited adults recently.) Um, by the way, sure wish folks could ever, ever understand that we ALL could learn so much from someone like Trig. I know he needs me, but I need him even more… what a child can offer to set priorities RIGHT – that time is precious… the world needs more “Trigs”, not fewer.

First things first: as Governor, I love my job and I love Alaska. It hurts to make this choice but I am doing what’s best for Alaska. I’ve explained why… though I think of the saying on my parents’ refrigerator that says “Don’t explain: your friends don’t need it and your enemies won’t believe you anyway.”

Now, despite this, I don’t want any Alaskan dissuaded from entering politics after seeing this REAL “climate change” that began in August… no, we NEED hardworking, average Americans fighting for what’s right! And I will support you because we need YOU and YOU can effect change, and I can too on the outside.

We need those who will respect our Constitution where government’s supposed to serve from the BOTTOM UP, not move toward this TOP DOWN big government take-over… but rather, will be protectors of individual rights, who also have enough common sense to acknowledge when conditions have drastically changed and are willing to call an audible and pass the ball when it’s time so the team can win! And that is what I’m doing!

Remember Alaska… America is now, more than ever, looking north to the future. It’ll be good. So God bless you, and from me and my family – to ALL Alaska – you have my heart.

In the words of General MacArthur said, “We are not retreating. We are advancing in another direction.”

Got my Argentine visa and I'm ready to go

Ready for yet another holiday

So another holiday has come and gone, and once again I hardly had any time to relax. I managed to squeeze in a few quick naps and one afternoon where I watched TV golf, but otherwise it was the usual homeowner’s chores of mowing grass, paying bills and calculating the mortgage interest that would accrue over the weekend.

I’ve complained before in this space about how unevenly holidays have been scheduled on the calendar. This particular span between Independence Day and Labor Day, at about eight weeks, is what all the gaps should be if we averaged them out on some sort of metric holiday system. A little more cooperation among our cultural icons on when they came and passed would’ve been tremendously convenient – if the births of Lincoln, the Christ Child, America and the modern labor movement, and the deaths of Thanksgiving turkeys and certain saviors were more comprehensively planned, we’d all be a lot better rested throughout the year.

As it is, we have to rely on vacation time to provide the extended break needed to fully recharge our batteries. In my family, we’re still trying to figure out when we’ll have the time and money to take a trip before my son heads off for college at the end of August. Right now, we’re debating between the merits of a 12-hour train ride to Manhattan versus a flight from Charlotte to Milwaukee with intermediate stops in Atlanta, back to Charlotte, and then on to Detroit. While both those options could result in unprecedented fun, neither sounds very rejuvenating.

That’s why I’m currently in the market for an extended illness. I’ve been generally healthy throughout my adult life, but do recall quite fondly those instances when I was laid up on the sofa for a week or so. It was great to lounge about in an opioid-induced haze, my wife asking if she could get me anything, my work calling to check on my well-being, my son too considerate to commandeer the TV for the battles between Halo’s Master Chief and Nickelodeon’s SpongeBob that otherwise dominate our screen. It’s only in this debilitated state that I can spend all my waking hours watching back-to-back Rob Schneider movies instead of feeling I should be hunting, gathering, repairing the gutters, or possibly all three at once.

I still remember when, as a young boy of ten, I contemplated jumping off the roof of my parents’ house to avoid an especially daunting P.E. segment (I think it was either square-dancing or tumbling, though my rendition of each was about the same). Obviously, I’m a lot more mature now and would need to carefully target any intentionally initiated infirmity so it didn’t put me out indefinitely.

I’m trying to imagine which of all the maladies available would best suit my 55-year-old body and my high-deductible health insurance. Appendages that are safely apart from the critical functions of the core torso would seem like a good choice. But two of the few hobbies I do have – running and writing – depend on healthy limbs, and I’d hate to give up those activities, even temporarily. Maybe I could spare a toe or two without causing too much impact on my stride.

I guess the head is technically an appendage too, though it seems like something you don’t want to mess around with. I’ve already had extended absences due to dental surgery, skin cancer on my ear and a nasty sinus infection, so I guess I’d be stretching my luck to hope for a brain aneurysm or having one of my eyes pop out. The idea is not to end up permanently disabled; I just want to make a dent in that backlog of Smithsonian Channel “Street Monkey” episodes jamming up the DVR, and that would take twice as long to do with only one eye.

If I did look to the torso for something to go wrong, I’m not foolish enough to think any of the major organs would be a good choice. I’ve always had good check-ups on my heart and, from what I understand, that’s the most expensive transplant you can get, so that’s out. My lungs are clear and strong since I’ve never smoked, and starting now would take forever to create an incapacitating impact. The gastrointestinal tract wouldn’t work well for me either, since heavy snacking would likely be a key part of any couch-camping and Pringles just aren’t the same when pressed into a mash and forced through a tube. I don’t even know what the liver does, though I know the ones belonging to cows and chickens don’t taste very good even when fried, so they must be important. I’ve heard of hernia repair but it sounds like something that would take place in a garage, and I’m sure my ingual warranty is up.

I’ve got it! The appendix! I had a coworker knocked out for just about a week once with appendicitis, and he eventually had a complete recovery. I understand there’s some initial discomfort when the thing first flares – I believe his words were something like “I thought I was going to die” – and it can take a few unpleasant hours to make a proper diagnosis. Once they do figure it out and perform the surgery to remove the throbbing stub, I believe you wake up in the hospital surrounded by flowers, drinks with “bendy” straws, and opportunities to ride around in wheelchairs. Recuperation at home lasts about four or five days and, with any luck, I could extend that with a weekend.

The major shortcoming in this plan, of course, is how to get appendicitis. I don’t think it’s anything you can inflict from the outside, no matter how long a pencil you might be able to find. Because it’s a body part we don’t even need, there hasn’t been much research into preventing its onset, so it’s not like I can do whatever the opposite of practicing good appendix health would be. I suppose I could fake an attack and, by the time they got inside and found it to be normal, I’d still have to recover from the surgery. But at that point, they’d probably just take it out to be spiteful.

I wonder if they let you keep the appendix. If I need another couch vacation and opt for a toe removal, I could use it as a makeshift prosthetic.

An S.C. Republican who makes Sanford look good

One of the reasons so many South Carolina residents and politicians alike are hesitant to press forcefully for the resignation of our love-struck governor Mark Sanford has to do with the man who would succeed him.

Lieutenant Governor Andre Bauer, like Sanford a far-right Republican conservative, hasn’t shown a whole lot more maturity than the graying teenager currently inhabiting the governor’s mansion.

During an interview earlier this week, the 40-year-old bachelor with the bedroom eyes voluntarily brought up the topic of his sexual orientation, which he said has been the subject of rumors.

Lt. Gov. Andre Bauer, shown here not being gay

Asked, then, if he’s homosexual, Bauer said: “One word, two letters. ‘No.’ Let’s go ahead and dispel that now.

“Is Andre Bauer gay? That is now the story,” he said. “We’re a long way from where we were a week ago.

“We have diverted what the real topic should be here: Is the governor capable for carrying on the duties for which he was elected?”

But Bauer’s opponents won’t have to look far for ammunition against him. Bauer is beloved by many. But his political career has been plagued by missteps both political and personal.

When Bauer was a state representative, he decided at the last minute to run for an open Senate seat, moving to Chapin and changing his voter registration on the last day of filing.

In 2003, while running late, Bauer ran two red lights in downtown Columbia before stopping for a police officer, who quickly pointed a gun at him. Originally charged with reckless driving, the lieutenant governor pleaded guilty to two lesser charges and paid a $311.25 fine.

In 2006, Bauer was pulled over by a state trooper after he was clocked at 101 mph on an interstate. Bauer used his state-issued radio to tell the officer he was “S.C. 2” – code for lieutenant governor. He was not ticketed. When asked about it later, Bauer at first denied the story.

But Bauer has defended himself at every turn. He says “that officer was wrong,” referring to the Columbia police officer who pulled a gun on him.

And he said he did not try to use his influence to get out of a speeding ticket – and that he did not deny that he was pulled over.

“(The reporter) asked, ‘Did you get a speeding ticket?’ and I said ‘no.’ And that was the truth. Had he asked, ‘Did you get pulled?’ I’d have said ‘yes.’ And there is a vast difference there.”

But some don’t see the difference and wonder if Bauer has the credibility to restore respect to the governor’s office should Sanford resign or be forced out.

“After a scandal, the person who comes in after has to rebuild trust between voters and this highest office,” said Doug Woodard, political science professor at Clemson University. “Now you’ve got a problem. You’ve got a guy who’s got a reputation of doing some reckless things.”

“It’s rare that I drive anymore. If I have anybody with me I say, ‘Will you drive?’ because I am paranoid about anything I do,“ Bauer said.

“I’m scared to drink a beer in public. Somebody will take a picture and they’ll say, ‘Bauer’s an alcoholic. He’s a drunk.’ People expect elected leaders to be something they are not. They make mistakes. What you want out of a leader is you want them leading.”

In 2006, in the midst of his first race for lieutenant governor, he crashed a small plane he was flying. After getting out of the hospital, he garnered support for his runoff battle against Mike Campbell, son of previous S.C. Republican Gov. Carroll Campbell, by hobbling across a 2.7-mile bridge in Charleston with his leg in a cast.

Republican U.S. Senator Lindsey Graham, a 54-year-old bachelor who’s a close political ally of Bauer, agrees that the lieutenant governor is not gay, and is quick to add, “I’m not either.”

Oh, what we’ll do for a job

Gardening as exercise regimen?

The corporate health initiative at my workplace is now in its sixth week. As I described in my June post(http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/06/03/taking-measured-steps-to-better-health/), the so-called Green Paces program encourages employees to improve their physical condition by increasing their walking. Five-person teams were formed, amateurish motivational posters were put up, pedometers were issued and daily step counts were recorded.

At the latest count, my team is ranked tenth out of eleven at our site. On a corporate-wide level, there are 655 teams ahead of us, which may sound bad until you consider there are over a thousand teams involved. Actually, it sounds bad regardless of the competition.

I don’t want to point any fingers at the source of our pathetic performance, but our failure is pretty obviously due to a certain individual on our team. While the rest of us are regularly recording step counts in the range of 80,000 paces per week, Bob is dragging us down with numbers about half that. The least he could do is hop about his office while participating in his conference calls.

Even the best team at our site is only in eighty-fourth place. In an effort to keep our spirit of competition alive, despite having about as much chance of winning as Michael Jackson did at Wimbledon, our local captain is doubling down in her calls for endurance to strongly finish the 12-week event.

“REMEMBER THE GOAL OF THIS PROGRAM IS TO GET PEOPLE WALKING. IT TRULY IS AN INDIVIDUAL CHALLENGE!!” shouts the printout posted next to the breakroom door. “Please be sure to encourage and support each other. Way to go Teams!! Let’s keep it up!!”

I feel like I’m doing my part, so don’t look at me. I recently discovered that simply raising and lowering your heels while standing, from a flat-footed position to a tippy-toe position, counts the same as a step, and actually causes enough exertion to feel like exercise. So, I repeat, don’t look at me – especially when I’m standing at the urinal bobbing up and down like a piston with prostate problems.

If that sounds at all like cheating, it’s not, at least according to the official rules of the competition. In order to give credit for other valid types of exercise, the regulations specify that we calculate any non-walking exercise to equal 2,000 steps for every 15 minutes. The examples mentioned include biking, jogging, swimming and weight-training, though I know for a fact that some people are counting house-cleaning and gardening.

I can understand the cleaning, since I also work up a pretty good sweat vacuuming our carpets (I think of the dripping perspiration as an organic cleanser). But I just don’t see how you can count gardening as a workout. I’ll admire a juicy, vine-ripened tomato as much as the next person, and yet I hardly think of that as a way to keep fit. Touching some dirt might qualify as a stretch, though it’s not quite a workout. I might give you five steps for squishing a caterpillar, but that’s about it.

So I guess my team will continue to languish in the bottom third of the competition. In the last standings, we trailed a group called the “Walk A Roos” by over a hundred miles. “Looks like we have our work cut out for us,” writes our team leader in an understatement. “Wanted to share these results to help motivate everyone to work on increasing your weekly step counts.”

That definitely gets me motivated. Next week, I’m counting 2,000 steps for getting pissed off at the gardeners.

 

 

 

 

Check with your physician before admiring

I’d do anything (anything) for you

While blogging at my favorite café the other day, I found myself sitting next to what appeared to be an off-site job interview. A young, well-dressed man was eagerly answering questions being posed by the middle-aged guy across from him. I could see a one-page resume sitting on the table between them.

Anyone currently out of work who is fortunate enough to score a one-on-one meeting with someone in hiring mode knows how critical this session can be in making or breaking the success of the job hunt. You want so much to present a good impression that it’s easy for your responses to get a little out of hand.

The job being discussed was a regional sales position for a paint company. The salary was about $50,000 annually, a very good wage for a twenty-something living in South Carolina. The applicant’s willingness to do what it took to succeed in the job was being severely tested.

“This is not a sit-down office job, you know. There may be days where you’re in the stores helping to shelve paint cans,” the hiring manager said. “You can get dirty and sweaty.”

“That’s okay, sir,” the younger man said. “I’m not afraid of hard work.”

“You may start out one morning to make a sales call in Greenville and you’ll get a call telling you to go to Aiken instead,” said the manager.

“I understand,” said the applicant.

“We may at some point split this region into two sectors, and we require our salespeople to live in a certain area,” the manager continued. “Would you be willing to relocate?”

This time there was hesitation in the young man’s response, but he soon agreed that this too would be acceptable.

This is about the point where I wondered how far someone looking for work in this terrible economy would be willing to go. My imagination with how the interview might continue to evolve got a bit carried away.

“Our competitor’s paint is sold right next to ours,” I could hear the older man saying. “Would you be willing to replace their paint with puddings of different flavors? You know, butterscotch for the light brown, vanilla for the eggshell, etc.?”

“Would you be willing to apply our product to your face and neck when you make sales calls to new clients? To show your dedication to the brand?”

“How do you feel about drinking our paint to show how environmentally friendly it is? Not the semi-gloss, of course, just the matte finish.”

“Would you be willing to threaten retailers with a knife if they don’t give us end-cap prominence in the store display? If not a knife, how about a very sharp stick?”

It’s a very tight job market out there. I bet a lot of people would be willing to think about it.

Palin not the type to quit

Sarah Palin may or may not be the nation’s worst governor. As a resident of South Carolina, I’d be hard-pressed to point fingers at anyone else’s chief executive. Still, it’s hard to deny that she doesn’t seem especially skilled at political timing or the lakeside reading of prepared statements or even the application of proper amounts of blush.

But I don’t think she’s crazy and I don’t think she’s dumb. Her poll numbers among those who already dislike her hardly budged after her recent announcement that she’s resigning as Alaska’s governor, yet they continued to be sky-high among the base of supporters she’d need to secure the 2012 presidential nomination. If she’s crazy, she’s crazy like an arctic fox. If she’s dumb, she’s dumb like … like an elk? An eagle? A salmon? (I’m not sure who or what is considered smart in Alaska.)

I also don’t necessarily think that she’s a bad writer. Commentators nationwide had a field day with what they called the rambling, incoherent and bizarre nature of the lengthy pronouncement she delivered last Friday. CNN contributor Paul Begala even went so far as to complain about her punctuation.

“The text uses 2,549 words and 18 exclamation points. Lincoln freed the slaves with 719 words and nary an exclamation point,” Begala wrote. “Gov. Palin capitalized words at random – whole words like ‘TO,’ ‘HELP,’ and ‘AND.’ She put her son’s name in quotation marks. And I don’t even know what to make of a sentence that reads: ‘*((Gotta put First Things First))*’”.

(I apologize right now if my own punctuation at the end of that previous paragraph was questionable, but I forget the lesson in English class about how to handle two close parens, an asterisk, a close single quote and a close double quote at the end of a sentence. I must’ve been sick that day.)

My own theory as to why her press release drew such scorn has more to do with her typing skills than her writing ability. I’m guessing that when she was a young girl, her parents deliberately steered her away from clerical skills so she wouldn’t be dead-ended in a secretarial position. Instead, they urged her to hone her executive skills by executing moose, bear and other kinds of underlings. She had to attend four different colleges and who knows how many beauty pageants before she found officials willing to accept her handwritten thesis “World Peace: A Paradigm for Decoupling Transnational Incumbency from Armed Intervention.”

This defensive ignorance led to her undoing the other day. However, a careful analysis of some of her word, punctuation and capitalization choices against the typical QUERTY keyboard layout reveals that the declaration she intended to write is a good bit more astute than the version that ended up in print.

For example, those 18 exclamation points were probably attempts to hit the nearby ESC (escape) key, which she believed would deliver her from the fishbowl of public life. The seemingly random capitalization probably occurred when she struck the CAPS LOCK key, an attempt to state her opposition to Congress’ controversial passage of the so-called “cap and trade” emissions control bill. She pointedly avoided the SHIFT key, lest she be seen as just another shifty politician. The occasional asterisk represented the icy precipitation of her beloved Alaska.

She accidentally hit the PAUSE/BREAK key a few times to indicate that she’s only temporarily exiting from her leadership role in the Republican Party. She struck the ARROW UP key to remind her rural constituency of her love for primitive hunting techniques. She depressed the TAB key just because she wanted a diet soft drink, and the HOME key to remind listeners that her first obligation was to her family.

And all the ellipses? … Probably Morse Code warning foreign powers that any attempts to challenge American hegemony during her administration would be met with the dot-dot-dot of automatic weapons fire from invading U.S. troops.

Sarah Palin’s political opponents would be well advised not to underestimate her intellect. Any shortcomings she might exhibit now can be addressed and corrected during her time out of public office. If not, she can always balance the ’12 ticket by naming Mavis Beacon as her running mate.

Our next vice president? Could be!!!

Learning how to safely harass

Modern corporations have learned how important it is in this litigious society to anticipate legal action and proactively defend against it. While it’s still very difficult to predict customers’ reactions to potentially lethal product lines, it’s become somewhat easier to protect against employees who may be injured on the job. Workers might be able to throw themselves into the high-speed rollers of a hydraulic press, but the smart company can prove they were specifically trained to avoid death by crushing.

“We had a required course on that subject,” the human resources executive can claim. “He was taught not to do that.”

In this post-industrial age, most of this training is taking place on-line. Knowledge is power for today’s information worker. A well-educated workforce uses the learning culture that progressive companies maintain to keep them on the cutting edge of a globalized economy. How else will they keep up with the ever-changing phone numbers of their off-shore production facilities?

I recently received an email at my office telling me that some of my so-called compliance training was due. These courses have to be completed every year or so, lest you forget what qualifies as harassing behavior (John tells Sue “I’ll keep you out of the layoffs if you sleep with me”) or dangerous grooming habits (“unconfined ponytails are not an option on the manufacturing floor”). It was my harassment training that was required but I figured I’d take care of the safety stuff while I was signed on. I just hope I don’t get the two confused later and think it’s okay to sing sexually degrading songs as long as I’m wearing protective equipment.

He likes big butts and he cannot lie

Much of the training material offered is so obvious that you can take the certification test without any of that annoying “learning”. The point, after all, is not necessarily to make you a smarter person but rather to undermine any legal case you might be tempted to bring later. So they present you with a digestible chunk of information, then immediately ask you to regurgitate it for the record. By the way, keep in mind that you should report vomit, blood or Other Potentially Infectious Materials (OPIMs) as you would any other emergency.

The harassment piece covered sexual advances as well as other types of pestering based on race, color, religion, gender, national origin or disability. You can’t even tease coworkers’ relatives or friends about their clunky wheelchairs or their silly belief in some Almighty Animal or other ridiculous deity. This creates what’s called a “hostile work environment,” which can lead to a picture of a man running his fingers through his hair in obvious despair. Instead, we want an atmosphere where actors who are old, young, white, black, Asian, Hispanic, male and female can interlock their arms and smile for the camera. (Can you imagine putting a photo shoot for online corporate training on your acting resume? Talk about humiliation.)

I also learned about some of the more subtle forms of what is called risky behavior. While it’s fairly apparent that it would be improper to simulate sexual acts in front of Gail or scrawl racial epithets into the hood of Muhammad’s car, you may not have known that nicknames can be offensive as can commenting on body parts (“what a forearm!”) or saying hello in Spanish. They also give some good examples of behavior that stops just short of crossing the line into impropriety. For instance, it’s still acceptable to declare your home state’s football team is the best, or to post a picture of your pet on your wall, even if they’re naked.

It’s also important for employees to know how to react when they encounter conduct of others that may be wrong. You do, after all, represent the face of the company, even if you’re ugly. (Oops – sorry, HR). You can’t ignore the harassment; you should confront the harasser in a private conversation that’s direct not subtle, serious not casual. You don’t have to actually take down their offensive poster. Instead you should explain that Garfield’s distaste for Mondays could be misconstrued by sensitive staff members as a generalized prejudice against cartoon cats who were vaguely funny about 20 years ago.

At the end of the course, you take the test that proves you’ve learned the material. There are a few multiple-choice questions that might be a challenge, but it’s mostly only the two options of true or false. T or F? Following any investigation of a complaint, the results will be published on the internet (false). T or F? If harassment doesn’t stop after the confrontation, you should attack the harasser (false).

The segment on safety that I took next was even more straightforward, since there aren’t as many grey areas when it comes to matters of life or death. Beards can be no greater than 9.86 centimeters in length. You should never use a ladder unless you’ve been thoroughly trained to do so. Report fires or explosions of any magnitude. A sign that reads “Danger of Death/Keep Out” should be obeyed. Smile for the camera when you’re hoisting a large box, and be sure to lift with your legs and not your back, or maybe it’s the other way around.

Because this knowledge is so critical, a more thorough command of the information is required in the assessment. There are a few true/false subjects – it’s false that you should use metal cleaning pads to clean live electrical equipment – but most questions offer a blank that has to be filled in. “Remain outside the building until your supervisor has given the all-[blank] signal.” The snarky side of me wanted to answer “all-American” or “All My Children” or “all-inclusive.” I ultimately answered “clear” in case a weak moment made me retake the test.

My favorite fill-in-the-blank query is intended to be certain you understand the dangers of going into a “confined space” which, if not properly managed, can result in entrapment, poison-gassing or a desire to transfer there from your tiny cubicle. “You should contact your [blank] before entering a confined space” reads the statement, and the possible answers are “A. your supervisor; B. your OSHA representative; C. the CEO; or D. your family.”

I’d be afraid that A, B or C might constitute harassment of coworkers, so I think I’d opt for D, a final goodbye to my wife and son.

Weekend advice: Getting that guy to like you

“You Want My Advice?” is a weekend summer rerun feature of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, health, 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.”

Weekend advice: Ambitious home renovations

“You Want My Advice?” is a weekend summer rerun feature of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, health, etc., and offer completely inappropriate, irresponsible and possibly even life-threatening advice. Today, I field a question about home remodeling.

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.

Adventures in the crafts store

I think I’m a pretty good guy, as husbands go (especially considering that it’s “go” the bad ones increasingly do). I feel I’m a seasoned practitioner of the art of husbandry, having been married for almost 27 years now. My wife may not always agree, but she can’t deny that I’m trying, in at least two senses of the word.

Take this weekend, for example. On Friday, I accompanied Beth to the doctor, for treatment of her sprained back. Saturday, when she was feeling slightly better, we enjoyed a pleasant morning together, sampling baked goods on the patio of a nearby bakery. I spent most of my day Sunday cleaning the house, balancing the checkbook and – check this out, ladies – doing my own laundry. Can you imagine such a thing? A married man taking some responsibility for the maintenance his own environment? Where do I pick up my award?

It was the previous Saturday, however, when I think I truly went above and beyond. Beth has recently taken up the hobby of knitting. While I have no similar pastime that goes to quite that extreme on the feminine/masculine spectrum (I had to give up weekend bullfighting when my shoulder went out a few years ago), I have been fully supportive of this pursuit, especially since it resulted in a cozy pair of slippers for me. So when she needed a few extra skeins of yard and the local crafts store was having a sale, I cheerfully agreed to ride along.

When we arrived at Michaels, I learned that I was to be an accessory in more ways than one. There was a coupon online that entitled the bearer to one-half off the price of any knitting supply, but the deal was only one-per-customer, and my wife needed to purchase two skeins to finish her current project (it’s either a scarf or a bandolier, I forget which). My assignment was to pretend I was going to be purchasing one of the yarns for by own personal reasons, though God only knows what those might be.

For readers who aren’t familiar (men), the Michaels chain is the nation’s largest retailer of art and crafts materials, “helping crafters of all ages express their imaginations with skill and originality,” according to their website. Operating in 49 states and Canada, they offer a large selection of arts, crafts, framing, floral, wall décor and seasonal merchandise. The thousand-plus stores currently in business carry 37,000 basic items in warehouse-sized stores averaging close to 20,000 square feet of selling space.

When we walked into the Rock Hill store, I felt totally overwhelmed by a world I didn’t even know existed. This must be, I thought, what the first explorers of the ocean floor felt like, except with more air and fewer pounds-per-square-inch of water pressure. To the right of the entrance was an entire section devoted to ribbons, with displays that suggested incorporating them into everything from flip-flops to clipboards to lanterns to baby sleeping pillows. Just ahead was a sign-up station for an upcoming family event, in which participants would “create a summer fun tote bag.” To the left was a sign pointing to “pens, pencils, brushes and canvas.” What the hell, I wondered, is a “canva”?

I could see other department signs hanging from the ceiling in the distance. There was an entire area specifically for “doll and bear supplies” (what could these two subjects possibly have in common, except perhaps for Sarah Palin?) Another sign showed the way to “fashion crafting,” while a third and fourth that were only vaguely readable through the artificial ferns promoted “mosaic supplies” and “glue and adhesives.” They even had a department of foam, which I had believed was only available by pouring Pepsi on your ice cream.

Through the ferns, I could make out a familiar landmark

Finally, I saw a sign that pointed to something familiar, the rest rooms. Faced with the staggering array of options that lay before me, it seemed like an excellent time to wash my hands. I told Beth to go ahead and pick out the yarn ball I would be buying, and I’d meet her near the cash registers in five minutes.

Fortunately, there were no crafting opportunities available in the bathroom, though I had little doubt that the ladies’ facilities across the way contained gaily decorated commode handles and small statues created out of discarded toilet paper cores. But it did have one feature that would be as little-used as everything else in the store. Jutting out from the wall was one of those baby-changing stations that you see more and more these days in enlightened men’s rooms. Included next to the instructions on how to open the device and strap your baby therein was the raised print of Braille.

Into this improbable world of concepts I never knew existed, here came another: the idea that any man at all would even enter this store, that he would need to use a restroom, that he would have a baby with him, that the baby would need to be changed, that he’d be willing to do it and that, on top of everything else, he’d be blind. And I thought scrapbooking was unlikely.

I finished my business and met Beth near the checkout. I was extremely nervous about the caper we were about to pull. I’ve been involved in very little legally banned activity in my life, and was reluctant to have a career of crime begin with something as unprofitable as buying a ball of yarn that I had no intention of using. If I’m going to risk prison time, at least allow me the thrill of sticking up a liquor store. I am not about to explain to my fellow inmates that I’m in for coupon fraud at the crafts shop.

There were two registers in operation as we approached. I had insisted on going first so that it would technically be my wife who was involved in the criminal enterprise rather than me (as I noted earlier, such a good husband). Just as I stepped forward, my cashier picked up her cash drawer and walked away. Beth had already begun her transaction at the other station, so I was left with no choice but to step in line behind her.

My face felt hot and the back of my neck tingled. While friendly chatter was going on between the Michaels employee and my wife, all I could hear was the throbbing of my heart. We were both purchasing exactly the same item, right down to the dye lot number, whatever that is. There was no way the store would see this as a random coincidence, considering we had 36,999 other articles to choose from. My turn came and I gamely stepped up; the coupon trembled so much in my hand I was surprised the cashier could grab it.

“Oh, I know what you’re doing,” she said. “You’re both using the coupons.”

I was tempted to run but a bank of artificial flowers blocked my escape. I think they were flowers – artificial something, anyway.

“Don’t worry about it. I see nothing,” she laughed in a Sergeant Schultz accent.

I was flooded with relief and managed a slight chuckle. With the ruse exposed, we finished the transaction and I handed the yarn over to Beth, ready to get out of this place as soon as possible.

How fortunate for me and my continued freedom that the cashier was vision-impaired. If she needs a spot to change her baby’s diaper, I know exactly the place.

Fake News: Pope giddy with Obama-mania

ROME, Italy (July 12) – Pope Benedict XVI continued to bubble with excitement during Sunday mass celebrated in St. Peter’s Square, calling his meeting last week with President Obama one of the highlights of his reign.

“Gloria in Spiritum Sanctum, Gloria in Deum Patrem omnipotentem,” the pope told thousands of worshippers gathered at the open-air service. “Gloria in the awesomeness of President Obama.”

The Holy Father met with the American president in a 35-minute session in his study at the Vatican Friday. The two attempted to find common ground on several issues where the Catholic Church holds different views than the U.S. government, especially the question of reproductive rights. Obama said he would try to limit the number of abortions and that the procedure should be rare. Benedict said he was “cool with that.”

An aide to the pope had earlier described the discussion between the two men as “respectful,” but Benedict went even further, calling the get-together “pretty freaking exciting, if you ask me.”

Obama was in Italy attending the G8 economic summit and stopped off at the Vatican for a rare Friday audience with God’s other representative of His Kingdom on Earth. Despite disagreements on some sensitive ethical issues, both men agreed that it was important to help the poor, support human rights and limit the spread of nuclear weapons. They also concurred on the tallness and boyish good looks of Obama, and on the appropriate length of the pontiff’s robes.

The two heads of state exchanged gifts in a ritual show of respect for each other and their countries. The pope presented Obama with a Catholic treatise titled Dignitas Personae, which lists the various medical practices opposed by the Church, including the therapeutic use of stem cells, use of the morning-after contraception pill and, inexplicably, face transplants. Benedict said he was unofficially renaming the discourse No You Can’t, in a nod to the president’s campaign slogan “Yes We Can.”

Obama gave the Vicar of Christ an ivory stole with gold, crimson and blue trim that once was draped around the enshrined body of St. John Neumann, America’s first saint. Neumann served as bishop of Philadelphia from 1852 until 1860, was canonized in 1977, and lived down the hall from TV’s “Seinfeld” for seven years in the 1990s. The stole was removed from the saint two years ago when the body was re-dressed, according to U.S. officials.

“Ewww,” said the pope during the presentation, but later amended his comments to reflect his “thanks for the effort.”

“It was draped over a dead guy for a century and a half, but I’m going to concentrate on the fact that Obama touched it last,” said the pontiff. “If he screws up later, I can always get it laundered.”

More questions face Judge Sotomayor

Supreme Court nominee Sonia Sotomayor underwent a barrage of questioning in her confirmation hearings yesterday, with critics on the Senate Judiciary Committee wondering how she could have failed to anticipate that a group of old white men would get so outraged about supposedly prejudicial remarks made years ago.

“She should have shown enough foresight to predict that we’d one day care about such things,” said ranking Republican Sen. Jeff Sessions of Alabama. “Certainly I never anticipated that I’d be pushing sensitivity toward other races and ethnic groups. But I’m not the one who has to go through this process. She is.”

Sessions and other Republicans grilling President Obama’s first high court nominee cited Sotomayor’s now-famous 2001 comment that “I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn’t lived that life.”

“I am deeply offended that she would consider the judgment of white males to be less than that of others,” added Sen. Lindsey Graham (R-S.C.). “Until about six months ago, I thought our judgment was way better than anybody else’s. Now, I’m convinced that we’re at least as good.”

Meanwhile, it was expected that the questions facing the federal appeals court judge would only get tougher during Thursday’s session. A list of some of the planned queries to come from both Republicans and Democrats was released to the press late yesterday afternoon. They include the following:

• If the divorce of Jon and Kate were to reach the Supreme Court, and you had to decide the merits of the case based strictly on the Constitution, US Magazine and “Entertainment Tonight,” which of those two idiots would you have put to death?
• How much do you weigh? Is that with or without the cast?
• ¿Donde esta la biblioteca?
• Can you spare ten dollars until Friday? We get paid on Friday.
• If one train was traveling west at 65 mph and another train was traveling west at 50 mph on a completely different continent, why would anybody care?
• Did you ever have to make up your mind? Pick up on one and leave the other behind? It’s not always easy and it’s not always kind; did you ever have to make up your mind?
• What is eight times five?
• How do you pronounce your name again? What kind of a stupid name is that?
• If a white man and a wise Latina woman both had to decide between KFC’s new grilled chicken and McDonald’s new Angus burger, who’s life experience would lead them to make the better choice? And, as a follow up, would you like fries with that?
• Do you work out? I only ask because of how taut that dark blue business suit is against your broad, manly shoulders.
• Who’s uglier: Judge Judy or Judge Reinholdt?
• What’s the difference between a Puerto Rican and a Mexican?
• I know you come from the Bronx. Why is it called “the” Bronx and not just “Bronx”?
• Antonin Scalia — mmm — am I right?
• Would you mind terribly if I asked you to get me a cup of coffee? Cream, no sugar.
• Can you spell “jurisprudence”?
• You’re not that Argentine woman that was seeing Gov. Sanford, are you?
• Potent Potables for $800: Martini.
• Do you believe the dinosaurs were obliterated by a meteor some 165 million years ago and, if so, how do you explain the current makeup of the court?
• I understand you’re a practicing Catholic — what’s the deal with the pope?
• The specialized cardiac muscle tissue known as the atrioventicular node, or AV, is located in the wall between the right atrium and what? And can you put your answer in the form of an interpretive dance?
• Are you sure you aren’t Asian?
• See this thing on my lip? What IS that?
• How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if he were bound by the legal precedent set in U.S. vs. the City of Ontario, California?
• Regarding your decision about the firefighter exams in New Haven: what you really wanted was to handicap the entire rescue squad because you hate all people from Connecticut and hope to see them succumb to a fiery death, right?
• Do you have any sisters?
• We Republicans are really into Twitter — would you consider tweeting your thoughts during court deliberations?
• Where does the devil come from? Has he always been around?
• Two of my adjoining rooms have hardwood floors, one honey colored and the other darker. Is there any way to make the light one darker or the dark one lighter so they will match?
• My son has bumps on his head. Is there anything that can be done for him?
• Credit or debit? Paper or plastic? Would you like to donate a dollar to the Boy’s Home of East Lansing?
• A three-part question: When you ruled that nunchucks were not protected under the Second Amendment in the Maloney case, did you intend that virtually any state or local weapons ban would be permissible? Secondly, did you see that movie where that guy almost took someone’s head off with nunchucks? And finally, was that the coolest thing ever?
• Can you describe a time where you have been required to perform as part of a team? What was the situation? What part did you play in the team and what was the outcome of the exercise?
• How ‘bout them Uyghurs?

Fake News: Size of hole in plane debated

CHARLESTON, W. Va. (July 15) – Conflicting accounts of an incident aboard a Southwest Airlines 737 that forced an emergency landing here continued to filter in to investigators yesterday. A hole opened in the fuselage during the Nashville-to-Baltimore flight Monday, deploying oxygen masks into the laps of terrified passengers.

Catastrophic decompression at the cruising altitude of 30,000 feet can occur with even a pinhole-size breach in the aluminum skin of the aircraft. Rapid loss of air pressure in such a scenario can sweep occupants out of the airplane and to their deaths.

Initial reports said the hole was “football-size,” though a spokesperson for Southwest revised that later to say it was “more like the shape of a toaster, or a really large shoe.” A maintenance official who examined the aircraft shortly after its arrival here characterized the gap as “comparable to the size of a beagle.”

However, a representative of Boeing, who manufactured the 15-year-old airliner, told a local reporter that the tear was “about the size of a pillow, or perhaps a Sunday newspaper, but similar in shape to a laptop or phonebook.”

Officials at Southwest’s headquarters in Dallas continued to stand by their story that the opening was “no bigger than a cinderblock or a Tickle Me Elmo doll.”

A Maryland teenager who was sitting only two rows from the site of the rip told a Baltimore TV station “I just heard this loud boom and I could hear air rushing in. I was like I never thought it was ever going to happen to me in a million years. I had no idea if we were going to live or if it was going to get bigger.”

Fourteen-year-old Colleen Connolly said she got a good look at the hole as she and her cousin donned their masks, and said it was “at least as big as the head of the flight attendant, maybe as big as a roast, not the bone-in kind but more like a boneless pork roast.”

Michael Cunningham, another passenger on Flight 2294 who was taking a nap when the mishap occurred 30 minutes into the flight, dismissed the size comparisons as unimportant.

“The roof of the plane had a hole in it. We figured we were doomed,” Cunningham said. “Whoever said it was ‘football-sized’ has lost sight of the bigger picture. I repeat, the plane had a hole in it.”

“We weren’t concerned about whether or not we could toss a pigskin around the cabin without it flying out into the troposphere,” he said. “Any size sports ball at that altitude would be unacceptable.”

Website Review: Mortuary.com

I haven’t really decided yet what I want them to do with my body after I’m gone. We seem to be limited to only two choices, and I’m not too fond of either one. I like some aspects of the traditional burial, particularly the part where you lie in a grassy field of flowers and trees, though I guess technically you’re under the field where the ambience might be a little less pastoral. Then there’s the cremation option, which is the socially responsible thing to do these days. But if I’m hating the heat of summer, I can’t imagine what a 1,700-degree furnace would do to this pesky rash I have on my thighs.

Other cultures have gotten a lot more creative than ours on this subject, and I sometimes wish I could take a cue from them. The Eskimos are said to put their elderly on an ice floe, so disposal of the body is effectively taken care of by polar bears. The Zoroastrians  were environmentally conscious before it was popular, with the “ritual exposure” in their “Tower of Silence,” where the corpse is left on a roof for vultures to scavenge. I even find some appeal in the practices of the citizens of Disney World, who apparently have their heads frozen while they wait for a cure to whatever killed them, assuming they didn’t die in a parachuting accident.

In any case, I’m pretty sure I don’t want my mortal remains to be serviced by an international corporation, which is the business of a company called Service International Corporation, whose website I’ll be reviewing this week.

SCI might be better known in what is called the “deathcare” industry by the more customer-friendly name of Dignity Memorial, which it adopted for its funeral home brand in 1999. The history section says it began in Houston in the early 1960s as an effort to share the related resources of accounting and embalming among a handful of mortuaries. Within three decades, the company’s global network numbered more than 4,500 locations in 20 countries. But after a “period of change” began in 2000, offshore businesses were divested, leaving behind a company with “solid financials, exclusive products and favorable demographics” (lots of old people).

A surprisingly lively-looking CEO uses typical corporate lingo in his message to readers: “We are creating a strong platform from which to drive differential growth by further leveraging our scale, tailoring our approach to customers’ needs, and pioneering innovative products and delivery of services to a growing customer base.” In other words, they look forward to a day when everybody is dead.

In addition to subsidiaries such as the National Cremation Society (a club you do not want to belong to), Advantage Funeral Services (“simple” and “basic,” also known as “cheap”) and Funeraria del Angel for Hispanic clientele, the site describes a number of related aspects to SCI’s business.

There are partnerships with other companies to provide cemetery benefits for employees of, among others, Liberty University, the Florida Hospice Association and, oddly, Federal Express (when you absolutely, positively, have to be buried). There is the Dignity Memorial Escape School, which teaches “practical abduction-prevention techniques to keep children safe.” And there’s even Dignity University, a continuous learning resource offering 1,500 courses for SCI’s employees. As hard as it is to imagine so many death-related topics, it’s even more difficult to speculate what kind of football team they have, though I understand they’re disturbingly talented at beach volleyball.

This concern for investing in their own people – doubtless their greatest resource, except perhaps for shovels – is obvious when you view the profiles of some key employees, executives and board members. A career opportunities pulldown includes open positions for embalmers, funeral details clerks, hostesses and a “Senior Peoplesoft Analyst,” whose job I guess it is to counter the hardening effects of rigor mortis. A typical manager is Elisabeth Nash, a vice president of continuous process improvement who joined SCI from a similar position at Pennzoil, where she gained considerable experience in other carbon-based products. Among the company directors is former race-car driver A.J. Foyt, whose background in IndyCar racing taught him more than a thing or two about fiery death.

Speaking of which, SCI has been careful to position itself as not just a traditional burial provider but also an innovator that realizes some people prefer to have their loved ones scorched beyond recognition. You can even plan the details of your own demise ahead of time with the online Dignity Planning tool, available on both the web and Internet-enabled phones (talk about a killer app). Cremations tend to run a little cheaper than caskets, though not as much as you’d think: the high-end “Heritage” package is about $7,500 for cremation and $9,900 for the coffin interment, which also includes use of visitation facilities, flowers and “dressing and casketing of deceased.”

Other helpful areas of the website are designed to advise and educate those who might otherwise suffer embarrassment as well as loss. There’s a downloadable PDF called “Helping a Friend … what to say when you don’t know what to say.”

“Be a grown up and simply say what is in your heart,” it advises, as long as that’s not something like “you’ll have other children” or “he’s in a better place” or “what was Lee doing in that part of town at 2 a.m.?” Be ready to sit and listen, try a light squeeze on the shoulder, or offer a tissue. After the service, “be creative with ways to stay in touch,” with a basket of strawberries, a recipe or a crossword puzzle.

For help with that puzzle, there’s also a glossary of terms, included as part of the company’s annual report: a “lawn crypt” is an underground outer burial receptacle; “atneed” is funeral arrangements initiated after a death has occurred; and “general agency revenue” is commissions received from third-party life insurance companies.

Finally, I’ll mention the FAQ part of the site, which attempts to answer some of the most frequently asked questions that morticians encounter.

“Can a funeral be personalized? Yes. It can incorporate music, passions or hobbies” of the deceased, as long as they’re not too adult.

“Is embalming always required?  No, though your funeral home may require it if you select certain arrangements, such as a viewing.” Any time you’re going to be in smelling range of a cadaver, you want to trust the professionals on the subject of freshness.

“Should there be an open casket? If the person suffered before death, it is advisable to view the body.” That seems counterintuitive and more than a little insensitive.

“When the casket is open, how should the deceased be presented? Appearance should be as natural as possible. Leave their glasses on.” Also toupees, false teeth and clothes, I presume.

With all I’ve learned from this site, maybe I’ll consider something based on another culture after all. Maybe the Zoroasters have the right idea for modern times, with their green approach and cool name. My mid-sized South Carolina town doesn’t have a “Tower of Silence” or very many vultures, so perhaps some customization would be in order. Our tallest structure is the water tower and our nastiest creatures are drunk teenagers, so I’m hereby requesting that someone lay me out on top of the tower and let local kids entomb me in spray-painted graffiti.

Hindu cremation (not exactly SCI's style)

Clearing out the photo files

I was going to follow up yesterday’s post about mortuaries with some leftover information on the subject of cremation. On further reflection, however, it seemed like that wouldn’t be such a great topic for a Saturday.

I still wanted to share this one photo that I found. It shows the crematorium worker whose job it is to operate the furnace. Notice how concerned he is about the quality of his work.

"Everything going okay in there?"

Another picture I found while researching corpse disposal methods used by Native American tribes of the far north. This shows the lamalor armor made from hardened leather, wood and bones worn in battle by Siberians and Eskimos. It looks more to me like an ancient attempt at flight, what with the wing structures on the back. See what you think.

Protection at the expense of mobility

Finally, here’s a picture of an escaped murderer, included for no apparent reason.

If this guy wants to clean your gutters, say "no"

Guilty pleasures from my iPod playlist

It sure was great seeing Paul McCartney perform on the David Letterman show the other night. It brought back lots of great memories of some great songs from my youth. It was an inspired touch to have him performing on top of the building marquee, recalling the Beatles’ final public performance on a London rooftop 40 years ago. He looked great for a guy in his sixties; a little jowly maybe, but hardly deserving of the steel girders propping up the marquee beneath him.

As a baby boomer, the soundtrack of my youth included a stunning variety of the most innovative music ever produced. Much of what we still recall today justly deserves the designation of “classic.” However, there are quite a few compositions that would be better off lost.

Some of these songs just had unfortunate titles. There was a Journey hit of the seventies, a soaring melody sung by Steve Perry, one of the best power ballads of the time until it came to the chorus of “So now I come to you, with broken arms.” There was the Boston classic “Four-Letter Feeling,” truly great guitar rock unnecessarily spoiled by the suggestive title. Even the Beatles themselves, widely acknowledged for three generations now as the greatest pop group of all time, stumbled with the unfortunately titled “Hey Jew.”

Other songs may have seemed like a good idea in an earlier, less-sophisticated time, yet just don’t fit the politically correct sensibilities of today. Take “Young Girl,” a number-two smash from 1968 by Gary Puckett and the Union Gap:

Young girl get out of my mind
My love for you is way out of line
You better run girl
You’re much too young girl
With all the charms of a woman
You’re just a baby in disguise
And though you know that it’s wrong to be alone with me
That come-on look is in your eyes.

It might be easy to dismiss a little-known band trafficking in pedophilia like the Union Gap, but even some of the greats had moments of questionable judgment. John Lennon wrote lyrics to “Run for Your Life” that included the line “I’d rather see you dead, little girl, than to see you with another man.” Neil Young penned “A Man Needs a Maid,” reacting to a fictional breakup with the reassuring thought that he could always pay “someone to keep my house clean, fix my meals, and go away.”

There is a difference, I would contend, between popular songs about misogyny and sex crimes with minors, and the songs that are bad for more innocent reasons. These are the so-called “guilty pleasures” that populate many of our iPod playlists, mine included. When you’re looking for a certain beat, a catchy interlude or a fond but distant memory to inspire your workout at the gym, quality of composition is not a prerequisite.

So here I come clean with some of the favorites from my music player, along with an attempt to justify my choices. If no justification is possible, I’ll admit that too.

 “I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do” by Abba. Answering the musical question “Do you realize how many people loathe your music? Do ya? Hunh? Do ya? Do ya?”

“The Stroke” by Billy Squier. A rhythmic masterpiece (or master-something) containing the unforgettable lyric “stroke me, stroke me, do it, stroke me, stroke me.”

“The Good Ship Lifestyle” by Chumbawumba. Inexcusable.

“Life in a Northern Town” by the Dream Academy. If the makers of Ambien set up a charter school in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, this might be their senior class project.

“1812 Overture” by Tchaikovsky. Originally composed for a cereal commercial in the 1960s (“this is the cereal that’s shot from guns,” for those of you under 50), the piece was later adapted and expanded for use at the conclusion of the annual Boston Pops Fourth of July concert. I’m pretty sure it’s the only song on my playlist that features a solo for cannons, and makes me wish Abba had thought to write more music for medium-range artillery.

“All We Like Sheep” from Handel’s Messiah. A celebration of our relationship with the Lord, or, a discussion of the many advantages of domesticated herd animals (wool, mutton, milk, nursery rhymes, etc.). In either case, an inspiring example of Handel’s genius, regardless of whether you’re a Christian or an animist.

“Wind It Up” by Gwen Stefani. What do you get if you combine the yodeling song from “Sound of Music” with a dance-club beat, then throw in the occasional voice of a black guy noting that “she crazy”? My sad, sad attempt to enjoy the latest sounds in pop.

“Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves. A breezy summer hit that captured the spirit of warm-weather efforts at “tryin’ to feel good,” until later connections to a certain killer hurricane with 25-foot storm surges dampened Katrina’s career.

“Beautiful Stranger” by Madonna. Indefensible.

“Word Up” by Melanie G. Former Spice Girl tries to go urban but instead ends up in the central business district.

“Tubular Bells” by Mike Oldfield. Hypnotically repetitive, this piece is best known as the theme from the movie “The Exorcist.” The only lyrics are spoken introductions of the musical instruments – bagpipe guitar, glockenspiel, mandolin, fuzz guitar, Farfisa organ – capped off with the triumphal announcement of “tubular bells!”, apparently a kind of chime.

“Kicks” by Paul Revere and the Raiders. An early anti-drug anthem that would’ve been a lot more effective had it not been sung a band that sported tri-corner hats.

“Grand Hotel” by Procol Harum. Most regrettable.

“Livin’ La Vida Loca” by Ricky Martin, “YMCA” by the Village People and “Relax” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. There’s just something about the heresy of listening to gay anthems like these while watching Fox News on the Y’s treadmill that gives you a tremendous energy boost.

“El Condor Pasa” by Simon and Garfunkel. This ethereal but little-known piece, featuring ghostly Andean flutes, is either about the endangered scavenging vultures of South America, or Paul Simon’s disappointment at losing a bidding war on a townhome in Manhattan.

“Something in the Air” by Thunderclap Newman and “Spirit in the Sky” by Norman Greenbaum. I always thought of these songs as being a paired set, but didn’t realize why until I typed them here and considered the similarities in the titles. They’re both incredibly pretentious.

“Chariots of Fire” by Vangelis. A must for any treadmill runner who looks as bad in shorts as I do.

“Clones (We’re All)” by Alice Cooper. A wonderfully clever song from late in his career, except for The Title (Being Too Clever With).

“How to Kill” by Art of Noise. Inexplicable.

“Walk Like an Egyptian” by the Bangles and “Venus” by Bananarama. These could easily be the same song – “Walk Like a Venutian.”

“How Can I Keep From Singing?” by Enya. One might suggest this now-aging new-age ingénue consider stuffing a large, wet sock in it.

“Flying Dutchman” by Richard Wagner. Not sure you can characterize Hitler’s favorite composer as a “guilty pleasure.” This is also the tune used in the Looney Tunes classic wherein Elmer Fudd, another of history’s homicidal maniacs, sang “kill the wabbit.”

“Circle of Life” by Elton John. I forget now where the circle started for Elton but I know it ended up on a tour with Billy Joel performing before half-filled arenas.

He’s Tom. He’s a cat.

This is my cat. His name is Tom. We already had two cats when we got him, so we didn’t put a lot of creative energy into naming him.

He lived outdoors for at least a year before we adopted him, and has the attitude and scars to prove it (there’s one — a scar, not an attitude — you might be able to see on his nose in the picture below). He’s fat and happy now that’s he’s living the indoor life. His hobbies include getting really mad at birds, and biting any human that attempts to pet him.

In this photo, he’s holding down one of his favorite positions on the kitchen window sill that looks out into our front yard. It’s a defensive posture from which we have trouble getting him down. He hunkers behind a ceramic cat mobile that he can tangle himself into should one of us stop by and feel the need to pick him up for some much-hated hugging.

They say that, unlike dogs, cats can’t show emotions via facial expressions. After viewing the contempt in his face that’s shown in this picture, I challenge anyone to agree with that contention.

He’s Tom. He’s such a kitty.

Tom says: "Just try picking me up from here. Just try."

Fake News: Moon landing was staged

WASHINGTON (July 20) – Apollo 11 astronauts who gathered at the White House yesterday to mark the fortieth anniversary of their 1969 moon landing stunned onlookers by suggesting their entire mission was a hoax.

Retired Air Force pilot Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin made the announcement shortly before meeting with President Obama that he was “tired of living a lie” and said that conspiracy theorists who suggested the lunar trip was staged for cameras as a way to restore American prestige were “basically right.”

“The whole thing was shot at the Area 51 UFO landing site in Nevada, with the aliens captured in that failed 1948 attempt to invade Earth serving as our consultants,” Aldrin told shocked reporters and NASA officials. “It was a very convincing piece of film that we put together, thanks in part to the brilliant cinematography of Lee Harvey Oswald.”

Aldrin, who has been the only member of the three-man Apollo crew to remain in the public eye over the years, countered a brief challenge from fellow astronaut Michael Collins that the trip to the lunar surface could be a fraud.

“I was there, Buzz,” Collins interrupted. “I was the guy staying behind in the command module while you and Neil (Armstrong) took the ‘Eagle’ down to the surface.”

Aldrin, who battled alcoholism following his retirement from the space program, said that he and Armstrong maneuvered their tiny landing craft out of view of Collins, rendezvoused with a nearby “super-rocket” left in orbit during a previous mission and returned quickly to Earth to film the 20-minute segment in the desert. That film was then released by NASA to a worldwide audience that was told it documented an actual visit to the moon, he said.

A reporter asked the soft-spoken Armstrong if this were true, and he either said “hunh” or “yunh,” nobody was quite sure. Collins also chose not to pursue the matter further, commenting “whatever” when asked if the remarkable claim could be true.

Aldrin has long been an outspoken advocate of space travel, teaming up recently with Snoop Dogg, Quincy Jones and Soulja Boy to create a rap single and video titled “Rocket Experience.” He has been a proponent of a manned flight to Mars, suggesting the cost of such a project could be controlled if those astronauts were not returned to Earth.

Aldrin admitted that a trip to the moon would be “good practice” before undertaking the two-year journey to the red planet. He said a crew of three could accomplish the lunar effort using existing technology within the next few months.

“I’ve even picked out what would be the perfect team,” Aldrin told the rapidly dispersing crowd on the White House lawn. “I think (Michael’s mother) Katherine Jackson, (third-place British Open finisher) Lee Westwood and one of those Humboldt squids (recently reported in large numbers off the San Diego coast) would work great together.”

“Those jumbo flying squids are only about a hundred pounds, yet still have razor-sharp beaks and very strong toothy tentacles,” he said. “They’d do a terrific job of protecting Katherine from any moon-man attacks. And I think Lee has proven with his sweet swing that he could keep the mother ship on course.”

A taskmaster I’m not

I recently received an email from a higher-up at my company that seemed to suggest I’d be taking on an assignment. I don’t mind doing everyday work at the office but something akin to a project was alarming news, or could be if I found a way to make sense of the communication.

I was being “tasked” to act as a “resource” charged with producing a “deliverable” in an effort at improving our “validation.” As I waded through the dense corporate prose, I gradually got a vague idea of what I was to do.

The “validation” was designed to audit a process we have in place to audit our auditors, ridiculous perhaps to those not familiar with all the cross-checks we do in my field yet something I actually understood. Because I’m well past my reproductive peak, I knew the “deliverable” didn’t require me to bear live young but instead to return a written report. I guessed it was me who was being called the “resource,” which is one of the nicer complements I’d received at work in some time.

As for the “tasking,” I finally figured out that it meant I had to do something. I was okay with that, as I do a lot of things every day. I was just glad that it didn’t involve multi-tasking which, like many men of my generation, I’m not very good at.

Dictionary.com defines multi-tasking as “free background checks on tutors, online video tutoring, live learning.” No, wait, that’s the advertisement on Dictionary.com. Multi-tasking is the “concurrent or interleaved execution of two or more jobs by a single CPU,” though it’s also frequently applied to individuals who can do more than one thing at once, individuals who are typically young people or women people.

The example we’ve seen cited most often in the media over the last few months is the breast-pump/Blackberry scenario, in which high-powered female managers are able to successfully balance their family responsibilities with their careers. I think this situation is more symbolic than real, since even the sharpest executive can occasionally confuse a send button with an on-switch, which dismays the heck out of the customer service representative at your wireless provider who tries to help un-stick your keypad.

I realized a few days ago just how inept I was at multi-tasking when my wife called my cell phone while I was driving to a local fast-food restaurant. I answered the call just as I was pulling in to Wendy’s to order a 5-piece nuggets (no sauce), and listened intently as she asked if I needed anything at the grocery store. It took every last bit of concentration I could summon to avoid running over the speaker box and/or placing a takeout order for roll-on deodorant, a can of jungle-strength Off! and a refill on my Lipitor (no sauce).

I didn’t do much better the next day when she called me again while I was hiking along a busy highway from my workplace to a nearby diner. I needed to confirm an upcoming dental appointment, continue walking in a straight line, and avoid being hit by an oncoming tractor-trailer all at the same time. (And I’m not even counting relatively autonomic exercises like respiration, digestion and brain-stem activity.) I was careful, I was successful, and I was proud of myself.

Typically I do a better and more thorough job when I can line up a set of chores in sequential order. Take my morning routine, for example. I start the coffee brewing, remove the lunchmeat from the refrigerator, lay the bread out on a paper towel, remove the cat from the counter, rinse off some grapes, retrieve my briefcase from the hallway, pick out a couple of Oreos, dislodge the cat again, assemble the sandwich, select a breakfast bar from the cupboard, yell “no” at the cat, pour the coffee into a mug, brush the crumbs into the garbage, and put everything into the briefcase. My arms are flying about and the end-result might take a little longer to achieve than if I was able to combine some of my efforts, but at least I don’t open my satchel four hours later and have Tom jump out.

Maybe it’s the involvement of modern communications equipment that contributes to my befuddlement. Considering that I can barely look for the correct expressway off-ramp and listen to a radio at the same time, it’s not surprising that I have these difficulties. I like to say my brain is hard-wired differently, as if that high-tech analogy will deflect any perception that I’m simply an aging idiot. I think I’m pretty adept with computers and electronics for someone in their mid-50s, however I need to focus on the function at hand if I’m to avoid accidentally taking down the Southeast power grid when I only meant to send my son an instant message.

Fortunately, the validation project I was roped into was something I could complete on my own timetable and terms. I took two days “off-line,” as we call it when we head to the conference room for a mixture of spreadsheet compilation and laptop Scrabble, and assembled an impressive list of suggested revisions to our standard operating procedure. I redefined glossary terms, offered a few new practice exercises and assembled a nice choice of additional words into a professional-sounding collection.

I just hope the recipient of my deliverable reads the words in the order I submitted them. Otherwise, she’ll be as confused as I usually am.

America looks hard for health care

Gopp Medical Group, this is Jenny. How may I direct your call?

Yes, my name is America, and I was a patient with your practice a while back. I haven’t been in for some time now but my back is starting to hurt again and I just wanted to see if the medicine I was taking before …

One moment, please, I’ll transfer you.

Recorded voice: We want you to know how much your call means to us and we’re working to give you the personal attention you deserve.

Hold music (Janis Joplin): Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose, nothing …

Appointments desk, this is Erin.

Uh, yes, I’m not sure if I need an appointment or not. My lower back is stiffening up on me like it was last year, and I wondered if Dr. Gopp could give me the same prescription that …

Who put you through to this extension?

I think her name was … Jenny, maybe?

We need to stop her on this. If I’m able to keep her from transferring these calls back here, it will lead to her humiliating devastation. It will break her. Break her, I tell you.

Excuse me?

Just a minute, sir. I’ll transfer you.

Recorded voice: Your call is starting to mean a little bit less to us. In fact, it’s starting to cost us money. Remember, the primary way we can help reduce health care costs is to not use them. Thank you.

Hold music (Abba): Waterloo, couldn’t escape if you wanted to. Waterloo, knowing your fate is to be with you. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa … Waterloo, finally facing your …

Nurse’s station, how can I help you?

Yes. This is America calling and I was trying to get some help for my back. I’ve been putting a lot of strain on my spine recently and it’s starting to bother me.

Sir, you’re conducting a dangerous experiment with your health care. It’s a reckless experiment. You want to ram some relief through in the next two weeks, but this is an ill-conceived attempt to experiment and all of us should be scared to death. Slow down.

What? Two weeks? I just thought maybe Dr. Gopp could call in a prescription for me.

Mr. America, do you have health insurance? What sort of plan do you have?

Uh, I’m on Medicare, and it’s never been a problem before with your office. I really just wanted to ask a question about …

Medicare, huh? That’s socialism! Next question.

Next question? Well, I guess maybe I better come in and talk to the doctor himself.

Just a second, I’ll transfer you.

Recorded voice: Okay, now you’re really starting to get on our nerves. You’ve made it past the first two barriers, and now we’re scrambling to cover the phones. In the future, please consider chants and poultices as alternatives to modern health care. Thank you.

(Hold music) Rage Against the Machine: I got nothin’ to lose ‘cause I’m goin’ for the steel. Black steel in the hour of chaos…

Appointments desk, how can I help you?

Yeah, what’s with your ‘hold’ music? I thought it was supposed to soothe people while they waited. That was some pretty aggressive rap on that last segment.

Well if you think that’s bad, just wait until the country sees what Nancy Pelosi and Ted Kennedy are planning to do with your healthcare. Let me fax you this flowchart that shows the web of bureaucracy.

I … I don’t need any flowchart. I just wanted a doctor to help me with this pain. Who are those new doctors you mentioned? Dr. Kennedy? Would he be able to see me this afternoon?

Sure, you can see Kennedy. He’s working hard to make health care worse for the millions who already have insurance.

I’m sure he’s working very hard but I’ve been a patient with your practice for a long time. Could I just come down to the office and wait to be squeezed in?

Sir, I’m going to put you on hold again and you might want to sit down this time, because it’s going be quite a while before we can get to you.

But I …

Please hold, sir.

Recorded message: Alright, that’s it. Now you’ve definitely made us not only angry, but vengeful as well. Should you actually make it in to see a doctor, we will be misdiagnosing your condition. Thank you for your understanding.

(Hold music) Chicago: I’ve been searching so long, to find an answer …

Website Review: WARNING – Post contains scrapple references

Sitting in traffic at a red light the other day, I found myself surrounded by large trucks, which is where I often turn for reading material when I’m bored. One towering panel urged me to be an owner/operator who could have weekends at home. Another wanted me to be aware he was carrying caustic, radioactive explosives while a third suggested I call an 800-number if I wanted to eat shit.

Then I saw a smaller truck directly in front of me that encouraged something only slightly more palatable for my breakfast: “Neese’s low carbs,” it read. “Scrapple 7 grams, liver pudding 8 grams, liver mush 9 grams.”

The light changed and I made my left turn while my stomach turned right and rolled over. Having grown up in the kitchen of a Pennsylvania Dutch mother, I actually enjoyed scrapple as a naïve youth. Sort of like sausage yet pan-fried to a flat and crispy slab, I knew it had pork in it somewhere along with cornmeal and spices and a lot of other constituents I didn’t want to know about. To objectively describe it, though, I’d have to go online. I found a site called chowhound.com with several comments on the subject, and what I thought would be an excellent description for those whose only familiarity with rural mid-Atlantic cuisine was chewing tobacco.

“I’m sure I’ll offend someone with this, but Scrapple has to be one of the worst-tasting things I’ve ever put in my mouth,” said one poster. “We were duped into trying it by a waitress in Pennsylvania. After a polite bite of what looked like grayish Spam I wanted to scrub my tongue with a brillo pad. I’ve tried blood sausage, ostrich jerky and wild antelope, but Scrapple beats them all.”

Farther down, another commentator was only a little more kind: it has “pork stock, pork, pork skins, pork hearts, pork livers, pork tongues, cornmeal, flour, salt and spices,” read this entry. “My Yiddish grandmother and five millennia worth of ancestors are turning over in their respective graves and, after that ingredient list, I may join them.”

To get a kinder portrayal from someone who actually makes their living producing this stuff, I turn not to the mud-slathered hog ready for a complicated afternoon at the butcher, but instead to neesessausage.com, owner of the truck I was stuck behind, and the subject of this week’s Website Review.

The home page of this relatively simple site appropriate to a small regional firm shows a picture of an antique delivery van (possibly used to dispatch the pigs in more than one sense of the word) and proudly proclaims its products have been “DELIVERED FRESH DAILY SINCE 1917.” There’s even a click-through on the word “freshness” that takes you to a page explaining they were the first North Carolina company to use sell-by dates on their packaging. They show a sample label reading “12 Sep 19,” which means the product is best used by September 19. The “12” is simply an “internal control number,” not the number of different glands in that particular pack.

One could easily contend that freshness is not necessarily the issue for those eating offal, but I do see the point that e. coli is probably less appetizing than even their most hard-core pork product. What that product might be could come from just about any of the items listed in the “Our Products” pulldown. There’s the liver pudding, with the modest claim that “believe it or not,” it’s a favorite of kids and “by the way, it doesn’t taste like pudding and it doesn’t look like liver.” There’s liver mush, a regional variation on liver pudding with no discernable difference other than the word “mush” being even more disgusting. There’s souse, which “has a flavor some swear you can’t find anywhere else in the world,” assuming that’s a good thing. There’s extra-sage sausage, a very wise and judicious pork derivative. And there’s C-Loaf.

Not happy with their caption that “there are lots of folks who don’t know what C-Loaf is, but if you grew up on a farm you know it,” I turned to a popular search engine for help. At first, I was shocked to see that it’s made from the remains of members of the Construction Licensing Officials Association of Florida (CLOAF), then only slightly less appalled to read other descriptions of “grey ghostly pork brick,” “square hot dog,” “parts not good enough for sausage” and “head and scraps.”

I turned next to the Company History section of the Neese’s website to learn more about the business itself. The first Neeses immigrated to America in the 1700s and became farmers, blacksmiths and livestock traders. “They harvested almost everything they ate,” and apparently ate everything they harvested. By 1917, J.T. Neese was selling sausage from a covered wagon that was made from his wife’s secret recipe (the sausage, not the wagon). In the late 1920s, sons Tom and Homer took over the family business, which now is run by Tom III.

Today’s chief executive showed an early interest in molded entrails, as the story is told of the very small child helping out at the State Fair and challenging the adult kin who preferred cutting sample slabs into six pieces to opt instead for the more bottom-line-friendly eight-cut. “That would make Tom III wrong except for one thing: his name is Neese.”

Similarly folksy but pointless stories are littered throughout the website margins, designed to portray an old-timey image rather than any coherent corporate philosophy. The first Mr. Neese once bought a cup of coffee while dressed in his overalls, which made the waitress think that he was a vagrant. To prove he wasn’t, he paid for the coffee with a hundred-dollar bill. Another time, someone stole his pipe when he left it on the hood of his pickup. Discovering the theft, he “thought for a moment, pulled out his tobacco, placed it on the hood and said ‘whoever got my pipe is going to need this tobacco.’” Truly, a great man.

There’s the requisite section offering recipes that use Neese’s products, and these are mostly predictable: sausage balls, sausage dip, sausage stew, sausage and penne pasta dinner, liver-cheese ball and the “Best Ever Liver Pudding Sandwich.” You can even go online to submit your own recipe, though I’m not sure they’d publish my idea for putting scrapple, C-loaf and liver mush through a high-powered juicer, then misting it lightly from a Predator drone over the Taliban-held Swat Valley.

The last part I’ll mention, in the Neese’s News pulldown, brings me full circle back to that intersection where I encountered one of their trucks. It seems the company now collects and restores historic delivery vehicles with the same kind of exquisite detail they put into their processed innards. They have a covered Conestoga wagon used to deliver sausage as early as 1905. There’s a completely restored 1927 Dodge that “found its way to Neese from its original owner in Plattsburg, NY, and then on to another owner in Flemington, NJ and finally purchased from a Mr. Buckley in Rural Retreat, Virginia.” There’s a 1929 Ford sedan found in a barn, bought by a Greensboro family, traded for a van, then sold to a meat market manager who then sold it to Neese.

If this liver thing doesn’t work out, sounds like they could give Carfax a run for its money. I bet the mold-encrusted original title on a Katrina-flooded Pontiac Aztek could serve as another fine filler in the Neese’s line of mysterious breakfast meats.

Country scrapple, next to some kind of twig

My advice: Get right with God

“You Want My Advice?” is a weekend summer rerun feature of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, health, 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.

Monday musings

At least they have a job

While it might be hard to feel sorry for anybody who still has a job these days, I can’t resist pitying the poor individuals whose duty it is to promote a business by holding a sign or wearing a costume while standing by the side of the road.

Both variations come with intrinsic humiliations. If you’re only holding a placard – usually on the corner near a store that’s going out of business – it may not be as stifling hot, but you’re open to the taunts of anyone you’ve ever known who happens to be driving by. If you’re wearing a cow costume outside a Chick-fil-A or a Little Caesar’s suit at the pizza shop, at least no one will be able to identify you, or the lifeless heap you leave behind after the heatstroke. You can’t even pass the time by checking your text messages without betraying your role (whoever heard of a first century Roman tyrant carrying a cell phone, much less a cow?).

I saw the worst example yet the other day outside a bedding store near my home. Someone had cut three holes into a mattress and then paid an innocent teenager to stick his head and two forearms through the holes so he could wave and smile at oncoming traffic. He had become a profusely sweating Mr. Mattress, eager to publicize up to 40% off select bed sets. Store owners had provided a barstool to give him some measure of comfort, and to convince motorists he wasn’t being pilloried.

I stopped by later to take a picture of the unfortunate kid (don’t worry, I would’ve shot it from behind; I’m not that insensitive), but all that was left was the stool. Still photography wouldn’t have done the barbaric scene justice anyway. Only video could’ve shown how the urgent arm-waving made it appear less like he was a welcoming mascot, and more like he was being consumed by a pillow-top inner spring.

Probably not what he had in mind when he considered a career in advertising.

New Olympic event?

I’d like to propose a new track-and-field event for the 2012 Olympics: a 100-yard race in which you’re not allowed to move your arms. Tests would need to be conducted to determine whether rules should require runners to willfully hold their own upper limbs in check tight by their sides, or whether strong elastic strapping was permitted. I’m flexible on the subject, as long as they don’t move their arms.

Needling the wife

Jogging on the edge of a rough neighborhood recently, I looked down to see a discarded hypodermic needle lying in the road. Feeling like I needed to do something about it, I poked at it with my shoe. It seemed, though, that this wasn’t enough, that I needed also to inform an authority. But who?

When I arrived home a few minutes later, I told me wife about the hazard. We both agreed that calling 911 or even the police office was a bit of an over-reaction. She contended that the same city officials who cart off animal carcasses could deal with used drug paraphernalia, while I thought it would require somebody wearing a hazmat suit. This led to a spirited discussion of which would be worse – touching a dead possum or risking exposure to hepatitis.

We’ve been married for almost 27 years now, and I’m proud to say we still haven’t run out of things to talk about.

When roaming free may not be good

The health food supermarket where I occasionally do my blogging has a very nice specialty meat section, complete with signs pointing out the advantages of eating humanely-raised animals. One of the items they sell is “free-roaming lamb.” While I’ve heard of free-range chicken and pasture-raised cattle, I have a little trouble imagining how allowing young sheep to wander the countryside would improve their flavor. Seems like a lot of them would just end up tasting like whatever kind of pickup truck they were hit by.

Robotic gratitude

I drove my Honda Civic through the automated car wash not too long ago and was pleased to discover that they had improved the instructions for drivers using the service. After you enter your number on a keypad, you pull forward into the bay, positioning your vehicle precisely so that the pipes and spray hoses can work properly.

There’s a large digital sign containing four phrases, each with a bright red light bulb next to them. The top one says “pull forward,” the middle one reads “stop” and the third one says “back up.” Sensors detect if you’re in the right spot, and then you can inch forward or back to make the proper adjustment. Skilled driver that I am, I hit it right on the nose, then sat back and enjoyed the soothing pelt of water on the windows.

When I was done, the light next to the fourth phrase lit up. “Thank you,” it said. This was apparently my cue to leave, as well as the robot’s way of showing its gratitude for my patronage. I thought we hit a new low in business transactions when the dot-matrix “THANK YOU” at the bottom of your receipt served as your appreciation. I should’ve known that American enterprise could always go lower.

It takes a genius

Readers of the “Ask Marilyn” column in yesterday’s Parade Magazine witnessed further evidence that American’s general level of intelligence has sunk even further.

For those unfamiliar with the piece (typically, I wouldn’t admit reading Parade Magazine either), Marilyn Vos Savant parlayed her fame as holder of the world record for highest IQ into a weekly column answering readers’ most difficult question. Common queries are along the lines of “what is truth?” or “could the sun burn out tomorrow?”

Yesterday’s question was a little less challenging: “What makes islands float?”

Abusing the kindness of others

Anybody familiar with the Panera bakery chain knows how generous they are with their facilities. The free wi-fi, roomy tables and intense air-conditioning are a magnet to both people looking to conduct informal business meetings and those just interested in checking their Facebook pages.

Some of the business people, however, seem to be getting a little out of control. Hooking up your laptop for hours is one thing, but conducting job interviews, offering sales presentations and bringing a portable printer to set up at the adjoining table are simply taking unfair advantage. The shop nearest my work recently had their entire back room taken over for a sales meeting, complete with projection equipment and loud, annoying pep talks.

I fear it won’t be long before we encounter the human resources manager who chooses to take his downsizing announcement offsite. “I’m sorry to inform everyone that your positions have been eliminated effective this coming Friday,” he might announce. “Please accept this cinnamon crunch bagel as a sign of my condolence.”

Math 101 — no, make that 165

Spent $165 this weekend for two introductory mathematics books my son will be using during his freshman year at college this fall. While I’m confident he’ll do well in the course, I can’t help but have the feeling that I just failed some kind of basic math.

My advice: Take advantage of friends’ kindness

“You Want My Advice?” is a weekend summer rerun feature of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, health, 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.

Fake News: Obama not there at all?

TOPEKA, Kansas (July 27) – Doubters of President Obama’s U.S. citizenship have continued to splinter into various sub-groups over the past week even as it appears their overall numbers may be expanding.

Despite repeated debunking with certified documents as well as newspaper clippings and hospital papers, conspiracy theorists on the fringes of the right wing are saying that Obama was not born on American soil or, perhaps, doesn’t even exist at all.

“What first African-American president are you talking about?” asked Steven Adams of the blog Nobama. “I don’t see any first African-American president around here.”

Adams is among a growing group on the Internet who deny the corporeal being of Obama, even though others have criticized him as all too visible on TV and elsewhere in the public eye.

“Maybe you’re thinking of Colin Powell, or perhaps Tiger Woods,” Adams said in response to a reporter’s questions yesterday. “Or that one guy on Saturday Night Live. You know Armisston or Armistrong or whatever the hell his name is.”

Another cynic who goes only by the screen name Voidoid said the “O” in the “Obama” name was misleading “because ‘O’ or zero is technically different from the null set, which is what I’d consider him if it were possible to consider the ether.”

Others in the so-called “birthers” movement admit the existence of an Obama-like creature while still disputing various details about his life that could call the legitimacy of his presidency into question.

“I not only doubt that he was born in the United States, I don’t even think he was born on this planet,” wrote Mike Louis at AliensEverywhere.org. “His Betelgeusean name is actually Bar-Ak, and those big ears of his are really receptor dishes that pick up signals from his home sun. You can tell when he’s getting an incoming message because that mole to the left of his nose starts blinking.”

Another vocal skeptic who has been heard most often on social networking sites claims that Obama was not born in Hawaii but instead in Ireland. Ken Wright has been reporting on his Facebook page that a feint of punctuation has removed the apostrophe from the original O’Bama family name and transplanted to the recently modernized spelling of “Hawai’i.”

“It’s all part of the same plot,” said Wright, who lists “Obama sucks” as his Facebook status. “Apostrophes have a long history in Marxist/Leninist circles.”

Richard Andrews of a group that calls itself the Anagram Truthers claims that the president’s true identity lies in the rearrangement of the letters in his name. The phrase “karma cab boa” could indicate he’s of Indian, Somalian or South American origins while “a kabob car, ma” suggests Middle Eastern roots.

“I think you have to look at his full name: Barrack Hussein Obama,” Andrews told a gathering of his followers last month. “Change it around and you have ‘A cabana bush smoker I.’ This confirms his status as a lazy beachcomber, an Australian aboriginal and a nicotine addict. I also have reason to believe he doesn’t floss every day.”

You can count on me

Today I am 55 years, 265 days old. (Hold the renditions of “Happy Birthday,” please). If I live to be what is generally considered the maximum human age of 113 years, my life is not even half over; if instead I live to reach the typical American white male life expectancy of 74 years, I’m about three-quarters done. To look at it even more pessimistically, of all the good times I’ve lived – my wedding, the birth of my son, a cruise to Alaska, that time I got a free cookie – probably 90% of these are in the past. Of all the bad times still to be endured, a similarly high percentage is yet to come.

For someone who was never that interested in mathematics during my formal education, I sure can obsess about numbers. My wife used to get on me when I’d make a casual comment during the eleventh day of our two-week vacation that our holiday together was already 78.5% over. “Why can’t you just enjoy it instead of trying to quantify how much of it is left?” she’d ask, and I’d think “but calculating is half the fun.” Even though she had her undergraduate degree in math, she failed to appreciate how my observation was at least as joyous to me as the Napa Valley winery tour was to her.

The farthest I advanced in high school math was a course in intermediate algebra. I never had calculus nor trigonometry nor pertussis nor trychinosis nor any of those higher arithmetics. My love of numbers was more innate than anything that could be taught in a classroom. In the days before calculators, video games and cable television, I would be entertained for hours with self-invented dice games, keeping reams of paper records on how seven was a slightly more likely roll than six or eight. I even made up a baseball game that took as much as an hour to play, then another hour to calculate each imaginary player’s hitting and earned run averages. And I did this in the days before performance-enhancing steroids.

By the time I went off to college, I was finally beginning to entertain some other interests, particularly in individuals who had twice as many X chromosomes as I did. I wasn’t especially successful with the ladies in these days, though I did attempt to numerically prove the opposite. I kept a log of my dates with one woman I was pursuing in the belief that when I reached a certain quantity of hours-per-week that we’d officially be a couple. We hit something like 4.72 before it dawned on me that I had a car and she didn’t, that most of our “dates” were trips to the grocery store, and that the guy on the Bounty paper towel package had a better chance of getting to second base than I. (A double, by the way, is equivalent to rolling a ten in the baseball dice game).

The mathing of my life now continued into adulthood. I kept track on a daily basis of how many hours I logged at my first two part-time jobs, celebrating my entrance into the middle class when I finally broke through to $300 a week. When I took up jogging for health and relaxation in my thirties, I’d measure the route on my car’s odometer before running it, then record each day’s distance and translate that into a graph of weekly averages (fortunately, I had learned Excel by now). When I took my first business trip to India and saw that what I’d thought would be three weeks of adventure were instead going to be 516 hours of hellish heat and overcrowding, I’d figure updates each morning of how much time was left before my return home.

Reducing my life experience to so many digits might seem like a hollow exercise to some, though I’d actually consider my personal circumstances to be quite happy. I recognize that I’ve had my chance to “have fun,” and now it’s time for more mature satisfactions like contentment, a sense of accomplishment, and the continued ability to pee. Like anyone who’s facing down his late fifties while watching the transition of power and fortune pass to a new generation, I do have some regrets about what I didn’t get to do. I can count three things in particular.

One, I’ve never gotten to ride a motorcycle. I’ve enjoyed a lot of cycling in my time but the power generated by my admittedly well-toned thighs can’t approach what a Harley could produce. Perhaps it was the low-rent culture I associated with bikers that kept me away, or maybe it was the odds that I’d end up splattered against a tree that bothered me. In any case, I don’t own a black t-shirt anyway so it’s not going to happen at this late date.

Second, I regret that I’ve never been to Paris. I once spent a week in London and later enjoyed a beautiful morning in Frankfurt, yet these two European destinations can’t compare with romantic France. I was reminded of this once again Sunday as I watched the final stage of the Tour de France, marveling at the tree-lined beauty of the wide boulevards and realizing I could’ve blown the silly helmet off of every one of those guys if I only had a motorcycle.

Finally, I’m really sorry I never got a chance to take heroin. I know this is probably more self-destructive than it is recreational, but it seems like such a great way to relax. And think of the opportunities for charting weight loss! I’m a little queasy about the whole injection prospect, and snorting or smoking don’t strike me as especially sane alternatives. Maybe there are other ingestion options that would appeal to someone trying to keep up a professional appearance: applying black tar as a hair gel, or brushing my teeth with powdered moonrocks. I think I can handle the stupor, as it would fit right in with the glazed looks of others near my cubicle.

I know my odds of reaching these last three life goals are pretty long, and it’s probably best that they are. I had my chances as a younger man to live life on the edge, and it’s because I did such a poor job of it that I’m still here today, relatively enjoying what just became my twenty-eight million, nine hundred and twenty-seven thousand, eight hundred and fifth minute. When my number is finally up, I believe I’ll be able to count myself among the lucky.

Fake News Briefs

911 caller gets her day

CAMBRIDGE, Mass. (July 28) – The woman who reported what she saw as a possible break-in at the home of Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates has inked a three-book deal with publisher HarperCollins to tell her story of the incident.

Lucia Whalen met with the press yesterday after the $3.5 million publishing agreement was announced in New York. She said she has been unfairly targeted by some for her role in what has become a nationwide discussion about racial profiling. Gates, a widely respected African-American scholar, was arrested by local police July 16 on charges of disorderly conduct when he was suspected of breaking and entering at his own home.

“If you’re a concerned citizen, you should do the right thing if you see something,” she said. “I did the right thing, and now I’m rolling in dough.”

The first installment of the series, due out on Sept. 1, chronicles the moments before Whalen placed the 911 call to local police. Professor Gates had just returned from a trip out of the country and was wrestling with his jammed front door when Whalen saw him and became suspicious. She’ll describe how she stepped across the street and stood next to a large tree while she made the call on her cell phone.

The second book, scheduled for a Christmas season release, will discuss how she spoke briefly to Cambridge police Sgt. James Crowley before he confronted Gates on the porch. The final part of the trilogy will detail how she went on to the grocery store after the incident, stopping later to pick up a prescription at CVS and then some dry cleaning.

The deal includes a film option as well as North American TV broadcast rights. It’s expected that worldwide rights to Whalen’s story will be negotiated in a separate deal.

Solution to settlements issue?

JERUSALEM (July 27) – Middle East envoy George Mitchell announced a breakthrough in discussions with Israeli officials yesterday that will result in the dismantling of Jewish settlements on the occupied West Bank. The rapidly constructed housing has been a sticking point in efforts to enact a peace deal with the Palestinians.

Mitchell said an agreement has been reached with U.S.-based mortgage brokers to finance the homes being built mostly by ultra-Orthodox settlers. Under the plan, the Israeli citizens will receive loans from government agencies Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac. Shortly after the housing is completed, it will be foreclosed on by American banks holding the mortgages, and then demolished.

“We’ve had great success in the States with this model in the last year or two,” Mitchell said. “There’s really no logical reason why we can’t engage in predatory lending practices over here.”

Mitchell said that families displaced by the so-called Subprimes for Samarians program will be re-settled in a desolate region of the Midwest that’s similar to the Mideast. Abandoned homes in Detroit, Cleveland and Gary, Indiana, will be made available for occupation by the Israelis, who will also receive a complementary small appliance for the inconvenience.

Obama’s Friday morning ‘Hangover’

President Obama, Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates and Cambridge Police Sgt. James Crowley emerged from a Las Vegas hotel elevator early this morning, looking dazed and confused following an all-night binge of beer drinking.

“How the hell did we end up in Vegas?” asked a visibly shaken Obama at a brief meeting with the press. “The last thing I remember, we were reconciling 400 years of animosity between blacks and whites in America. Now I feel like my tongue was stepped on by Harry Reid.”

“Man, I was really messed up,” said Crowley.

“Quite frankly,” added Gates, “I was ’faced.”

The three had met Thursday evening for what was described in the press as a “beer summit” to discuss the much-publicized arrest of Gates by Sgt. Crowley earlier this month. Gates was originally suspected of breaking and entering when seen trying to open his jammed front door. Crowley arrested Gates on disorderly conduct charges in what the professor labeled a case of racial profiling.

It was hoped the two men could join the President to amicably resolve the misunderstanding while downing a few brews at the White House. After sharing their first two drinks at a table near the Rose Garden, the trio adjourned to the Blue Room for what the President called “a little game we like to call beer pong.” They emerged several hours later stumbling toward a Marine helicopter, then apparently flew on Air Force One to Nevada.

Obama lurched out of the elevator at the Bellagio hotel early this morning and headed into the nearby casino. He was reportedly pumping quarters into a slot machine and muttering “c’mon healthcare reform, c’mon healthcare reform” before Secret Service agents led him back to the lobby.

Gates was seen wading in the elaborate fountain in front of the hotel after witnesses said they heard him comment he was going to the shore at Martha’s Vineyard. When security guards escorted him from the water, he complained about being wet and noted that he “wouldn’t be so damn soaked if I were a white man.”

Crowley was observed leaving the amusement park atop the Stratosphere Hotel after being told he couldn’t board the roller coaster with a baby strapped to his chest. A spokesperson for the Chicken Ranch, a legal brothel outside of Las Vegas, said he was also denied service there, again because of the whole baby-on-his-chest thing.

Moments ago, the three men reunited at McCarren International Airport, boarding the presidential jet for a return flight to Washington. Notably absent was Vice President Joe Biden, who had been a last-minute addition to the Rose Garden photo op but was apparently ditched during the evening because he was drinking non-alcoholic beer and not “acting stupidly” enough. The trio boarded Air Force One with Obama pulling a white tiger on a leash behind him.

Robert Gibbs, the exasperated White House Press Secretary, was overheard lamenting to aides that “great, it had to be a white tiger.”

Medication advice for the elderly

“You Want My Advice?” is a weekend summer rerun feature of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, 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 itself 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 things 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.

Advice with an alcohol/medicine mix

“You Want My Advice?” is a weekend summer rerun feature of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, health, 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.

Fun food ideas for the summer

I once went to the supermarket, paid for my groceries, and walked out of the store with one more sack of items than I was technically entitled to. A previous customer had inadvertently left their parcel at the bagging station, so it became mine.

I remember the excitement when I got home and discovered all the strange purchases I never would’ve bought for myself, and trying to figure out what I would do with them. There was cream of celery soup, three tomatillas, a bag of cheese puffs and a bottle of Clamato juice, among other random consumables. If I knew how to cook, I could probably assemble a really bad casserole, but with my limited knowledge of the culinary arts, the best I’d do was a hazardous waste site. (There was also a linen-scented candle that actually responded well to my basic instincts about cooking, which is to set everything on fire.)

Though this experience didn’t turn out especially well, it made me think of an innovative option that food stores should consider offering. Customers who are interested in a little more adventure than just the disease risks of infant slobber on the shopping cart handles could sign up for the “grocery swap.”

You’d make your usual selections from the shelves and freezer cases, pay for them at the checkout, and be paired up with another customer who spent about the same amount. Then you trade bags with each other. You’d each be challenging your appetite in ways you’d otherwise be unable to imagine. The huge variety of goods sold in the modern supermarket might be a complication – rather than the family Thanksgiving turkey dinner for nine you were intending, you might instead find yourself scouring the Internet for holiday recipes using air-conditioner filters or motor oil. But think about the indelible memories you’d be creating for all your nieces and uncles and cousins, or at least the ones who didn’t suffer brain damage.

Until a marketing work of genius such as the grocery swap can achieve widespread acceptance, I’m left to improvise with the foodstuffs that I’ve routinely bought for years. With the help and inspiration of my son, who in his childhood years wasn’t burdened with conventional food preparation concepts like safety or palatability, I came up with a number of fresh twists on standard fare. I’d like to share these with you today.

The creation I’m probably the most proud of is something I call Fruity Oreos. I know it doesn’t look like it, but those black specks you see in the photo below are crushed chocolate sandwich cookies. I did a lot of experimentation to get exactly the right consistency for the crumbs, and finally discovered that running over the Oreos with my car made for the best outcome. Place the cookies in a strong Zip-Loc bag, position them under the right rear tire (the passenger’s side is critical to getting the precise crushing pressure), and back over them. Put the car in park when you’re directly on top of the container, climb out and onto the back fender, and rock the vehicle up and down. Pulverize to taste.

Remove the crumbs from the bag and set them aside, preferably back in the kitchen and safely out of traffic. Peel and core two apples, cut them in half and then slice thinly. Carve the slices into letter shapes so you can create fun words that will both appeal to your youngsters and satisfy your desire that they get a nutritious snack. Sprinkle the words liberally with Oreo crumbs. My favorite creation was “broccoli” – the combination of vertical and circular letterforms made for easy carving, and I was able to honestly tell Mom that her son was eating a vegetable. It may have made for some understandable confusion in the mind of a three-year-old (apples that were cookies that were broccoli is a tough concept to grasp at that developmental stage) but to this day my son loves going for car rides with Dad.

The rest of my creations are so quick and easy that they don’t need long, involved instructions. Instead, I’ll show the final results in the photos below, captioned with simple tips for how you too can spice up your everyday meal routines with ordinary ingredients transformed into tasty, often-non-lethal specialties.

PB&J Spheres – This is a regular peanut butter and jelly sandwich that’s pressed and rolled into a dense ball of starchy goo. Most sandwiches can be easily reduced to the size of a tennis ball, though with a little added force you can reduce it to a large pill, which can then be swallowed.

Lengthy Combos – Nutritionists tell us that tubular food is the most healthful food of all. Combining the similar shapes of the hot dog bun, the hot dog, and the asparagus spear expose minerals and nutrients to a greater surface area, getting them into our system that much more quickly.

Foam Residue – Remember the middle-school science experiment that created a volcano by adding vinegar to baking soda? Putting ice cream into a carbonated soft drink leads to even tastier results, without the trouble and mess of making plaster. Discard the fattening drink and simply enjoy the cola-flavored air.

Chips and Myrrh – Unlike the other treats listed here, you may not have these ingredients around the house. Myrrh, a resinous sap native to the commiphora tree of Yemen, can be found in some specialty stores, and is occasionally available free as a “dipping sauce” for Wendy’s chicken nuggets. When used as a dip for chips, its smoky flavor really comes alive. (You may remember myrrh from the Christmas story, in which the Wise Men brought the succulent sauce to the Christ child.)

‘Cash for Clunkers’ has tough road ahead

WASHINGTON (August 3) – Congress yesterday delayed extension of the wildly popular “Cash for Clunkers” program, with one aide privately admitting that the Senate was uncomfortable with a federal initiative that was both successful and widely praised by the public.

“They just don’t know how to react,” said a clerk from the Senate’s appropriations committee. “They’re standing around looking at each other with this silly expression on their faces. I’m afraid some of the older senators are going to fall down.”

Car sales nationwide have skyrocketed in the last two weeks as owners of older models flocked to struggling dealerships, driven by the incentive of up to $4,500 in credit toward a new vehicle. The $1 billion federal plan, designed to both stimulate the sagging auto industry and get aging gas guzzlers off the road, was nearly depleted by a weekend of fevered car-buying.

The White House has said that the initiative, technically called the Car Allowance Rebate System (CARS), will be discontinued unless the Senate backs the House allocation of an additional $2 billion that will aid in the rescue of Detroit’s Big Three automakers. The new program, called the Have Every Auto Purchased (HEAP) bill, will specifically target products of General Motors, Ford and Chrysler.

The indecision on Capitol Hill seems to be fueling increased confusion among potential buyers about how the program is supposed to work. Although a federal website lists the specific makes and years of models that qualify for the rebate, some consumers are arriving at showrooms around the country with “clunkers” that don’t qualify. A Ford dealer in Illinois reported turning away someone who wanted to trade in their iPod Touch for a new Focus, while Metrolina Chevrolet in suburban Charlotte rejected one woman who rode into the lot on her Roomba vacuum cleaner.

“We had a guy from the office park next door try to trade in his human resources representative on a PT Cruiser,” said Joe Black, sales manager of South Richmond Chrysler in Virginia. “I agree we need to get these old wrecks off the road, but I can’t just throw a law-abiding citizen in the crusher, even if he is a worthless piece of corporate junk.”

Other Americans simply seem to be unfamiliar with the term “clunker.” One person interviewed by a local TV station in Washington thought the deal was offered for “Junkers,” who were members of the landed nobility in eighteenth-century Prussia and eastern Germany. Another individual railed against “all the advantages that these young punkers don’t appreciate” while a third observed that “George Clinton, Parliament and all the P-Funk crew have stopped touring, so they don’t need a new car anyway.”

No cash for P-Funkers

Fortune awaits me — or maybe not

It was just a thin slip of newsprint, wrapped into that batch of advertising circulars that comes with the Sunday newspaper. But it’s going to change my life for the better, more than Parade magazine ever could, more than Dilbert, more than the handsome tool shed now on sale at Lowe’s, more even than the offer of five two-liter Sprites for $4.

Maria Duval, world-famous clairvoyant and consultant of international celebrities, is advertising what even she admits is a “strange and truly amazing offer.” I get to choose not one but seven wishes from her extensive checklist of dreams for personal bliss. I simply enter my numbered selections on the accompanying “special form for fulfilling your wishes,” then sit back and wait for a large, discreet, white envelope to arrive in the mail. According to the ad, I probably won’t believe my eyes, but each of the wishes should come true.

This offer to use the amazing powers of Ms. Duval, who’s described as a medium even though her photograph shows what I’d describe as a petite woman, will lead to “miracles” (quotemarks hers) once she performs her very special ritual. And there’s nothing to pay; everything is FREE OF CHARGE (capitals hers). I understand that I’ll never be asked for money in return for the realization of my seven wishes, not now, never (alliteration hers, skepticism mine).

Though I’m restricted to a list of 33 suggested wishes – probably to keep out the crackpots who yearn unrealistically for the betterment of mankind, or similar nonsense – there’s a lot of good stuff to choose from. For example, number one is to win the lottery within two weeks; number two is to win a big prize on an instant-win scratch card; number nine is to win enough money to never have to work again; number 18 is to never have any more money problems; and number 21 is to win lots of money in the lottery. Not all of your dreams have to involve cash, though. Number eleven will get you a new car, number 15 will make you the owner of property that you can rent out, and number 33 will enable you to stop working and live off a substantial monthly income.

Some of the wishes even involve improving your personal relationships. Numbers 25 through 30 cover this field pretty thoroughly: I can find true love at last, be madly loved by someone, marry the person I love, attract men, attract women or, possibly best of all, be on TV. I can also advance in my career if I choose number 23 (get promoted), number 24 (find a job that pays well) or number 14 (retire with enough money to have no worries). I can even waste a wish or two on cheap thrills like seeing my kids do well in their studies (number 10) or succeeding in an important exam (number 16).

Did I remember to mention the options that give you material rewards? These include winning money on horse races, winning at the casino, buying a boat, going on a cruise, or solving all your financial problems once and for all.

Once you settle on your seven wishes, you enter the numbers on the special form. There are only seven boxes on the form, to keep respondents from being too greedy and to help those who can’t count to seven. The only other details that Maria needs is the amount of cash you want if you’ve chosen wish number four, to immediately win a sum of money. This entry line has space for 24 digits, so be sure to keep your request under a septillion dollars.

I think I’ll opt for the 5-7-8-12-13-17-22 combo. This will give me a monthly income of $5,000, a house, my own business, world travel, enough money to share with my family, some wealthy friends and another house.

Following that is a brief confidential questionnaire that surprisingly doesn’t ask which of your credit cards you consider the luckiest, and what is the number and expiration date of that fortunate Visa. She asks if you have any major problems in your family life, feel like you were born under a bad star, have a spouse, feel lonely or misunderstood, or feel as if a spell has been cast on you. All these questions require a simple yes or no response, but there is a free-form field to write “the question that disturbs you most.” For some reason, she requires that this question be written “in capitals,” even though it’s a tiny, tiny piece of horizontal space. Again, I think she’s steering us away from certain unwanted responses, such as WHAT KIND OF FOOL DO YOU THINK I AM? and HAVE YOU SEEN YOUR MOTHER, BABY, STANDING IN THE SHADOWS?

Once you list your name, address, place of birth, date of birth, hour of birth and minute of birth (she tactfully omits “method of birth” and “number of minutes umbilical cord was wrapped around your neck”), you’re pretty much done. All that’s left now is to wait for a few days, and watch the mail for that large white envelope containing your secret instructions. “Read them carefully,” she writes, “and expect to see some big changes in your life after a few days.”

Instructions? This seems to imply that I’m going to have to do something other than fill out the form and wish. Nowhere else in the ad is there anything suggesting initiative on my part. What is this, some kind of scam? Are my instructions going to require some impossible effort, like “work hard” or “apply yourself” or “read the help-wanted ads instead”?

Surely not from Maria Duval, whom the ad describes as “holder of the highest honorary awards” with “more than 10,000 TV appearances,” the predictor of “hundreds of major events all around the world” who “has never failed to telepathically locate missing persons” and who has the “ability to predict the future confirmed in experiments by the greatest scientific authorities.”

Maybe it’d be worth checking her credentials from an independent source. Entries in a quick Google search also cite Duval for “preying on people all over the world after being thrown out of Australia” and sending them “annoying emails that try to get you to spend money on their worthless crap.” Another follower says you’ll be sent gifts that include a vibrating crystal, a pentagram, a mascot (I hope it’s the San Diego Chicken – I love that guy), an amulet or a talisman, which will only knock $50 or so off your fabulous riches. Others characterize her as a “parasite who preys on the gullible,” an “incessant junk mailer,” a “*&^%*&^ scam artist” and a “stupid bitch.”

So maybe this offer is too good to be true. Maybe it will change my life for the better, but only if I define “better” as “getting more mail.” Perhaps the “ritual” she’ll perform on my behalf involves contacting her telemarketer for the ceremonial sacrament of adding my name to his call list.

Perhaps the dream of getting something for nothing is merely wishful thinking. But maybe if I act now, I can still get that deal on those Sprites.

Fake News: No death for voters

WASHINGTON (August 5) – Administration officials acknowledged yesterday that the President will have to alter his healthcare insurance proposal to remove a controversial plan that would kill many Americans.

“It’s just not politically possible at this point to implement a reform package that would include the government slaughter of innocent citizens,” said a White House spokesperson who requested anonymity. “We thought we could slip this through without much notice, but it’s increasingly apparent that people don’t want to be slain, and they don’t want their relatives slain either.”

The so-called “Let’s Murder Mom” provision of the health insurance plan was recently exposed by North Carolina Republican Rep. Virginia Foxx. She pointed out that GOP proposals are more pro-life because they “will not put seniors in a position of being put to death by their government.” The package that had been before Congress included Medicare coverage of consultations to discuss hospice care for elderly patients with life-threatening diseases.

Conservative pundits had criticized the idea that government officials would be visiting people in their homes to knife, shoot, beat or otherwise bludgeon them. Rep. John Boehner (R-Ohio) recently joined in the chorus of opposition, claiming the plan “may start us down a treacherous path toward government-encouraged euthanasia.” Right-wing commentator Laura Ingraham said “old people could be visited in their homes and essentially be told ‘alright sweetie, you’ve had a good life.’”

The White House official quoted yesterday said President Obama had received numerous emails from Congressional Democrats who said they’d have trouble in next year’s midterm elections trying to win support “from voters who we’d then turn around and kill.”

“Obviously, we wouldn’t execute anybody until after they were able to vote for our candidates,” the aide said. “But we’ve seen polling numbers that indicate support would be soft if the electorate knew their representatives were going to then snatch their lives away.”

Obama got a sense of this concern during a recent AARP-sponsored town-hall meeting at which a caller reported hearing that Medicare would be sending out workers to ask each elderly citizen how they wanted to die. The president said the federal workforce simply wasn’t large enough to visit everybody, hinting that some would instead receive a specially super-charged phone call which would electrocute them via remote control.

“I don’t think that’d be fair,” said the caller, who identified herself as Mary. “Especially if I just had a headache or a sore wrist.”

Hard-line liberals within the party may still try to push for the more-thorough scheme of removing the infirm from the pool of those being insured. Some on the left who support a pro-choice view on abortion rights, for example, could argue that termination of pregnancies could be extended beyond the third trimester to include the two-hundredth trimester.

“I think we could sugar-coat the concept a little better,” admitted one activist. “A chocolate-candy shell surrounding the poison pills might make them more palatable.”

But most in the inner circle closest to the President admit the death-to-the-aged idea is quickly becoming a non-starter.

“It might fly in the Northeast corridor and large parts of the South where life is so miserable anyway,” said the aide. “But we’re realizing more and more that it’s a killer in the border states.”

Website Review: Shopping on Wikipedia

My favorite uncle, who lives in Arizona, has a birthday coming up this month, so I thought I’d purchase and ship his present from an online merchant. My exposure to digital shopping is extremely limited; as a fifty-something guy, about the closest I’ve come is typing up a gift list on my old Remington before heading out to Sears.

But my younger friends insist that the convenience of buying stuff online far surpasses the experience I’d have with a bricks-and-mortar establishment, especially considering so many of those have been reduced to nothing but bricks and mortar, and the salesfloor-walking employee who didn’t get the bankruptcy memo who continues to fold dust-covered sweater sets amid the rubble. Uncle Bob wouldn’t look good in an Orvis silk-blend pullover anyway.

What little I do know about where to enter your credit card number on the Internet is that you want to stay away from the African princes – despite their 60%-off leopard-skin pants and gold-plated hankies – and steer toward the well-established firms whose Web presence dates back at least six months. I’ve heard that Amazon.com is quite reputable, but my uncle isn’t much into products of the South American rain forest. EBay is another name I know, though that knowledge is limited to my insistence on spelling it with a capital “E” when it begins a sentence. Some people speak highly of Priceline and Overstack, but I hate both William Shatner and Pamela Anderson, and everything they stand for.

As I noodle around on Google, I keep coming across a particular site that seems promising. It’s near the top of every search I try, it’s a brand I vaguely recognize from somewhere, and I like the overtones of its obviously classical Greek origins. I’m going to do my uncle’s birthday shopping on Wikipedia.

At first, it’s a little overwhelming to consider the huge variety of items they offer for sale. There’s a somewhat helpful breakdown in the upper corner that can narrow my focus to arts, biographies, technology and “all portals,” though it seems the purchase of a door for someone who already lives in an apartment would be a poor choice.

I also like the fun “Did You Know…” section, designed to get your neurons firing toward creative gift-giving ideas. Did I know that the yellow wart is often confused with the fly agaric? Did I know that a mummy was found in a cave in Wyoming? Did I know that Jadwiga of Pomerania might have been a daughter of a Polish king, but scholars are uncertain as to her lineage? I did not. But I do know that I’m now ready to select a truly unique gift, and that the mummy-in-Wyoming thing does make sense once you realize that Dick Cheney has disappeared from TV recently.

I first check the “In The News” panel, which I guess features the hottest and latest products to hit the market. This morning it offers an inter-island ferry from Tonga, though it apparently sinks, leaving 26 people missing. There are some indigenous people from Bolivia who have been given the right to govern themselves. Shipping costs might be prohibitive on that one. And there’s apparently religious unrest in the Pakistani Punjab, which seems hard to convert into the $35 range of tchotchkes I’m looking for.

Maybe “Today’s Featured Article” is worth considering. I assume this is a best-seller being offered for a limited time at a hard-to-believe price. The item is called a “phagocyte,” described as a white blood cell that protects the body from ingesting harmful foreign particles, bacteria and dead or dying cells. Essential for fighting infections, the phagocyte was first discovered in 1882 in starfish larvae and is highly developed in vertebrates. Though one liter of human blood already contains about 6 billion of these, Uncle Bob has been having some health problems lately and could probably use a few more. At that $18.82 price point, I could get him two.

Let me look around just a little more before I make my final decision. The “Random Article” button looks promising – maybe it’s one of those shopping bots I’ve read about, where you list a person’s general interests and the computer program finds a suitable gift. Uncle Bob likes playing the piano, rooting for the football Cardinals, volunteering and, I think, guys. I’m looking for the place to enter these details but can’t seem to find it. I’ll just click on the button anyway and see what I get.

There’s the flagtail fish, also called the aholehole. Funny name, but probably not suitable for a man with cats. There’s the Polish town of Zagrodniki. Gotta be way too expensive. An ensign, or flag. Meh. OpenTV Hardware Porting Kit. I have no idea what that is. The Ethnographic Museum of Kaletzi, Greece. Maybe I could afford something from the gift shop? The Ready 2 Rumble Revolution videogame. No. “Psi-Man Heal My Child!”, a short story by Philip K. Dick. No. A Trinity Alps giant salamander. No. The “10416 Kottler,” a Mars-crossing asteroid. Again, I’d have concerns about the shipping charges.

I guess I’ll go with a couple of phagocytes. I’ve heard it said you can never go wrong with white blood cells during the summer season. Now I’ve got to find where to enter my ordering information. I see Wikiquote, Wikisource, Meta-Wiki and a way to order in Esperanto. Ah, there’s a log-in area, at the top. I retype the swirly nonsense word that differentiates me from a spammer, pick out a user name and password, and am finally logged on. I find the “Donate to Wikipedia” spot, and apparently get to choose my price (I’ve heard about this on Priceline) from among options of $100, $75, $30 or other. I choose “other” ($18.82 times two is $37.64) and enter my greeting message in the “public comment” field – HAPPY BIRTHDAY UNCLE BOB, HOPE YOU ENJOY THE LEUKOCYTES, LOVE DAVIS AND FAMILY. I press the “donate” button, and it appears I’m done.

Hey, that was easy and cool. I think I’ll do all my shopping on-line from now on. In fact, I could go ahead and order that wedding shower gift for my cousin Craig and his fiancée. They’re very conservative and old-fashioned, and would probably get a kick out of receiving something so modern. Maybe a gift certificate from Craigslist.

Just what you wanted: advice on hydrology

“You Want My Advice?” is a weekend summer rerun feature of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, health, 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.

Monday miscellany: Close to the edit

As I approach the first anniversary of this blog on Sept. 1, I’ve started thinking about cleaning out some of my files. Specifically, there’s this one called “ideas” that I’ve used to collect subjects for possible posts. A flash occurs to me while in the shower or on the treadmill, and I scribble a few notes to be transcribed onto my laptop later. Some of these get expanded into full columns while others have been languishing for quite a while now, and I’ve lost the spark of inspiration, if it ever even existed.

So today’s post is going to consist of these fragment and tidbits.

• Our local paper has a columnist who writes folksy narratives about people of the region who have special stories to tell. Typical articles tell about an eight-year-old who invented a water balloon inflator, a woman who grew a bean large enough to be mentioned on a late-night comedy show, and an elderly man who emptied garbage at the Y for over 60 years. What if the columnist wrote a story about that woman in our area who caught a mental patient having sex with her horse? “Ellen Mason loved her horses with a passion, but not quite the same passion as John Ely,” it might begin. Or “When Ellen Mason caught a local man sewing his wild oats by taking a roll in the hay with her favorite mare, she thought the man had no horse sense at all.”
• Why do people wear so many shirts at one time these days?
• The man who lived behind the house where my wife and I spent our first year of marriage claimed to have a shrinking brain.
• I watched “Hitler’s Hidden Holocaust” on the National Geographic channel the other day, and found it very unnerving that there was no clear break between the documentary and the commercials that sponsored it. One minute we see the killing field where thousands were slaughtered, and without warning we next see an animated talking wart facing Dr. Scholl’s Freeze Away. Then it’s Direct Buy, then it’s Howard Johnson’s, then it’s back to 1941 Latvia. What if you saw Hitler working as the front desk clerk at HoJo?
• President Obama is starting to show flecks of grey hair. He needs to buy Just For Presidents.
• I think Drew Barrymore and Reese Witherspoon are the same person. Or maybe it’s just the similarity in syllable inflection.
• Actual video games: pretend you’re a puppy trainer, wedding designer, driver, babysitter, mechanic, teacher, or dance squad member. Also, Dog Whisperer, Hell’s Kitchen, Grey’s Anatomy, Alvin and the Chipmunks.
• I believe that children are our future, but only because of that song.
• New sitcom featuring Octomom, chimp that went ballistic on woman’s face, a beheading, the 13-year-old father, and the image of Jesus left on dog door by recently flea-dipped dog.
• Lots of stuff out these days about people doing something for an entire year: the book “Year of Living Biblically,” the movie “Yes Man” (Jim Carrey never says “no”), a year spent self-committed to a mental institution. How about a book by someone who doesn’t drink any water for a whole year?
• Claims that eating sugar makes kids hyperactive have been debunked. How soon before that one gets re-bunked?
• If I’m trying to remember something that has just barely slipped my mind, I can often get it back right before falling asleep. This is a great excuse for taking naps.
• The National Enquirer reports that Capt. “Sully” Sullenberger, the hero pilot who landed a stalled USAir flight in the Hudson River, has tested positive for crystal meth, failed to pay taxes for three consecutive years, and has been named on a list confiscated from an escort agency.
• In an effort to appeal to a younger demographic, Radio Shack has rebranded itself as “The Shack,” while Pizza Hut is becoming “The Hut.” The now-bankrupt home accessories store known as Linens-n-Things would still be alive today had it been renamed “The Things.”
• An elderly couple not familiar with shopping at the organic grocery store stop by the café for a cup of coffee. “Sumatran or Colombian?” the barista inquires. “What’s the difference?” the husband asks. Country of origin, they’re told. They choose Colombian because it’s something they’ve heard of. “Soy milk? Stevia sweetener?” they’re asked. I have to walk away before I hear the response.
• My wife got so mad she had to leave the room while my son and I watched “Borat” on DVD the other day. An hour into the movie, she happens to walk through the room and which part is on? Nude wrestling.
• I’ve written reviews on not just websites but also on bathroom dispensers and nations (England got eight ampersands out of ten, because that’s what it’s shaped like). Next, I’m going to write a review of a particular organ. The lungs, for example, are vastly overrated.
• Mombloggers who write about how horrible their kids are.
• New trend in spring break destinations for college students – ironic locales such as Chicago, Newfoundland and Idaho.
• The fun of “making a basket” by throwing your soiled towel into the bin from halfway across the locker room at the Y is very much diminished by the guy who just appeared out of nowhere from around the corner right in the arc of your toss.
• Blowing your nose should not be sanctioned as a public activity. What other orifice are you allowed to force matter out of while surrounded by coworkers?
• Why does my cat love so much to be underneath things? I can’t show you a picture of what he looks like in his entirety. Here’s some of the front half:

Hiding under a newspaper

… and here’s some of the back half:

Hiding under a throw rug

Advice gone squirrelly

“You Want My Advice?” is a weekend summer rerun feature of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, health, 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, I’ll soon 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.

Fake News: Entertainment briefs

Weekend sees big box office

“G.I. Julia: Rise of the Cobbler” raced to the top among weekend movie releases with just over $100 million in ticket receipts, while “Julie and Joe” came in second with a respectable $20 million take during its three-day opening.

“G.I. Julia,” an action-packed thrill ride based on a mythical collaboration between the Hasbro military hero and the “French Chef” Julia Child, stars Channing Tatum and Meryl Streep as the duo trying out recipes for the destruction of the Eiffel Tower and most of Paris. The plot follows the square-jawed Duke and the lovable Child through a series of explosions, collisions and really loud noises (some of which may have been dialogue) in their quest to whip up a meringue that will halt the advance of enemy terrorists.

Studio heads at Paramount Pictures, who invested $175 million into the special-effects-filled production, are reportedly already at work on a sequel, in which the G.I. Joe unit will team with Fox TV for a reality series called “So You Think You Can Clear, Hold and Build.” The third installment, tentatively set for 2011, joins the special-ops team with the cast of “Jon and Kate Plus 8” for a fiery assault on a rural Pennsylvania playground.

“Julie and Joe,” dubbed a “chick flick” in Hollywood jargon, exceeded modest expectations going up against heavyweight summer blockbusters. The film chronicles the story of a New York journalist (Amy Adams) who sets out to disassemble, clean and re-assemble every weapon described in the Army Field Manual, while blogging about how she shared the experience with her new husband. The Nora Ephron-penned comedy, which combined two best-selling books into a single screenplay, ends with the sweet-natured Julie joining an al-Qaeda training school in Pakistan’s tribal region.

Celebs continue pregnancy spree

The investigation continued this week into the case of two Ohio police officers charged with offering items stolen from the surrogate mother of actress Sarah Jessica Parker’s twins to several tabloid publications.

Prosecutors were still trying to determine why anybody would be interested in learning details about the recently completed pregnancy. The actress’s husband, Matthew Broderick, is generally regarded as a mid-level Broadway talent while his wife is seen as a fortune-blessed horseface who stumbled into success with the “Sex and the City” TV and movie franchise.

Parker and Broderick had opted to have their latest children through an unnamed Cleveland-area surrogate after the 2002 birth of their son left her unable to compete in that spring’s Triple Crown. She is currently training at New York’s Saratoga racetrack in hopes of qualifying for the November Breeder’s Cup, with her legal team working feverishly to have the surrogacy count as “breeding.”

In a related story, Elisabeth Hasselbeck is reportedly pregnant again only days after the birth of her third child, a son named Isaiah. She has joined model Heidi Klum and TV star Nicole Richie in having experimental surgery that will leave them continuously expecting for the foreseeable future.

All three women have had their husband’s reproductive organs surgically removed and implanted into their own abdomens. In order to become pregnant, the women need only strain themselves for several seconds for fertilization to take place. Some observers believe this could explain Richie’s expression throughout her 2005 film acting debut in the teen dramedy “Kids in America”.

“I believe that being pregnant is the natural state that God intended for married women,” said Hasselbeck, a panelist on TV’s “The View.” “This way, my NFL quarterback husband can continue his career of living on the verge of being cut by the Seattle Seahawks, and I can continue haunting everyone’s nightmares with my shrill voice.”

Catching up at the DMV

I accompanied a young friend to the Department of Motor Vehicles office the other day, and was reminded how much I missed the place. The DMV is getting a lot of mention in the current media, primarily as an example of what could become of our healthcare system if it’s run by the government. I don’t see the cause of all the fuss; frankly, I’d love to wait in my doctor’s office for my number to be displayed on a scoreboard screen, surrounded by cute teenage girls and more clipboards that I could hope for in my wildest dreams.

The office in my part of South Carolina is located off a quiet country road, sitting on a small rise above a green field. You’re greeted by a reception person when you walk in, given a ticket based on your particular business (new plates, road test, just want to hang out) and shown to a brightly lit waiting room. There, you’re entertained by the frightening quirkiness of your fellow citizens, protected by a crew of burly highway patrolmen and many sharp pencils. For some reason, the pencils have plastic spoons adhered to the eraser end, in case you want to eat pudding while filling out your forms.

I think the ambience is quite pleasant. If they had wi-fi and a coffee bar, I’d be there much more often. But this was my first visit in a while, so I thought I’d be able to brush up on modern motoring techniques as I waited. It’s been almost 40 years now since I took my first driving test, and I figured there was much I could learn. For one example, they now have these things called “cars.”

I remember studying hard as a youth to memorize the road signs and sticking my arm out the window at various angles to indicate what action I was planning next (the only one I still recall is that pointing downward at a 45-degree angle indicated you were about to drop your transmission). I’d practiced parabolic parking, eight-point turns and jack-rabbit starts for weeks before I felt confident enough to meet the examiner. I passed the test in 1968, the same year Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. died, though I swear I wasn’t driving anywhere near them.

Much has changed since those days of Corvairs, Barracudas, Sting Rays and the ill-conceived Dodge Squid (suckers were not to the Sixties what tailfins were to the Fifties). I browsed through a copy of the S.C. Driver’s Manual while we awaited our turn, hopeful that I could learn more about recent developments on and near the road.

For example, what was the significance, I wondered, of those white outlined cartoon families you see on the back window of so many minivans and SUVs? I’d always assumed it was equivalent to the notches on the shotgun stock of an Old West desperado keeping count of his victims. But it seemed odd that the road kill almost always included a daddy, a mommy, a gaggle of kids and maybe a dog or cat. Perhaps there was something else I was supposed to learn from these stick-people decals – a warning that the driver’s toothpick arms made vehicle operation risky, and I needed to stay back.

And what’s the current thinking on the safety of driving while using your cell phone with a dog in your lap while you consult your GPS screen and apply your eyeliner? Couldn’t the dog take over some of the tasks? Does GPS really help locate your eyelids? If I don’t have any of these accessories myself, is it okay that I do crossword puzzles instead? Write long rambling letters to my congressperson? Lance that troublesome boil on my chest?

The proper use of turn signals is something else that seems to have changed over time. I know they’re no longer necessary when changing lanes or making a right into a parking lot, and have evolved largely into an ornamental function to be used mainly around the holidays. And when you put on your flashers, you’re allowed to do virtually anything, up to and including a hill climb up the steps of the Capitol. But what does it mean if your brakelights are out, you’re missing two hubcaps, and your passenger-side door is painted with primer?  Besides the fact that you’re probably living in your car.

I’m also not sure about some of the new laws pertaining to older motorists. I’ll be in my late 50s before much longer, and I need to figure out how to get lower into my driver’s seat than I am now. I can still see over the steering wheel, and it seems you’re not allowed to do that once you’ve reached a certain age. I also need to get a brimmed hat, and a better understanding of the mathematical formula that dictates how fast you’re allowed to go. I think you take a hundred miles per hour and subtract your age, and that becomes your maximum speed. If you’re over 100 years old, you have to drive everywhere in reverse. And you have to do it in the passing lane.

When you’re driving near trucks and motorcycles, I know that special care needs to be taken. The big tractor trailers have blind spots their drivers can’t see, and that seems to include anything beneath five feet above the ground. Smaller pickup trucks, such as those used by maintenance and other workers, also need extra room, though don’t get too far back or you’ll miss out on the free ladders and lawn equipment they often dispense. Motorcycles are allowed to swerve in and out of traffic, as long as the driver is wearing a rebel-flag head scarf instead of a helmet and his female passenger shows the world a thick layer of midriff fat. Bicycle riders have as much right to the road as do motor vehicle operators, but only in theory, and only when it’s you on the bike, not someone else.

I looked through the 176-page manual pretty thoroughly, and couldn’t find most of these issues adequately addressed. I even checked the index for “cow (waving)” to try to understand the significance of that scene outside the local Chick-fil-A. Nothing about the etiquette of getting out of your car while someone else wants the parking space you’re climbing into, nothing about dangling chains creating a distracting light show of sparks, nothing about the reason why drivers with NASCAR stickers always go ten miles an hour under the speed limit.

Well, at least the DMV visit wasn’t a complete waste of time. I did learn that everyone was required to have insurance, which made things run much more smoothly than they do at my local doctor’s office.

Fake News: Death panel named

WASHINGTON (Aug. 12) – President Obama hosted a White House ceremony yesterday to announce the appointments to his “death panel,” the group that will be responsible for reviewing all of the nation’s healthcare cases and deciding who will live and who will die.

Heading up the committee will be Dr. Joe Medicine Crow, a 95-year-old Indian who fought in World War II, and former Supreme Court Justice Sandra Day O’Connor. The two will serve as co-chairmen. Crow brings extensive experience as a representative of a people who have suffered genocide, which it is thought he’ll use to select the most vulnerable demographics. O’Connor has a history of dealing with old ladies, another group thought to be headed for the chopping block.

Indian chief, Sandra Day O'Connor to co-chair Death Panel

Also joining the team will be actress Chita Rivera, Dr. Janet Rowley, Nobel Prize Winner Muhammad Yunus, actor Sidney Poitier, former president of Ireland Mary Robinson, and Archbishop Desmond Tutu. Serving in advisory capacities will be Dr. Stephen Hawking and Sen. Edward Kennedy, at least as long as they’re alive.

Poitier and Robinson play “Rock, Paper, Scissors” at yesterday’s ceremony, saying it might be one way to determine who receives critical care under President Obama’s new health insurance plan.

Fake News: Getting creative with constituents

Both senators and representatives continue to be badgered by mostly older citizens in meetings held around the country to discuss details of the health care package currently under consideration in Washington. Many of the protestors appear to be incited by Republican lobbyists and conservative pundits who have spread apparent misinformation about the plan. Much of the discourse has turned hostile and confrontational.

To counter the attacks, some members of Congress have devised measures to calm the crowds and attempt to clarify the most confused portions of the electorate. Some are turning to innovative measures to win opponents to their side while others are meeting fury with fury.

Sen. Arlen Specter (D-Pa.) faced the wrath of one irate constituent who accused the senator of “trampling on our Constitution,” adding angrily that one day Specter would “stand before God and he’s going to judge you.” Specter said he could find the unemployed steelworker a position with the group being set up to visit the homes of the elderly and offer advice on how they might commit suicide.

“You know, I might like that,” said Craig Miller of rural Berks County. “That Maxine woman down the street from me is always giving me the evil eye, and I’d like it right fine if I could tell her where to get off. And when.”

Meanwhile, Sen. Robert Byrd (D-W.Va.), the nation’s oldest living legislator at age 92, met with several outspoken opponents of healthcare reform in his Huntington office. When one of them challenged Byrd to show how the program could be enacted without a tax increase, the still-feisty senator lunged across a table, grabbing the questioner by the throat.

“Son of a bitch, I’m going to kill you!” Byrd shouted. “I’m going to beat the hell out of your sorry ass and then hang it on a fence post.”

Democratic Senator Bill Nelson of Florida has declined to use the town hall format, saying many of his state’s aged citizens have difficulty leaving their homes. He at first offered to hold meetings online, but numerous retirees criticized the plan, with one telling reporters “I spent years standing online back in the city and now I’m too tired.”

Nelson said his office would revert to more traditional methods of communication to address his state’s residents. For some, he would explain his position in a neatly lettered note slipped under the door, while larger groups might watch a dramatization staged by dinner theatre groups across Florida. He did meet with one collection of members from the Centenary Club, all of whom had surpassed age 100, and presented his position in Morse Code.

“Dot dot dash dot dash,” Nelson told the group at the Daytona Beach Retirement Village. “Dash dot dot dash.”

“DASH DOT DASH DASH DOT DOT DASH!” responded Harry Lieberman, a 103-year-old former banker irately. “DASH DOT DASH SOCIALIST DASH DOT OBAMA DASH DASH BLACK GUY.”

Website Review: My commenters

I had to be at work this morning by 2 a.m., which makes it technically impossible to be funny. So instead of the usual Friday Website Review,  I’m going to turn to our readers for help today. The following is a collection of comments they’ve been kind enough to send me in recent weeks. I apologize in advance if some are a little out of context, but even these, I think, contain a kernel of genius.

• About this death panel, I’ve got some referrals. Who do I send them to?
• If Dr. Kevorkian is your doctor and you don’t die, can you sue him for malpractice?
• I think that all the “mombloggers” should all be packed into some sort of rocket, which would then be fired at North Korea. “Read about my fascinating children, who are actually just the same as everybody else’s”
• I am a big fan of spiders and dragonflies
• Apparently rats really like water and mangoes
• We have squirrels. One is named Sammy and he comes when called. He does not live in our house.
• I recently saw an episode of something or the other on TruTV, about a guy who murdered his wife while sleep-walking. It was like he tried to strangle her and she didn’t die, so then he threw her into the swimming pool, where (finally!) she drowned, and then he went upstairs and cleaned.
• Face tremors are quite a cool side effect
• Here’s hoping you make it to Paris and get strung out on smack soon
• An interesting aspect of numbers is the concept of averages. One hand under the hot water tap and the other under the cold would imply, that on average, you are comfortable. But are you?
• They should include “armless boxing” too! It could be as popular as those massages where they don’t actually touch you
• I attended an honor academy for prep-school and one of the upper classes thought it would be fun to all start swinging their arms with their forward moving leg at the same time without the drill instructor’s knowledge. The drill instructor stopped the platoon five times trying to figure out what was wrong. I mean, something seemed terribly off but he just couldn’t figure out what.
• Do you believe in “sparks” or you just don’t know that much about them?
• I remember that song Young Girl. We tore it apart.. “Young Girl, get out of my bed.. before my mother comes and hits me in the head…”
• We’re allowed to have “different” songs in our iPods. I have “Take me out to the Ballgame” by Frankie, Louie and the Ferret
• Generally, babies don’t disguise themselves
• I’m glad that guy is being vigilant. Imagine finishing up the cremation process and pouring out the ashes to see little fingers and other items remaining.
• I want to become fuel.
• My son, who is 6′4″ tall, wants to be buried in my backyard, vertically, with a tree planted on top of him.
• One of the popular beaches around my state is a popular site for ash jar ‘dumping’. But of course in the end, these jars are washed up on shore by the tide and innocent kids will play with sand among the mass of broken jars and human ashes.
• I do the same thing, but it’s with a bunch of buddies … and we buy beer … and I get a free hat!!!!
• I just sat through an OSHA-10 class combined with a First Aid class right after that.
• You can always go for a case of the shakes too. “I’m perfectly fine and I’m willing to do work, but my hands just won’t stop shaking!!”
• Honey could you change the channel for me?
• How about an good old fashioned case of the vapours?
• I think Maine tried to join Canada once
• I am at a loss regarding why people grill
• Maybe a Coke machine should be mentioned somewhere
• I like the name “Ward”; a special twist of “Edward”. Most people assume the first two letters “Ed” as the appropriate nick. But I think the last four letters “ward” is a knocker.
• If it wasn’t for Billy Mays, my husband would have grease-stained pants for the rest of his life.
• I’m only talking to myself. Of course, that’s not always a bad thing since I tend to agree with me a lot.

Advice for the lonely atheist

“You Want My Advice?” is a weekend summer rerun feature of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, health, 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.

Woodstock: I was there (I think)

Well I came upon a child of God

He was walking along the road

And I asked him where are you going?

And this he told me

Said “I’m goin’ down to Yasgur’s farm”

So wrote Joni Mitchell some 40 years ago this weekend when she ran into me during my journey to the epic music festival that would become a touchstone for the entire baby boomer generation. For many my age, Woodstock fills the imagination with what it was like to be free and young and extremely high during the turbulent Sixties. For a fortunate few of us, though, it’s an actual memory of joining a half-million people in peace and love on a farm in upstate New York.

You see, I was at Woodstock.

As you might imagine, my recollections are a little cloudy after all these years. I was 15 years old on that August weekend my family was visiting my cousin in Binghamton. I was getting a little tired of the living room chats about long-lost aunts I had never known when I decided to slip out of the house for what became the adventure of my life.

I wasn’t normally a rebellious teenager, but there was just something in the air that called to me. I caught a ride with my cousin’s neighbor to the next town over, where I was dropped by the side of the road and started hitch-hiking north. I tried for over an hour to catch a ride when I came across three slightly older “hippie” types who “turned me on” to what was “going down.”

We traded only nicknames at the time although I later came to learn that the trio included then-reigning homerun king Roger Maris, a crazy dude named Fred Sullivan (son of TV host Ed Sullivan), and a young cowboy named Bobby McGee. We finally caught a lift as far as Bethel, NY, but the New York State Thruway was, as famously announced by Arlo Guthrie, “closed to man.” We were lucky enough to be spotted by the low-flying helicopter of singer Richie Havens, a remarkable pilot despite his lack of sight. Richie set down in the parking lot of a Dairy Queen, invited us aboard, and soon we were landing behind the stage where he’d be performing just a few hours later.

It quickly became apparent that festival organizers were overwhelmed by the unexpected turnout, so we were pressed into service as stage hands. We’d be getting a front-row seat to rock-and-roll history.

In between the routine roadie chores of hauling amps, separating M&M’s by color and periodically wiping down the members of Canned Head, we found ourselves offering advice to some of the legendary performers in attendance. I still remember telling Pete Townsend to “turn it the hell down – people are trying to sleep here” as The Who ran through their 4 a.m. set from the rock opera “Tommy.” On the final night, I saw Jimi Hendrix pacing nervously before the final set of the concert. He was debating whether he should close with “America the Beautiful” or “Onward Christian Soldiers.” It was I who suggested that instead he play the Star-Spangled Banner.

We were worked pretty hard during those four days and got hardly any rest. We did take a break one afternoon and Roger, Fred and Bobby tried to get me onto that mud-slide you’ve probably seen in film clips from the time. They became totally soaked and dirt-encrusted while I remained neat in the crisply pressed dress pants I had been wearing…

Wait – something doesn’t sound right. I may be a little confused about my presence at Woodstock. Something just doesn’t ring true about these memories, and I bet I’ve gotten the highlight of the Age of Aquarius confused with a 1995 business trip I took to Washington. Both locations start with “W”. I’ve always gotten Woodstock and Washington mixed up.

What I actually attended was billed as the “Woodstock of Statistical Process Control (SPC),” a four-day conference and training session for corporate quality administrators interested in being certified as ISO 9000 auditors. I was joined by three coworkers in a suburban Ramada Inn while we studied day and night to learn the proper ways to document workflow and process variation. It was an event unlike anything I’ve experienced before or since – four days of modes and tolerances.

To this day, it remains the only business trip where I was forced to share lodging with a roommate, but the hardship forged a lasting bond between us that was only slightly frayed by his questionable Spectravision and pajama choices. We’d get up early each morning for a vigorous jog around the hotel grounds, then spend the day with our noses buried in loose-leaf binders. We kept thinking we’d get at least one evening free to see the sites of the capital but the organizers of the event, a couple of Brits from Lloyd’s of London, were real taskmasters. (It was those English accents that probably reminded me of The Who).

On the evening before the last day, we were grilled during a “live-job scenario” wherein we pretended to be inspectors looking over the books of a company seeking ISO certification. The instructors played the parts of defensive company executives, trying to mislead and distract us, and we were supposed to insist on seeing the records. We did badly enough to realize we had to spend the rest of the night studying for the Friday exam.

Again, my recall might be a little off, but I do know the test was not at all what we expected. After the grueling preparations, I thought there’d be serious questions presenting difficult circumstances that required us to prepare, in extensive essay form, what our responses would be. Instead the questions were so simple as to be confusing.

“Give me an F… give me a U… give me a C…” began the examiner standing before a conference room of puzzled participants. He gave us the final letter, then yelled the question: “What’s that spell? What’s that spell? What’s that spell?” The rapid-fire interrogation made it impossible to think straight, and I flunked the spelling portion of the test.

Then, came the multiple-choice questions: “And it’s one, two, three, what are we fighting for?” One, two and three? Is this how they do it in Britain? What about A, B, C or D (all of the above). D is almost always the answer when questions are phrased in this format, but we don’t have that choice. Again, I fail.

Finally, there was the essay question: “What would you do if I sang out of tune, would you stand up and walk out on me?” I had learned that SPC was all about reducing variation, and that any singing out of tune could only be acceptable if it were within a predefined tolerance. I wrote something to this effect on my paper, but this too turned out to be wrong.

I tried commiserating with my coworkers on the flight home, but they actually had performed pretty well on the exam. They understood there were fundamental truths underlying the event, that it was impossible to quantify the heady experience we’d just been through, that “answers” were a fleeting concept and sometimes the questions were more important. In other words, they had been certified while I had failed.

I could’ve gotten by with a little help from my friends.

Advice seekers: You need get a life

“You Want My Advice?” is a weekend summer rerun feature of davisw.wordpress.com. I look at questions of ethics, propriety, faith, technology, geopolitics, health, etc., and offer 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.

Fun with flag disposal

Let me start by saying that I love America. I love the amber waves of grain, the purple mountains, the Green Mountains and the Orange Bowl. I’m crazy for fruited plains. Skies that are spacious are among my top ten turn-ons.

And I also love and respect the American flag. Its asymmetrical design and color absolutely pop off the surface. Its lines are clean and simple, a graphic design concept that was mocked at the time but which now represents all the best in flag composition. I admire the integrity of the Founders, who felt it was best not to sell the back side to corporate advertisers of the day, despite a great offer from Travelocity. I also think cloth was an excellent choice, as opposed to the buffalo hide that was originally considered.

So when I found a discarded flag in the shed of a rental house I was cleaning out this weekend, I was a little uncertain what to do. I knew there were strict rules regarding proper disposal of Old Glory, and I could tell that my previous tenants knew nothing about these rules, as the banner lay in a crumpled heap next to a one-armed chair and an old can of latex stain. It was as tattered as its much-scarred forbearers over Ft. McHenry and Guadalcanal, except this damage looked like it was inflicted by a lawn edger.

Wanting to do the right thing, I discussed options with my wife. We both knew that burning the flag was both a highly provocative act viewed by some as treason, as well as a proper method of disposal. We couldn’t do it in our yard though, because a recent drought might start a wildfire. I supposed we could do it out in the street at the entrance to our subdivision, but doubted our mostly Republican neighbors would view this as the patriotic act we intended.

I also remembered that burial was an acceptable course. Again, however, our yard was not a good location, since tree roots make it very hard to dig; the only soft spot was just off the back deck but to entomb it there might lead to an unpleasant reunion with some dearly departed cats.

If burial and burning were okay, maybe other verbs starting with “bur” were actions we could take: Is “burnish” something that would get it off our hands? Could we turn it into a burka?

We started brainstorming ideas that would allow us to continue our clean-up without bringing down the wrath of all right-thinking Americans. Since the idea is to show proper respect for all that the star-spangled banner represents, and since that was pretty much a non-issue because of its three years already spent inspiring mostly crickets, I thought we might be able to discard it with the rest of our household refuse. Maybe if we did a little ceremony before hand – I thought I had some sparklers left over from Independence Day – we could lay it respectfully across the top of the bin.

“That’d make it look like a casket,” a tactless friend noted. “The garbage men might think there’s a veteran inside.”

Maybe we could unravel the threads so we were left with only red, white and blue fibers, which wouldn’t be so problematic. We could enlist a local seamstress to create a more-respectful new life for the fabric – perhaps a bikini, or an Uncle Sam hat, or some kind of super-hero costume.

This looks like the time I should turn to the Internet for some advice. A site on American flag etiquette notes that it should be lighted at all times, never be “dipped to a thing,” and not used for advertising. It shouldn’t be used to deliver anything and should never touch the ground. When it’s no longer fit to serve our country, it should be destroyed by “burning in a dignified manner” (i.e., not surrounded by ecstatically dancing foreigners).

Snopes.com references the “dignified way” without much further guidance, other than to say it shouldn’t be “dumped into a trash can amidst of bunch of rotting garbage”. Might it be allowable if the garbage is fresh?

Probably the best option I could find is also the most expensive. A firm called American & State Flag Disposal will also accept municipal and local government banners, as well as those from “friendly foreign governments.” (You’d think they’d love to get their hands on an Iranian flag, just for kicks). Fees are on an escalating scale: $5 for a small flag, $10 for a flag larger than six-by-ten, and “contact us for individual quotes” on those super flags you see over car dealerships.

But what about the pole? The flag I found was wrapped around a two-piece aluminum shaft that was capped with an eagle. Doesn’t the pole deserve an equal measure of regard, serving as it did as the supporting base for that most revered of American symbols? Partial burial seemed like a workable choice, and if I did it vertically and spaced them just right, I could string up a badminton net between the two. If I dubbed it the Rock Hill Memorial Net Sports Park, I could be killing two birds with one stone, three if you count the eagle.

While still pondering what to do, I was watching ESPN and caught the highlights of Usain Bolt setting his new world record in the 100-meter dash. While he celebrated his victory, he held the Jamaican flag high over his head, then waved it to the crowd, then wrapped it around his shoulders like a shawl. I know the Jamaican flag is nowhere near as important as its American counterpart, but it did remind me of how U.S. Olympians literally wrapped themselves in the flag, even after some pretty mediocre performances in Beijing. Perhaps I should hold onto this one in case I qualify for the 2012 Games in London (I heard they’re considering adding speed-typing as a new event.)

In the end, I took the easier, least expensive route, and let it lay in the back seat of my car while I remained frozen with indecision. The flag is currently on tour with daily trips between my home and office, and occasional stops at gas stations, convenience stores and Starbucks, where I believe an endorsement deal may be in the works.

Post Script: Reading back over this piece, it occurs to me that I should’ve added my great respect, thanks and admiration to those who have fought in defense of our nation. It’s the sacrifice and bravery of our vets that give us the freedoms we enjoy today. Those who are fallen deserve the ultimate esteem of a grateful nation. And to the vets who walk among us – you’re doing a terrific job of administering health care to our beloved pets, though I’ve got to say you could’ve done a better job with my cats.

Website Review: survey.walmart.com

I made the mistake recently of needing a couple of items from the store and being near a Wal-Mart at the same time. I’m not a frequent patron of “Wally World” for the same reason I tend to avoid hitting myself in the head with a hammer. Though I do understand they’re having a great price on hardware.

The store I visited happened to be one of the so-called Super Wal-Marts, so the experience was unpleasant in the superlative. All I needed was a bottle of acetaminophen, to treat some back pain I’ve had lately, and an electronic nose hair trimmer, to treat the fact that I’m 55. I arrived during the late morning so the crowds weren’t bad and the parking was easy.

I gave the greeter who welcomed me only a casual nod at first, until I caught a glimpse of the vast interior and figured I needed the help of a Sherpa. Where in the mountain of merchandise that sprawled before me might I find the two things I was looking for? Make a left, he said, and walk till you can walk no further, then you’ll see the pharmacy area on the right, just below a row of Hindu prayer flags.

Even the health and beauty section by itself was immense. A pharmacist worked in the distance; maybe he’d spare me an Adderall to get a little focus. The other option would be to consult one of the locals stocking the shelves. In either case, someone was going to have a fixed stare, and I guessed I’d rather it be them.

Sheila tried to be helpful in leading me to the right spot, but that turned out to be an empty display case with pictures of electric razors across the top. She explained that for security reasons, they’d had to remove those items to a stock room, and if I was lucky enough to find a photo of a nose hair trimmer that she’d retrieve one for me. After taking a moment to admire the fine work of the photographer, I grabbed my Tylenol and headed for the checkout. I found the self-scan stations, pushed and touched and swiped at all the proper moments, and completed my transaction.

Looking at the receipt, I learned that I had just enjoyed the “Fast. Fun. Easy.” self-checkout, and also found that I could participate in a discussion of the previous ten minutes at an online location called www.survey.walmart.com. This becomes my Friday Website Review.

I’m warned at the beginning that this process will take about 15 minutes to complete, a full 50 percent longer than the actual shopping experience, so I imagine it’s going to be pretty thorough. However, if I make it to the end, I have a chance to win one of five $1,000 gift cards that Wal-Mart awards every three months. An annual expenditure of $20,000 on this program by a company with multi-billions in sales seemed less than impressive, especially considering the money has to be spent on Wal-Mart merchandise.

After a few perfunctory queries about my age, zip code, etc., I get to the survey. I’m asked if the Wal-Mart I visited offered photo processing, bill-pay, money transfers, optical services or a site-to-store delivery program. The store number is right there on the receipt! Don’t they know this stuff themselves? Or is this some attempt at crowd-sourcing an internal research effort to catalog all the pointless services now offered in mega-stores?

Next, they wanted to know the reason for my visit. The closest option was “to buy something special for myself,” though I also could’ve answered “to touch a product from Wal-Mart’s website” or “to have fun through shopping.”

Then I had to indicate all the areas of the store I had shopped in during this trip. Admittedly I did pass by several departments that I peered into, hoping they might have the nose hair trimmer: sporting goods, electronics, lawn and garden equipment (next to the hedge clippers?) and the toy department were momentarily considered, so I guess you could say I “shopped” there. I did notice, however, that I missed the pet supplies and large appliances departments; maybe I should’ve checked those too.

Next, they wanted to know about my general satisfaction with the store, on a scale of one to ten, with one being disgusted and ready to sue, and ten being spiritually transformed. How did it smell? How was the lighting? Was it clean? How did associates react when you were “near them“? (I sensed fear, confusion and concerns about communicable disease.) How friendly was the check-out person? (Pretty damn nasty actually, since it was me.)

Now I had to comment specifically on all those departments I had looked at. I checked some random scores and moved on to the screen asking about the qualities of the pharmacy area. More random numbers seemed appropriate, especially since the “percent of survey completed” progress bar at the bottom indicated I was not even halfway done yet. Then, even more questions about the pharmacy. By now, I’m running out of even the small amount of creativity required to select different digits, so I give a “5” all the way down. “You responded the same to several items — please consider your response carefully” came the reply. They sensed I was glazing over.

Too bad.

Finally, it appeared as though the end might be in sight. Overall, how satisfied was I with my visit? I was “4” satisfied. How likely would I be to continue shopping at Wal-Mart? I was “6” likely. How likely, if asked, would I be to recommend Wal-Mart to others? I could find no number that represented “I’ll never admit to anyone that I was ever here,” so they got another “5”.

Where else did I shop besides Wal-Mart? I answered Target, Michaels and the annual confiscated items sale at the County Jail. What percentage of the money I spent went to each? Like a good Wal-Mart customer, I couldn’t make the figures add up to a hundred without several tries. “Thinking about financial services,” the study asked, “which of the following do I use?” I equate Wal-Mart with financial services about as much as I equate J.P. Morgan with tube socks, so I selected “none.”

Who shopped with you today? Sadly, I had to answer “I shopped alone.”

“Are you of Hispanic or Latino origin?” Are these the only two choices?

“In which of the following groups would I place myself? White, black, Asian, American Indian or Pacific Islander.” I’d probably place myself with the islanders, preferably on a beach in Tahiti.

“Which best describes my employment status?” One of the options was actually “don’t know.” True, I had a job when I left for lunch break, but 35 minutes is a long time in this economy.

“Including myself, how many people lived in my household?” I answered “8.” How many were under three years old? “7.” They call me the “Septodad.”

“Would you describe the area in which you live as urban, suburban or rural?” Suburban, since there’s no “hellhole” option.

Finally, I was told I had reached the end of the survey. I had to claim to understand a bunch of legalese, most of which seemed aimed at preempting a belief I didn’t have before reading it – that phishing, online scams and fradulent websites were rampant, and I needed to be careful about disclosing personal information. Now they tell me.

To qualify for the drawing, I had to give my name and address, but by now they had me so paranoid I was wearing big sunglasses so no one would recognize me through the monitor. I gave a fake name – Aldo Moro, the Italian prime minister who was kidnapped and murdered in the 1970s by the Red Brigade – and submitted myself out of there as soon as possible.

Next stop: nosehairclippers.com.

Fake News: Gun lobby getting new ideas

WASHINGTON (Aug. 19) – Representatives of both political parties are becoming increasingly concerned that the National Rifle Association is not getting everything it wants, and have begun an initiative to draw out the deepest desires of the gun lobby and have them enacted into law.

Long-time goals such as wider passage of “concealed carry” laws, permission for gun owners to bring weapons into national parks, and repeal of the ban on assault rifles may not be enough to placate the powerful group. Recent incidents of citizens carrying firearms to healthcare townhall meetings and the release of NRA mascot and would-be Gerald Ford assassin Squeaky Fromme indicate the lobby may be running out of ideas for requests from compliant legislators.

“Are you sure there’s not something else we can do for you?” asked a nervous Sen. Arlen Specter at a meeting of the NRA board earlier this week. “Because if there is, you just have to let us know and we’ll take care of it. Really. It’s no trouble at all. We’re here to make you happy.”

NRA vice president Wayne LaPierre said he would coldly stroke his chin, aim his steely grey eyes into the distance, and carefully consider Specter’s proposal.

“Hmmm,” he said. “Interesting.”

Moments later, aides to LaPierre were ready with a five-point legislative agenda to be presented to Congressmen when they return from their August recess. The items would give unprecedented strength to the Second Amendment and encourage unarmed Americans to run for the lives.

The initiatives were outlined as follows:

• Instead of casual “hi’s”, head nods or the pursing of lips into a half-smile, people who passed coworkers in the hall would now be required to fire a warning shot
• Accident victims who lost all or part of the use of their hands would be required to have pistols transplanted onto the end of their stubs
• Doctors would abandon use of the scalpel to gain access to internal organs during surgical procedures and would instead open patients up with carefully targeted suppressive fire from automatic weapons
• All animals of the mammalian order or higher would be allowed to purchase and carry firearms
• Two bandoliers of ammunition crossed into an X-format would replace the commonly used “snugli” for parents who wanted to carry their infants hands-free on their chest

Parents would no longer have to "put up your hands" with easy access to high-powered ammo

Revisited: Saturday musings

Today being Saturday, I’m going to write about one of my favorite things: food. Or more specifically, the way food is served in restaurants.

 Unlike most family men in their fifties, there are many evenings when I prefer to go out to eat rather than dine at home. Because of my perverse work schedule, which prompts me to have breakfast at 5, lunch at 10:30, and then be ready for dinner around 4, I’ve made it difficult for my wife to cook. She’s an excellent chef, but with her own work schedule is often unable to sympathize in a constructive manner with my mid-afternoon hunger.

So I’ve become something of a regular at restaurants and a student of the way they serve their food. And I have a few suggestions:

• If you bill yourself as a fast-food establishment, the food should be served fast. Forget any pretense of quality; the faster the better. Cook it if you must, but c’mon — let’s go, let’s go! Obviously, the drive-through is the best way to deliver this speed, and I’m glad to see these places putting more emphasis on the speaker-and-window than on the counter, which is typically staffed by poorly groomed statues. But it can still take as much as three or four minutes to get your meal this way, and that’s just not acceptable in the fast-paced twenty-first century. I consider a successful stop at the Wendy’s or McDonald’s to be one where I can pick up my order without having the wheels of my car come to a complete stop. But we could aspire to even more: how about a system where you beam your order and payment wirelessly from about a half-mile up the street, roll down your windows, then have the employees throw your food in as you drive by? They might have to super-size at their own expense to be sure you get a minimum quantity of nuggets (throw eight to make sure five get in, for example) and I can imagine there might be some health and safety concerns with the sun-baked asphalt of the delivery area. But I’d pay a little more for the convenience. And it’s not like there aren’t already bags of discarded food all around these establishments.
• And speaking of trash, don’t make your garbage cans look so much like the speaker boxes. I’ve been embarrassed too many times already asking a swirl of flies for a Southwestern Salad with no bacon bits but extra cheese.
• Counter service needs to be much more organized. You walk into these places and see people milling about. You can’t tell who’s in line to order, who’s just waiting for their order, and who’s returning inedible orders from the drive-through. When you do find the end of the correct line, you typically end up behind a gape-mouthed family staring blankly at the overhead menu, unable to understand the concept that having the turkey panini listed on the same line as the number “5.99” means that’s how much it costs. Then a cashier at an adjacent register asks if they can take the next order, and one of these morons breaks off from their group and ties up another line. There needs to be two clearly labeled lines: one marked “People who know what they want” and the other marked “Hello? Hello? You think you might want something to eat?”
• Stepping up only slightly in class, I’d like to see a buffet restaurant where I feel cheated if I don’t eat like a stoned thoroughbred. I can’t enjoy the meal while trying to keep track of what my neighbors are managing to slam into their maws. (I can’t enjoy the meal anyway because it’s been moldering under a heat lamp since the Ford administration, but that’s another story). I had an uncle once who would show up for these things at the end of the lunch rush, eat his fill, read the Sunday paper, they chow down again at dinner time. That’s just not fair. I propose buffet restaurants have a weigh-in as customers arrive and as they depart, and charge them for the difference by the pound. I know figures could be skewed if someone uses the bathroom, though factoring that in is just too disgusting to manage.
• If you’re eating at one of those so-called casual chains like “Applebee’s” or “Olive Garden” or “Thank God This Market Segment is Almost Bankrupt”, you don’t want to deal with a too-friendly wait staff. Please take my order without sitting down at my table, kneeling at my side, telling me your name or “taking care of me this evening”. A little more distance and a little less care, please. A chain in the South named “Fatz” – like I have to specify this is in the South – has installed a system that allows you to electronically buzz your waiter’s wrist bracelet when you want to request more tea. I think it’s a humane zap with no more than minimal voltage, but it seems to work. And when the main course is ready to be served, don’t have it delivered by another waiter, then show up a minute or two later like you’ve received a battlefield promotion to head of the franchise and want to know how the food is. I haven’t had a chance to taste it yet; that’s how it is.

With Americans continuing to migrate more and more to outside-the-home dining, I think these are entirely reasonable suggestions. Someone kindly get on it right away. Thank you and come again.

Revisited: The rewards of Sunday yard work

Well it’s Sunday and, especially here in the South, this is considered a day of rest. In fact we’re especially passionate about resting on the sabbath in my home county, going so far as to enact blue laws to require a certain level of tranquility (no alcohol-assisted leisure, for example). You will relax and you will enjoy it, as mandated per state statute 593.B(3)(a).

It’s actually not the rest and relaxation that’s so important to this God-fearing part of the country as another R&R – religion and repair. Now I thought I was raised a good Christian way back in the ‘50s and ‘60s when that meant something a little different than it does today. We went to church once a week, somehow enduring 30 minutes of Sunday school and an hour of formal church service in the tropical heat of south Florida, followed by a fellowship hour featuring the hot coffee so useful in replenishing our fluids. We threw in a Thursday evening of choir practice and the occasional potluck supper and it felt like we were seriously into Jesus. The most flamboyant I ever got was when, as an acolyte, I once got carried away lighting the altar candles and accidentally set the Easter lilies on fire. Fortunately, the baptismal font was nearby.

We could never compete though with the Southern Baptists here in the Bible Belt, who add in Wednesday night services, weekend-long retreats, letter-writing campaigns against progressives and group prayers before every gathering of more than a half-dozen people. We were Lutherans, a more staid denomination rooted in the sober background of the northeast and midwest. I attended the improbably-named Biscayne Boulevard Lutheran Church just up the street from the Orange Bowl parade and around the corner from the Playboy Club until my mid-teens. I was confirmed, whatever that means – my clearest memory now of classes in the pastor’s study was when I was scolded for cleaning my fingernails with the card-stock handout he had given us – but bailed shortly thereafter when my father began working overtime on Sundays and we no longer had transportation.

Lutheranism has gotten a certain reputation thanks to Garrison Keillor. However, I believe he’s glossed over one facet of the belief that stuck with me long after Nicene and Apostolic and Catechism had just become words that sounded like good Hollywood baby names. (Though I do fondly remember the benediction as extremely uplifting, as it came immediately following the sermon and meant we were almost done). To me, Lutheranism is the crystal meth of Protestantism. By that I mean it has made me feel that I can’t rest and relax until I’ve accomplished something, and even then I’m not so sure about it. I must keep working and working and accomplishing and accomplishing until I’m too exhausted to continue, and only then is it acceptable to collapse on the couch. This work ethic served me well during the years my job offered plenty of overtime, but it’s becoming a real handicap as the demand for our work ebbs and AARP solicitations start arriving in the mail.

Most homeowners in my situation are able to channel this need to achieve into their lawns, gardens or other home-improvement projects. My coworkers talk long and passionately about caulking and aerating and mulching and spackling, though I have only the vaguest idea of what these concepts involve. I’m sure I need at least some of them – my deck has loose boards, my edging woodposts are rotting to splinters and my gutters are flowering better than anything else on my property – but I’m not sure how caulking is supposed to fix this. I go to the home improvement store and buy a hot dog and a bag of ant killer, but for some reason that doesn’t help. When things get desperate enough, like when a dead tree is about to fall on my house or the air-conditioner stops conditioning air, I call a guy to come fix it. He pulls some fantastic dollar amount out of one of his impressive array of pockets and I pay it like the chump I am, rather than reveal my inability to ask an intelligent question about the project.

I’ve had to draw the line somewhere though, so I’ve managed to become pretty good at mowing the lawn. I know it’s not much, but it is one reliable way to get sweaty and dirty and bug-bitten like a respectable suburbanite. I know how to prime the engine and I can usually get the thing started after only several pulls of the rope. Maintenance-wise, I know you have to put gas in the gas tank thing and I understand there’s something about changing the oil every now and then, but fortunately it hasn’t come to that yet. Some things I’ve learned the hard way: don’t take it to the shop without checking the blades first to see that there’s no blockage of clippings (“heh, heh, I forgot all about that” I offered meekly); and don’t expect it to start in the spring if you haven’t run out the gas the previous fall. Oh yeah, and don’t reach underneath with your hand while the blades are running – I’m especially good at remembering that.

I’m working now on my second mowing season since our old yard guy apparently died (at least I guess that’s why he stopped showing up). I put on my special yard-mowing pants, my special hat and my old worn running shoes and I’m ready to crank about every other weekend. I thrill to the successful start, enjoy the mesmerizing zen of walking back and forth and back and forth across my patch of grass, then stand back and admire my work like a sculptor when I’m done. For that brief time, I’m exercising my domain over the earth and accomplishing something significant by reducing my blades of fescue from two inches down to a far-more-sane inch and a half. Then, and only then, I can rest peacefully.

I think Martin Luther would be proud of me.

Sorry about almost running you over

Man’s relationship with his methods of transportation has always been a complicated one.

In earliest times, we rolled head over heels down a hill to get where we were going, until the rise of terraced agriculture made such tumbling impossible. In the Middle Ages, it was the catapult that sent us flying over great distances; it took centuries to realize the trade-off of speed and distance against the violent landings wasn’t good. Next it was animals like camels and horses and oxen that moved us about, a very efficient option until we realized how good they tasted.

Mmm — camels.

A little over a hundred years ago, we began our love affair with the automobile. Encased in steel, we lost a vital connection to the natural world but gained a cultural icon, a system of interstate highways, and more cupholders than we had hands. Those of us inside the modern motor vehicle traveled the world in comfort while those on the outside scrambled to get out of the way.

I’ve been fortunate in my nearly 40 years of driving never to have killed anyone with my automobile. I’ve had a few car-on-car mishaps, though these were almost all minor fender benders in the eyes of everyone except my insurance company. I did strike a mystery animal that had wandered out onto the interstate early one morning on the way to work (at least I was headed to work; I don’t know what he was doing out at that hour). I only caught enough of a glimpse to recognize it wasn’t a human or a yeti or a chupacabra, and that’s about all that concerned me at 2 a.m.

Aside from assorted small groundlings, the only other creature I’ve hit is the neighborhood dog known locally as “Ironside.” He’s a golden retriever mix that lives near the main access to our subdivision, and he loves to bob in and out of the shrubbery that separates the two entrance lanes. You can’t go fast enough in this spot to gain any real momentum, so though he’s struck constantly by all the neighbors he always gets up and trots away.

We do have a lot of pedestrians in our neighborhood so I try to be extra careful in the area. In general, I’d characterize my driving style as “efficient” (other might use the word “crazy”), which is to say I want to be in the car only as long as it takes to get from point A to point B. I don’t drive for fun or to listen to music or to “make the scene” in my sweet Civic ride. But I’m learning to be extra cautious near home, primarily because I know these people and colliding with them would be extremely embarrassing.

There’s a lot of trauma that comes with an automobile accident, however we’ve given very little consideration to the personal interaction that follows a near-miss. I once pulled up to a nearby intersection just as a jogger was stepping off the sidewalk and into the roadway. As a runner myself, I know how thoughtless motorists can be, honking when you get in their way, occasionally turning left, asking directions, or yelling critiques of your shorts. But when I’m the driver, it’s they who are the reckless jerks.

I stopped short just in front of this hapless fellow, and our eyes met across the hood of my car. He rightfully glared at me, and I had only seconds to come up with an appropriate response. I shrugged my shoulders and offered a weak smile, then held out my hand as if to say “after you.” I thought that was pretty gracious, though apparently not enough to avoid a mouthed epithet that would make a lip-reader blush.

Fortunately, he wasn’t from the neighborhood so I didn’t have to deal with any subsequent consequences that might’ve included having my mailbox bashed in with a baseball bat. Such was not the case a few months later at the end of my driveway.

We have a bushy magnolia tree on the edge of our property, and it effectively blocks the view on that side of the drive. There are only a few houses down that way before you come to the cul-du-sac, so the usual traffic from that direction is virtually non-existent. On this occasion, however, coming up just behind the tree as I was ready to exit into the road was a family of four out for their evening stroll. The mom was ugly and the dad was wearing an unflattering golf shirt, so there would’ve been no loss there, but the two young children were very cute and deserving of surviving into adulthood.

It didn’t really even qualify as a close call, as we all saw one other in plenty of time to avoid near-collision. Still, there was that awkward moment where we all looked at each other wondering what to say or do next. Since I was backing out, it was easy enough for me to turn away in an implicit offer to let them proceed first, and I assume they did eventually. I’d like to have said something to soothe any hurt feelings there might’ve been, but “sorry I almost killed you” seemed so inadequate.

Later, I remembered the events surrounding a parking lot accident I’d had a few years earlier. It was a terrible January Sunday, very foggy with a forecast of freezing rain. As I backed out of my parking place, a young Japanese man was also backing up and our rear-ends met in a crash. Nobody was hurt, and we briefly examined the two minor dents before hustling into the mall to call our insurance carriers. I tried to make non-incriminating small talk as we hurried along, only to discover he didn’t speak English. There was literally nothing I could say due to the language barrier. No excuses were necessary because no excuses were possible.

I guess that’s why I’m so comfortable hitting the retriever.

Fake News: Lyin’ in the Senate

WASHINGTON, D.C. (August 26) — The Lion of the Senate is dead.

A 450-pound female, described by biologists as a 12-year-old member of the Barbary Lion subspecies, was found in the foyer of the Senate cloakroom by a night watchman late yesterday. The body of the animal, one of Africa’s largest predatory carnivores, was removed by members of the sergeant-at-arms office shortly after the discovery.

The lion is believed to have been stalking senators for the last two years since it was inadvertently introduced by an elementary school group visiting the upper chamber of Congress in 2007. The beast’s tail could frequently be seen wagging high above the Senate floor as it napped in the rafters of the Capitol.

The cause of death was not immediately known, but already there is suspicion of foul play. A comment by one of Washington’s largest lobbying firms fueled speculation that the beast had been killed.

“We need to put this in the proper perspective,” said Henry Childs, president of the Associated Federation of Jackals, Hyenas and Scavengers. “This cat was endangering the legislative process. We believe that wild beasts should be allowed to wander freely through the halls of Congress only under certain carefully defined circumstances, such as during a filibuster.”

The lion was believed to have taken up permanent residence when it saw the large number of elderly men in the Senate and reacted with its natural instinct to cull the weakest members from a herd. No senators were thought to have been consumed by the animal, though several key aides to the Senate Subcommittee on Domestic and Foreign Marketing, Inspection, and Plant and Animal Health believed to have returned to their home districts may turn up during the autopsy.

Members of this particular species generally hunt wildebeest, impala, springbok, eland and kudu on the sub-Saharan African plains. Those spindly-legged ungulates bear a striking resemblance to several of the Senate’s most senior members, particularly 91-year-old Sen. Robert Byrd (D-W.Va.) and 85-year-old Sen. Frank Lautenberg (D-N.J.). It is speculated that the big cat tracked these men closely before discovering they couldn’t meet it’s need for a minimum of 15 pounds of meat per day.

“This may be the ‘world’s greatest deliberative body’, but it’s not a body that can provide enough protein to sustain an apex predator,” said Senate zoologist Edward Notting. “We have reason to think it may have occasionally feasted on tourists in the Great Rotunda and Statuary Hall. If that regimen were supplemented with the carcasses of key floor whips and occasional raids of the House breakfast buffet, that could keep the animal alive and healthy.”

Lion deliberates eating Sen. Daniel Inouye (D-Ha.)

Website Review: Facebook

Diving deeper and deeper into the new digital culture, I find myself this morning with what appears to be a Facebook account. How the hell did that happen?

I first signed up with the social networking site about nine months ago when I attended the WordPress conference here in Charlotte that turned out to be about almost everything except blogging. Twitter and Facebook were the two big topics that seemed to be distracting everybody who hadn’t already made the next great technological leap forward — wearing aluminum foil cone-hats and talking to themselves in small mirrors.

Like many newbies, I logged on, stashed my user name and password on a piece of paper, and thought little more about it.

Then, a few weeks ago came the big fuss about Sarah Palin using Facebook to address her supporters on the subject of healthcare reform and how she thought “death panels” would be a great idea to weed out the weak. Never mind that few of her ideological kin are savvy enough to know what a book is, much less one with a face; the message was still picked up by the right wing’s big media outlets — Fox News, Rush Limbaugh and crudely scrawled notes wrapped around rocks thrown through windows — and became the talk of the news.

I decided to visit Sarah’s Facebook page, ostensibly to ridicule and degrade her, but couldn’t easily find those links. Instead I found “Sarah Palin,” a “politician” with over 800,000 supporters, someone named “I have more Foreign Policy Experience than Sarah Palin” with over 200,000 members, and a guy who calls himself “1,000,000 Strong Against Sarah Palin” who had not yet lived up to his name with 197,000 members.

To make a long story short, I thought I was making what’s called a “friend request” so I could poke around her site and see even more pictures of her wearing the same red jacket that now seems to be the only clothing she owns since that whole designer kerfuffle. (In reality, I believe she still owns the kerfuffle, a serged piece of cloth inserted next to the scalp to poof a beehive). Instead, I actually became a “fan,” which only entitles you to one-way missives, not the interactive conversation I was hoping to have in which I convince her to abandon the partisan thuggery and become my wife.

After about the third time she mentioned caribou on my “wall,” I figured out how to “de-fan” her, and moved onto the subject of finding long-lost friends and relatives. You start with a search field and the hope that your friend isn’t named something like “John Smith.” Actually, let me back up a step: you really start by having friends and relatives, something I seem to have overlooked in the last thirty years. So you scour your memory trying to remember that guy you biked to Wakulla Springs with in 1973, those nieces you vaguely remember being born in the mid-nineties, and that mother or father who might’ve nurtured and supported you for the first 18 years of your life, but you’re not sure.

Trying to come up with names of people you’ve encountered from over 55 years of living is not as easy as you might think. Roberto Clemente, Gordon Lightfoot and Spiro Agnew leaped immediately to mind, but I think they’re all dead or in the Canadian Music Hall of Fame, essentially the same thing. You don’t want to be adding current-day associates to your friends list either — what would be the point of communicating electronically with the deadbeat legal aide who sits next to you every day when you can simply turn to your left and speak to him? (Now that I mention it, I can think of quite a few advantages.)

Gradually I assemble a mental list of people of the past and start sending out friend requests. Sometimes the location where the person lives makes you pretty sure the search yielded the same Paul Dixon you roomed with as a college freshman at Florida State and not the saxophone jazz great or the Nevada attorney general or the Philippine she-male who describes his current relationship as “it’s complicated” (I bet). Eventually, I send out 22 requests and wait patiently for an exhilarating reunion and a flood of wonderful memories or, equally possible, rejection and humiliation.

In the process, there are a couple of fun things to amuse you while your digital stalking proceeds. The first jolt of reminiscence comes with seeing faces you might’ve missed for decades: one old buddy is now a non-smiling poser with an attitude, another has sadly become a mere white-on-grey silhouette of her former self, your nephew-in-law-to-be appears to be a dog. I didn’t realize the “face” in “Facebook” doesn’t have to be your own personal face.

The other thing I enjoyed was the security code exercise designed to keep spammers away. These are the two randomly generated word-scrawls you have to read and re-type as a guard against the cyber-attackers who won’t figure out the character recognition software to beat this system until next Tuesday. Many of the word choices are randomly whacky and would make excellent emo band names: “spandex realtor,” “vital pancake” and “ersatz pancreas” are a few of my faves so far.

Now I’m sitting back and watching the acknowledgements roll in. Every day there’s a new blast from the past, bringing news of grandchildren, broken marriages and failed coup attempts. The subject lines are often a bit awkward — “hey,” “hi,” “remember me?” and “you can be bigger down there in only six weeks” are some common themes — but hardly necessary as a prelude to the fond memories that follow. I’m finally seeing the appeal of social networking: interacting with your fellow man without having to smell or lend money to them.

I’m continuing to learn the ins and outs of all that Facebook offers. I still don’t quite grasp the concept of the “wall,” except that it tells me when my 13-year-old cousin is “lmao eh pi oijp odf jpfd”. I’ve figured out how to upload photos of my vacation and purchase “gifts” like pictures of Britney Spears, two equally unlikely prospects. As I type this line, it’s being suggested that I add Adonis Bouhatab as a friend, even though I’m pretty sure he finished a distant third in the recent Afghan elections. I’ve only tried to “chat” with myself twice.

I figure it’ll be at least another week or so before I run out of recollections and grow tired of looking so far back into the past. I’m already getting the feeling that my next message to my absolute bestest friend from my college years in Tallahassee will be something along the lines of “can’t believe we haven’t ‘talked’ in over 20 years — it’s 2031 already?”

In the meantime, if you want to try your luck sending me a friend request and following me on Facebook, go ahead and give it a shot. I’m the “Davis Whiteman” wearing the blue shirt, not the “Jamie Davis Whiteman” who appears to be a schnauzer.

Revisited: Hanging out at Panera

I was originally going to write this morning about the phenomenon of cafes, bakeries and coffee shops being transformed into mobile offices for today’s laptop-toting entrepreneurs. While doing some second-shift training last week, I was one of these latter-day squatters as I killed time between shifts at the Panera around the corner from my office. Clustered around the nearest electrical outlet like our ancestors in the cold prehistoric night hugged the nearest campfire, we sit tap-tap-tapping, oblivious to the genuine customers who give us the occasional nasty look as we nurse a single coffee with our paperwork spread over at least six table spaces.

I usually prefer to be the one giving the resentful glances rather than the one receiving. I was especially perturbed several months back when some sort of real-estate sales force regularly took over the whole back half of this particular cafe. Unlike those who work alone on their databases and spreadsheets, disturbing their neighbors only occasionally with forced-cheery cell calls to would-be clients, this group held actual full-blown meetings, complete with flip charts and loud announcements. At one point, the guy in charge of the group noted that sales were declining with quarterly targets right around the corner, and you can tell some of this group isn’t working their hardest, as I can tell by you, Bill, not wearing your tie, and if it’s in your car why don’t we all wait while you just go get it?

Talk about a big smear of humiliation with your cinnamon crunch bagel.

As I said at the beginning, I was originally going to write about this caffeine-addled new-economy workforce by visiting a similar Panera nearer my suburban home. I was going to walk around the room, looking over the shoulder of each of these workers, trying to get a sense of their place in the business world so I could make fun of them. But there’s just not as much to choose from in the suburbs as there is in the city.

When I first arrived about a half-hour ago, the only business types were a guy backed into a corner so no one could see what he was working on (porn or, equally embarrassing, talking points for an upcoming sales call) and another guy talking on his cell. Everybody else in the restaurant – probably 20 people or so – were obvious retirees who had turned this location into their senior center. They are literally gathered around the fire(place) in the center of the room, most clutching sweaters to their chests and complaining to management, “What is this, a meat packinghouse? It’s so cold in here.”

Finally a few other laptop slaves trickle in, nervously glancing about for those precious seating locations near the electrical outlets. At the in-town location I visited last week, great tangles of wiring were spread about the floor as people tried the ol’ electronic reach-around to tap into the precious and not-coincidentally free power. The etiquette of this social group apparently requires a polite request if you want to share the plug-in with a stranger — as if it were some potentially grievous breach of sexual space — but it’s also OK if you can slip your prongs in without having to ask. And God forbid if you should accidentally unplug your neighbor’s cord when you intended to disconnect your own. This premature withdrawal is NOT the kind that is appreciated.

Now a guy has sit down next to me, just beyond a low wall that separates my table from his. I can tell he’s eyeing my power source, and before I know it he’s hooked in without even the slightest attempt to get to know me. The cad! I guess he thinks the wall represents some kind of bathroom stall separator which makes an anonymous encounter possible. Before I know it he’s tapping away and munching on his artichoke-and-cheese quiche and sucking down both orange juice and coffee. So, he’s not only a bounder, but he’s also setting a bad example for the rest of us cheapskates by actually purchasing something with a profit margin. After a few more minutes, I hear a commotion behind the wall and see him rise and walk over to one of the bakery workers. Seems he’s spilled his quiche onto the floor and wants some help cleaning it up. Sorry, Panera, there goes your margin.

If I haven’t mentioned it already, I was originally going to write about… oh, sorry; seems like my initial intentions have panned out after all. The seniors have gathered up their caps and gloves to head out into the elements – it’s still pushing 85 here in the South despite the fact it’s mid-September, and they do have to get to their cars without freezing – and what looks like the mid-morning brunch crowd is starting to trickle in. One lady has just come to pick up a large tray of sandwiches for the luncheon meeting at her office – there are companies that still have the budget for that kind of thing? We once got a box of donuts for working Easter Sunday.

Well, I guess I’ve occupied valuable retail space long enough without making a significant contribution to this establishment’s bottom line. Let me grab a few free samples of the cherry vanilla scone, pick up a discarded USA Today from the rack on the side of the trash can, and check the stock market (or what’s left of it) on the free wi-fi . Yikes, the Lehman meltdown has pushed the Dow down over 300 points, sure to help the job security at my financial services firm when and if I return to work tomorrow.

I guess if I did lose my job and end up out on the streets, I know that Panera will take me and my laptop in.

Revisited: High-tech restrooms

It’s probably a good indicator that technology has gone too far when it shows up in the bathroom.

I don’t think it makes me a Luddite to complain that the last innovation worth a crap was the invention of indoor plumbing and that every improvement since has been merely gilding the lily. There are certain basics that seem totally sufficient without the addition of electronic circuitry and motion-sensing equipment. There’s only one movement I need to be sensing when it comes to using the facilities. I find everything else that’s going on in the modern restroom to be distracting at best and embarrassing at worst.

The men’s room at my office recently received such an unnecessary upgrade. You can’t help but wonder about corporate priorities when somewhere there’s a budget line item that pays for urinals that no longer require manual flushing. These appeared one recent Monday morning and caused quite a stir. I hadn’t noticed the innovation when I stepped up to do my business and was more than a little startled to find that a certain requisite shaking had set off rushing waters before I even had the chance to step away.

I think what bothered me more than the wasteful spending (pun intended) was the presumptuousness that flushing was necessarily the next logical step in the process. I admit it’s hard to come up with other realistic scenarios, but still I wanted to make the decision myself to reach up and depress the lever which would dispatch the urine. We already have enough standard process steps that don’t require any thought or creativity at work as it is. I resented this further incursion into my decision-making. If it’s meant as a labor-saving device, I can frankly use the exercise.

On my next several trips to the urinal, I brought along a sticky note to cover the motion sensor, allowing me to walk away and flush when I was damn well ready. Maybe there’s a person watching via the Internet in some business support services operation halfway around the world who was actually triggering the flush. I’ve never quite understood how motion-sensing works, so I can’t dismiss this other possibility in our increasingly globalized economy.

The next innovation to appear was not exactly as ground-breaking, since it’s been employed in gas stations around the country for the last twenty years. But when we got our hot-air hands-drying blower, it was installed under the guise of concern for the environment. “Save a tree” implored the home-made sign that urged us to forsake the paper towels. Now I’m all for environmental preservation but I just don’t see how my use four or five times a day of the flimsy sheets they give us is going to make much difference. Especially when these high-powered heat-belchers sound like they’re wasting as much energy as my lawnmower and take about as long to dry my hands as my mower takes to start.

The last upgrade we got came just a few weeks ago in the form of the scent-mister installed just above the urinal that periodically sprays some sort of antiseptic essence down a short tube and into the bowl. It’s not a motion-sensing device (nor an odor-sensing device as near as I can tell) but instead apparently works from an internal timer. So I guess the good thing about it is that you can’t take its activation as a commentary on the quality of your waste. But the down side is that the timer makes the scenting so unpredictable that the little “squeak-whoosh” it emits can scare you off your aim. It’s a pretty nice smell though – one of my coworkers said he might stop bothering to buy cologne altogether and just stick his wrists under the tube.

The final straw, I think, will be one of those motion-sensing spigots on the sink – the kind that require you to wave your hands around like some sort of airport tarmac guy in order to get any water. You’re never quite sure where the rays are coming from, so I’ve just gotten in the habit of dancing frantically in front of the sink when I encounter one of these (those Boomers who remember “doing the Freddy” with the sixties band Freddy and the Dreamers will have some idea of what my efforts resemble). It’s a bit embarrassing if someone else emerges from a stall during this display, especially if that someone is a Republican senator, but what else can you do? We Fifty-Somethings have to adapt to a modern world.

Even though I was perfectly happy with the status quo before this plumbing revolution started a few years ago, there are a couple of inventions I wouldn’t mind seeing in the next wave. One would be some kind of indicator that the urinal is currently in use for those entering our men’s room at work. The single stand-up unit is positioned around a tight corner past the last sit-down stall, and if you don’t know it’s in use – especially if your mission is urgent – you may find yourself running into the back of the current occupant.

The other thing I’d like to see is some sort of microwave device directed at my prostate that would get me out of this brave new world faster than the 8 to 10 minutes it’s currently taking.

When you’re smiling, the whole world smiles with you

People get complimented all the time for their smiles. “She has such a lovely smile,” they’ll say. “He has a smile that will light up a room.”

I am not one of those people. Sometimes I want to smile; sometimes I actually feel happy enough to smile. But my face is worn by over a half century of worry, scorn and general ill-temper, and there are some muscles that just don’t work well anymore. The exercise experts tell us to use it or lose it. I have totally lost it.

What remains, however, is something in which I take a measure of pride. If I can’t be near the upper extreme of pleasant facial expressions, I can boast that I’m near the bottom. I have, you see, what may be the world’s greatest frown.

It’s an almost-perfect half circle of gloom. The edges curl so far down from the apex that I almost need to borrow an additional face. Were the circle to be completed across the bottom, there’d be a ring of contemptuous mouth approaching 360 degrees of flawless roundness.

They say “let a smile be your umbrella,” but on this rainy Monday here in the South, I’d much rather have a replica of my sad grimace protecting me from the elements.

Check out this piteous mug:

When I first turned the camera around a looked at this shot, I was reminded of the photos from a recent colonoscopy shown me by my gastroenterologist. There’s a certain fleshy flabbiness not unlike what most people have six feet up their large intestine. The nostrils could be mistaken for an ileum or a duodenum. (Regular readers may note that I finally found a Wal-Mart that carries nose hair clippers).

Next, let me show you what I call my “greeting smile.” This is the expression I use when I need to stray from my default mode of misery long enough to acknowledge a passing coworker or neighbor. By pursing my lips, I can temporarily shut down the Super Frown and mold my mouth into something resembling a friendly face. With a nod of the head and a vague twinkle of the eye (not shown), I can almost pass for a nice guy as I acknowledge nearby fellow humans.

Finally, here’s an example of my genuinely happy smile. This is a simulation, of course, since I had nothing to be genuinely happy about at the time except for the prospect of spending my Sunday afternoon doing laundry and, maybe as a treat later, mowing the lawn. Note that the lips are nearly horizontal — very close to a technical smile — and that the cheeks exhibit a roundness that suggests either genuine cheer or a really bad sinus infection. The veiny expanse of chin is no longer the center of the frown but a loathsome feature in its own right.

Real News: Site visits skyrocket in August

MY HOUSE (Sept. 1) — Celebrations erupted inside my head early this morning as WordPress stats revealed I had completed the tenth consecutive monthly increase in visits recorded. Today also marks the first anniversary of my original blog post on September 1, 2008.

“This is a great day in my personal blogging history,” I told myself in an interview at the kitchen counter. “I knew that if I could hang in there long enough, I’d be able to look back on a full year of steady improvement and almost-daily posts.”

August results reveal that site visits totaled 2,861, an impressive .81% increase over July numbers that came to only 2,838. This also represents a rise in the rate of increase, as July had only been .78% better than June’s total.

The improvement was less than certain into the final hours last night, as the August total was still three short of breaking the previous monthly record as of 9 p.m. But a late surge by people searching the web for “sqirrel with a blow tourch” and “sex phone cam white girl and mexican sil” drove traffic for a small pre-midnight rush.

“I was a little worried right before I went to bed,” I said. “I should’ve known that the late-night berserko and perv contingent would be enough to carry me over the top.”

Improving scores were also seen in sales of DavisW’s Blog columns on Amazon Kindle. The digital publishing platform, which now contains all posts going back to January 1 for the amazingly low price of $.99 per download, sold 12 items in August. Added to the five releases sold in July, the worldwide gross now exceeds $14.

“Look at me — I’m a professional writer. Woo hoo,” I told myself. “I’m expecting that direct deposit from Amazon (expected to be $5.95 after they remove their percentage) any day now.”

The next milestone on the horizon is the total visits count, which currently stands at 19,954. A new round of celebration is expected when that total passes 20,000 later this afternoon.

A new wrinkle in healthcare reform debate?

Funny story: Over the weekend, I got the bright idea I could contribute something both serious and unique to the national healthcare debate. I had, I thought, an interesting take on how we’re using so much of our money for such a small return when millions with more legitimate needs were going without basic care. I would offer my modest proposal as a healthy but aging philanthrope (don’t laugh) in a national publication (preferably The New York Times) thereby spurring discussion of a long-ignored solution and, not incidentally, awareness of my website (davisw.wordpress.com).

 

I wrote out my proposal. Then I read it. Bad move — both the writing and the reading. It was supposed to be serious, but I kept feeling compelled to add wisecracks at very inappropriate points during my argument. By the end it was neither a serious think piece nor a snarky blog post. It was instead some hideous hybrid that would neither acquire me national publicity nor entertain my core base on WordPress. I might be fortunate enough to get an angry mob of seniors in my front yard but, unless they felt well enough to rake, that wasn’t going to do me much good.

So I’m not submitting the piece to The Times, and I’m not running it here on my blog.

Enjoy:

I’m a 55-year-old who has lived a good life in contemporary America. I was born into an era when prosperity was pretty much a given for me and my cohorts. I was middle-class and male and white (still am). I’ve enjoyed all the modern conveniences and social conventions made possible by decades of innovation, creativity and a certain social cohesion. Having spent most of my years in the American Century, it’s hard to imagine having lucked into a better era of world history.

But as I’ve watched the health care debate unfold this summer, I’ve felt increasingly guilty about the resources I’ve used and, more importantly, will use in my final thirty or forty or, God forbid, fifty years. We’ve heard how end-of-life care is eating up a tremendous percentage of our national health budget, and yielding very little quality in return. Those of us in our final trimester are going to cost a fortune to maintain and, personally, I don’t think I’m worth it.

That’s why I’m promising publicly to ending my own life no later than my seventieth birthday on November 6, 2023.

As I look at that previous paragraph sitting starkly in front of me, I must admit it’s a little scary. Knowing the exact day of your death is not the most soothing feeling. Few of us contemplate when and where the end will come, but we like to carry a vague notion that it’s way out there in the distance, certainly nothing to worry about any time soon.

In another sense, though, it’s very comforting. I don’t want to spend my last weeks connected to life-sustaining machinery, toxic drugs flowing through my veins and visions of terror flowing through my mind, no matter how many loved ones are compelled to surround me. I plan to live life to its fullest up to and including that final moment, when I plunge from a cliff over a rocky Pacific shore and get swept out to sea.

Don’t want to inconvenience anyone by making them clean up after me.

By foregoing the expenses of heavily assisted living, and getting just a relatively few of my fellow Baby Boomers to join me, we should be able to free up enough funding in the national treasury to sustain those who follow us. My generation has done a number of things to improve the human condition — supporting civil rights, fostering greater tolerance, going to Woodstock — but it’s not like won a world war or anything. On balance, I’m pretty sure we’re taking more out of society than we’re putting in.

When we lament issues like the national debt and the tremendous repayment burden we’re laying on our children and grandchildren, we rarely consider that’s there something concrete we can do about it. If enough of my fellow fifty- and sixty-somethings can commit here and now to a promise that we’ll make a graceful exit when our most productive years are through, the savings could be enough give today’s young people a reasonable hope that they’ll enjoy a prosperity equivalent to ours.

The initiative I’m proposing is completely voluntary. There will be no death panels. There will be no government sponsorship or endorsement. There may be a perceived obligation to do right by our kids, but what’s wrong with that? We can even “sweeten the pot,” as it were, finding a way to incentivize enrollment by offering to make that final year one to remember. A free Mediterranean cruise, DVDs of those movies we always meant to watch, and a stash of recreational drugs would ease the pangs of early exit, and cost a whole lot less than aggressive cancer treatments.

Even more appealing to me is reducing the burden on all those vital young lives that haven’t had the chance to grow into fullness. I’m writing this piece in a grocery store café not far from my house, and watching with a smile as I see young children scurrying underfoot, college students stocking up for a Saturday night party, and young couples selecting the ingredients for a romantic dinner. It’s not a pleasant thought that they look across the aisle at this grey head of mine and see the husk of a productive member of the nation. I’d feel so much less guilty if instead they were looking at someone willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for them.

There’s nothing magic, incidentally, about the age of 70. For me, it’s just a nice round number that seems far enough in the distance so that it’s not a pressing deadline. If others want to choose a different number, that’s fine with me as long as they make the commitment to follow through.

As for the pall that could be cast as those last days approach, I think it’s just a matter of adjusting our too-unrealistic attitudes toward death. We think life is preferable just because it’s all we’ve known, not unlike growing up in rural South Carolina in the belief that that’s the best it can get. I can be convinced that the Great Beyond is simply a nothingness that’s impossible for us to comprehend; boring perhaps but far from unbearable.

I strongly urge others in my position who may read this to strongly consider joining with me in this brave and selfless enterprise. Mark yourself as among the select few who have the generosity of spirit to think about someone other than themselves for a change. If you’ve ever anguished over what’s the right birthday present to give your grandchildren, not knowing a Wii from a Webkin, consider this the perfect gift.

And comfort yourself, as I’ve done, with a song from our beloved Sixties that just played on the overhead Muzak here at the store:

I’m calling everyone to ride along/To another shore/Where we can laugh our lives away/And be free once more.

Ride Captain Ride/Upon your mystery ship/Sail away to a world/That others might have missed.

 

 

 

Fake News: Wolves on the prowl in Idaho

BOISE, Idaho (Sept. 2) — An Idaho real estate agent became the first hunter to legally kill a gray wolf yesterday, bagging an adult female in the mountains of the northern Rockies.

What a man.

Robert Millage, 34, received one of over 10,000 permits issued after the formerly endangered species was removed from its protected status earlier this year. He wasted little time in using it, experiencing what he called “an adrenaline rush to have those wolves howling and milling about after I fired the shot.”

“I’m a real estate agent in Idaho. What else am I going to do?” Millage told reporters following his brave act to protect local elk and deer so they could be shot by other hunters instead of killed by wolves. “It’s hard to sell a house right now. This was a cathartic exercise for me, and I think the wolves enjoyed it too.”

An estimated 1,650 of the animals (whoops — make that 1,649) now live in the Rockies thanks to a controversial reintroduction program begun in 1995. Idaho set a quota of 220 wolves for this hunting season as part of its plan to manage the wolf population.

A representative of the wolves said his group was not going to take the renewal of the hunt lying down. Well, actually, they will take it lying down but not before walking in circles to tramp down the grass.

“They criticize us for preying on weaker species, but neglect to offer a constructive solution as to what we’re supposed to eat for dinner,” said a full-grown male speaking at news conference at a suburban Pocatello Holiday Inn. “I can’t walk into a store and buy a hot dog. I don’t have any money and, even if I did, I don’t have any pockets to carry it in.”

Many of those who purchased the hunting permits said they would simply frame the historic documents as keepsakes. Others said they wanted to “be legal” in case a wolf leaped from between the floorboards of their homes and attacked their families. One man told National Public Radio “I simply don’t like wolves, and I wanted to send them a message.”

“I don’t need a message blasted out the end of a shotgun,” said the 160-pound carnivore who met with then ate local reporters. “I’m on Facebook.”

The growing conflict threatened relations between wolves and humans in the intermountain west. The animals had been hunted to near extinction early last century, after they reneged on an agreement not to wear sheep’s clothing. The state supreme court later ruled that arrangement invalid as part of a sweeping legalization of transvestism in the Gem State.

Reports emerged late yesterday that the nation’s best-known Lupine-American, CNN news reporter Wolf Blitzer, might be called in to negotiate a settlement in the dispute. Blitzer’s father was a respected wildlife management specialist in Buffalo, N.Y., and his mother was a Canadian timber wolf.

In a related story, I had an exterminator come to my house Tuesday after members of my family saw several large roaches on our deck. It was feared by some that the two-inch-long palmetto bugs could make their way inside our home, but I’m from Miami and am not afraid of creepy intruders. We used to have Giant Poison African Toads in our backyard. We killed ’em by pounding ’em with the back sides of shovels. Didn’t need no stinkin’ permit.

This guy eats wolves for breakfast

Website Review: WasteManagement.com

It seems like everyone’s a manager these days. Nobody’s doing any work any more; they’re all managing projects. You’ve got the “facilities manager,” who we used to call the janitor. You’ve got a “site manager,” whose job involves over-seeing something (or more likely over-looking something, like the needs of his employees). You’ve got “human resources management,” which was formerly known as bossing people around.

 

As my father might’ve said, there are too many chiefs and not enough Indians. Except I can testify, as someone who’s visited south Asia a half dozen times, that there are in fact plenty of Indians, and most of them are involved in doing and making stuff instead of managing it.

 

Most improbable of all to me is the concept of waste management. Guiding, nurturing and directing — which I’d consider the hallmarks of effective management — aren’t what you do to garbage. You discard it, maybe hassle it a little and then burn it, preferably as far from my backyard as possible. You don’t influence a heap of disposable diapers to stretch beyond its normal comfort zone, pushing the envelope in search of expanded learning opportunities. You hold your nose and call the trash guy.

In the interest of learning more about our national waste stream and how to minimize its effect on the environment, I decided to select Waste Management, Inc. for this week’s Website Review.

It’s a very professional slice of the Internet, befitting the leading provider of comprehensive waste management and environmental services in North America. WM, headquartered in the appropriately named town of Downers Grove, serves nearly 20 million customers through a network of 367 collection operations, 355 transfer stations, 273 active landfills, and dozens of other variations on the traditional junk heap.

As you might expect in these times, the company tries hard to portray itself as a player in the green movement. They seek to “make a positive difference on the environment” with “waste-to-energy projects” that channel the methane produced by decomposition into 500 megawatts of renewable but disgusting energy each year. They have 425 vehicles converted from diesel fuel to clean-burning natural gas, a first step toward the day they can pull up behind your office and stuff old bagels right into their trucks’ fuel tank. Their landfills will eventually be turned into parks, campgrounds and athletic fields, each containing PVC pipes sticking out of the ground at random intervals to delight curious children interested in enjoying an afternoon of entrapment.

 

Customers of Waste Management’s services include individual residents, businesses and municipalities. In addition to the traditional model of trash pickup by clanging, beeping behemoths outside your window at three in the morning, there’s a significant focus on growing niche businesses such as healthcare. We’re told that hundreds of millions of people are injured each year by improperly discarded “sharps,” those needles, syringes and lancets produced by medical offices and heavy-metal cover bands. The patented MedWasteTracker™ system will safely contain, transport and render sharps harmless.

“Can’t I use a hard-plastic container to store sharps?” asks an obviously ignorant questioner in the FAQ section. “No, please don’t,” is the patient reply. These can apparently burst open when compressed in garbage trucks, projecting HIV-tipped death darts that can bring down a 300-pound WM employee. Also, they advise people to segregate blood-soaked bandages, contaminated wound dressings and dialysis machine filters from their normal trash, though it sounds like these individuals have bigger problems than proper waste disposal. And you’re advised to dispose of expired prescription drugs by mixing them with cat litter or used coffee grounds, to give the local junkie a burst of flavor in every Percodan snort.

Another featured service is something called “bioremediation,” which apparently involves taking earth contaminated with explosives and turning it into potting soil. I’m assuming this is a rather narrow segment of the market, since very few in my neighborhood gardening club have reported dynamite-infused dirt as a problem. WM offers three carefully branded operations to address this: the TOSS (two-step static system, not unlike a Texas roadhouse dance); the BioSite system, for all your toluene, benzene and methyl isobutyl ketone needs; and the Bio-In-A-Box, when for some reason you want to keep your contaminated earthen mounds in an indoor bioreactor, maybe next to your favorite chair.

Waste Management also offers a portable toilet service, but I think we’ll all agree that the less said about this, the better. Suffice it to know that “units are sized from single stalls to trailer-sized crowd pleasers,” presumably for use when that engagement party gets completely out of control.

The website has a handy glossary for those not familiar with the terminology of the waste trade. We’re told that a “brownfield development” is an abandoned or idled industrial facility, not some late-breaking news from your septic tank. There’s the “tipping fee,” which allows your WM employee to retain 15% of your debris for his personal remuneration. And there’s the “working face,” a section of the landfill where waste is being actively placed by employees wearing pained expressions.

[SPOILER ALERT: THIS NEXT PARAGRAPH GETS EVEN MORE DISGUSTING]

We also learn about “leachate,” liquids that have come into contact with waste and descend into what is euphemistically called the “waste footprint.” This is basically the juice of the refuse, an essence of filth so vile that it requires a special name for the area where it collects, the “sump.” This fluid is periodically collected and shipped to the producers at VH1, who are giving it a celebreality show called “Leachates of Love.”

Other pulldowns offer career opportunities, investor information and a fun section called “Greenopolis” for the kids. Job categories include something called a “swamper,” which I’m guessing asks the question “are you willing to touch poo?” as part of the online interview process. Frequently asked questions from stockholders indicate the company is having a small issue with investor confidence: “How could WM have been incorporated in 1987 when I have owned its stock since the early 80s?” and “I used to own 100 shares of WM stock, but now I only have 72 shares. What happened?”

The kids page begins with a giant “KRAK” across the top, which has something to do with recycled comic books. “It’s a bird, it’s a plane … it’s a recycled comic book!” reads a subhead apparently written for 60-year-old children who grew up watching George Reeves as black-and-white TV Superman. Further down, there’s a collection of Twitter posts. “Make petitions, protest, do whatever it takes to make schools green,” writes one young troublemaker. “The students will sprout into green adults, whose kids will be green too.” Especially if you get one of those Bio-In-A-Box setups for your room. There’s also a survey asking site visitors about their favorite animal. Currently in the lead with two votes is “seals from the beach,” followed by “dogs from in a house” with one vote. Trailing the field in a no-vote tie are “monkeys from the jungle,” “lions from Africa,” and “platypus from wherever they live.”

Finally, there’s the requisite Waste Management Facebook link. Incredibly, 763 people have signed up to be fans of the company, including Amy, Rob, Ashley and Ana. There’s lots of good stuff here: a video of the new McNeilus Rear Loader, photos of dumpsters, bins and toters updated just this past Tuesday, and some insightful comments from the fans. “Gosh it’s so scary when you think about our ozone layer!!!!!!!!!!!!! L” notes Savannah grimly, while Greg wants to know “was the picture with the blue equipment taken in Elkridge, MD?” Bill notes sardonically “it’s always nice to hear people talking trash.” Oh, that Bill.

All in all, WM.com is a very professional presentation and I would encourage anyone with a curiosity for rubbish, debris, litter or compost to pursue a more conventional interest, perhaps collecting baseball cards or robbing convenience stores. As for me, I’ve only managed this: wasting too much time on this subject of waste.

Revisited: Why I like TV

I grew up, like most men my age, as a big fan of television. One of my earliest memories is preparing to go to school each morning so I’d have enough time to watch reruns of “The Three Stooges.” I was on the kiddies’ show “Skipper Chuck’s Popeye Playhouse”; I’m told that when the Skipper threw the floor open to an on-air question-and-answer segment, I asked “Can I go to the bathroom?” I was a huge fan of the country-humor genre best represented by the likes of “Green Acres” and “The Beverly Hillbillies,” shows I defend to this day for their under-appreciated irony.

As I’ve grown into middle age, I find myself watching TV less and less. I’m not sure why, though I do believe my son’s monopoly of the widescreen we bought a year or so back plays a big part in what I’d otherwise call my maturation. He prefers shows like “Halo” and “Guitar Hero,” the plots of which I’m completely unable to comprehend, except that they require a really strange remote. My wife and I still manage to arrange some family TV time with a few shows we all like – “House”, “The Colbert Report” – but just as the proliferation of specialty cable channels has segmented audiences in general, we too have developed our separate interests.

What seems to differentiate us the most these days though is our TV-viewing styles. Rob has that ability he shares with the rest of his generation for electronic multi-tasking, combining television with the Internet, text messaging, instant messaging, cell phone conversations, homework, petting his cats and annoying his mom. Laura is able to watch long movies in 5- or 10-minute segments while going about more productive activities. How she’s able to remember plot points from one segment to the next, while I can barely remember what show I’m watching during commercial breaks, is beyond me.

Maybe it’s because I’m not paying attention. Or rather, it’s because I’m paying attention on a whole different level than what she and others see. (Kind of like President Bush was paying attention to the nation on what can politely be called “a whole different level”). I suspect I share a trait with many other men who watch television for two distinct reasons. Sometimes I watch because the broadcast is interesting, and other times I prefer just to let the electrons fly and lull me into a state that closely resembles irreversible coma.

Smarter people than I have labeled these two viewing styles as “lean forward” and “lean back.” The lean-forward style is used when you’re intently engaged with the monitor in front of you, whether it’s displaying the final minute of a tight football game or a particularly titillating spreadsheet. The lean-back style represents a more casual interface, like when you’re at work. Sometimes I really want to be paying attention to what’s on, while at other times it’s just the “on-ness” that matters.

And it’s hard for even me to predict which mode is going to seem more appropriate for any given TV-watching opportunity. There are many shows that sound good in theory and yet I find it difficult to get around to them. On my DVR right now, for example, are recent broadcasts I recorded including a documentary on 9/11, a high-definition portrayal of what it’s like to be imprisoned in India, and six episodes of “Mad Men”. I often joke that what I need in order to get caught up on this backlog is a good case of spinal meningitis to put me on the couch for a couple of months. In one sense, though, I’ve got the feeling that recording the programs is basically equivalent to watching the programs, and that actually playing them out is overkill.

I think I could stay awake for most of these shows, assuming the meningitis wasn’t too crippling. If I have some real interest in a subject, if there’s any suspense or excitement or (especially) catastrophe at all, I don’t think I could fall asleep if I tried. Even the Weather Channel, notorious in households across the country for providing little more than background noise mixed with thunderstorm warnings for states you’ve never heard of, can hold my interest if the subject is right. Blending the stupefying musical accompaniment to the hometown weather insert with features like “It Could Happen Tomorrow” – what if New York were struck with a hurricane, volcano and sandstorm at the same time? – is obviously brilliant programming.

But I have what I think is an even better idea, and I’m offering it here to any TV moguls who might’ve stumbled into the blogosphere. If we can have specialty channels devoted to such esoteric subjects as country music and home improvement projects, why not introduce The Sleep Channel to cable? You’d really need very little original programming; just the re-broadcast rights to already-existing shows that could be packaged and marketed as a sort of video Ambien. A typical line-up might include a painting with watercolors show, “Teletubbies,” any cooking show without Rachel Ray, public-access coverage of the city council, a cavalcade of security cameras, and “Larry King Live,” topped off with what you could call “The Black and White Hour,” featuring anything made in the days before color. Then for sweeps week, roll out the broadcast I couldn’t believe my good fortune to encounter one recent lazy Saturday – it wasn’t just golf, it wasn’t just senior golf, it was a rerun of last year’s senior golf shown while this year’s tournament was being rain-delayed (complete with updates on when the weather might be clearing).

As I drifted off, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Or at least that’s what my wife thought.

Monday Briefs: Laboring for a topic

In honor of Labor Day, I thought I’d start off today offering a tribute to the American workforce by trying to apply for a job at the U.S. Department of Labor.

Easier said than done.

Getting to the Labor Department’s official website (www.dol.gov) is not that hard, but negotiating your way to the place you’d try to get a job with them is, perhaps appropriately, quite labor-intensive. I finally came across the right page, called the DOL Online Opportunities Recruitment System (DOORS) because the more accurate acronym of DOLOR would simply be too sad.

I went right to the “search all jobs” tab, since I’m not sure exactly what I’m qualified to do (if that matters). There were a number of interesting-sounding openings: human resources specialist, records management specialist and, probably the most appealing, the program analyst, who I guess spends his day evaluating TV shows. The best-paying position was for “Supvy General Attorney,” a slot that pulls down over 120 grand a year. I’m just a little concerned that I’d have to know what a “supvy” is.

There are brief descriptions attached to each post, but they’re so vague as to be next to useless. “The DOL is looking for an energetic and innovative person who will enjoy working in an exciting, dynamic and mission-driven organization” seems to be a catch-all come-on used for several jobs. A few other posts say “this is a standing register.” I won’t pursue these because I can’t tolerate being on my feet all day, plus I have no experience as a cashier. I finally settle on “contract specialist” since the vacancy announcement number, CFO 09-138DE, is one of my favorites.

Located in the Philadelphia office, this vacancy requires applicants to bring the voice of stakeholders into the organization, incorporate customer feedback in operational outcomes, promote organizational change while leveraging its impact, convert strategic goals into actions, and consider functional relationships when planning for and managing resources. I could do all these things, but they sound really hard.

By the time I get to the actual application form at a place called USAJOBS, I’m pretty much worn out. I half-heartedly consider entering information like my name, country and phone number, though this seems like an unnecessary federal intrusion into my privacy, especially when I read the fine print and realize I have to answer truthfully.

I think I’ll abandon this effort and go back to enjoying my Labor Day the way it was originally intended — by working on my tan.

♣ ♣ ♣ ♣

You don’t tend to think much about unusual proper names that you’ve known for years. One local example we have here in the South is a grocery store named Harris Teeter. When you see it written, you realize pretty quickly it’s probably named for two guys named Harris and Teeter. When you only hear it pronounced, you think about how inappropriate it is to name a food store “Harassed Eater.”

We have another grocery store that goes by the name “Bi-Lo.” Again, when you hear it spoken, you might incorrectly think that it sells primarily the bitter yellowish fluid stored in the gall bladder. In fact, it claims to offer you “lo” prices on grocery items that you “bi.”

Originally, there was only a single Bi-Lo in our city. When a second one opened on the other side of town, it became the “new Bi-Lo” in the local lexicon. Before long, the original Bi-Lo abandoned its home for a new location across the street, and thus became the “new new Bi-Lo.” What had previously been the “new Bi-Lo” now has become the “old new Bi-Lo.”

Unusual proper nouns can often be easier to explain than the modifying adjectives we come up with.

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

I’ve been playing with a few ideas it’s becoming increasingly obvious I’m going to do nothing with. So I offer them here, free of charge, to any ambitious entrepreneur who might be able to make my dreams become a reality.

The first is a concept I call “inversion dentistry.” As healthcare professionals struggle for recognition in the marketplace, they find an increasing need to differentiate themselves from the competition. Dentists have come up with a “cosmetic” variation that concentrates on straightening and whitening, and a “painless” one that will intubate you with more sedatives than Michael Jackson should you feel the need to be flossed.

What if a practice started offering its patients the opportunity to be hung upside-down while they had their mouths worked on? You could use those inversion boots that were a popular piece of exercise equipment for a while. I imagine there could be an issue with excess bleeding during root canals and other invasive procedures, but I think that complication could be offset because the patient wouldn’t need novacaine since they’d likely be blacked out.

The other idea is for a reality game show you could call “Sleep On It.” Instead of human contestants, the participants vying for victory would be 10 pillows. During a preliminary round, judges would spend sixty seconds cuddling with each player to determine their comfort. A round of weighted voting would eliminate all but three, and the finalists would spend an entire night nesting the head of guest celebrities. Winners would be announced the following day.

All I ask is for an executive producer credit.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I was reading a story in the local paper the other morning about a woodworker who is “legally blind.” That’s a term I’ve never fully understood. You tend to think that it means a person is completely unable to see, what you might otherwise refer to as “extremely blind.” But I believe what it actually means is that they are only technically blind, in a narrow sense of the term. It might make them unsafe drivers or poor proofreaders, yet they’re still able to see well enough to hammer a few nails without mistaking a chest of drawers for their spouse.

How is “legally blind” different from just plain “blind blind”? If there are any vision-impaired readers out there who can help me on this issue, please respond.

¤ ¤ ¤ ¤

I love how cats are so curious. The way they respond to anything new introduced into their environment inspires us all to be more open to changes in the world around us.

My wife and I recently moved a rack of old record albums out of storage and into our living room, in anticipation of getting a new turntable. Our cat Tom immediately sniffed at the new arrival, then proceeded to sit on it. Sitting on something seems to be the primary method cats use to evaluate the goodness or usefulness of a particular item.

I’d like to propose that we consider a similar vetting process for human interaction: “Thanks for your interest in the job opening we posted,” a manager might tell a potential new-hire. “Would it be okay if I sit on you for a few minutes?”

My record-setting cat: Tom (above), with Bruce Springsteen (below)

Revisited: A small man discusses small talk

I’m not real big on small talk. I understand that it’s a necessary social lubricant that greases everyday interactions, easing our way through the world. I know that when someone asks “how are you?” that they’re not really looking for a full medical and psychological report. I know the answer can fall into only about four categories: (1) “great,” which means better than average; (2) “fine,” a sort of neutral don’t-bother-me response; (3) “good,” usually said with a downward lilt that really means “not good”; and (4) “pretty good” (with a high-pitched stress on the “pretty”), which means horrible.

But I still think there’s too much of it, and I despise the excess. Much like the wolverine caught in a steel trap, I’d rather gnaw off my leg and leave it behind than continue a trivial conversation much beyond the standard four-phrase convention (“How are you?” “Fine. How are you?” “Fine”). Except instead of chewing off my leg I’d have to chew off the lower half of my face so it could continue the conversation after the rest of me is gone, and it seems physically impossible to gnaw off your own face, so maybe that’s not the best analogy. (This should give you some idea why I’m so poor at small talk.)

As the conversation continues, I shrug and I shift and I lean away, giving every possible body language indicator that I wish to be out of there. I even thought of inventing a fake pager that you could trigger that would allow you to extricate yourself. But this was in the day before cell phones and voice mail came along, and nowadays people would think you’re a Neanderthal to still be carrying a pager. Which I am, but that’s beside the point.

The worst is when you’re in an inextricable situation that nothing short of a stroke is going to free you from. I was at the dentist last Thursday having a crown re-cemented, my mouth numb, my body horizontal and my face half-covered with the nitrous nosepiece. My dentist was a young and recent addition to the practice. I had no concerns for her ability to deliver my care, but she showed she was new to the game by the way she handled the requisite dentist office small talk.

“So how was your weekend?” she asked. How was my weekend? Good lord, woman, this is Thursday. On Monday and Tuesday, you ask about the weekend just past. On Wednesday, you talk about the weather. On Thursday and Friday, you ask about the upcoming weekend. Don’t they cover this somewhere in eight years of medical training?

“Oh, I had a great weekend,” I’d like to say.”I conquered Asia on Saturday then went on a three-state murder spree on Sunday.” I could even blame the nitrous. Instead, I kept it together and responded like a good dental patient: “Mmmpphh umph”.

I may hate small talk, but at least I understand the rules. You do have to study your enemy to know best how to deal with it. I’ve developed a number of defenses that I use to get me out of these situations. My best is this semi-permanent scowl I’ve developed that keeps most casual acquaintances at arm’s-length. (At age 54, it’s become such an ingrained part of my face that my smile is little more than a horizontal slit, and anything trending more upward makes me look like psychopathic.) Just now, sitting in a coffee shop and writing this piece, a vague acquaintance walked by the table and the ol’ slit/nod acknowledged her in such a way as to make her keep on walking.

I’m still looking for better strategies to deal with the unexpected encounters you occasionally stumble into. My wife and I were grocery shopping the other evening and I had stepped away to track down the organic cat litter special. When I returned, I rounded the aisle endcap to find my wife chatting away with someone we had gone through childbirth classes with 18 years ago. I was trapped into the ongoing conversation. What could I possibly say or do? They went on about our respective children, how shortly after giving birth she had lost her job with the airlines (who hasn’t?) but got free air travel as a buyout perk and her daughter was looking at colleges in Pennsylvania because that’s where her husband was from; his immediate family is Methodist but there’s a whole branch that’s Mennonite and it’s always strange to see them and how they dress…

Wait a minute, I thought, husband? Oh no, that’s right, I did see this vaguely familiar guy by the hot deli bar earlier, and soon he’s going to stroll up and this encounter is going to explode into a whole other dimension. I gotta get out! Clumsily, I raise my finger, mumble “I’m ‘onna g’get that other thing…” and rudely walk away. Just to be on the safe side, I leave the store and walk home.

Fake News: Healthcare reform is REALLY HARD

WASHINGTON, D.C. (Sept. 7) — Critics of the healthcare reform package currently being considered by Congress are returning to the nation’s capital this week, cowed and repentant after having the living crap scared out of them during August’s town hall meetings.

“It’s time we started back at the beginning,” said Sen. John McCain. “I’m hearing this audible gasp telling us to ‘slow down.’”

“I’ve never seen the hostility I’m seeing,” added the former Navy pilot who spent almost six years as a prisoner of war in North Vietnam, apparently with his eyes closed.

Another Republican who asked not to be quoted characterized the 1,000-page insurance plan now on the table as “really, really hard to read, way too long, and containing pitifully few coloring opportunities.”

Conservative pundits have pointed out how thorough the package to overhaul the nation’s entire care delivery system has become, as if that’s a bad thing. Fox commentator Sean Hannity goes to great dramatic effect by dropping the eight-pound draft on his desk with a tremendous thud. Former New York Lt. Gov. Betsy McCaughey hauled a loose-leaf binder containing the document onto one national talk show, rifling through the pages with visible exasperation at all the words. Even the presence of well-placed sticky notes could not console her.

Protestors who have been the most vocal at meetings between congressmen and their constituents complained the proposal represented socialized medicine, a government takeover, and the biggest challenge to their reading abilities since The DaVinci Code.

“I’m not stupid but I can’t read this,” shouted one man at a recent rally.

“Actually, he is stupid. Really stupid,” observed Jason Peterson, an analyst with the New York-based think tank “A Is For Apple.” “The language used in the plan has to be thorough because of the size of the task that’s being undertaken. But it’s written in relatively plain English. You can’t revamp a multi-billion-dollar system in the space of a Ziggy quote.”

Some analysts believe that even if a new care-delivery structure is to be put into place, it will have to be largely rewritten. One legislative aide suggested making the bill more user-friendly by breaking it up into verses and chapters, gluing a red ribbon into the spine so readers can mark their place, and putting phrases written by Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell in red type.

“A lot of these opponents from the right are big Bible readers,” said one Senate aide. “Many of them regard the senior senator from Kentucky as the son of God, and I think seeing his input highlighted would give them great comfort.”

Obama’s original school speech revealed

Anti-Obama forces opposed to his nationwide speech before schoolchildren yesterday apparently succeeded in getting the script substantially revised before it was delivered. In an exclusive to davisw.wordpress.com, we reprint excerpts from the original, pre-censored address below.

Hello everyone. I’m here with students at Fill in the Blank High School, and we’ve got other students tuning in from all across America, kindergarten through twelfth grade, even some college students. I’m glad you could all join us here today.

I’m sorry I can’t visit with you all individually, but you can imagine the firestorm that would trigger, especially trying to land Marine One inside your cafetorium. I hate to think what the wind from the copter rotors would do to all the teacher beehives we have here with us today. Besides, I don’t want some six-year-old yelling “give me back my country” at me. Not to mention all the germs…

This isn’t the first time a president has met in the classroom with students. Some of your parents might remember when my predecessor, President Bush, met with an elementary school class to read them the story of “The Pet Goat” on that fateful September 11 some eight years ago. The space-time continuum was so warped by the president’s attempt to comprehend how a girl’s pet goat could eat everything in its path, yet still end up the hero by head-butting a robber at the end, that large parts of an American city ended up in rubble. Can you imagine the grief I would catch if I allowed something like that? Jeez.

I bring to you today a very simple message, primarily because I know you haven’t been educated well enough to understand much more than that. My message is this: you need to study hard, pay attention in class, do what your teachers ask you to do, and all that other nerdy teacher’s-pet stuff you think isn’t cool. I know you might feel that it’s boring, but hey, that’s life. Try hosting a G-20 summit with both (German chancellor) Angela Merkel and (British prime minister) Gordon Brown in attendance. Those people are deadly.

You need to take responsibility for your own success and your own life. Trust me, no one is going to be there to help you do anything. In fact, you’ll be lucky if someone comes to pick you up after school today…

While I do ask that you be practical and to pursue your studies with the realization that at best you’ll end up with a nine-to-five cubicle-farm job, I still want to encourage you to follow your dreams. Except maybe that one where you arrive in class to deliver your oral report on the anatomy of the human lung and realize you’re wearing nothing but your underwear.

The images you see on television and the internet don’t always give students a realistic view of where they might end up in life. It’s video games that have the realism, especially that last Grand Theft Auto. That was so awesome.

But I guess my point is that you’re not likely to find your success as a rapper, or as a great basketball player, or as the star of a reality TV show. Except I can definitely see that 400-pound kid in the back row on “The Biggest Loser” some day. Which reminds me, I want to send out my heartfelt concern and best wishes that Tila Tequila makes a quick recovery from her encounter with that football player. Tila, all America has you in its prayers.

Let me tell you the story of a boy who grew up in nineteenth-century Germany and didn’t think school was all that important. Little Karl Marx watched his parents labor up to 16 hours a day to make a better life for him, and yet still he was trapped in a pre-industrial society that didn’t even have cable. He dropped out of school and had to take a job as a bag boy after his father was kidnapped by a Prussian. When young Karl saw factory automation threatening his bagging career, he went back to school, eventually making the dean’s list at Leipzig University for inventing Marxism as part of his summer internship. His seminal work, “The Communist Manifesto,” laid the groundwork for many of the policies I’m trying to achieve today. Later, he produced a string of adult-contemporary hit singles and also found success as a record producer. Or maybe I’m thinking of Richard Marx…

You know about the rewards that success can bring, but it’s important for you to understand that education forms a critical foundation for that success. Without dedicating yourself to your school work, you’ll never be able to achieve those much-sought-after symbols of wealth and achievement. Look at this beautiful silver pocketwatch I have, for example. Look at the long silver chain, and watch the way it swings slowly back and forth, back and forth. You will do exactly what I say. You will call your congressman and tell him you support the version of health insurance reform currently before the House Finance Committee.

In closing, let me revisit a few of the most important points I want you to take away today:

• Stay in school, especially if you’re in your final year of college, because we don’t have any jobs for you.
• Wash your hands, brush your teeth, comb your hair, and don’t forget to breathe.
• Asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness. Wait, I take that back. It is a sign of weakness.
• The sloppy joes originally on the menu for lunch today have been replaced with something called “fiesta pizza.”
• Don’t do drugs. (Note to speechwriter: Do I still have to say that?)
• There is no god but Allah.

Your best days lie ahead of you, and we trust that you will deliver America to a bright future. Let the teachers and staff here at Fill in the Blank High be an inspiration to you. If you don’t want to be a janitor or a lunch lady or that assistant principal who wears his tie too short, you need to dedicate yourself to constant improvement. To that end, I want each and every one of you to go home tonight, talk to your parents about developing a strategy for success, and then kill your parents. Write a report about how the crime is really society’s fault, not yours, and have it on my desk first thing in the morning.

Thank you, and have a wonderful year.

Fake News: Beatles sold out long ago

LONDON, England (Sept. 9) — Beatles purists who were disappointed to see the release of the group’s catalog on the video game Rock Band were further shocked when news came yesterday that the music legends were paid to produce a commercial jingle in 1967.

The enigmatic “I Am the Walrus,” previously thought to be the psychedelic account of John Lennon’s LSD experiences, was actually commissioned by England’s South Umberton Regional (SUR) poultry cooperative as part of a campaign to discourage the import of overseas fowl and boost domestic consumption of poultry. Lennon received a $1,500 payment for the song, which was never actually used in TV commercials because the anti-import Asian Tariff Act was so quickly passed by Parliament.

The former director of marketing for the SUR confirmed the surprising arrangement in her upcoming memoir Chickens: My Life Among the Birds. Cryptic lyrics that have confounded fans for over four decades were intended as a subliminal call for the Beatles faithful to consume more turkey, chicken and egg products.

“We asked Mr. Lennon to keep the whole arrangement quiet, and he was more than happy to oblige,” said SUR executive Semolina Pilchard, now retired. “We were simply interested in helping the farmers of the northern Midlands market their livestock.”

Pilchard’s claims could lift much of the mystery that surrounds one of the Beatles’ most analyzed works. Released as the avant-garde B-side for “Hello Goodbye,” the song was believed by experts to be primarily nonsense verse, but now reveals several hidden meanings.

“He wrote ‘I am the eggman, they are the eggmen’ to make the argument that, in a sense, we were all eggmen,” Pilchard said. “All of us had a vested interest in the success of these small farmers.”

Other lyrics such as “see how they run like pigs from a gun” and “sitting on a cornflake, waiting for the van to come” were veiled swipes at competing breakfast foods. Pork products such as bacon and cured ham were making inroads into the egg market at the time, as were packaged cereals.

The line “man, you should’ve seen them kicking Edgar Allen Poe” was an apparent response to negative publicity surrounding the poultry co-op’s aborted efforts to introduce crow, raven and jackdaw as bird-derived meats. Poe wrote the supernatural narrative poem “The Raven” in 1845.

Lennon even included a message to the farmers themselves, a prescient warning about the dangers of avian flu that the industry wouldn’t encounter until over twenty years later. The repeated chorus of “cuckoo kachoo” hinted at the public relations nightmare that sneezing birds would ultimately cause.

Pilchard said working with Lennon was difficult because his anti-establishment nature would often flare. When he became disillusioned with the project shortly before the partnership was dissolved, he added the lines “yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog’s eye” to show his distaste for eggs served sunny-side up, over easy.

As for the song’s signature line and title, Pilchard said it was a sign of Lennon’s fondness for wordplay that led him to chant “I am the walrus” repeatedly throughout the record.

“If you spell it backwards, you’ll note that ‘walrus’ becomes ‘surlaw,’” Pilchard said. “The Asian Tariff Act was referred to in the press as the ‘SUR Law’ because of its sponsorship by South Umbertron Regional. That John was quite the jester.”

“Even now, so long after he left us, I think it’s safe to say ‘the joker laughs at you,’” Pilcher concluded. “Ho ho ho, hee hee hee, ha ha ha.”

Website Review: ElementChurch.com

If you’ve ever arrived early for a Sunday afternoon matinee at the local cinema, you’ve probably wondered: what’s the deal with all the well-dressed white people hauling stuff out of the building? Even more curious, they’re often led by someone carrying a tall crucifix, followed by a flag bearer, then a retinue of folks schlepping folding chairs, tables and a podium or two. If you didn’t know better, you’d think the Missouri Synod of the Lutheran Church had merged with Staples for a joint venture in looting.

What you’re probably witnessing instead is the exiting congregation of a growing number of churches who’ve set up temporary lodging in rented movie theaters. As established churches split into sects over doctrinal disagreements — the recognition of gay clergy, or the rift between supporters of meatloaf versus mac-and-cheese for covered-dish night — they’re scrambling for space to hold their Sunday services. Building a sanctuary from scratch, even with currently depressed real estate prices, can be prohibitively expensive. Land might be cheap but steeples have gone through the roof.

Though not currently a church-goer, I have a long history of Christian worship so I do understand something of what goes on in there. (Once I’d nailed down the concept of  God=good/Satan=bad, continued attendance seemed superfluous.) However, I have a bit of trouble reconciling the sacred rituals I remember as a child with the comfort of heavily padded stadium seating. For example:

How do they stage a processional down those steep steps and through the dark? Can anybody eat popcorn, or is it saved for use as a communion wafer substitute for the gluten-intolerant? Do you still attend if rottentomatoes.com says the Holy Trinity concept isn’t credible, and the sermon scene runs at least 15 minutes too long? Do they use those giant Coke cups as baptismal fonts?

Hoping for some answers to these fundamental questions, I recently visited the Internet site for one of these congregations, and offer my observations in this week’s Website Review.

The Element Church of Charlotte, located temporally at The Shoppes At Ayrsley Grand Cinema and spiritually at www.elementcharlotte.com, is more of a new-wave church than a bitter bunch of separatists who hated the font of the new hymnals at their old congregation. This is a group of hip young singles and families whose mission is to help people “become fully engaged in their pursuit of Jesus,” with a strategy of “connecting people to Jesus,” while “committed to simplicity.” They are “focused on your heart, not on your clothes [so] wear what doesn’t itch” while “we play music you will want to download as soon as you get home.” The church’s motto is “where you belong” though, on the afternoon I drove by, it could just as easily have been “stay after church and see ‘All About Steve’.”

It’s in their “new to element?” pulldown where we find out more about their casual philosophy, as demonstrated by their avoidance of the extra effort it takes to capitalize proper nouns and the first words of sentences. Headlined “first things first … relax,” newcomers are told “you won’t be asked to stand up or make any type of contribution,” immediately addressing fears that congregants will do any hard work in their pursuit of spiritual truth. Instead, “here is what you’ll find: a hot cup of coffee, a live band, [and] speakers that will encourage you from the bible in ways you will understand.”

The “our leaders” section, which inexplicably has a large graphic of chess pawns at the top of the page, gives brief bios of what we used to call clergy but now hold titles like “directional leader/vision team,” “life groups leader” and “administrator.” A shaggy-haired Canadian says he’s “stoked” to be at element. The spiritual development leader lists among his “fav offline stuff” the opportunity to “take kelly’s $ at the texas hold’em table.” The children’s director enjoys walking (much like Jesus himself eschewed motorized transportation) while the California-born youth leader has a “fav kid memory of going to an MC Hammer concert,” so you know he’s cool.

Not exactly clear-eyed youth leader is totally 'vogue-ing'

There’s a part about life groups, which are mostly gender-specific aggregations who “hang out” so they can discover more about their inner chick and/or dude. There’s also a place where those with more ambition than simply sipping mochachinos and chillin’ can volunteer to actually do something in support of the church’s mission. They’re always in need of help at the “wee dock” nursery, to “assist with care of adorable babies” (the ugly ones are presumably kept occupied chewing on nitrate film stock in the projectionist’s booth). And you obviously can’t operate a modern-day ministry without a barista, an audio tech, a lighting tech and a video tech.

The self-proclaimed Jesus freaks at element church do have some totally awesome core values too, if anybody’s interested. “Jesus knew something about living,” they say, in some of their few concessions to using the shift key. “we are taking Him at His word and choosing to make life about what we can give away. as we give away what really doesn’t matter, we are receiving the stuff that really does.” There’s a handy three-part checklist to connecting with Jesus: first, start building relationships with others in a life group; second, start serving others (see barista opening); and third, consider partnering with us. “Partnering,” in case you don’t recognize the euphemism, involves a saintly little entity known as PayPal, which is at least twice as important as Jesus if capital letters are any indication.

To test your commitment, the church “helps people navigate their significant service decisions with a spiritual GPS (gifts, passions and struggles),” what they call a passion survey. This is a five-question online submission that, once you get past the multiple-choice first question about the kind of people you’d like to work with (prisoners, teen mothers, hospitalized, homeless, or all of the above), becomes a free-form essay opportunity. “At the end of life, I will look back and wish that … (maximum 500 words)” is one such fill-in-the-blank. “My friends say I’m passionate about … (maximum 500 words)” and “if I knew I couldn’t fail, I’d honor God by … (maximum 500 words)” are two others. There are no magic answers that immediately fill the void in your wretched life. “Because of the nature of this assessment, the answers themselves are the results,” reads a caveat at the end. “There will be no ‘results’ sheet.” All that hard work for nothing at the end? Jesus, this really is Christianity.

Finally, I’ll mention a few other handy features of the website. They actually do have a movie review section under the “elements of culture” pulldown, offering reviews “from a Christian perspective,” with the latest feature being “Star Trek,” which the appropriately named Grace really, really loved. They also have their own version of Facebook, which is not Facebook at all but does contain some pretty gnarly faces (see below, especially Eagerly Oral Guy in first row, Angry Toothy Guy in second row and Methed-Up Mohawk Guy in third row).

With Christians like these, who needs heathens?

And ending on a serious note, there are the “elements of element,” not to be confused with the core values, beliefs, standards, morals, ethics, ideals, principles or tenets. Element is non-denominational yet effectively partnering with neighbor churches, they are focused on the local community yet invest across the country, they are team-led and, perhaps most importantly, they are located at 9110 Kings Parade Boulevard, just across from Fintastic Fish, with worship services starting each Sunday at 10:30 a.m., and don’t be late unless you want your eternal soul damned to see “Bruno” again.

Revisited: Proud to be South Carolinian

Rep. Joe Wilson, the churlish member of Congress who yelled at President Obama during his speech this week, is (not surprisingly) another proud son of South Carolina. Representing parts of the genteel Low Country, Wilson went off his rocker when emotions got the better of him and he felt compelled to shout “You lie!” at the nation’s chief executive. He’s since apologized, or maybe not. But he reminds us all again what a bunch of interesting people my current state of residence has produced.

Today’s “Revisited” post recalls a few other prominent Sandlappers who also made it embarrasingly onto the national scene.

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 o’chusetts, 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, 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.

Second 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.

Walking my way to better health

We recently completed a get-healthy initiative at my work that encouraged employees to exercise by walking. My truly lame team finished way down in the final standings but, in a larger sense, we were all winners because we had spent eight weeks striding vigorously toward fitness. Not really. I probably weigh more now than when I started, and I know for a fact that I smell worse.

When the winning teams were announced, it was noted that as a company we had walked over 7 million miles during the previous two months. That’s equivalent to 280 circumnavigations of the globe. It’s as if we had walked to the moon and back 14 times. It’s like walking from New York to Los Angeles, turning left and heading to Peru, then boring into the Earth’s mantle and going halfway to the core, and then re-emerging to hike halfway to Venus. Any way you put it, it doesn’t make any sense.

As a runner for the last 30-some years, I’ve never had a lot of respect for walking. I guess I viewed it as the exercise of the weak and infirm, a great way to get to the men’s room perhaps but hardly a challenging physical regimen. Any sport that could be done by the elderly ladies around the retirement complex near my house was not for me.

Though I did spend numerous coffee breaks in recent weeks pacing up and down the road in front of my office like an expectant father, the only deliveries I saw were tractor-trailers backing up to the warehouse (less messy than the typical Caesarean but still smelling of diesel). I won’t say that I’ve gained a new appreciation for walking as exercise; I will admit, however, that my aging knees had better realize pretty soon that there’s a reason you don’t see many 220-pound sixty-year-olds sprinting down the street. We’re either dead or have adopted another workout habit.

Part of my problem with public walking is that, as a method of transportation and an exercise, it’s subject to misinterpretation by onlookers. Friends who drive past you in their cars will stop and ask if you need a ride. Other motorists look at you as a mobile information source, as if you’re circling the neighborhood in case they need directions, can’t find their lost cat or need an explanation of the local zoning codes.

Trying to make it look more like an exercise and less like a leisurely stroll does deter some of this. I’ve learned, for example, that moving your arms in a particular fashion will keep questioners at bay. If you adopt the motion of the race-walker, elbows bent and forearms punching the oncoming air, many observers will realize that you’re disturbed, and therefore best left undisturbed. If this doesn’t work, I try the stiff-armed march of the North Korean infantryman, lifting my rigid limbs high above my head as if about to cross the demilitarized zone. The next subdivision down from me remains on high alert.

Another deterrent to interruption is the iPod. Crank up your Who playlist to maximum volume and you won’t be able to hear the questions and taunts that are otherwise sent in your direction. Of course, you can’t hear oncoming vehicles either, but that’s their problem, not yours. If you get caught up in the song and start singing along — “Love! Reign o’er me!” — chances are good they’ll notice you one way or the other.

My wife used to belong to a martial arts group that occasionally practiced tai-chi in a public park. Most of the time, they remained under a sheltered picnic area but if the weather was nice, they’d sometimes break out this so-called “meditation walk,” where they’d pike around the lake at a slow, measured pace that was half-walking, half-Step-Forward-to-Repulse-Monkey. The kids playing basketball on a nearby court would tease them mercilessly while they practiced their forms in a fixed location, but as soon as the martial artists started marching methodically in a single file toward them, the fast breaks got really fast and tended to head in the direction of the park exit.

I’d be more than a little embarrassed to try this strategy (in fact, I’m generally humiliated to be seen in public at all). One of the biggest concerns with walking is what to do when you’ve reached the halfway point. Unless you’ve plotted out a circular route for yourself, there comes a time when you have to reverse your course. I’m always afraid someone is going to see me doing this.

There’s something inherently unnatural about suddenly turning on your heels and heading off into the opposite direction. It might be fine for exercise purposes, but it exhibits a certain indecisiveness in the real world, causing witnesses to wonder what you forgot. I try to get it over as quickly as possible, or otherwise make the most of it. I once took a stroll with two other family members and we agreed all turn at once, on cue, just as a school bus was passing. The sheer precision of the move left those kids dumbfounded.

I think, though, I’m going to continue walking as a physical activity. With fall right around the corner, it should be quite pleasant. It does clear your head and give you time to think. If I keep it up into the winter months, I’m going to have to consider some alternate venues. Some people from our office had taken to hiking around a nearby grocery store when the heat or rain got too bad during the summer, and that might be fun. Again, it seems like there might be concerns among store employees about what the hell you’re doing. I think if I circle the outer edge, cutting through the produce department and alternately picking up and putting back various melons and cabbages each time I pass, it might not look too weird.

Revisited: A new career, perhaps?

So it’s come to this: as I struggle to keep up in a declining industry in a declining economy at an advancing age, I’ve turned to offering my body up for medical research in return for $40 now and another $10 a month each time I call in and tell them I’m still alive.

I guess it’s not as bad as selling my plasma or a pre-owned kidney. I’ve volunteered to receive an anti-shingles vaccine that’s already been proven safe and/or effective for populations over age 60 and now the drug company wants to see if 50-somethings can survive it as well. It’s all above board and totally without risk, I’ve been assured by the Internet. Because it’s a double-blind study, I actually have only a 50% chance of receiving the real vaccine, but a 100% chance of receiving the money and feeling vaguely cheap and a little woozy only an hour or so after the procedure.

I arrive at the office park medical facility and fill out the requisite paperwork. No, I’ve never had cancer, diabetes, polio, HIV, hepatitis, cardio-pulmonary obstruction or a desire to do this before. Yes, I’m willing to pretend to read 12 pages of fine-print risks and sign at several different spots that I won’t sue if anything goes wrong. I finish the form and wait to be summoned from the lobby. A pink card left in the chair next to mine suggests “next time you have low back pain or spasms, please call.” They’re also interested in testing those who are “constantly running to the bathroom,” have decreased sexual desire, and abdominal bloating. But I have to complete this study first before I can aspire to those conditions and another $40.

When my Jennifer calls me back (seems there are several that work in this office), she reviews my paperwork and asks basically the same questions over again. I guess they’re trying to trip up anybody who claimed to have jaundice in the waiting room but has suddenly pinked-up when personally confronted. She takes my temperature, then explains how I need to keep track of any side effects I might encounter. For the first five days, I’ll need to watch the site of the vaccine and measure the size of any redness or swelling with the ruler they’ve printed across the bottom of the log. “If it’s over three inches, just check the box that says ‘3+’”, she says. I’m starting to worry a little. “The swelling might be over three inches high?” I ask. Fortunately, that’s a stupid question. The swollen area, if there is one, would be measured in width, not height.

Jennifer leaves again for a few minutes and promises that when she returns I’ll be taken to the lab for my blood to be drawn and to have the vaccine administered. Shortly after she leaves, I hear a god-awful pounding noise coming through the wall – blow after blow after blow. Are they also testing here for how people respond to physical beatings? I don’t hear any cries, so I figure they’re either cleaning a throw rug or trying a vaccine that keeps subjects from feeling the pain of an aggravated assault.

I’m finally escorted to the actual lab where an older lady in scrubs is prepping for my blood work. Apparently Jennifer, hot young babe that she is, handles only the interviews and doesn’t have to do any of the dirty work. The older lady – I don’t care what her name is, but I’ll call her Mona – asks which arm I’d like to have the blood drawn from and which will get the vaccine injection. I offer up the right arm for the blood draw. She takes a look at my extended arm and calls out to Jennifer, “Oh, look how good his vein is.” Jennifer comes over to check me out. She agrees it’s a really fine vein, and I figure that may be the last come-on I’ll ever get from a young lady 30 years my junior. “Yeah, I work out,” I say.

Off to my left, there inexplicably sits a small green brain. It’s probably not a real brain, because it’s just lying out in the open air and doesn’t smell bad. (I assume disembodied brains left unpreserved would smell, but I’m not a medical professional like these people, so maybe they know better). It’s about the size that would fit into an alligator, I’d say, but then realize it wouldn’t have to be the same color as the animal it came from. Maybe a dog brain. Finally I make the connection that it’s sitting next to a couple of rubber balls, and realize it’s meant to be that thing you squeeze on to make your veins pop out. I’m disappointed I won’t be able to squeeze the green brain. I so wanted my adventure in medical experimentation to be interactive.

Mona sticks my right arm to draw the blood. I wince a little and she apologizes. “Oops, did that hurt?” Yes. We repeat the same ritual on the upper left arm, where the vaccine is placed. I get a blue wrap-around tape holding down a cotton swab where the blood was drawn and a simple bandage at the site of the vaccine. Apparently, that’s it and I’m free to go.

“Don’t forget to call me,” says Jennifer as I rise to leave. Turns out she’s not into veiny guys, she just has to report to the drug company on my progress.

I take my symptom log, my $40 check and my bruised limbs and self-esteem, and head out into the parking lot and my uncertain medical future. It’s back to the office to study up on the coming annual health insurance sign-up.

Fake News: The sorriest people around

WASHINGTON, D.C. (Sept. 13) — Mr. Wilson continued to insist over the weekend that the dang Obama kid is a menace who deserved to be yelled at for playing in front of his House.

Rep. Joe Wilson (R-S.C.) was widely criticized last week for calling President Obama a liar during his speech before a joint session of Congress. Mr. Wilson later apologized, but continued to criticize the president for allegedly deceiving the public about details of the health care reform package currently under consideration.

“Yes, I lost my temper,” Wilson said on Fox News Sunday. “However,  he was playing in my yard after I told him a thousand times to stay off my grass.”

When the host pointed out that changing demographics making white males an ever-diminishing segment of the American population mean that “it is no longer your yard,” the three-term Republican snorted gruffly.

“Aaannhhh,” he responded. “These young punks today. What do they know?”

Wilson did reiterate his apology for the outburst that brought condemnation from both sides of the aisle.

“I was told by the House Republican leadership that I needed to offer a sincere, heartfelt apology to the president, so I did,” Wilson said. “If (minority leader) John Boehner says I need to feel and express an honest remorse, I’ll do as I’m told.”

Wilson continued to resist calls to offer an additional apology to members of Congress for violating long-established rules of decorum. He said his phone call to the White House and a statement to several reporters was sufficient.

“You know, I’m starting to feel sorry that I was sorry,” Wilson admitted. “Why do I need to issue a separate statement to the House membership? Who else is going to ask for a specific apology? The people in the gallery? Anybody who happened to be walking past a television during the address? Each separate class of vertebrates? Bah.”

Meanwhile, in other apology news, tennis great Serena Williams offered her regret for an on-court eruption at the U.S. Open Saturday. Williams had claimed a call by the lineswoman was inaccurate, and strongly indicated her desire to shove the ball down the official’s throat.

“I want to sincerely apologize first to the lineswoman, (opponent) Kim Clijsters, the U.S. Tennis Association and tennis fans everywhere for my inappropriate outburst,” Williams wrote on her website. “I need to make it clear to all young people that I handled myself inappropriately and it’s not the way to…”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” interrupted the blog of controversial rapper Kanye West. “If anybody should be apologizing here, it should be your sister Venus. She lost 6-0, 0-6, 6-4 in the third round to an unseeded player. Her serve-and-volley game just fell apart. It was terrible.”

West later apologized for his outburst, calling it “despicable, loathesome, contrary to all civilized standards of behavior, and perhaps the worst thing the world has endured since the meteor impact that destroyed thousands of species over 65 million years ago. I truly sicken myself.”

In a related story, Sarah Palin noted the flurry of publicity surrounding people who are not her, and took to her Facebook page to address the diversion of attention.

“Look at me! Look at me!” said the recently resigned Alaska governor and 2008 Republican vice-presidential candidate. “La-la-la-la, I’m dancing, I’m jumping, I’m twirling around and around. Aren’t I pretty?”

Out with the old, in with the new

A week or two back I wrote about my ailing laptop and my fading hopes for its recovery. Yesterday, I picked it up from the computer repair shop and brought it home to die.

The initial prognosis when I first had the aging IBM ThinkPad admitted hadn’t been good. Early optimism that it was just a screen problem quickly turned bleak when the frightening word “motherboard” started being mentioned. Heroic efforts — spending more on parts and labor than it was worth — might save T.Pad, but the work would be painful and the machine’s quality of life could be severely reduced.

Still, I held onto hope. I hoped that if I just left it in the shop, I wouldn’t have to pay for any diagnostic charges. Finally, compassion got the better of me and I called to ask if I could come and pick it up.

“We’re open nine to six,” said the receptionist sadly. “Except on Wednesdays when we close at two.”

When I arrived at the sprawling Metrolina Computer complex in a strip-mall storefront out on the bypass, I gave my name and my patient’s name to a young orderly. He started randomly looking at some shelves filled with ailing desktops and soon came across my startlingly thin machine. Initially shocked at the apparent emaciation, I soon remembered that’s how it looked when I brought it in, that thinness was the whole point of having a laptop.

I tried to get him to confirm the diagnosis I’d received on the phone, putting a hopeful spin on the question.

“They said it might be big problems but weren’t sure,” I said. “Maybe they were able to find something later.”

He scanned a piece of paper that had been lying with T.Pad for any notes detailing the condition. When he couldn’t find anything, he consulted with the nurse/receptionist who called up my order on her screen.  It almost broke my heart to see how snappy her computer response time was compared to the poor health of the machine that now lay with its power chord draped mournfully across its surface.

Finally a man in a lab coat stepped forward. He spoke with a comforting tone about how they had done some minor fix-ups in the beginning and “we had it on the stand running fine for a day or two. Everybody thought ‘great, it’s fixed,’ but then the previous problems returned and it hasn’t worked since.” I choked up at the thought it had briefly brightened the day (or two) of these hardened technicians.

I gathered up my patient, offered a heartfelt “thanks for trying” and headed quickly for the exit. The shop displayed a sign saying diagnostics were free and I wanted to make sure that was the case by getting out of there as soon as possible. They either didn’t have the heart to stop me, or else Obama’s newly installed socialized state was already working on my behalf.

When I got T.Pad home, I set him on the kitchen counter and tried to boot up just like old times. I opened the lid to find a loose screw sitting next to the keyboard, the most appalling display of sloppy repair I’d seen since my doctor left a lens cap inside during my last colonoscopy. I shuddered; somebody again had the air conditioning set too high.

I pushed the power button and the screen sprang briefly to life. I’d hoped to at least share some final memories, by quickly emailing a few key files to myself. However, the cursor soon froze and a blackness overtook the display face that told me the final moments had arrived. Other appliances like the microwave, refrigerator, toaster and coffeemaker had already gathered around in a touching show of support. I retrieved my cellphone and my iPod so “T” would have some younger contemporaries to relate to in this moment of passing. They quietly showed their respects, except for the phone which went off once telling me my reserved book had arrived at the library.

I pressed the off button for the last time. I had to hold it down for several seconds before all the display lights went out and the whirring ceased. It was a brave act of rage against the dying of the light that touched us all, or at least those of us who were sentient. Finally, there was quiet. I pulled the plug on ol’ gramps, knowing I could probably salvage the power chord for use on another machine. I ceremonially sprinkled a little dirt next to the keyboard in preparation for T.Pad’s eternal resting place in the backyard next to four generations of dead cats.

The late great T.Pad is readied for burial

Then I went out and bought a new computer! It’s really awesome and I am so excited!!!

It’s actually not a laptop at all but what they call a netbook. It weighs less than three pounds yet still has 160 somethings that make the memory really big and 16 something-elses that make it as fast as any larger computer. It has a webcam (I’m waving at you right now — can you see me?) and a touchpad with multi-finger gesture input so I can make two mistakes at once. The keyboard is only 90% of normal size, requiring me to keep my fingernails neatly trimmed unless I want a bunch of random numbers sprinkled in with my blog post.

The brand name is one I’ve never heard of. It’s either called ASUS, which you know has to be American-made because it has “USA” mixed in there, or else it’s called Eee, if you find ASUS too difficult to pronounce. It does have the feel of a cheap plastic toy, especially the makeshift security feature that permanently records the fingerprints of anyone who touches its shiny black surface. The performance and reliability so far, however, are excellent. It’s working three days after purchase!

I’m still making my way through the instruction manual. I am forewarned about putting benzene on it, not operating it during a gas leak, not placing it on an unstable surface (that means you, Uncle Jeff), not leaving it on my lap for long periods, and not shoving any foreign objects into it. I also shouldn’t operate it if the temperature outside is below 41 degrees, so I better dive in and start computing before that forecasted cool wave hits later this week.

Much of the operation is intuitive — for example, you strike the “a” key when you want to spell something that has an “a” in it. There are also some helpful blue icons on a few of the keys, in case you want to block out the sun, forbid bullhorns or NumLK somebody. There are some tiny colored lights and a number of holes on either side of the machine, which I guess explains the shoving caveat.

It’ll never replace the special spot in my heart I’ll always have for my very first laptop. But I think it’ll be quite sufficient for me to go online to WebMD so I can finally look up “motherboard,” and also learn how to get that lens cap out of my ileum.

Fake News: Ga-ga over GaGa

The confluence of the MTV Music Awards and New York’s annual fashion week has highlighted a new star on the entertainment horizon.

Lady GaGa, a product of the city’s cutting-edge house/electronic music clubs, has emerged as a brash fashion icon. Her display of elaborately self-designed outfits that combine the need to protect her personal modesty with apparently random combinations of fabric, accessories and found objects has revolutionized the concept of style.

Ga, who says she envisions songwriting and clothing design as parallel creations, was only barely upstaged by the controversial Kanye West at Sunday night’s awards show. She wore one costume that spurted blood, another that featured face-framing black feathers and a third that completely obscured her head in red lace. A performance earlier this year featured a flame-throwing bra that came close to setting her backup dancers ablaze.

Several other examples of her innovative get-ups are shown below.

In the piece above, Lady Gaga harkens back to America’s roots with elaborate makeup, a wig and a false nose in her interpretation of nineteenth-century Native American style.

Here we see Lady using wool in ways not previously envisioned by designers. Note the passive expression that she’s made a part of her total package.

In what doubles as a statement on the currently moribund U.S. economy, Lady GaGa dons a steel and carbon composite full-body suit that positively shouts “beep-beep.”

One of her most space-age concepts is this ensemble inspired by the planet Saturn. GaGa is truly becoming the gas giant of contemporary American style.

Lady GaGa has inspired several other avant-garde performers with her ground-breaking work in music and fashion. Archduke GooGoo recently premiered a set at several Los Angeles area hotspots in which he wore a surgically implanted javelin in his chest wall. Another disco pioneer, Senior Vice President of Human Resources PeePee, drapes his body in a knit blend combining Spanish moss, sweepings from a neighborhood Great Clips, and corn silk. His performance concludes with a prank phone call in which he threatens former secretary of state James Baker.

Website Reviews: 341.com

I thought I’d mix in a little variety with this week’s Website Review by visiting three different URLs and offering one capsule report on each. So no, there’s no actual site called 341.com, and if there was, I can’t imagine what its focus would be, unless some obscure group had gotten worked up about Emperor Constans’ fourth-century ban of pagan sacrifices under the penalty of death, and his subsequent campaign against the Franks. While it’s true that everybody was always picking on the Franks, I like to think we’ve moved on to a post-Frankian society.

My first visit was to a site called sit4less.com. Anyone who has ever listened to National Public Radio for five minutes any afternoon since 2003 knows that this is the home page for a seller of chairs. It features “all colors of the Herman Miller Aeron chair, now including true black.” I’ve been entranced by this mercilessly repeated tagline almost every day on my drive home from work, so I thought I’d check it out.

Since I was going by pronunciation rather than a visual representation of the website name, I first tried sitforless.com with no luck. I realize now that in modern Internet communications “4″ has become the new “for,” saving busy potential customers the trouble of two extra keystrokes. This reminded me how annoyed everyone is becoming with these contrived URLs that are designed to make us sit up and take notice but instead simply confuse us and degrade the language. We don’t want to sit up; we that’s why we’re hunched over our keyboards.

The latest trend in this regard seems to be overly long site names that are either too descriptive or else way too precious. For example, Volkswagen has a site called gohippiego.com, in the belief that there’s sales gold in appealing to a demographic that hasn’t been prominent for 40 years and, when it was, didn’t have any money. The new season of TV’s House is using snakesonacane.com in a confused reference to the fact that he uses a cane and is a practicing physician (snakes are featured on the AMA’s iconic Staff of Aesculapius and in a number of new less-invasive surgical techniques). Another favorite of mine is called ohcrapmyparentsjoinedfacebook.com.

At least these haven’t backfired like the ill-conceived web presence of the makers of fine writing instruments known as Pen Island, whose website penisland.com is getting surprising quantities of traffic, most of whom end up severely disappointed that the cylinders for sale spout only ink.

Anyway, back to Herman Miller and his truly black Aeron chair. The sit4less address offers a large number of office and massage chairs, as well as “home seating options,” by manufacturers you’ve never heard of and offered at prices you’d never pay. The Aeron is sold at a comparatively reasonable $849 but you can go as high as almost $6500 for the INADA Sogno Dreamwave massage chair. Other featured chair-makers range in comfort from the evocative Human Touch Perfect Chair to the Steelcase Leap Chair. There’s also the Zody Fully Loaded Black Chair, the Indie Expressivo Swivel Chair, and the HB Kneeler Perfect Fit Metal Kneeling Chair, one of those supposedly ergonomic contraptions that you mount rather than sit in. (Seems like mounting is not something you typically want to be doing at the office, especially if you have a performance review coming up.)

Speaking of awkward web names, I looked next at ourcountrydeservesbetter.com, a conservative political site that’s heavy into tea-bagging, tea parties, and all things associated to the world’s most popular beverage. These thirsty folks probably prefer a tall icy glass of Southern-style sweet tea unless your barbecue barn also offers the blood of Obama liberals, in which case they’ll have a large, no ice. You get the feeling immediately upon visiting this site that these are not patient folk.

“When Barack Obama won the presidency, we knew things were going to get worse for America,” writes chairman Howard Kaloogian. “We just didn’t know how bad it would be.”

Kaloogian, who signs off the opening letter with “conservatively yours,” goes on to detail some of the horrors our nation faces in the coming months. Not the least of these is a Teaparty Express bus full of fat, angry white guys who just spent the previous eight hours on the ride from Moline to Akron and are now ready to stretch their legs, and those of anybody who opposes their right-wing worldview. If that’s not bad enough, “entertainers” such as Marine Mom Deborah Jones, YouTube Sensation Rivoli Review and the always-hilarious National Tax Limitation Committee Chairman Lew Uhler will also be featured.

The site is full of dreadfully written and poorly fact-checked press releases. “The Tea Party rallies will play a major in helping Americans to take back their country,” notes one entry. They also oppose “the game of kissy-kissy Obama has played with the likes of Hugo Chavez and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad that will soon weigh down Obama’s administration, just as it did with President Carter’s administration some 20 years ago.” I guess you could consider the late seventies to be “some 20 years ago,” but I still don’t think Obama can compete with the Saudi-smooching, Merkel-massaging George W. Bush in the game of kissy-kissy.

Finally, let’s take a quick look at a no-nonsense URL that gets right to the point with its name: Doody.com.

For better or worse, society has grown more comfortable in recent years with honest discussions of natural body functions. When I was a kid, every family had their own secret language for those necessary conversations between a parent and a young child that extended through the potty-training years and slightly beyond. In my house, it was always called “going too-too,” though we were also familiar with variations such as the neighbor kids’ “I have to make.” (To this day, I can’t use the term “mass production” without giggling.)

Now, there’s a societal consensus that the proper term for the function is “poop,” as set in stone by the best-selling children’s book “Everyone Poops.” So naturally I was intrigued when I encountered the webpage for Doody Enterprises, Inc.

It’s not at all what I thought it would be. Doody Enterprises, founded in 1993, “specializes in targeted information update services for busy healthcare professionals and medical librarians that combine literature update emails with content-rich web sites.” They offer professional reviews of medical literature, a respected endeavor totally undeserving of the snickers that references to “Doody’s Core Titles,” “Doody’s Reviewers Club” and “Doody’s Star Rating System” tend to provoke. There’s even a “Doody Database,” which is available only to members.

If you are interested in the essential collection development tool for medical libraries of all sizes, I can strongly recommend Doody.com. Just as strongly, and for a number of reasons, I recommend you stay away from ireallyreallyreallyreallyreallyhavetogo.com.

Revisited: The importance of hand-washing

I’m glad to notice that the fourth week of September has once again been declared National Clean Hands Week. This is not one of those cheesy designations by Congress; instead, the week of Sept. 20-26 was chosen by the Soap and Detergent Association (SDA) to “encourage a healthy home, workplace and office” with the purchase and use of the cleaning products and oleochemicals made by their trade association members.

I discovered the existence of the SDA with the aid of a framed document posted at my workplace, titled “A Checklist for Washing Hands”. As I’ve written before, my company is big into standard processes so it only makes sense that such a list would be posted in a position of prominence, in the men’s room. Because the document is dated February of 2002, I’m guessing this concern for our health and safety was some type of misdirected response to 9/11.

The checklist is prefaced by results from a survey conducted by the association which asserts that some 40% of American workers don’t wash their hands often or long enough (emphasis SDA’s). Consider that the SDA also claims that 58% of employers don’t encourage better cleanliness habits in their workers. “While most people employ good cleaning habits at home, they have less control in the workplace,” notes director of consumer affairs Nancy Bock, who holds a job apparently even worse than mine. I might think some less-than-positive things about my current employer but I sure can’t say they aren’t concerned about my cleanliness – I mean they posted the checklist in frame.

The list itself is in two parts: when to wash your hands and, of course, how. The “when” includes each time you use the restroom, before and after staff meetings if food is served (I assume that would also cover my company meetings, where bring your own pathetic sandwich is more the rule), after scanning newspapers in the breakroom, before and after a meet-and-greet activity (where you might have to touch grubby customers) and after disposing of freshly killed vermin. Actually, I added that last one myself. I guess it should go without saying, but if we’re going to have a checklist it needs to be thorough and allow no room for old-fashioned notions of common sense.

The “how” of hand-washing is stunning in its detail. You should wet hands with warm running water prior to reaching for soap, either in bar or liquid form; rub hands together to make a lather; wash the front and back of hands for 15 seconds or more; and rinse hands well under warm water. As Bock notes, “washing often, about eight times a day or more (emphasis both of ours) is the first step.” This seems to be bordering on the obsessive-compulsive to me, but of course I’m not selling soap.

I suppose I shouldn’t be mocking the sincere efforts of the Soap and Detergent Association. I really don’t want myself or my coworkers to end up like the little clip-art guy in the corner of the frame with a thermometer in his mouth and an ice bag on his head. Since 1926, under the leadership of a 25-member Board of Directors and over 40 committees, subcommittees, task forces and working groups, the SDA has been dedicated to advancing public understanding of the safety and benefits of cleaning products. I know lobbyists are currently under a bit of a cloud in the public eye, but I just can’t imagine these guys leaning on lawmakers for multi-million-dollar cleanser earmarks.

I decided to go to their website to learn more about the unceasing effort to keep the American public from being so disgusting. In addition to consumer education efforts like the one I encountered, the group is involved in research, government affairs and coordinating efforts with international associations. To encourage these missions, they sponsor two awards — the Glycerine Innovation Award, given in collaboration with the American Oil Chemists’ Society, and an award recognizing the best technical paper in the Journal of Surfactants and Detergents. I wonder if I might qualify for next year’s honor with this piece.

As I read on, I’m glad I took advantage of the immediacy of the web rather than relying on six-year-old messages on bathroom walls. Because it seems like things have only gone downhill since the 2002 report. The 2008 study reveals that only 85% of respondents say they always wash their hands after going to the bathroom, down from the previous 92%, and a mere 39% seldom or never wash their hands (emphasis necessary for everyone) after coughing or sneezing. A new feature of the study is an overall grade for the American public, who racks up a not-surprising “C-” for their hand hygiene habits. Once again, we’re excelling at mediocrity.

“Americans should prepare for the onslaught of cold and flu season,” warns Bock ominously. “Cleaning your hands regularly throughout the day can help keep you out of the emergency room.” On the good side, Bock has been promoted to SDA vice president of education since we last heard from her in 2002. I’m just glad to see she still has a job, considering the poor results of the study.

I guess she got credit for some of the additional features now available on the website. New this year are “tips on laundering flood-soiled fabrics,” which I guess is in response to recent natural catastrophes we’ve seen along the Gulf Coast. “As soon as the flood waters have receded, a new priority becomes how to clean up clothes and other fabrics that have been soaked by muddy flood water.” I’m sure that’d be my new priority as I maneuvered around the bloated corpses of cattle as I waded back to the shattered remnants of my life. In case I get some dead cow on my only remaining T-shirt, the SDA has me covered: “to help remove protein stains such as sewage and blood, add an enzyme presoak product to the prewash.” Any chance such a product is sold by your members? I sure hope so.

The SDA has also been busy bringing new demographic groups into the world of the clean and hygienic. They’ve established the “Scrub Club” for kids, which includes the Clean Hands Game and webisodes in which you can meet Gel-Mo, the gelatinous mascot of the S.C. And in an attempt to reach out to teenagers, a rap song was commissioned from the students at Sampson Smith Middle School. I’m sure some of the cred of the song is lost without the accompanying thumping bass-line, but if you can imagine the overwhelming rhythm, I can quote the lyrics:

“Yo stop touching that dirty can

Go to the sink and wash your hands,

If you want to go on a date,

Jump up and wash your hands for goodness sake.

Washing your hands is good for you

But if you don’t you’ll get the flu.”

Thanks to the SDA, sounds like we can look forward to a bright and shiny future.

Exclusive! Kanye and Taylor collaborate on duet

Now that nobody cares any more, Kanye West and Taylor Swift have co-written a new song which they had planned to debut at last night’s Emmy Awards ceremony. The duo, who famously met when West interrupted Swift’s acceptance speech at last week’s MTV Video Music Awards, collaborated on “Wait a Minute … For Our Love.” The pair had been promised a spot to close the Emmy presentation if the show didn’t run long, but darn if it didn’t go three minutes over.

The davisw.wordpress.com blog has received an exclusive copy of the lyrics for the new song, perhaps the first-ever fusion of rap and country, and premieres them here. Try to imagine a thumping bass and a banjo in the background as you read.

Taylor Swift:

I’m tall and thin and pale as can be

I could beat you one-on-one, I’m virtually a tree

I like your style, you’re a little bit crude

And I think we’d all agree I need a bad-ass dude

 

Didn’t know you much when you came up on the stage

‘Cept you seemed to be carrying a bit too much rage

The maze in your hair would be hard to get through

But my fingers want to try, can I touch your ‘do?

 

The ventilated shades are as cool as can be

The only problem is they don’t allow you to see

I heard you didn’t care for former President Bush

Only hope you don’t mind that I haven’t got a tush

 

Beyonce wears short skirts

I wear t-shirts

She’s a fabulous dancer

Look like I’ve got cancer

I shimmy when I can

But it looks like seizures

My doctor says I better

Stay put in the bleachers

 

If you could see that I’m the one who understands you

Been here all along so why can’t you see?

Why were you a dong? Why were you wrong to me?

Kanye West

Wait a minute, wait a minute

Can’t be falling in love

Remember Bruno at the last show

Flying in from above?

I can feel it in my bones

I know they needed a stunt

But the rejected my idea

In which I called you a … Yo!

 

Check it out

I know I hit the Hennessey a little too hard

May have had a toke or two out back in the yard

But I’m not so high as to be playin’ the foo’

And get myself involved with a mantis like you

 

Said I’m sorry and I mean it

I really am sincere

Wouldn’t mind if you would “clean it”

But I’d need another beer

 

Yo-yo-yo-yo-yo-yo-yo

Girl would you like a toy?

Here’s a Barbie, here’s a yo-yo

Now go find yourself a boy

 

Won’t make much more money

Now the Kanye name is mud

Can I be your golddigger?

And charge to be your stud?

 

Can I get a what-what?

More likely need a why-why

Still can’t quite explain

I’m usually just a shy guy

 

Get down Kanye, get down, get down

Get yo’ ass off that stage and get it out of town

That Taylor may be swift but I ain’t into ofays

Now they’ll never ask me back to the VMAs

Taylor and Kanye together

We know you’re sick and tired of seeing our faces

(We’re) pretty poor representatives of our respective races

We both produce music that’s banal and trite

And now we’re on the news just about every night

 

Neither country nor rap are exactly high art

They’re the two leading genres that sell at Wal-Mart

One has no melody and the other’s all twang

Listenin’ to both is like being sentenced to hang

 

Now we’re about to head out

And leave America alone

Go talk about your health care

And your subprime loan

You’ll miss us when we’re gone

It’s as clear as black and white

This is Kanye, this is Taylor

Finally saying our good night

 

Revisited: Hunting for pleasure

In spite of the fact that I’ve lived in the South for last 29 years, I never quite understood the lure of hunting. I get the part about how appealing it is to get up in the middle of the night to traipse around in the woods while wearing loud or unstylish clothing. In a way, I guess it’s not that different from what I do going off to my corporate job early every morning, if you substitute “cubicles” for “woods.” I understand the camaraderie of hanging out with fellow hunters, sitting for hours of uncomfortable silence in a tree stand and occasionally discharging high-powered firearms in random directions. Again, much like work.

I just don’t get it why the guns have to be pointed at animals.

Don’t mistake me for one of those PETA types. I believe animals have absolutely no rights whatsoever other than to provide us with meaty flanks and maybe entertain us in the home, zoo or circus (though I’m not sure what goes on at a circus qualifies as “entertainment”). But I don’t see the point in searching the outdoors for them when most of their best traits can easily be found in a canned format on aisle 7 or sealed in plastic along the back wall of the local grocery store.

Actually, it’s not even the tastiest meats that are available in the wilds of the South. Here you’re largely limited to deer, possum, squirrels, rabbits and assorted birds, unless you’re lucky enough to stumble across an unguarded dairy farm. I sometimes see the deer gathered in the dark along the side of the road as I drive to work. They usually pause from whatever deer stuff they might be doing to watch me pass, then resume their wild life. Aside from the fact they’re usually clustered together like this, which makes me wonder if they’re talking about me or plotting some kind of deer terrorism, they’re not really that bothersome.

Squirrels (or as hunters say “squirrel,” as if singularizing them reduces the carnage) seem equally harmless. They’re running all through the trees in our yard and provide endless entertainment for our indoor pets watching through the windows — “cat television,” as my wife calls it. When you see them in the road, they’re either so panicked by your approach that they can’t decide which way to turn, or else already run over. The other assorted fauna – badgers and groundlings and such – are completely inoffensive, unless you try to cook and eat them.

Some hunters will argue that they pursue the sport not only for the food and entertainment, but that they’re also helping control the wildlife population. I dislike the idea of a ten-point buck tumbling across the hood of my car and antlers-first into my lap as much as the next person. But there seem to be so many more humane options for population control. Maybe Sarah Palin has some ideas, considering her experience with ruminant control and birth control. We know abstinence doesn’t work, but maybe that field-dressing we heard so much about (which I assume involves clothing the elk, moose and deer so they’re not so alluring to each other) could work.

With autumn now here, the hunting season in my state is now in full swing. This was recently brought to my attention by ads in the local paper for outdoors establishments that sell the necessary tools of death. The “dates to remember” column was particularly disturbing:

Sept. 1 – First segment of dove season. Limit 15 birds per day. We turn these graceful birds into symbols of peace and for their cooperation in this sham, this is the thanks we give them.

Sept. 1 – Canada goose season. Daily limit 15 geese. They’re talking about the same huge creatures we see waddling through the park and defecating at will? They have to be hunted? To me, they don’t seem all that hard to find.

Sept. 15 – Archery season for deer. Later in the season comes “muzzleloader” deer season, eventually followed by “modern weapons” deer season. So first they wound them with arrows, then give them powder burns a few weeks later, then finally escalate to laser-guided grenade launchers. Surely they can think of still more ways to kill deer. Hanging? Lethal injection? Beating them with a crowbar?

Oct. 12 – The start of National Wildlife Refuge Week. For one week, all is forgiven, and the animals are allowed to romp freely across the meadows. Just so they don’t get too comfortable, because next comes crow season and then quail season, both great opportunities for those who prefer eating feathers to meat.

I definitely sympathize with man’s inherent desire to master — or at least hassle — the natural world. The Bible tells us we’ve been given dominion over the Earth and all the animals and fish on it, and we have an obligation to handle this stewardship wisely. And I don’t see anything wrong with having a little fun at the same time by playing with archery equipment and muzzleloaders (whatever they are). I guess maybe it’s just a matter of how you choose your weapon and your victims.

Personally, I find there’s nothing quite so relaxing and invigorating at the same time as experiencing this mystical place where civilization meets the wild. With the scent of my freshly mown lawn still hanging in the air, I enjoy the crisp sound of a newly opened bag of fire-ant poison. The smell of the pesticide blends with that of the grass as I stalk across the back yard in search of those rounded mounds of reddish dirt. When I locate one, I dip my old jelly jar lid into the granular mix and gently disperse it across the ant hill, watching with a primeval sense of accomplishment as the doomed creatures fall prey to my caring but lethal stewardship.

In that moment, the hunter and hunted form a tandem as old as time. I brush furiously at my shoe to try to get them off of me.

Fake News: Botched execution debated

COLUMBUS, Ohio (Sept. 21) — Observers on both sides of the death penalty debate weighed in over the weekend on the botched execution of an Ohio man whose collapsed veins couldn’t accommodate the lethal injection designed to kill him. Opponents argued the convict’s death penalty should be commuted and that he should be given a party, complete with frosted cupcakes. Proponents said he should be killed the same way he murdered his victim, except upside down and while watching an episode of “Gossip Girl.”

Gov. Ted Strickland issued a one-week reprieve on Sept. 15 to Romell Brown, 53, who spent more than two hours awaiting execution as technicians struggled to find a vein strong enough to deliver the three-drug cocktail.

As prison workers tried to administer the injection and failed repeatedly, a cooperative Brown volunteered at one point to hit himself over the head with a nearby fire extinguisher. The team met briefly in an adjacent room to consider the offer, but ultimately rejected it as a violation of prison protocol. Brown then offered to go out to an adjacent interstate highway and run in front of a truck. This was immediately rejected by the head of the execution team, saying he’d “probably try to run away instead.”

State officials denied that attempting a second execution this week would constitute cruel and unusual punishment. Strickland had been notified of the difficulties about 30 minutes after the process began, and had offered to “come down there and beat the crap out of the guy, if you want me to.” Strickland ultimately opted not to make the 30-minute drive to the prison.

Prisons director Terry Collins said the effort to execute the prisoner was abandoned after about two hours of failed attempts. Doctors and nurses are forbidden by ethics constraints from participating in executions, so a group of cafeteria workers had been enlisted to insert the shunt into Brown’s veins. The prisoner slid the rubber tubing up his arm, moved the arm up and down, and flexed and closed his fingers, trying to get a vein to appear. When this failed, team members stabbed randomly at his legs with a fork, causing him to grimace in apparent pain.

At one point, a member of the execution team patted him on the back and appeared to mouth the words “it’s alright, you’ll be okay.” The condemned man covered his face with both hands, then began to wipe his brow with an ether-soaked rag the technicians tried to sneak past him. He appeared exasperated with the workers’ attempts to kill him, particularly after they took a second smoke break.

Ohio’s lethal injection protocol has been modified several times since it was introduced in 1993. In one change that I swear I’m not making up, the prison warden now shakes and calls out to the condemned after anesthesia is injected, to establish that he is unconscious before the lethal drugs are administered.

While liberals such as Richard Dieter of the nonprofit Death Penalty Information Center predictably complained about the missteps, his counterparts at the Coalition for Killing Not Just Convicts But Suspects as Well said the process simply needed tinkering. Alex Henderson said that instead of constantly trying to improve the capital punishment process, innovations such as lethal injection should be added cumulatively to standing procedures instead of replacing older methods.

“If we injected and electrocuted and gassed and shot and hung and beheaded these guys, then made them attend a Cleveland Indians twi-night doubleheader, there wouldn’t be any mishaps like this,” Henderson said.

Arguments for the beard

About the only thing I remember from my high school philosophy class was a discussion about the “argument of the beard.” It’s the paradox that suggests there’s no difference between things which occupy opposite ends of a continuum, because there is no definable moment at which one becomes the other: day and night, childhood and adulthood, Reese Witherspoon and Drew Barrymore.

“How many hairs does a man have to grow before he has a beard?” There’s no specific number at which an unsightly clump of hairs becomes a beard, though somebody apparently neglected to make this argument to about half the male stars at the Emmy Awards Sunday night.

The current fashion of sporting a three-day growth of facial hair has its genesis in the early 1970s, when I and my good friend Richard Nixon kept forgetting to charge our electric razors. As soon as my hormones had permitted, I opted for the scruffy look (I’m not sure what Nixon’s excuse was; probably something about Vietnam). It’s not that I didn’t shave on a regular basis; it’s just that the regular basis was every time Rod Stewart had a number-one single. Looking back, I guess my motivation was partly fashion, though sheer laziness played a pretty big role as well. Why should I spent an extra five minutes on grooming each morning when there was a cultural revolution waiting just outside my dorm room?

Unfortunately, my Scotch/Irish/Germanic/Pastywhite cultural heritage limited my bearding possibilities to random splotches on my neck and lower face. In my late-teen years, I looked like a Woolly Willie iron shavings toy that had spent too much time in a magnetic resonance imaging machine. Some hairs on the cheek, some under the chin, a few on the upper lip but most of them still hiding somewhere around the edge.

Eventually the bare spots started filling in, giving me the opportunity to forge yet another innovation — the Beardian Presidents style, later called the modified Taliban. Originally inspired by Rutherford B. Hayes, the look originated from an interest in post-Civil War history, when America’s chief executives were too distracted by the strains of Reconstruction to sit down for a little trim. If the likes of Grant, Garfield, Arthur and Cleveland had expressed as much interest in the Chinese Exclusion Act as they did in pogonology (the study of beards), we’d all be drinking green tea today instead of Full Throttle, and this whole civility debate would be moot.

(Stroking chin) "Hmm, would I rather veto the Pendleton Act or go to the barber?"

During the late seventies, my beard reached a fullness that rivaled Amazonia. I was going through a period of introspection at the time, out of college but unsure whether to continue a counter-cultural lifestyle or to dive into corporate yuppiedom, which seemed to be paying a lot better than barefoot typesetting. My lack of confidence about the proper career course was reflected in my belief that the more of my face I could keep hidden, the better.

Photographic evidence of this period exists somewhere deep in the files of the State Department, as I had received my first passport during these years. In the innocence of pre-9/11 times, the fierce countenance I displayed didn’t raise much concern. They were letting anybody up to and including rabid abolitionist John Brown purchase a transatlantic airline ticket. The full beard in my passport photo would be flagged immediately by today’s facial recognition search programs, and I’d be put on a watch list faster than you could say “can I check my bags through to Helmand Province?” Then I’d be removed from the list when they looked at my ID and realized I had the most-benign, least-threatening surname (Whiteman) possible. 

"I demand an aisle seat!"

When I moved from Florida to South Carolina in 1980, I soon realized that facial whiskers were making a different kind of statement than I had intended. In a college town like Tallahassee, the bewhiskered were respected intellectuals; in the rural South, the effort to grow a beard was more about obscuring absent teeth than offering a shout-out to Marxian anarcho-syndicalism. Still, I held on to the beard for several more years as I slowly built my corporate career. It was a kind of security blanket that tied me to a more idealistic past; a food-flecked blanket to be sure, but still a vague reassurance that I hadn’t completely sold out.

It wasn’t until the nineties arrived and my son was born that I finally made a break with the past and decided to become clean-shaven. I sensed my professionalism at work was being questioned, not to mention that sad incident where my two-year-old mistook his father for a Furby. I first experimented with the babyface look during a two-week cruise vacation so I could practice things to do with the visible jaw before a more sympathetic audience than coworkers could offer. I gradually mastered civilized chewing techniques and got past the fear of slashing my own throat with Norelco’s trimmer accessory. When I returned to work, one person exclaimed “he’s got a chin!” Actually, after all the late-night buffets, I had several.

Now I’m entering the twilight of my career, having spent the last 20 years with hardly a stubble, unless you count every weekend or holiday. My ambition in the business world is starting to subside a bit, as I reflect more and more on the warped values of hyper-capitalism and on the value of taking SSRI medication. The other morning, I was up early writing the blog and found myself running late for work. I remembered that extra five minutes you could save by not shaving and figured I’d give the stubbly look another try. At age 55, the whiskers come in as grey as head hairs, so I had the look of a certain grizzled dementia that was keeping people from bringing me work, lest I start rambling that proofreading this particular graphic reminded me how much my grand-niece liked to play with range-column charts, and about that time I was examined by aliens who listed my physical traits on a holographic scatter plot. More time for Bejeweled!

So my argument of the beard has come down to this: You say I’m looking a little scruffy today? Big hairy deal.

Fake News: House drinks, paper torn

Pill swallowed with water

HOLLYWOOD, Calif. (Sept. 22) — The entertainment industry was rocked Monday night when a lead player on a regularly scheduled television show used a glass of water to help him swallow a pill.

Dr. Gregory House, the character played by Hugh Laurie on Fox’s medical drama House, began the second half of a two-hour season premiere by accepting pills from the pharmacy at the fictional site where he is institutionalized, then using several gulps of water to ingest the medication. Until this landmark episode, virtually all lead characters ever seen on both television and feature films would swallow pills using only their own saliva.

The scene was staged to show that House, who was undergoing detox treatment for Vicodin addiction at the facility, was mending his errant ways. He had already been through withdrawal from the painkillers during the first hour, yet still exhibited an irascible nature that generally provoked irritation among his colleagues. At several times during that first segment, he took medication without the aid of water.

“Yes, it was meant to be symbolic that he was changing, or at least trying to change,” acknowledged producer Andy Wills. “But we were also aiming to inject a bit of realism into the role. Hugh himself suggested the glass of water. The original script had called for an unnamed carbonated drink.”

For hundreds of years, actors on both stage and screen rejected the idea of a liquid lubricant to help them take needed medicine or to abuse drugs. Not only did it save on the cost of props to omit tumblers of water from such scenes; it also lent a rebellious air to the character. Shakespeare used the device extensively in his early works, though later opted for giant chalices when he had become a more established and well-funded playwright. During the intervening 400 years of theatrical entertainment, only John Barrymore in the 1921 epic film I’m Really Thirsty used a drink to assist in the swallowing of a capsule or pill.

Wills speculated that later in the season, some character on the ground-breaking show will drive to a destination, only to arrive at the front door and find a “no parking” zone. He or she will then have to follow signs to a multi-level garage, where they will take a ticket from an automated gate-opener, circle up several stories to find a vacant spot, then take an elevator back down to the main floor before entering the building.

“In the hands of a skilled actor, this could be absolutely golden,” said Wills. “They can run through a whole range of emotions and internal dialog, both while circling and while riding the elevator. And we could easily kill four or five minutes that would otherwise be wasted on character development.”

Paper suspiciously ripped

THE NEXT CUBICLE OVER FROM YOU (Sept. 23) — A coworker in your office methodically ripped a sheet of paper into tiny pieces yesterday, causing everyone nearby to perk up briefly and peer across the room to see what could be so sensitive as to require such careful destruction.

The slow, rhythmic nature of the tearing caused widespread suspicion that the document contained either embarrassing personal information or material downloaded from the Internet in violation of company policy.

“If they just balled it up and threw it into recycling, no one would’ve noticed or cared,” noted administrative assistant Anne Purdy. “But that sound of deliberate ripping made us curious about what could be so incriminating.”

A team of several employees later retrieved the scraps from the trash bin and spent most of the afternoon piecing the puzzle together. Turns out, it was just an electric bill. What a disappointing waste of time that turned out to be.

In other sound-related news on the corporate front, when you went down the hall to the restroom earlier today and encountered that group of executives chatting with their backs to your oncoming approach, you deliberately raised the decibel level of your footfalls so they would hear you. Such a strategy enabled you to avoid speaking with them or fake-clearing your throat.

All but two of the group must’ve heard you, as they stepped slightly to the side while continuing their conversation. That one jerk who always wears a red tie never did slide over so you accidentally bumped his elbow, and later will dip your soiled fingers into his Sprite.

You hate that guy.

Website Review: GetMotivated.com

If you’re fortunate enough to live in a boring, mid-sized American city such as Louisville, Cincinnati, Fort Worth, one of the Springfields, or my own hometown of Charlotte, you may have already seen the photo-packed full-page newspaper ads. “GET MOTIVATED!” screams the headline for the day-long business seminar. “MOTIVATION! INSPIRATION! CAREER SKILLS! FOCUS!”

Immediately below the banner is a number of world-famous faces you find yourself amazed to be coming to your pathetic burg. In Charlotte’s case, we’re hosting the smiling heads of Colin Powell, Terry Bradshaw, Steve Forbes and Rudy Guiliani, though other cities may have interchangeable heads such as Gen. David Petraeus, John Madden, Mitt Romney, The Pope, The Queen or The Rock. Charlotte is also getting Special Guest Speaker Laura Bush, the entertainingly-named motivational expert Zig Ziglar, and some hottie named Tamara Lowe who, at first glance, I thought was “Tamara Love,” a great name for a motivator of porn.

The purpose of this dynamic seminar is to “increase your productivity and income” (most subsequent citations in this post will omit the implicit exclamation point that comes with every phrase on the page). There’s a handy pre-checked checklist that describes what you’ll learn during parts of the 9-hour focus-fest when you’re not fidgeting like a meth-head with a stored-value card from Starbucks. There’s customer service (check), business skills (check), time management (check), people skills (check) and leadership (check). In addition to check (cashiers), they’ll also accept credit cards and even cash.

But here’s the interesting thing about this self-described “Super Bowl of Success,” this “Feel-Good Tour de Force,” this “ad that seems too good to be true.” The cost for admission at the door is a whopping $225 per person, but if you take advantage of the limited time offer, it’s only $4.95 per person, or send your entire office for only $19. “Save!” says the coupon. “Save! Save!” That incredible 98% markdown has me wondering how they can possibly afford the stratospheric speaker’s fees of these mega-watt luminaries. Are their talks shortened for the sake of economizing? Does Laura Bush appear only long enough to sprint across the stage shouting “push back fear and face the future”? Does Steve Forbes make a low pass over the Time Warner Arena in his corporate jet, yelling “balance your personal and professional priorities and stay ahead of the pack” out of the open cargo door?

I wanted to learn more about this particular motivation group. I definitely need some serious professional guidance on the subject of focus, so I’m visiting GetMotivated.com for this week’s Website Review.

The founder and CEO of Get Motivated Seminars Inc. is a toothy nerd named Peter Lowe, who we later learn is husband of aforementioned babe Tamara. The site says their seminars are “energizing, action-packed, star-studded, fun-filled, spectacular stage shows,” which for me brings to mind a kind of Cirque du Soleil for the business set. Various TV networks and newspapers are said to rave about it, though probably through purchased ad space. “This motivational mega-show packs more inspirational firepower than a stick of dynamite,” claims the home page. Sure enough, there’s a picture of Peter with his arms raised triumphantly in the air and an explosives-damaged stump for a left hand.

There’s a lot more exclamation pointing under several of the pulldowns, but I’ve always preferred the gentle curve of the question mark so I’m drawn to the Frequently Asked Questions portion of this site. “Will I receive a Certificate of Completion?” asks one individual, who apparently wants to do some frame-shopping in advance of the event. “When is the lunch break and will food be provided?” Yes, there will be vendors with food. “I have difficulty hearing. Will there be help for me?” Yes, cochlear implants will be available for a nominal fee.

Then there’s a part for testimonials from attendees:

My team and I enjoyed the day as much as it is possible to enjoy anything!

 

Because of this seminar I will turn any setback I encounter into an opportunity for greatness!

 

GO!

 

Don’t keep treading water! Get moving to the Get Motivated Seminar!

 

GO! GO! GO!

 

How could anyone leave this seminar with a poor self image or feeling depressed? They must have been in the bathroom the entire time!

 

PASSION is born when you catch a glimpse of your POTENTIAL! Today, I know I am the Architect of my journey! I am committed to be a winner that doesn’t give up!

With rousing testimonials like these, I find myself interested in learning more about the concept of motivational speaking, so I make a quick visit to Wikipedia. It defines a motivational speaker as a “speaker who makes speeches intending to … motivate their audiences.” Not especially helpful, but they also include a list of well-known inspirational orators. Among the few names I recognize are Deepak Chopra, Anthony Robbins and Mr. T. There’s a link to more information about Mr. T. that I just can’t resist.

Born Laurence Tureaud, Mr. T. first created his now-iconic persona when he worked as a bouncer at a night club. He’d collect assorted gold chains and jewelry that were lost by patrons, and display them around his neck for easy identification when the customer returned. He eventually accumulated about $300,000 worth of unclaimed baubles, which took him about an hour to put on each day. Every night, he would spend several more hours putting them through an ultrasonic cleaner, or would sometimes simply sleep in the chains to see, as he said, “how my ancestors, who were slaves, felt.”

His early ventures into show business included a role in Rocky 3 and a Showtime sketch comedy called Bizarre where he fights and eats Super Dave Osborne. He also appeared on Silver Spoons where he explains his name to Ricky Shroder: “First name: Mister; middle name: period; last name: T“. After his star turn on The A-Team as “B.A.”, he made a motivational video (finally — an explanation for why he’s on the list) called “Be Somebody … or Be Somebody’s Fool!”, in which he inspires children to appreciate their origins, control their anger, deal with peer pressure, and “make tripping look like breakdancing.” In 2007, he made a commercial titled “Get Some Nuts” for Snickers in which he fires candy bars at a speed walker wearing tight-fitting shorts. The ad was pulled by candy-maker Mars after a group called Human Rights Campaign claimed it promoted violence against the gay community. He later made an ad for the Oregon lottery, referencing a fictional reality show called “Who Can Spend 30 Days in a Trailer with Mr. T.?”

His personal life has also been a source of interest to many of his fans. Though a born-again Christian, he was accused of fathering a child by a Chicago woman in a case that was never resolved. In 1995, he was diagnosed with T-cell lymphoma. (That’s gotta be one of those Wikipedia pranks I’ve heard so much about.) He said in 2005 that he would never wear his chains again, after having seen the effects of Hurricane Katrina, but was in fact photographed in the signature jewelry during appearances in Australia and in a World of Warcraft ad. In April 2009, Mr. T. was called for jury duty in Chicago; he showed up in court but was not chosen.

As I said earlier, I need to learn to focus. Perhaps the Get Motivated Seminar really is for me!

Revisited: The Death of Bongo

(Note: All names in this item are real. The quotes, obviously, are not.)

Leaders with funny-sounding names from around the globe mourned the death yesterday of Gabon President Omar Bongo, who died of cardiac arrest in a Barcelona hospital. He was 73.

Bongo became the world’s longest-serving leader when Cuba’s Fidel Castro stepped down last year. Bongo had been in office since 1967, when he succeeded the former French colony’s only other leader since Gabon’s independence, Leon M’Ba. Most of the West African nation’s 1.5 million people have known only Bongo as president.

“The drumming of his heartbeat has ceased,” said Prime Minister Jean Ndong in announcing Bongo’s death. “No longer will his people feel the staccato percussion of his stirring words.”

Leading the chorus of tributes that poured in following announcement of the death were fellow sub-Saharan strongmen Tertius Zongo of Burkina Faso, Yayi Boni of Benin, and Ignacio Milam Tang of Equatorial Guinea. Also issuing statements of mourning were other African leaders such as Abdelaziz Bouteflika of Algeria, Yahya Jammeh of Gambia, Laurent Gbagbo of Ivory Coast, and Moulaye Ould Mohamed Laghaf of Mauritania.

“His weapons were his crystal eyes, making every man a man,” said Fiji’s Frank Bainimarama, secretary-general of the Wacky Named Leaders (WNL) confederation. “Black as the dark night he was, got what no one else had.”

The large representation of south Pacific nations in the group were quick to join in the Fijian’s tribute. East Timor’s Xanana Gusmao, Indonesia’s Susilo Bambang Yudhoyoho, Palau’s Johnson Toribiong, and Vanuatu’s Kalkot Mataskelekele added their condolences, as did Malaysia’s Yang di-Pertuan Agong Mizan Zainal Abidin, the world’s longest-named president. But it was the succinct homage released by Samoa’s O le Ao o le Malo Tufuga Efi that touched a special note.

“He is as if my pa,” Efi said. “O, we no do go on, my my.”

Bongo’s loss was also noted throughout mainland Asia. Igor Chudinov of Kyrgyzstan, Lee Myung-bak of South Korea, Oqil Oqilov of Tajikistan and Gurbanguly Berdimuhamedow of Turkmenistan sent messages of support – largely misspelled – to the people of Gabon. Bhutan’s king Jigme Khesar Namgyal Wangchuck, saying that all the world mourned with him, proclaimed “everyone Wangchuck tonight.” Oman’s Sultan Qaboos said he was so hurt by the announcement that “I felt like I was run over by a train.” Kuwait’s Sabah Al-Ahmad Al-Jaber Al-Sabah told reporters he was “all sad, all gloomy,” but that he would eventually be “alright.”

European dignitaries were not as forthcoming in their praise, in part because Bongo had been widely criticized for failing to promote democracy, and because the Anglo-French-German heritage of many heads of state make their names less amusing to Western ears. But Albania’s Bamir Topi, Hungary’s Laszlo Solyom and Luxembourg’s Jean-Claude Juncker said they would be sending ambassadors to Bongo’s funeral, scheduled for Friday.

“We may not have agreed with all his policies, but he was a man who respected his people,” said Queen Elizabeth II (pronounced “eye-eye”) of England. “It is sad to say bye-bye.”

Time shifting with the NFL

I want to tell everyone how happy I am that NFL football is back on television. And I’ll do that, right after this message.

Ads for erectile dysfunction drugs, beer and not-for-children films abound on pro football telecasts, upsetting parents worried about the harm to younger viewers, the Associated Press reports. Earlier this year, a national media monitoring group urged the NFL to “clean up their act” after reporting that half the commercials featured sex, drugs or alcohol. A league spokesman said “we are comfortable with our policies and those of our network partners,” while the CEO of Pfizer, the maker of Viagra, noted that referencing possible side effects such as long-lasting erections was a hard and fast FCC rule.

Despite the best efforts by advertisers to lure me into watching their commercials by featuring sex, drugs, and alcohol, I’ve reached the point where I can no longer stand to view a live televised game. The way they mess with such a basic concept as the passage of time leaves me so disoriented at the end of a Sunday afternoon that I feel like a serf living in a prehistoric cave, preparing for the next day’s manned flight to Mars.

A football game supposedly lasts for 60 minutes but is slotted in the programming schedule to run for a full three hours, which it usually exceeds by another 15 to 30 minutes, unless there’s overtime, and then it could run into next month. The action itself — the time during which people are running frantically about and crashing into each other — is far less than an hour in length, since the game clock continues to progress between many plays. The clock is frequently stopped for time-outs, during which slow-motion or stop-action replays are often shown. Referees have even been known to put time back on the clock, tooting their whistles in blatant defiance of Newtonian cosmology.

Though the commercials might be entertaining, you’ll quickly tire of their adolescent themes and wish they’d hurry back to the part with the jiggly cheerleaders. A few years back, the quest for advertising dollars reached the point where, after showing a touchdown, there’d be a series of ads, then they’d return for the kickoff, and then head back to another round of commercials. This was more than even my bladder required.

Now, with the advent of the digital video recorder, I too can be a lord and master of time control. I can record the particular game that I want to watch and play it back later while skipping past the ads, the Burger King halftime update (“whoppers are still bad for you”), the news insert, the background profiles, and the statistical breakdown of which players have been suspended for having dog-fights in their pants while drunk-driving with a shotgun. I can cut right to the chase, watch all the highlights and learn the final score in a fraction of the time it would normally take.

There are some complications in watching sports on a tape-delay basis that I’m still learning how to handle. One has to do with the tense of my rooting. Most games that I record will feature one team that I prefer to win and another that I prefer to lose. So the convention is that you verbally exhort your favored team to perform well, even though — as my wife reminds me — it’s unlikely they can hear you, or would be considerate enough to accommodate your request even if they could. Since the action I’m watching has already occurred and the game outcome is decided, it really does no good to express standard cheers such as “go!” These have to be modified to a conditional past tense — “have gone!”, for example. You can’t yell “you suck” at the quarterback who just threw his third interception of the first half (you can probably tell I’m a Carolina Panthers fan); instead it has to be “you have sucked at some point in the recent past.” Even harder is the case where you accidentally heard that your team has already won, and you’re watching a decisive play that was later overturned by the instant-replay official: “You would have stunk!” is difficult to shout with much conviction.

I try to avoid hearing the outcome in advance, as it tends to ruin the suspense. I had a friend once whose wife had already learned that his favorite team was the winner of a key game, so he attempted to explain the concept of time-shifting to her as the reason he didn’t want her to tell him the score. She apparently didn’t get it, since she responded “I won’t tell you anything, but I think you’ll be pleased with the outcome.”

If you’re a really rabid fan, you also have to beware of the subtle cues that the rest of the world may be putting out. If you run out to the grocery store in the interim between the actual game and the one being played in your own private universe, it’s best to avoid eye contact with fellow shoppers, lest their look of  despair over the price of green seedless grapes be misinterpreted. I tried tape-delayed viewing one year when my hometown team was in the Super Bowl, and practically had to wrap my head in gauze to avoid clues about the results. If I’d heard shouting crowds and thunderous explosions in the neighborhood, it would’ve been a certain indication that either Pittsburgh had won, or else laid-off steelworkers were storming the mills to regain by force their rightful place in the U.S. economy.

When you find yourself in the position of being able to master time and space like this, you can not only speed past the boring parts but also prolong the drama of the game’s turning points. One of my favorite techniques is to hit the pause button, then advance the on-screen action one frame at a time. This is most effective when you’re watching the potentially game-winning field goal sail from the foot of the kicker into the direction of the goalposts. The ball seems to be heading wide left! Then one frame later, maybe it’s curving back toward the posts! Then one frame later, it appears President Kennedy has been shot!

Often the outcome is decided way in advance of the final gun, yet you hold out thin hope that a miraculous comeback from a 45-3 deficit can still be achieved in the remaining 5 minutes. So you run the game at triple-speed, concentrating not on the hulking Keystone Kops that have taken over the field but on the score and time remaining displayed in the banner across the top of the screen. You glance back and forth between the plummeting clock and the score, and suddenly get excited when the game has somehow become a tight 2-1 affair, only to realize they’ve interspersed scores from other sports, and you wonder who the hell is Manchester United?

At least I can take some comfort in the impending arrival of the post-season baseball playoffs. The passage of hours and hours during America’s traditional pastime is so much more predictable than what football can offer. Intense action on the field is much like the diamond itself; rare and compressed and not really something that goes with your faded Florida Marlins jersey. Capturing the essence of a 12-inning scoreless pitcher’s duel in a compressed DVR format is so ridiculously impossible that you might have better luck drinking water vapor from the air. It certainly has to be more entertaining.

Revisited: Fun doing yardwork

I’ve written before about how much I enjoy mowing my grass – the sweaty brow and the dirty clothes, the satisfaction it gives me to see such perfect results, how different it is from mowing through spreadsheets and seeing my 401(k) turn into so much mulch. But now the fall has arrived and the grass has mysteriously stopped growing (something to do with the credit freeze, no doubt). Time to run the gas out of the mowers, recall how I should also drain the oil but don’t know how, and turn my attention to a different kind of yard maintenance – stapling all those damn leaves back onto their trees.

Or maybe just gathering them up and putting them down by the road would be more practical. Our yard is actually pretty low maintenance compared to most others in our neighborhood. Though sheltered by trees, over half of the area is covered by a bark and decomposing leaf mixture that requires next to zero care, except for treating the chigger bites you get any time you walk near it. The few strips of grass are largely down by the road, so transporting the autumnal droppings only a few feet into the gutter shouldn’t be that difficult. We live inside the city limits, so we can count on a giant sucking machine (a type of truck, not the city council) coming by to dispose of the collected decay every week or so.

I tried the raking thing for several years, so I could righteously scoff at those gas-guzzling, noise-spewing leaf blowers that everybody else seemed to have. It was also easier to tell me wife I was going outside to rake rather than that I was going outside to blow. But even with such a small area to clear, it was taking me so long that during the peak of fall I’d have to start over again as soon as I stopped, like those painters of the Golden Gate Bridge. I finally invested in an electric leaf-blower, which is much better than the gas guzzlers because, if it’s anything like my understanding of the electric car, it doesn’t use any energy whatsoever.

The job became fairly easy to accomplish once I understood a few basics. My first few attempts though were pathetic. I didn’t know you had to stand there like a golfer with your wetted finger in the air to tell which way the wind was blowing. (When I saw my crazy neighbor doing this, I thought he was making a key point while speaking to the assembled foliage.) I was blowing the leaves into a stiff breeze and trying to figure out why I was getting so much blowback. Once I got the right idea, I had to learn that it takes a certain scooping motion to move piles taller than a few inches, and that you had to start in a corner and establish a cleared beachhead before fanning out from there and corralling the herd properly toward the street.

The thing I’m still not too sure about is how leaf-blowing and respect for your neighbors’ property are supposed to coexist. Before, I was mostly concerned that they were laughing at my feeble attempts to blow the stuff into a 25 mph gale. I’m sure they chuckled inwardly at my look of surprise when more leaves ended up in my hair than down the driveway, because they also chuckled outwardly, and did some pointing as well. Now, I’m worried that there must be some kind of unwritten rule that prevents you from simply jetting the debris into your neighbor’s yard. I’m right that you’re not supposed to do that, aren’t I?

On one side of our lot, there’s a bit of my grass adjacent to a “wild” area, which is adjacent to one neighbor’s yard. I don’t feel too bad about blowing leaves into this spot, especially since this is the guy who walks his leashed, pooping cat onto the edge of our property near the shed where he thinks we can’t see him. Since our house is on the corner, we have only one other adjacent neighbor who is mostly behind our house rather than to the side, so who cares what he thinks? Actually, I do, so I try to find the property line and aim away from it, though I’m afraid that looks too much like I’m being careful not to clear his grass in any way, but jeez I can’t blow the whole neighborhood.

Finally I maneuver the various piles closer and closer to the road. It’s rained recently, so the individual leaves stay mostly in place. The biggest hassle is working with the electric cord and its extension – if you try to stretch an extra foot to get one last area, you risk pulling the cord and having to walk all the way up to the house to plug it back in. To save extra steps, I’m probably being too careless putting the electric appliance on the wet ground, which I’m guessing could cause my death by electrocution, though on the plus side the ensuing fire would consume the leaf pile as well as my lifeless body. It’d be a good way to go, a fitting tribute to my corporate trainees in India who send off their dear departed on funeral pyres.

Now I’ve got to gather one last bit of bluster and deposit the leaves into the road. Does it have to be one pile – more work for me – or would three or four piles be OK? Or what about one long, thin pile all the way around the corner? Do I need to stay clear of the gutter? How neat do the piles have to be? Is it OK to blow the few orphans in the general direction of nowhere, like the professional landscapers I see swinging their machines back and forth? And what is my obligation in the hours or days after I’m done? Is every subsequent gust that comes along and undoes my work in the direction of a neighbor’s yard my fault?

I doubt the city cares but, as I said, I’m more concerned with the disapproval of my neighbors than I am with silly municipal ordinances. Having someone walk over and comment “you know, you’re not supposed to use the medium-high setting on a downhill lie during the third week of October” would be devastating. They (probably) can’t fine me, but they do know where I live.

Fake News Briefs: Safire and B-Ball

William Friggin’ Safire dead at, like, 79

William Safire, a speechwriter for presidents and a prize-winning political columnist for The New York Times who also wrote novels, books on politics and a treasury of articles on language, like totally died Sunday from a really wicked case of pancreatic cancer. He was way old, hanging out in this righteous realm for something like 79 years.

The conservative columnist, who feared no politician and was a master of the English language, croaked at the hospice where he was chillin’ while waiting to get his ticket punched to the Big Pressroom in the Sky. One of his last appearances in public came in 2006 when he was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom by another Dude of Significance among conservos, former President George W. Bush.

In the Safire world of politics and journalism, it was simple: there was his own unambiguous wit and wisdom on one hand and the blubber of fools on the other. The Billster was never down with fellow writers at the Times, whom he regarded as gonzo honchos who thought they were (air quotes) kewl when in fact their judgments, offered with Olympian detachment and self-appointed expertise, were in fact both gimp and crunk.

A talented linguist widely cited as the consummate wordsmith, Safire wrote the “On Language” column for the New York Times magazine for 30 years. He was a pundit well known for his use of alliterative allusions, most famously in his description of Republican opponents as “nattering nabobs of negativism.” As an awesome aggregator of analism himself, he could barely keep his Pulitzer Prize-winning piehole shut as he pursued his erudition mission.

In its obituary printed yesterday, his former employer called him a “Pickwickian quibbler who gleefully pounced on gaffes, inexactitudes, neologisms, misnomers, solecisms and perversely peccant puns.” Whoa.

He was sick with excellence for over half a century, and sick with the cancer for about six months. His wife of 47 years and two children survive his final am-scray from the ‘hood.

Duo thinks they got game

John Millard poured in 38 points while rookie Alan Garfield added another 29 yesterday as the team of guys who go through the day thinking every toss they make is actually a basketball shot soundly defeated a non-existent division rival.

The 113-94 victory appeared secured early in the fourth quarter when Millard banked a wadded-up paper towel into the corner trash bin of the employee breakroom from just next to the vending machine. Referees that exist only in his head at first ruled the shot a two-pointer but quickly upgraded it to a trey after reviewing the tape.

Garfield slammed the door shut on an opponents’ attempted comeback with a series of sparkling moves that included a hook shot of toilet paper into the commode, the lay-up of a paper clip into a magnetic cannister on his desk, and the thunderous dunk of a crumpled receipt into a bag of groceries he bought to restock the client refrigerator.

“This was a key game and I’ve been looking forward to it all day,” Millard said after the imaginary game. “Right from the moment I got up this morning, I felt I was going to be ‘on’ today. When I nailed a disposable razor shot into the heart of the trashcan in my bathroom before work, I knew the accuracy would be there.”

Garfield attributed his slow start of only 6 points in the first half to a lack of confidence following a devastating miss he made while preparing tea before leaving his suburban home.

“I tried to arch the teabag into the garbage disposal from only about four feet out, but I was just barely off-target,” Garfield recalled. “My cat was on the counter and probably would’ve been whistled for goal-tending in a live-game situation.”

He said that his confidence remained shaken until he spit out the window of the bus and hit a manhole cover on 32nd street. “That made all the difference in my play from that moment onward,” he said.

Working with babies

Everybody stop what you’re doing! There’s a baby in the office!

I’m not talking about that maturity-challenged assistant manager who seems to be eternally stuck in pre-K. I’m talking about the straight-up, hard-core, full-bore baby, the kind who was physically borne into the world sometime within the last year. The kind of newborn who is so adorable that everybody in the workplace has to stop what they’re doing — regardless of the urgency — and come admire the fact that before humans can be big, they have to be little.

You say you’re in charge of directing jumbo jets to land at a major international airport? Surely you can break away from the radar screen for a minute; he’s so cute in his little sailor outfit. You’re a 911 emergency operator with a suicide threat on the phone? Tell the distressed caller to stop by central dispatch as soon as possible to get a look at this charmer. In the midst of robbing a bank teller at gunpoint? You should be ashamed of yourself — you might startle the baby.

In most cases, these infants didn’t just wander in off the street of their own volition. Typically, they had to be carried into the office, usually by a parent who works with you, or by their spouse (unless it’s one of them fancy walkin’ babies). The new parent has been monopolizing the breakroom conversation about his or her ability to procreate since this Max or Emma or whatever you call ‘em was merely a splotch of cells on the sonogram. Now they feel compelled to offer physical proof that their time off from work was spent bearing live young. Maybe it’s some kind of human resources requirement.

Now I don’t intend to come off as a curmudgeon who casually trashes toddlers. I’m actually a big fan of babies. As I’ve written in this blog before, I believe that children are our future and that, by transitive property, babies are our children’s future. We need to take care that they’re raised up properly, with all the values critical to a civilized society, and with as few missing limbs as possible. Part of the socialization process has to involve meeting with strangers and projecting a variety of protein spills at them. It’s how you interact with your boss, and it’s how your child will have to interact with his.

When we have a newborn stopping by my workplace, I’m always eager to join in the scene, smiling and cooing with the best of them. I’d even be glad to hold the baby for a while, if I could wrestle him or her away from the women who are beside themselves with excitement. It’s been too long since I got to cradle my young son in my arms, and I honestly miss the wiggling heft of the young child. It would also represent the rare chance to be less creepy than my fellow employees if I were not among those asking “is it okay if I steal him?”

I think I remember the basics of elementary tot handling. If they’re really young, you keep them horizontal, with the head in the crook of one elbow, the feet in the crook of the other, and the mouth as far from your breast as you can. If they’re slightly older – as distinguished by the fact that you can tell what sex they are, or perhaps they’re wearing a watch – they can be held in a more upright position. These are sometimes called “hip babies” in the parlance of my small Southern town, not because they are “cool” or otherwise “with it,” but because you sit them on the outer edge of your pelvis.

I also learned an early lesson about the wisdom of not holding the baby by its head. To this day, I remember the psychological trauma of an incident from my early childhood where I was called on to admire the new member of our neighbor’s family. I resorted to interaction practices I knew best from my own home, which were those I’d had with our dog, Augie. I patted the baby on the head.

Bad move. There’s this thing called the “fontanelle,” and it’s very much different from another feature I knew from 1950s Miami, the “Fontainebleau” resort hotel. The fontanelle is the area on the top of the infant’s head where the skull is not yet completely formed. If you touch it, the plates of bone will shift to the side, lava will erupt and brain damage will ensue. At least, that’s what I was led to believe. I was worried for days that I had severely disturbed the development of this young child and, sure enough, he beat me up a decade later.

Probably one of the best things about babies, aside from their portability, is that they’re not terribly discriminating in their dealings with other people. You could be Mother Teresa or you could be Hitler; it’s all the same to them. (In fact, they might even prefer Hitler, considering how much his moustache resembled a kitty). Still, I try to do what I can to impress them because, more than anything else, I want to be liked.

The whole “goo-goo, ga-ga” gibberish is not really something they relate to, and they’re more likely to think you’re patronizing them than trying for any type of meaningful dialog. Likewise, an adult-style conversation starter like “hot enough for you?” or “how ’bout them Cowboys?” tends to go over their soft little heads. Smiling and waving are good, or at least it seems to make the parent happy. When you’re meeting them in an office setting, though, there’s not a lot more you can do to entertain them. Makeshift amusements like staplers and push-pins are rarely a good idea. The last time we had a visiting baby, I offered her the prospectus supplement I had just finished proofreading which seemed to make her happy, at least until she turned to the “Risk Factors” section. A rolled-up ball of paper, a dangling string or a can of Red Bull (unopened) can also provide pleasant diversions.

Above all else, it’s important to remember that the experience of encountering a crowd of strange, contorted faces in an alien environment can be overwhelming. I’ve gotten used to it after thirty-some years in the workforce, but an infant is still adjusting to even the most basic stimuli. Make your movements slow, your speech patterns sing-song, and don’t expect too much. It’s not really all that different from working with grown-up fellow employees on an everyday basis.

Tsar situation could be worse

There’s a lot of discussion currently about President Obama’s staff and whether or not he has too many tsars. Though it’s the quantity of the tsars rather than the quality that seems to have some Republicans in a snit, it’s worth considering exactly how bad a tsar can be. 

Nicholas II was the last and arguably the worst of a long line of terrible Russian rulers, and that’s saying a lot considering some of his predecessors actually had the words “The Terrible” as part of their name. Ruling from 1894 until being terminated (by gunfire) in 1918, his official title was “Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias” and “The Passion-Bearer.” When you have “autocrat” as part of your job title, you’ve generally got some pretty good job security, but the communist Bolsheviks had to do some serious down-sizing when they prevailed in the Russian Revolution. Nicholas was given his walking papers, then proceeded to walk to the basement where he and his entire family were executed.

Despite his regal lineage — he was related to just about every royal family in the western world short of King Kong — he attempted to at least sound like an everyman dictator. Feeling unprepared when he ascended the throne at age 26, he asked “what is going to happen to me?” During the first revolt against his rule in 1905, he wrote to his mom “it makes me sick to read the news.” He greeted advice from foreign leaders on how to handle the uprising with the whining complaint that “I am getting telegrams from everywhere.” Even in his final moments of life, shortly before facing a firing squad, a stunned Nicholas is quoted as saying “What? What?”

In 1896, shortly after his coronation, he modestly staged a celebration near Moscow that included food, free beer and souvenirs. He chose the site, called Khodynka Field, because it was believed to be the sacred center of the Russian Empire. He neglected to notice the area had also been used as a military training ground, and thus was filled with trenches. When the beer appeared, the crowd estimated at half a million people rushed forward, trampling those who were admiring their souvenirs instead of paying attention. Almost 1,500 people were killed in the melee with another 20,000 injured. Par-tay!

By 1904, Nicholas had mustered enough confidence in himself and his divine powers to get into a war with Japan almost half a world away. Since the Japanese had wisely insisted on staying put in their corner of Asia, the Russians had to schlep their Baltic fleet through the Suez Canal, across the Indian Ocean and up the entire east coast of Indo-China before they could be annihilated by the Japanese at the Battle of the Tsushima. The only other way to get Russian forces to the front was on the 6,000-mile Trans-Siberian Railway, which was only one-way as well as missing a significant loop around Lake Baikal. Needless to say, the Russians were soundly trounced by the Japanese in one of the first cases of a European state being defeated by a non-Western power.

Understandably a little peeved at his Eastern misadventure, the Russian people started getting restless. A priest named George Gapon organized what seemed like a respectful demonstration of concern in which workers carried crosses, national flags and even portraits of the tsar, singing the imperial anthem “God Save the Tsar.” Nicholas took it all the wrong way and had his soldiers open fire on the demonstrators, killing 92. As bullets riddled their icons and their portraits of Nicholas, the people shrieked “The Tsar will not help us!” Duh. Father Gapon, who had been considered a moderate, turned on Nicholas, calling him “soul-murderer of the Russian empire” and “you hangman.” Not too surprisingly, Gapon’s body was found hanging in an abandoned cottage a few months later.

Pressured into at least an appearance of reform, Nicholas allowed the convocation of a state Duma, an advisory body of representatives that could be mistaken for a legislature if you squinted your eyes hard enough. He didn’t care for the make-up of the first one — they “looked sullen as though they hated us,” the sensitive Nick complained — so he dissolved them and established the Second Duma, which he also dissolved. His relations with his ministers were better, and he even liked one of them well enough to make him a “Knight of the Order of Saint Alexander Nevsky.” In his own hand, Nicholas himself added the words “with diamonds” to the decree, since the concept of “extra cheese” had yet to be invented.

Succession concerns started to weigh on Nicholas around this time. Having no “vice-tsar” at the ready, he had his choice of four daughters (in an era when girls were widely considered to be yucky) and his one hemophiliac son, Alexei. Despite the fact that even the slightest injury could mortally wound someone with a blood-clotting deficiency, his family took Alexei on a hunting trip in 1912 where, wouldn’t you know it, he started bleeding severely. This is when the tsar’s wife Alexandra brought in a specialist by the name of Rasputin, a crazed mystic who was nevertheless lucky enough to be around when the bleeding miraculously stopped. “The Little One will not die,” Rasputin proclaimed in his best spooky voice. “Do not allow the doctors to bother him too much.”

As you might imagine, Nicholas was no great shakes as a leader during World War I against Germany. He had first tried a peace overture to the increasingly aggressive Kaiser Wilhelm, which was actually called the “Willy and Nicky correspondence.” When that failed the tsar mobilized his troops, which the Germans saw as an act of war but turned out to be a great convenience to them, because it gathered the entire 4-million-man army in one place where the Germans could wipe them out. Exhausted and lacking equipment, the Russians had to battle heavy Germany artillery with bayonets, in what a sportscaster would call “not a good match-up.” Back in the capital, Russian citizens showed their hatred of the enemy by looting bakeries owned by people with German names. As general after general failed him on the battlefield, Nicholas decided his personal presence would inspire the troops so he made himself commander and headed off to a position miles from the front where he inspected field hospitals and presided over military luncheons.

No longer able to display his stellar management skills on the homefront, the citizens again started getting thoughts of revolution. Despite huge posters telling people to keep off the streets, vast crowds gathered. (And they were really nice posters too, full color with a very clean design). Some regiments tried killing the protestors but others started firing into the air before eventually deciding to kill their own commanders instead. The Russian Revolution was finally at hand and, in 1917, Nicholas was forced to abdicate in favor of his son, who said “no thanks, dad,” so his brother Mike took over.

Nicholas and the rest of the immediate Romanov family were evacuated to the Ural Mountains, allegedly for their own safety. At first, they lived in considerable comfort in the former governor’s mansion, but conditions soon deteriorated and the family occupied itself with keeping warm. The tsar was even forbidden to wear his epaulettes. The family was transferred to a smaller house, where they were awoken at 2 a.m. on July 17, 1918, and told by soldiers there was something in the basement they wanted to show them. That “something” turned out to be the firing squad that ended the rule of the Romanovs.

Website Review: Reconsidering Facebook

After a torrid month-long romance, I am breaking up with Facebook. Several good reasons for doing this have surfaced just this week.

First, as is usually the case when an affair comes to an unpleasant end, there’s the gorilla. “He’s hairy, his table manners are atrocious, and he wants to be your friend on Facebook,” read the newspaper article earlier this week. “No, it’s not your ex-boyfriend. It’s Muhozi, a Ugandan mountain gorilla.”

The Ugandan Wildlife Authority is making around 300 specimens of man’s closest relative available for Internet exploitation. They live in a place called the Bwindi Impenetrable Forest National Park, but it won’t be impenetrable enough to keep gawking virtual eyes from checking on their status (“still a gorilla, but hoping to evolve soon”), suggesting quizzes they might want to take (“what kind of flower would you be?”) and hearing that their adventures in a steaming jungle are more exciting than anything you’ve done for the last month.

Next came the inquiry from the long-lost college friend who had tracked me down from 35 years in the past. “I’m not sure about this; were you the editor of the Florida State Flambeau newspaper back in the ’70s?”

I wasn’t sure either (things got a little hazy there about mid-decade), but I believe it was me. “Farrah” was the sweet young girl who helped us assemble meeting notices and do other clerical duties, and later became a news reporter for our student paper. Now she was reporting that she was doing “OK,” except for the fact she had broken her back on the second day of her vacation on the Big Island while jumping off a 40-foot cliff into the water. “Ack!” she notes. “I spent the whole vacation except two days in the hospital.”

I’ve been asked to respond how I’m doing in the intervening years since college and what I’m up to lately. I’m still trying to compose a reply in my head that will be a worthy match for the highs and lows of a vacation in the South Pacific during which you fracture your spine. What I’ve got so far:

“Hi, Farrah. Sorry to hear about your accident falling off a Hawaiian cliff, but I’m betting at least the view was nice on the way down. I too have had an up-and-down summer. One of the headlamps in my car burned out. I tried to mow the yard last week but it started to rain so I had to quit. I’ve got this little spot on my right ear that stung like crazy for a day or so yet it now seems to have subsided. On a more positive note, I got a $20 gift card from Ruby Tuesdays when they messed up my takeout order by putting mustard on my burger sliders when I specifically told them not to. The manager was real nice about it when I got there; he even offered me a complementary dessert but I declined.

“As for the years since college, it’s been an exciting time for me and my family. You probably heard back in the ’90s about me being elected forty-third president of the United States. Everybody made a big deal about it, but I still felt like the same guy on the inside as when I acquired my super powers (the strength of thirteen men, the speed of a gazelle, and the flying abilities of a goshawk). Since leaving office, I’ve had to take it a bit easy, what with all the heart/lung transplants (lost count by now) and a nasty case of hair cancer, thankfully in remission. Starting to finally get my strength back, which I’ll need when I begin my astronaut training later in the fall. It’s not public yet, so keep it under your hat if you will, but we’re going to Venus. A whole bunch of us astronauts are going.”

My last bit of discouragement with Facebook came with my pitiful attempt to drum up some discussion on a topic I generated. I was growing tired of tagging onto other people’s comments (even though I invented “that’s funny and so true”) or simply reporting that I was among six people who “like this.” I posted a recently discovered baby picture of myself and asked others to do the same, thinking it would generate a lot of interest and fun. I got two comments — “you haven’t changed a bit” and “looks like the first time you saw an IBM Thinkpad” — and no other baby pictures.

The realization had finally dawned on me that social networking was every bit as awkward for me as real-life networking. Rejection might be marginally easier to accept while sitting in front of a laptop at your kitchen table at 3 o’clock in the morning. However, despite the fact there’s no one here in the room pointing and whispering and laughing at me, I feel that they’re out there somewhere, commenting cruelly on my pitiful social skills from six continents. I thought I’d make a much better virtual friend than I ever was a corporeal one: fast and accurate typing skills, the ability to turn a clever phrase and a proofreader’s ability to spell words correctly should certainly be equivalent to in-the-flesh empathy. Or so I thought.

So I’m saying at least a hiatus-length goodbye to Facebook. But before I do, I thought I’d take a nostalgic look back at some of the highlights posted on my wall over the past month:

Valeri opened a fortune cookie and her fortune was: “Your ability to juggle many tasks will take you far.”

Uh oh . . . last stash of Lancaster Co. Bologna pulled out of the freezer!

Ellen got a message that on this day, God wants her to know… that it’s time you stopped hiding from life, and said yes to the adventure of being alive

nyt everyone….sweet dreams (Audrey is sleeping)

Hopefully Dex’s girlfriend will be just as much fun as Dex. Now get back to work! ha ha!

We are all pirates on islands…that is the fun of it…I will be sure to replace with fund making items

You already Vamping up for Halloween? I’m swept away…

You have the spirit of an Oak Tree! You are the healthy, strong type, providing protection to others in your circle. You don’t like the limelight, but you are no shrinking violet! You are capable of using true power for everyone’s best interests. You are deeply a spiritual person who prefers to stay put, grow roots and become a pillar of the community you live in. You’ve researched the best landscape company and feel akin to its long-standing reputation for giving only the best to its customers. You call on Hill Landscaping because you trust them.

I am Lyrical Power.

As to murder weapon, I have lots right by computer, including a bayonet w/ 16-inch blade, Gurkha knife, petite (one hand) medieval battleaxe, Arkansas toothpick with 12-inch blade and 2 inches wide at base, Jim Bowie knife, British commando knife, and a “crooked” Kriss knife with an 11-inch blade. A samurai sword is on my list…Kill Bill!

I’m at 35,000 feet over Virginia, headed to Atlanta and then Knoxville.

what are you teaching? i’m teaching Uchtdorf’s Priesthood message – go figure

Ed got promoted to Level 60 in Mafia Wars and is celebrating by offering a special bonus to his friends for a limited time!

Bowling with Team Tokyo Gore Police tonight, definitely my personal highlight at Fantastic Fest. Dog Girl has amazing anti-technique. Though No-Bo-Roo needs to keep his ball(s) out of the gutter. No strikes for me, but I didn’t suck either… And as a sure sign of a good time, no one remembers which side won. Team Shiner Bock, I suspect!

THANK GOD!!!! I am happy to report that I am “playing!”

I just hope the hordes don’t come heading this way!

Revisited: Internet says I’m in good health

I must say, I think I’m in pretty good health for a 54-year-old male in the modern American South. This has been confirmed in the form of an 89 rating I just got from the online health assessment we’re required to take as part of our annual health insurance enrollment at work. I guess I shouldn’t say “required to take,” as we do have the option of skipping it if we’re willing to pay an extra $1,000 in premiums for not participating in this wellness initiative. So, in other words, we’re required to take the assessment unless we have no regard for the value of money.

I received the 89 rating – the Wine Spectator might describe me as a full-bodied white with just a nuance of ripe plums – for answering a series of inquiries about my health and well-being. I didn’t quite get what the two questions I answered as I was signing on for the exam had to do with how well I’m taking care of myself. The fact that my mother’s maiden name was Johnson and my first car was a Chevy Vega don’t seem terribly pertinent, though perhaps I got some kind of credit for surviving the Vega. But the rest of them, on subjects like cholesterol, blood pressure, weight, etc., did make sense, assuming I answered them truthfully, which I was under no obligation to do (except I believe I read somewhere that the Internet can tell when you’re lying).

So what this website does basically is assign values to the 50 or so questions you answer, apply some kind of intricate algorithm to the results, and come up with a profile of where you can stand to improve yourself. Because I reported that my weight was 220 pounds, for example, it somehow calculated that I needed to lose a few pounds. Because I said I didn’t floss as often as I should, the results I received at the end identified me as a member of the cohort that should floss more often. It’s amazing how they come up with such accurate insights.

When it comes to the part that lists the dozens of possible diseases you might suffer from, I’m always careful to read through every one of them in spite of the fact I know I’m going to answer no, no, no, no, no. I feel a little guilty not having had any kind of cardiovascular problems or mental breakdowns, so I’m eager to find some category I can admit to having. Sometimes I’ll agree to cancer, since I had a small skin lesion removed from my ear about 20 years ago, or perhaps asthma, since my mother claims I had this as a five-year-old. But it seems so inadequate when there’s so much misery in the world to choose from.

What I do suffer from are three maladies that I find to be pretty bothersome, even though actuarial exercises like this one apparently don’t think so. They’re not life-threatening, nor would you think they contribute all that negatively to my quality of life. They probably annoy my family, friends and coworkers more than they do me, so I actually consider them something of an asset.

For example, every tenth or twelfth breath I take, I feel the need to make it an extremely deep one that sounds suspiciously like a self-pitying sigh. I’ve had this odd pulmonary habit for as long as I can remember, and even mentioned it once during my annual physical. My doctor dismissed it quickly as being any cause for concern, pointing out helpfully that different people breathe in different ways. For example, I guess, creatures that inhabit dark-watered lagoons don’t even have lungs, and gills are notoriously difficult to sigh through (it’s really more of a rattle than a sigh). If I can’t catch this deep breath every few minutes or so, I’ll feel like I’m not getting enough oxygen. I don’t hyperventilate or pass out or anything like that; I find that if I sneak up on the sigh and turn it from a regular breath into a deep one at the last second, I can fool my lungs into cooperating. The problem, however, is that anyone within hearing range thinks I’ve become frustrated with someone or something, and that I need to tell the world about it in some sort of passive-aggressive format. Maybe I should ask for a note from the doctor that I could flash whenever I’ve annoyed a neighbor.

Another condition I endure is Restless Leg Syndrome, or RLS as it’s known in the acronym community. For as long as I can recall I’ve felt the irresistible urge to wiggle my feet when I’m trying to relax in the evening. I didn’t realize it was worthy of syndrome designation until just recently, when I discovered there’s a whole subculture devoted to the fight to conquer RLS. I’m sure the pharmaceutical industry had something to do with the mainstreaming of this condition, and I’ve tried several of their products to address the issue, but they just don’t work on me. I admire the well-dressed individuals I see in the magazine ads for these medicines – they’re reclined in their well-appointed sunrooms apparently not moving their legs (or at least the photographer was unable to capture the blur) – but I think I’m more envious of their sunrooms than I am of their tranquil limbs. Still, I don’t regard the malady as particularly difficult to live with. If you’re going to have body parts that twitch involuntarily, I’d say that legs are better than kidneys or tongues or brain stems.

Finally, I have to mention my occasionally overwhelming need to stretch. We all experience this feeling as we force our muscles into various uncomfortable configurations during the day, but what I experience seems to be of a different degree altogether. It may be related to the RLS or even the sighing, I suppose. I can accommodate the upper body stretches without drawing too much attention to myself. Throwing back your shoulders, bending your elbows high above your head and letting rip with a good stretch is not all that unusual. But I have these parts of my upper legs, specifically the muscles inside my thighs, that frequently demand the kind of extension you can’t really perform in polite company. I’ll have to excuse myself to the men’s room and hope no one comes in as I take turns placing each foot on the sink and thrusting forward in a rhythmic motion that can only be described as bizarre. I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do if I’m ever surprised in the midst of this exercise. Please drop me an email if you have any suggestions that won’t make me sound like the unfortunate love child of Larry Craig and Mary Lou Retton.

If I can ever figure out how to quantify these strange physical aberrations in the radio-button format of an online questionnaire, I’ll probably feel less guilty about being in such relatively good shape for my age. I may have to forfeit my 89, but it’d probably be worth it for the peace of mind.

Briefly Monday

Does my yard look like a catbox? Maybe

We just had another encounter with our next-door neighbor. I say “encounter” because we never officially became friends when this retired professor and his wife moved in a year or so back, because I don’t know how to make Welcome Cookies. In the South, you’re not friends with your neighbors unless you’ve made the ceremonial presentation of Welcome Cookies.

Anyway, you still have to wave hello when you view each other, even when the guy is standing in your yard, holding the leash of his harnessed cat while the cat does its business in your bushes. You read that right — he’s walking his cat on a leash. You also read this part right — the cat is using our shrubbery as a catbox.

The man’s manner is casual, even warm, as he looks up to meet my eyes. He doesn’t seem at all embarrassed that he’s been caught in what presumably is at least a technical trespass as well as a disgusting breach of neighborly etiquette. Maybe he was a professor of real estate law and he’s aware of some obscure provision that allows tethered cats to do whatever they damn well please while their owner stands by looking innocent. Maybe there’s a covenant in the Brookshadow Homeowners Association bylaws designating my yard as a feline preserve.

Just because we have three cats of our own and a corresponding litter box for each doesn’t make our property some kind of FPZ (free poop zone). I want to be mad at the apparently nutty professor, but he looks so kindly that I can’t manage it. Have  your way with our azalea, harnessed kitty. I just hope one day that you will run free.

Man found lying near road – what to do?

Speaking of social protocols, what is the correct response when you see a human adult male lying on the ground in public? I guess it depends on the context.

If it happens on a sidewalk on the bad side of town or next to a roadway, I imagine you’re supposed to call an emergency response team. If it’s on an athletic field, you probably need to stand over the body and make a variety of taunting noises and gestures. If it’s on a wartime battlefield, you have to bow your head in a show of respect, then run like hell for cover.

In this particular instance, I was taking a lunchtime walk around the industrial park where my office is located. The weather was pleasant, a slight chill in the air and a brilliant blue sky overhead. I came to a cul-du-sac where I saw a pickup truck parked against the curb. A few steps away, lying face up and motionless underneath a small tree, was what appeared to be the driver.

Even though he was unconscious, he was obviously exercising some muscle control over his limbs, at least to the extent that they weren’t splayed in four different directions. His vehicle was not running, the door wasn’t left ajar, and there were no treadmarks on his face. Though he was flat on his back, it seemed likely he was still alive, probably not even injured.

I considered the scene carefully and made a judgment that I would immediately reverse my course and pretend as though I had seen nothing. Had I checked on him by poking at his shoulder with my foot, and it turned out he was simply taking his own lunch break by napping in the cool grass, I would have been mortified. If he were dead, there might be some shoe DNA I would’ve left behind and then I’d be considered a suspect in the slaying. Also quite embarrassing.

I hope I did the right thing.

More beards!

I got some great comments from readers on my recent post on the subject of facial hair called Arguments for the Beard ( http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/09/23/arguments-for-the-beard/ ). A lot of respondents said they too had experimented with whisker-growing in their youth, and continued to dabble in scruffiness on weekends and vacations. Others — mostly women — complained that the three-day growth currently in vogue among young men and Hollywood types was difficult to snuggle with, or strongly resembled smears of melted chocolate, or both.

Still, there was a strong consensus in all the correspondence: More beard pictures!

The photograph below is a twenty-something me hiking a nature trail somewhere in the wilds of Florida. My wife likes to call the subject Stick-Wielding Man; if you look closely, you can see the branch that I’m holding. Whenever I’m close to the natural world like that, I feel compelled to pick up a broken segment of tree and carry it with me. Perhaps I’m responding to a primordial sense that I need to protect myself from potential predators. Maybe I’m simply an jerk.

In either case, I remind myself of the spirited Labrador I see being walked through the neighborhood on occasion. He proudly carries a four-foot length of fallen tree in his teeth, shifting it back and forth while exhibiting that goofy dog smile you so often see on retrievers. Both he and I struggle to master the surrounding natural world while at the same time reveling in its beauty, though I typically draw the line at putting the stick in my mouth.

Revisited: Running for my life

Creature of habit that I am, I’ve been running for exercise now for almost 30 years. Keeping up an average of at least two miles a day over that stretch of time, I’ve traversed almost 24,000 miles, meaning that if I’d headed directly east when I started back in the ‘70s, I’d be all the way to, well, I’d be right back where I am now, I guess. Which probably says something about all the good this amount of mileage has done me.

When I started running shortly after college, it was at the beginning of what was then known as the jogging craze. I imagine I took it up to be fashionable — to this day, I must admit I’m a vision in my beat-up torn t-shirt and short shorts — but soon found it to be a great way to relax that didn’t involve showing up outside some vague acquaintance’s door asking if he had “any.” I didn’t much care for the pavement pounding and the midday heat of the Florida panhandle. However, like hitting yourself with a hammer or watching “Oprah,” it felt really good when I stopped, appealing both to my desire for a sense of accomplishment and my desire for being high.

Most of the early years of my running habit took place outdoors, since until the late ‘80s treadmills were reserved for cardiologists trying to stress-test their patients into infarction. It was a great way to see the sites in faraway places I visited for both business and pleasure. Looking back, I’m still amazed I navigated my way through traffic in places like Chicago, New York, London and Manila without being run over. I was always less concerned with the danger of being fatally injured and more aware of petty aggravation of running in public: drivers pulling up next to you and asking for directions, rude comments about my jiggling physique from passing teenagers, the nerve of cars showing up at a previously empty intersection just as you approach. And a special irritation we have here in the South, too-polite drivers who wait for you to cross in front of them when you’re still a quarter-mile up the road, requiring you to increase your normal pace or risk the wrath of motorists lining up behind them.

The outdoor roadwork was probably essential when I hit my running peak around 1990, since I was working toward a goal of completing a marathon. I finally accomplished this after five grueling hours slogging through a rainy January day, and I have the tiny proof copy of me crossing the finishing line to attest to it. I remember the satisfying agony I experienced for days later, followed by the realization that approaching my fortieth birthday, I was probably getting too old for this.

I still enjoyed exercise at a more moderate level so I found myself turning inward (to climate-controlled health clubs, not yoga). Finding a reliable facility that was going to be open today as well as tomorrow proved to be a challenge. These clubs tended to fold up and disappear like so many investment banks, though they smelled slightly worse. I finally figured that my best bet was to join a YMCA, as the whole Christianity connection lent an air of stability despite summoning up the disturbing image of Our Lord and Savior pumping away on an elliptical machine.

It took me a while to get used to running on a treadmill. Trading the fresh air and the constantly changing scenery of the outdoors for the mundane plodding on the same kind of belt your groceries enjoy at the checkout line was initially pretty boring. I was overwhelmed at first by all the options available on the control panel of the machine. There’s a so-called “safety clip,” which is basically a long piece of twine that attaches your shirt to a dead-man switch so that if you fall, the belt will stop before you’re propelled into the cluster of free-weight guys just waiting for an excuse to pummel those meek jogging types. There are helpful graphics so you can tailor your session to achieve goals like weight loss and toning. (I particularly appreciate the line graph showing how your target heart rate declines with advancing age, starting at 170 for age 25, falling to 115 at age 65 and presumably hitting zero shortly thereafter). I figured out the “quick start” option, which lets you pick a speed at the touch of a button, and the small built-in fan that cools while it disperses any offensive odors you feel like releasing. Instead of controlling your own pace and incline you can also choose from several pre-programmed regimens with evocative names like forest path, trail blazer and alpine meadow. We’re getting new machines soon with even more elaborate options, including built-in TV screens and more realistic trail options like rain-soaked mudpath and chased by dogs.

I must admit I’ve been pleasantly surprised with how welcoming the Y has been and how little they require of you spiritually. I’m able to crank up my iPod to drown out the Christian rock of bands like Puddles of Lamb and Boo to Boo-duh and replace them with my own upbeat and inevitably sacrilegious favorites, like the Village People’s “YMCA.” The wall-mounted TVs carry mostly news and sports channels, though in the corner there’s a primitive closed-circuit station flashing inspirational messages, urging viewers to “eat right,” “be responsible” and “don’t faint because we aren’t trained in CPR”.

I’m not sure how much longer my knees and other joints will allow me to continue my pursuit of exercise-induced endorphins. At my age and weight, most of my contemporaries have traded running for more sensible hobbies, like golf or permanent disability. I would seriously miss the so-called “runner’s high” and the feeling of physical accomplishment that accompany these daily workouts. I guess when the time comes that my legs can no longer carry me, I’ll find some other way to uselessly expend effort.

Non-Fake News Briefs

The following news nuggets were lifted from my local newspaper in small-town South Carolina.

¤  ¤  ¤

Hunting season has begun in South Carolina with a tragic case of mistaken identity.

Instead of the usual case of a camouflage-wearing hunter being gunned down by accident, it was a Greenwood County ass whose life was snuffed out too early.

The donkey, yet to be identified by authorities, was standing in a rural pasture when it was shot and killed by a hunter who thought the animal was a deer. (Pointy ears do slightly resemble antlers, it should be noted.)

The donkey’s owner reportedly had placed the animal in the field to protect his goats from wild dogs. How or why a mule would go to the defense of goats was not immediately clear. The goats were uninjured in the incident, though the wild dogs were instantly domesticated.

Boyd Purdy, owner of the farm in this largely agricultural area located between Columbia and the Georgia state line, was reminded by animal control officials that if he gets a replacement donkey, he needs to dress it in a bright orange vest.

 ¤  ¤  ¤

Lawn care had become a little uncomfortable for a 50-year-old York woman, so she shucked her clothing and continued cutting her grass in the nude.

Angela Jonas was arrested by police near her Kelly Road home after a neighbor had complained that, in addition to being naked, Jones had “called and harassed” her. The neighbor said Jones had walked topless through the neighborhood on numerous previous occasions.

Police tried several times to speak with Jones when they first arrived on the scene, asking repeatedly why she was walking down the street naked from the waist up. Officers were quoted in their police report as saying she could not give a clear answer.

She did tell police that she liked to cut her lawn in the nude, so that’s why she was doing it.

She was charged with indecent exposure and remained in jail overnight on $1,000 bond.

 ¤  ¤  ¤

A trash can outside a local grocery store was engulfed in flames, causing slight damage to a nearby wall and roof.

The blaze was confined to the walkway outside the Rock Hill Bi-Lo store on East Main Street. The store’s sprinkler system extinguished the fire but not before the bin, valued at $400, was completely destroyed. Police had spotted the fiery garbage en route to another call.

Employees told police that “two homeless males” were sitting on a bench near the can earlier in the evening. No one has yet been charged in the incident.

 ¤  ¤  ¤

Students apparently unhappy about the annual return to school fired four shots at unmanned construction equipment located on the future site of a new high school.

Shotgun blasts damaged two pieces of equipment, shattering the glass in the side windows of a backhoe and front-end loader, according to a York police report.

Four bullets struck the machinery sometime over the weekend. Shotgun shells were found along the roadside near the equipment. No other machinery or buildings were damaged.

 ¤  ¤  ¤

A Rock Hill teenager was charged with petty larceny after he was caught picking coins out of a wishing fountain.

The teen reportedly was looking for enough spare change to enable him to attend a movie at a nearby theater, and have enough left over to buy a small popcorn.

A local defense attorney said the 17-year-old didn’t realize he was doing anything wrong by wading into the foot-deep water and selecting mostly quarters and dimes from the available change. The attorney said the merchants’ association which manages the shopping center should post a sign at the site reminding passers-by that stealing money is against the law.

Store owners said they’d be sure to get right on that.

¤  ¤  ¤

The St. Francis Animal Rescue and Adoption Center will host a Blessing of the Animals event at a weekend ceremony on their front lawn.

All animals are welcome but must be on a leash, in a cage or in a carrier, depending on what’s appropriate for the particular species. The one allowable exception is horses, which must be walked onto the property, not ridden.

Dogs, cats, hamsters, snakes, fish and birds also cannot arrive on the property holding saddled riders.

Back to the future

I am writing this post in a way I’ve never written any other blog posting. Flat on my back, using something called a ball-point pen and a Stuart Hall spiral notebook. It’s very awkward.

The reason I’m in bed and not hunched over my laptop is that I suffered a lower back strain on Sunday. As I was hanging shirts up in my closet, I made a slight pivot and felt a twinge of pain that within hours had blossomed into a full-blown back attack. It was the same pain I felt when I first developed disk problems 30 years ago — except instead of lunging to reach a drop shot on the tennis court, I was now injuring myself doing laundry.

And now the handwriting is becoming increasingly illegible and the pen is starting to fail. My back might be flat against the mattress and temporarily compliant, but everything else is growing strained.

Ouch! Screw this. I’m getting my computer.

Hey, these little netbooks are pretty handy for use in bed. I can still lay on my back and set the thing on my lower abdomen, and type with relative ease. And the radiation is soothing too — maybe it’ll work it’s way through to my back.

So anyway, I got through the rest of the day Sunday without too much trouble, then spent the night tossing and turning and moaning and groaning, and not in a good way. Exclamations of agony followed every turn, and by the time morning had rolled around, my wife was insisting that I get to a doctor or a hotel.

First I had to call my office to inform them I was taking a sick day. Not really a sick day, per se, because we don’t have those. Like many businesses tired of hearing contrived excuses from lazy employees looking to catch up on their daytime dramas, we’ve lumped vacation days and sick days into one neat package called “paid time off.” Whether you’ve had an ischemic stroke or decided to take a three-day weekend in Paris, it’s all the same to them. All they want to know when I call in is “with or without?” in reference to whether or not I want to be paid for the missed day. Yes, I want to be paid but no, not if you’re going to consider a day at the doctor’s office the same as a day at the beach.

Yow! This netbook-in-bed thing is just not working after all. I’m taking it out to the kitchen counter, and hoping that sitting erect on a stool will have some positive effect.

Okay, everything is back to vertical now and, though it’s a little tiring, it feels much more proper than to be blogging horizontally.

So I get to the doctor’s office, and the place is filled with the sorriest collection of humans this side of Guantanamo Bay. Coughing and sneezing and wretching, they’re making me very uncomfortable, so I’m glad I finally get called back to the inner sanctum. When the doctor shows up, I tell my story, explain how I was x-rayed for disk problems years ago and now have these periodic flare-ups, practically diagnosing myself. He insists, however, on conducting an “exam,” during which he asks me to move my arms and legs. I thought that was his job.

He gives me a thoughtful look, and announces that he disagrees with my assessment, proposing that instead it’s a muscular problem. I’m pretty sure I know better, but he’s the one with the prescription pad, so whatever. He suggests some new age-y vegan therapies — putting frozen peas on the small of my back and stretching — and dashes off a couple of scripts, one for an anti-inflammatory and one a muscle relaxer. These should knock me out enough to allow me to spend the rest of the day in bed, which is just the rest my bothersome spine needs.

Ah, jeez, this sitting up at the counter isn’t working either. Let me stuff those peas in my pants, elevate my lower legs onto a coffee table, and try suspending my computer from the ceiling with snow chains.

I take a shower when I get home from the pharmacy, and it’s quite the ordeal. The thing about back problems is that you never know which subtle and otherwise harmless movement is going to provoke lightning bolts of pain. Getting into the car for my drive home was not too bad, since I took it slowly. But once I’m situated in the driver’s seat, I forget that I have to reach out to close the door and Christ that hurts like a mother. I maneuver myself through the bath, deciding that foot-washing will best be left for another time, perhaps during a Catholic ritual. Now I emerge wet onto the bathmat, and have to figure whether it’s really worth the trouble to dry the lower half of my body. I make the attempt, but not with a lot of muffled yips and involuntary gasps.

I swallow the prescribed meds and head for bed. I need a little light reading material to help me doze off, so I grab the patient information leaflet that accompanied my drugs. I’m taking methacarbamol, 750 milligrams, one or two tablets by mouth every eight hours as needed for muscle spasm. It’s a white, oblong pill, stamped for some reason with the imprint “Westward 292,” and should be kept in a dark, cool, dry place. Possible side effects include lightheadedness, drowsiness, pendular eye movement, slowness of heartbeat, and the possibility of blog-writing being both painful and not especially funny.

Maybe it’ll turn out better in my dreams.

I’d like to apologize…

I’d like to offer the sincerest and most humble apologies for my behavior. To anyone who was offended, I can only say that I honestly regret what happened, and I can assure you it will never happen again. I’d also like to take this opportunity to thank my family and my friends for their support during this very trying period.

I’d like to do these things — primarily because it seems like apology is all the rage and everybody’s doing it — but I can’t. The problem is that I haven’t done anything wrong, at least anything that anybody has heard about. And for that, I offer my heartfelt regrets.

Everywhere you turn these days, somebody is apologizing. If it’s not David Letterman, it’s Kanye West. If it’s not Gov. Mark Sanford tearfully telling a press conference how sorry he is that he got caught in an affair with an Argentinean woman, it’s President Obama regretting his comments on the Cambridge arrest of a Harvard professor. What a sorry bunch.

Congress is especially good at issuing apologies. When not acting as a collective body and being repentant for things like slavery, lynching, the treatment of Native Americans and the internment of Japanese-Americans during World War II, individual members will step in with recitations of their own failings and remorse. Sen. Larry Craig was sorry for soliciting sex in a men’s room. Rep. Joe Wilson was sorry for disrupting a presidential speech. Sen. John Ensign, for (1) having a mistress, (2) paying her to be on his staff, and (3) getting her husband a job as a lobbyist, was (1) really, (2) really, (3) really sorry.

Well, I’m eager to get in on this action. These guys are getting tremendous sympathy from their audiences, and that positive feedback spurs the innocent among us to come forward with our own penitence. So I can just lie about what I’m manfully accepting responsibility for now, then I’ll really have something to express my guilt over later.

First, I want to apologize for my role in the Panic of 1893. This economic downturn nearly eliminated the burgeoning middle class of late nineteenth century America when over-expansion of the railroads caused a speculative bubble that suddenly burst. I’ve ridden on a train several times in my life, so I feel at least indirectly responsible for this financial catastrophe that almost destroyed the second term of President Grover Cleveland. Sorry about that.

Next, I want to clearly state the depth of my sorrow over the fifteenth-century English War of the Roses. This 32-year conflict between the houses of York and Lancaster split the aristocracy, resulting in a very unstable position for the Crown. I currently live in York County, South Carolina, and my parents lived in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, before I was born, so my role in this calamity is unambiguous. My bad.

The geological epoch known in scientific circles as the Last Glacial Maximum, more commonly called the Ice Age, locked half the globe 20,000 years ago in a frozen sheet. Though it carved out some wondrous topographical features as it edged toward the equator and later receded, it also caused untold hardship to prehistoric wildlife. I took a cruise to Alaska with a group from my local YMCA several years back, and I’d like to report now that I am so ashamed. Not only for taking a cruise with the Y, but also the whole glaciation thing.

Finally, there’s the new season of the CBS comedy “Big Bang Theory.” This piece of junk features an irritating ensemble cast that includes actor Jim Parsons in the role of a techno-nerd. He’s absolutely insufferable in the part, at least during the single episode I could bear to watch. My viewing obviously contributed to the ratings that keep this show on the air. I am so very sorry.

I sternly decry the newspaper editorial

When I was an editor at my college newspaper back in the early seventies, one of the biggest challenges we had was coming up with a topic for the daily editorial. Every day we, as representatives of the student voice, had to arrive at an opinion on an issue of the day, then explain rationally and thoroughly why we opposed allowing waterbeds in dorm rooms, or supported genocide in Southeast Asia (maybe it was the other way around).

Though there was no shortage of controversial subjects in those turbulent times, it became difficult to not only develop a unique viewpoint, but also find the right verb to describe what was almost always our outrage and/or indignation. We would deplore, condemn, reprimand, revile, regret, reproach or admonish the university administration for its stance on something. Every now and then, we would commend, endorse, extol, applaud or acclaim something else, usually whatever it was we saw as contrary to the establishment, although that wasn’t nearly as fun as denouncing. A good thesaurus became a must for us.

How dare President Nixon remain in office despite the continuing revelations of his Watergate-related crimes, and despite calls for his resignation from me and the friend of mine who wrote the editorials? We implored — no, insisted; no, demanded — that he leave office immediately, or as soon as he got around to reading the FSU collegiate daily.

The conceit, of course, was that anybody really cared what we had to say. Sure, we claimed to speak for a new generation that questioned authority and spoke out against injustice. But so did Pepsi.

Newspapers today continue to print editorials, although no one is quite sure why. About the only time I can think that it’s useful is for low-level electoral races, when I’m faced with choosing between the retired veterinarian with the funny name and the old lady with the frizzy hair running for assistant county coroner. You can imagine any of those qualities being a good background for handling dead people. However, you assume your local paper has done more research than that and can endorse the best candidate, so you vote for the other one because the local paper is staffed by liberals (i.e., people who went to college).

Our faculty advisor told us you should never espouse a particular stance unless it’s conceivable that someone else could plausibly argue the other side of the argument. So no fair to editorialize that puppies are cute, or that Hitler was being mean in his treatment of the peoples of Europe.

But it seems like a lot of newspapers, especially those in small towns, never got this message. They continue to advance “Our View,” as my hometown daily describes it, on the most non-controversial matters you can imagine. Recent examples in the Rock Hill Herald include:

• Congratulations are in order for recent breakthroughs in research on a potential AIDS vaccine, though “those who are sexually active would be well-advised to use the preventative methods that already are proven to work.”
• The state attorney general should return campaign contributions from lawyers he later hired.
• A new building just opened at the local university is a “unique addition to the campus.”
• It’s fair to ask school administrators to take a few days without pay to address a budget shortfall.
• It’s good that plans for a new county museum under consideration are being scaled back, in light of the recession.
• Don’t text while driving.
• Owls and people should get along.

That last subject was inspired by a recent incident in my city’s largest park. A jogger was buzzed by a bird believed to be an owl, prompting municipal officials to close a nature trail where the predator struck. Park managers scratched their heads about what to do — perhaps considering guidance from the editorial, which said that slaying the bird “wasn’t an option” — and finally consulted with state wildlife officials. They said it was probably just a mother owl protecting her young. When baby birds were seen near the site a few days later, it was surmised that the young were now out of the nest, and the mother would no longer be quite so aggressive.

“We’re delighted that those who walk or jog through Cherry Park now are safe from owl attacks,” read the next day’s editorial.

We had another animal-related incident reported locally that inspired me to see if I still had the opinionated touch I exhibited back in college. Vandals broke into a pet store, stealing supplies and computer equipment and generally, well, behaving like animals.

Maybe I can offer a guest submission on this subject to the paper. How might such an editorial read?

October is national Predator Appreciation Month, and we’d like to do our part by offering kudos to a local group of potential killers who showed remarkable self-control under some very trying circumstances.

When burglars entered the Animal Supply House on Anderson Road Saturday night, they not only destroyed and stole property, but they also let a half-dozen cats out of their pens, opened bird cages and removed the lid from a snake’s terrarium. When store workers arrived the next morning, they might have easily expected to find that Nature had taken its course — that the cats had eaten the birds, and the snake had eaten the cats.

Such was not the case, however. Though given the opportunity to roam free, the snake had stayed put in its cage. Birds fluttered about the ceiling, and yet the cats were found sleeping on several pillows, oblivious to the tasty morsels swooping overhead.

“Anything could’ve happened,” observed owner Robert Beaty. “But luckily nothing happened.”

Rather than taking advantage of a bad situation for their human overlords, the cats and snake chose to look inside and find their better selves. Just because some neighborhood delinquents had violated the animals’ security was no reason for them to then turn on each other. The kind people who kept us locked in our cells will be returning quickly enough, they must’ve thought, and they’re sure to bring those dry brown pellets that provide us sustenance.

We congratulate these predators on their honorable display of restraint. It might be a dog-eat-dog world out there, but in a little corner of our hometown, the cats and snake have chosen not to participate. And for that, we pay tribute.

Revisited: Change is in the air

Change is in the air. We see it in the seasons, we see it in the economy. We see it in the space refrigerator hurtling toward earth and threatening to extinguish all life, and we hear about it incessantly from the presidential candidates. Barack Obama calls for “change we can believe in” while John McCain insists on “change you can trust.” Even minor-party candidates have joined the bandwagon, with the United Two-Year-Olds candidate demanding “change my diaper now” and the leader of the Guys in the Next Cubicle Party asking “anybody have change for a twenty?”

In this atmosphere where basic transformations in the way we live our lives are ready to be considered on a wide-scale basis, I’d like to propose several ideas I’ve had knocking around in my head for a few years. These aren’t the conventional and admittedly important policies like energy and war that I’m talking about; these are even more fundamental topics that I feel have been long overlooked. While it’s probably too late for any of them to make it into a major-party platform – and I understand if the president-elect feels compelled to solve that whole end-of-capitalism thing first – I call on the new leader of the Free World to consider these issues.

• We need a wholesale revolution in the closures on our clothing. Have you ever considered how long it takes to button your shirt as you get ready for work each morning? I have – it’s 11.4 seconds. Multiply this out to include every day of your work life, and it comes to something like 100,000 seconds, which would be a significant number of hours wasted if I remembered how to do long division. We need to replace shirt buttons with zippers, which would take a fraction of the time to close. We also need to eliminate zippers on our pants and instead rely on elastic waistbands, which would also let us get rid of belts. Needless to say, pointless accessories like hats, neckties, undershirts, scarves, sashes and any kind of jewelry or other ornamentation can simply be eliminated. Actually, I’d prefer we all wear one-piece grey jumpsuits that could be mass-produced and selected for wear each day without having to waste time considering the type of fashion statement that a partly cloudy Tuesday in April demands. I’m not sure whether the new president could make this happen by executive decree or whether he’d have to get Congressional approval. I’d suggest it be done by decree and then just dare the Supreme Court to challenge it (I doubt they would, since their robes suggest they’re already sympathetic to the concept).
• I’d like to see four buttons installed in our foreheads that would activate the following mental states: sleep, stimulation, euphoria and relaxation. This one might be a little harder to accomplish than the fashion edict, but I’m confident a crash program undertaken jointly by the medical, pharmaceutical and button-making industries could bring such an innovation to our brows by 2015. (Remember, the button-makers are going to be looking for something new to do anyway). Once installed, you’d able to press the appropriate knob – each labeled with raised lettering of “S” for sleep, a slightly bigger “S” for stimulation, “E” for euphoria and “R” for relaxation, so there’d be no confusion — and find yourself ready to enjoy whatever altered state you’d prefer. Those who felt self-conscious about having buttons on their heads could either come up with an appropriately cloaking hairstyle (see any emo rock band for ideas) or could order the buttons in flesh-colored tones.
• Though we failed in the U.S. to successfully adopt the metric system of weights and measures, we can actually become a world leader in a related area by introducing metric time. While the natural rhythms of astronomy make it difficult to fiddle with concepts like day, month and year, there’s no reason we can’t monkey around with parts of the day. I propose that instead of dividing the day into 24 hours, we opt for “cent-hours” (pronounced like “centaurs”) of 36 minutes a piece, making for an even 100 units per day. You’d no longer have the question of a.m. versus p.m., never wonder exactly what quarter-past meant, and could greatly simplify scheduling throughout the entire day. “Meet me at 43,” you could say to a prospective lunch companion. “The doctor has an opening at 72,” the appointment desk could report. Think how much confusion this would eliminate, once we figured out what the new clocks would look like.
• I’d like to see piping installed in each home that would allow us to receive more options than just water for our drinking needs. I’m a big fan of Pepsi, for example, and get tired of lugging those two-liter bottles home, not to mention the extreme pricing fluctuations that make oil futures seem stable by comparison. Why can’t I just turn on a tap and have my favorite Pepsi product dispensed over the sink?
• Possibly related (and not just by all the new ductwork that would have to be laid), I would like to see plumbing built into bedding that would allow you to relieve yourself in the middle of the night without getting out of bed. I, for one, am ready for my first good night’s sleep since my thirties. It could be done in an appropriately sanitary way, with an access plug that could be periodically removed and sanitized. The piping would travel from the surface of the bed, through the mattress, under the floor and ultimately intersect with your municipal sewage system. And shame on any of you who imagined some kind of waterbed concept when you first pictured this set-up in your mind. That would be gross.
• People need to stop holding their noses when they smell something bad. The odor that your olfactory system is detecting is actually thousands of tiny atoms of flatulence or Arby’s dollar-menu roast beef sandwiches or whatever floating through the air and into your body. Your nose contains sticky secretions as well as dozens of small hairs that capture these atoms and prevent them from going any further into your system. If you’re holding your nose and instead breathing through your mouth, you have literally no defense against these disgusting particles unless you’re a baleen whale that filters its food orally or else have hair growing inside your cheeks. (And no presidential signing statements that interpret this regulation to allow simply holding your breath and walking quickly to another part of the room).
• Finally, I’d like to see the introduction of a 99-cent coin. I know the dollar coin has been an abject failure, regardless of whether the image of Susan B. Anthony, a dead president, Sacagawea or Jenny McCarthy has been minted into the face. But think about how often the price you’re asked to pay for a product or service ends in zero-zero, and compare that to all the sale prices you see that come in just under a dollar. If this coin succeeded, we could then try the nine-tenths-of-a-cent piece that could be used to pay for gasoline purchases.

As I said at the beginning, change is in the air, and we need to be sure our new president and Congress recognize that reform is as important in the area of everyday habits as it is in larger realms.

Vacationing in Hipsterland

Combining recognition of our twenty-seventh wedding anniversary and the fact that we managed to take no vacation at all this summer, my wife and I went out to lunch together last Saturday. Celebrations tend to get progressively more modest as we age. For our thirtieth observance in 2012, we’re thinking of going to a parade.

To spice up the event, we chose a restaurant in the trendy redeveloped district just north of Charlotte called NoDa. NoDa is short for North Davidson Street, and a better choice we figured than SoFa (south of Farley Street), NoWay (north of Waverly Heights) and WeWee (west of Weeden Avenue). The residents of NoDa are mostly young professionals, artists and assorted hipsters who have gentrified this part of town with galleries, cafes and shoppes. They live mostly in lofts, where I believe they sleep hanging upside-down from the ceiling.

I obviously don’t know much about the hipster culture, except that if I were the proper age, I would aspire to be one myself. But I am fascinated by foreign peoples, so we decided to imagine this outing was actually an overseas adventure to an exotic land. The tattoos were simply a melanin adaptation of local inhabitants, and the plaid porkpie hats were a costuming choice mandated by distant forefathers and their abandoned trunks of vintage clothing.

We took the MapQuest-suggested route and quickly found ourselves at the interstate exit for Davidson Street. As soon as we hit the bottom of the ramp, we saw our first native, the driver of a retro Ford plastered with bumper stickers for alternative bands. Research we had done before the trip indicated the natives love it when you flag them down and ask them to pose for a picture. Actually, it turned out that they “love it” in quotes, which meant they actually hated it. Pinto Guy gave us a dismissive shake of the head and chugged off before we could set up our camera.

We followed the ordained route into NoDa, which circled us through an industrial area. Soon the abandoned warehouses gave way to older brick buildings with amateurishly painted storefronts and lots of newly installed no-parking signs, and we knew we had arrived.

There were two sites we particularly wanted to visit. One was a funky yarn store my wife was interested in. It seems knitting has become not only a way to create thoughtful gifts for friends and relatives, but also an ironic statement on how life weaves together different strands of being and yet all you end up with is a washcloth. The other location was the Crepe Cellar, just across the road and, not surprisingly, nowhere near a cellar.

We went first to the Yarnhouse, which had a sign that looked more like “Yamhouse.” (To me, a specialty shoppe featuring sweet tubers was only slightly less likely than one with yarn.) The front door opened onto a narrow retail space jammed with tufts of thread, knitting needles, four middle-class ladies slumming for crochet supplies, and one actual male hipster manning (I use the term loosely) the cash register. The only redeeming features I could make out were a sign on the wall claiming the business had free wi-fi, and a half-box of Dunkin Donuts, leftovers from an apparently retro grand opening ceremony held earlier that morning. Other than that, it was fiber arts as far as the eye could see.

I cowered in a corner while my wife shopped among the bins. I tried to look interested when she’d occasionally show me a particularly noteworthy aggregation of wool. I’d comment that it was “nice,” observe whatever feature that seemed to set it apart — “that label has a really unique font,” was one of my best – then return to my refuge near the crullers. A sign near the back directed customers to “notions,” but the one I had in mind (leaving the store) was nowhere to be found.

The most amusing part of the half-hour to me was when a confused local, obviously from the original neighborhood, stumbled in looking for one of those portable sewing kits used to make quick repairs on shirt buttons. With no visible piercings and an entirely too sensible haircut, he was obviously not among the shop’s target demographic. When he had the nerve to ask the cashier where he might locate such a kit, he was told “nowhere in NoDa. You might try the CVS drugstore. We don’t carry that kind of thing at all.”

Now if he wanted to knit himself a shirt from scratch, and use genuine virgin alpaca to do it, this would be the place.

We managed to get out of the shop with only a small purchase. Now, we had to cross the street to get over to the restaurant. It’s a pretty highly trafficked road but, as I learned during trips to the crowded cities of South Asia, it’s best to observe how the locals get past the cars, and mimic that behavior. (Taking hostages is most common on the mainland of the Indian sub-continent, while automatic weapons fire and elephant-riding are favored in Sri Lanka.) A couple of young women in low-slung pants and mauve hair walk out into the roadway completely oblivious to oncoming motorists. They have a right to be there, and besides, wouldn’t it be so ironically sweet to be struck dead by passing SUV?

The atmosphere in the restaurant is even more intimidating than the yarn store. It’s plain that no matter what we say, what we do, or what we buy, my wife and I are among the tragically unhip. It’s a very dark interior, mostly deserted, yet we’re still seated in a far corner where we won’t embarrass anyone except ourselves.

Our waitress brings us a menu and takes our drink order. What do people drink in this strange and foreign land? Mercury? Sap? The blood of tourists? It’s too dark to see the menu, so I lamely ask for a glass of water. My wife spots a sign on the wall advertising the grapefruit margaritas, and has one of those. I’d try a sip, but my Lipitor bottle specifically forbids grapefruit, and I don’t want to die in a “gastropub.” The waitress would thank me for giving her such a great story to tell her cool friends; still, that’s a high price to pay.

Speaking of high prices, my eyes finally adjust to the light enough that I can see the menu. Most items are followed by a single two-digit number, no decimals — always a bad sign. You obviously have to get the crepes at a place called Crepe Cellar, so we agree to order several different items and split them. Beth has the Spinach and Wild Mushroom Caramelized Shallots and Goat Cheese crepe while I ask for the Pesto Brie Hand Cut Pommes Frites, also known as French fries. These are priced at “6.5,” so I mentally scramble through my wallet looking for leftover euros. Hopefully, they take the exotic-sounding ”Visa.”

On the back of the menu, there’s a little blurb describing the restaurant: “Cozy up to butcher-block tables to share a pint aside aspiring artists and hip-hop junkies. Open windows stir up the conversations of women dreaming and scheming their love lives, and candlelight basks across the faces of a first date match.” Unfortunately, no mention of a men’s room, which I’m starting to need. (Later, I find a small, very dark room behind the bar and what I hope was a urinal, not crepe-maker.)

The food arrives and it’s generally good, though the pommes are a little too frite-y. Portions are large so at the end, we want to ask for a take-out box, yet I know for a fact that’s not what Pinto Guy would do, and I’d so much want his approval if he were here. I offer up the credit card, leave a way-too-big tip trying to impress my emo-haired Giselle, and we slink out the door.

We return to our car, satisfied that we’ve had enough excitement in a two-hour trip for it to qualify as a vacation. At least for a couple of middle-aged adventurers in Hipsterland.

Revisited: Adventures in volcano climbing

I’ve never been much of an adventurer, especially when it comes to the outdoors. I’ve never ridden the rapids, never climbed a rock face, never snow-boarded nor hiked the back country nor parachuted out of an airplane.

I’ve participated in the artificial adventure of a ropes course that was required as part of a corporate development initiative a while back. We rappelled down a deserted fire tower with about a dozen safety ropes attached, walked across a rickety bridge and bonded with coworkers while trying to hoist them over a 6-foot wall. The most I remember getting out of this exercise was a great idea I had for getting out of future similar exercises: I’d cut through the bottom of my sneakers and “accidentally” blow out the soles right after the introductory trust fall.

So when I had the opportunity during a 2006 business excursion to the Philippines to go on an outing with my fellow trainers to a volcano, I obviously shuddered at the chance. This was in the midst of a five-week visit to this most unlucky of former U.S. protectorates, and I thought long and hard about ways I could avoid the daytrip.

This was, after all, a nation that attracted trouble even more than it did American companies looking for a low-cost English-speaking labor force. The week before I arrived they had a killer typhoon, and two more passed nearby during my stay. Earthquakes were a regular occurrence, as were Islamic insurgencies, oppressive regimes, random bombings, floods and the occasional occupation by Imperial Japanese forces. Just sitting in my hotel room felt quite adventurous enough, thank you, especially with the regular appearance at my twentieth-floor window of dangling glass cleaners who more than once I mistook for jet-packing terrorists.

Still, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I had committed to breaking out of my skin and trying new things (the breakout was later diagnosed as only mild dermatitis, not the leprosy I feared). I had already taken a wonderful Sunday drive with a half-dozen friends to a beautiful beach at Subic Bay that was marred only by the fact that the vehicle we ordered was designed to hold six Filipino-sized passengers, not the six chunky Americans who got way too intimate during the two-hour drive. I was considering a weekend hop over to Hong Kong and had even learned to ride the Manila commuter rail, with its quaint concepts of safety and air-conditioning.

I decided I would be brave and join the volcano trip. We were to go by van about 35 miles outside of Manila to the Taal volcano, located in the middle of Lake Taal, near the village of Taal, in the district of Taal. (Obviously, the volcano was the biggest tourist attraction in the area.) While we were assured that the mountain was long-dormant, I was fairly certain that the citizens of Pompeii were once told pretty much the same thing, except in Latin. We would hire a boatman on the shore of the lake, motor about a mile across to the volcanic island in the middle, then hike a trail of moderate difficulty to the summit. It would be about an hour-long trek along a clearly marked path, and there were horses available for rental if we thought we couldn’t make it on foot.

This did little to reassure me as I’ve had a deathly fear of horses since I was nearly the victim of a fatal pony mauling when I was a child. I guess it wasn’t so much of a mauling as it was a too-bumpy ride around an enclosed track, but to a seven-year-old it was scary enough. Despite generally positive feelings I’ve had toward fictional horses I’ve subsequently encountered – Mister Ed, Quick Draw McGraw, Black Beauty, Sarah Jessica Parker – I retain to this day an aversion to these profile-challenged animals. Riding one to the top, and possibly over, the rim of a volcano was not something I was comfortable with.

When we arrived on the island, we were greeted by locals whose only source of income was badgering hikers into buying their locally produced trinkets — mostly canned Coca-Cola — or renting their horses. The animals were as pathetic as you might expect in poor rural Asia: hollow-eyed, low-slung and smelling something like sulfur, which I later learned they’d picked up from the volcano. So much for the dormancy claim. Only the oldest member of our group was interested in renting one (I assume it was a rental arrangement, though he may have actually bought the pitiful creature and simply disposed of him in the magma above). The rest of us insisted on walking, I because of my phobia and the rest because they were young and strong and cheap. We had to continue this insistence virtually the entire way up the trail as the horse peddlers followed close behind us, stubbornly affirming the value of the wretched beasts who made their own case by breathing heavily on us.

The trail was not too steeply inclined and actually quite passable, except for lots of dust, some serious heat, and deep ruts caused by runoff (rain they insisted, lava I suspected). You could pause to rest every now and then and enjoy a great view of the lake. The summit was also constantly in view, so you had a pretty good idea of how much longer you’d be trekking. Soon I was in the final ascent. The horses had finally fallen back, a whiff of cool air appeared, and at last I was beginning to believe this would be worthwhile after all.

At the top was a narrow area of wooden platforms and benches overlooking the caldera. A crude lean-to housed several merchants who were offering drinks to the parched climbers. I stupidly selected the canned Coke over the fresh chilled coconut milk served right in the nut after it had been laid open with a machete. Inside the volcano was a clear blue lake with a tiny island in the middle. The slopes leading down to this interior lake were covered with vegetation only occasionally broken by fumaroles, though they might’ve been huddles of smokers. We were told this was the only place on the planet where there was an island inside a lake (the caldera) inside an island (the volcano) inside a lake (Lake Taal) inside an island (Luzon, the main Philippine island). It’s a singular distinction that never occurred to me even existed, but if it had, I’d be impressed.

After about an hour of picture-taking and exploring this small summit area, we pretty much had the idea and were ready to come down. True adventurers know that the descent is sometimes the hardest part of the climb, so naturally we had no idea what to expect. I stumbled several times in the slippery dust, but the incline was such that my butt didn’t have that far to fall. My young companions became alarmed when they saw me go down, imagining I guess the broken hip or pelvis that is so rampant among what they thought was my age group.

We knew we were about at the bottom when the fearsome stallions reappeared. I was almost glad to see them, considering that they signaled the end of our adventure. Fortunately, their owners were no longer interested in us, since we weren’t about to take a pony ride back across the lake. After being snorted on a few more times as we inched past, my last equine encounter of the day was with the two sawhorses holding up a narrow plank that served as the dock leading to the boat that would get us the hell out of that wondrous adventure.

Fake News Briefs: Nobel, Miley and flash mobs

Nobel efforts paying off

STOCKHOLM, Sweden (Oct. 12) — The final awards in the 2009 Nobel Prize competition are expected early Tuesday, wrapping up a surprising season that saw President Barack Obama given the Peace Prize late last week.

The Sweden-based selection committee, which announced the last major winner Monday in the economics category, will finish this year’s proclamations with several minor citations being added for the first time.

Prizes are expected to be awarded for transmission repair, punctuation, competitive eating, listening skills, parallel parking, credit score, TV meteorology, passing defense, sexual healing, teeth whitening and fashion. Critics have complained that these less-important categories diminish the seriousness of awards in physics, chemistry, medicine and literature, but committee spokesperson Ingmar Torvaldssen disagreed.

“Have you ever tried to get reliable transmission repair at an affordable price?” Torvaldssen asked. “I need someone who will Keep My Car — √ — Road Ready.”

Following that comment, insiders believed that Mr. Transmission, a Midwest repair franchise with over 150 locations, may have the inside track for one of the $1.2 million awards. Favorites in some of the other categories include the late William Safire, Coney Island hotdog-eating champion Kobayashi, Dr. Phil, Kansas City’s own Stormy Rains, the Denver Broncos and the late Marvin Gaye.

For some reason, President Obama is also being mentioned as a possibility for a second award this year.

Miley to go fluid-free

NASHVILLE, Tenn. (Oct. 11) — Following her surprise announcement over the weekend that she was quitting Twitter, teen singing sensation Miley Cyrus has reportedly confirmed that she will also stop ingesting water or liquids of any kind.

“Too much of my life was being taken up drinking water, tea and soda,” Cyrus told friends. “There are more important things to be done in this world. Things like shriveling up and eventually being hospitalized with dehydration.”

Cyrus has said she’ll continue to eat food, including fruits and vegetables typically rich in water content. These are expected to allow her to survive at least several days beyond the typical 48 hours it takes for someone to lapse into a coma. She has said she’ll use that extra time to record two more albums and star in three movies.

Cyrus, who rose to fame playing Hannah Montana on the Disney Channel series of the same name, is predicted to become as dry as a fallen autumn leaf by the coming weekend, at which point she will be raked to the curb and sucked up by a municipal vacuum truck.

Flash mob hits small town

ROCK HILL, S.C. (Oct. 12) — The first-ever flash mob to assemble in this small South Carolina town was an apparent hit with onlookers yesterday who were dumbfounded by the event held at a popular eatery here.

At precisely 5 p.m. Monday, an assembly of mostly elderly people appeared at the entrance to the Golden Corral buffet. When the country-style restaurant opened its doors, the group lined up at the cashier station, paid $7.95 each for the Columbus Day special (or an extra 85 cents if they wanted sweet tea), then paraded through the cafeteria line piling meats, potatoes, breads and vegetables onto their plates.

“We were flabbergasted about what was going on,” said assistant manager Kelly Farrell. “When a crowd like that appears out of nowhere, then everyone does exactly the same thing at the same time, it really blows your mind.”

Many of the mob participants had arrived together on a bus from the Westminster Retirement Village. All of them seemed to enjoy the event, a phenomenon popular since 2004 among social-networking young people in big cities around the country.

“I always get a double order of the squash casserole when we come on a Monday,” chuckled Harriet Thomson, an 81-year-old resident of the home. “That really seems to freak out the servers.”

Some of the mobbers seemed unaware of the cutting-edge nature of their gathering, telling observers they were “just hungry” or “felt like getting out.”

“Flash mob? I don’t know what you’re talking about, young man,” commented Tommy Bailey, 91. “I don’t think I like the tone of your question. We won’t be ‘flashing’ anything, I can assure you that. And to call a nice group of folks like this a ‘mob’ … I don’t know. Can you get me a refill on this coffee, or will that be extra?”

Restaurant manager Don Taylor didn’t arrive on the scene until shortly after the group had re-assembled as one near the exit, with each of the women taking a mint from a candy bowl and each of the men putting a toothpick into their mouths.

“I’m told they all did the same thing as if exactly on cue,” Taylor said. “We were completely amazed when that many people showed up to eat at our restaurant. They played a great joke on us. But I think they’ll find in about an hour that it’s we who will have messed with them when that food flashes right through them.”

Traveling among the worksites

Today’s topic … well, I really don’t know.

Usually, I have an idea and a few notes when I sit down to write my daily post. Today, however, finally emerging from the mental mists of backache medication, I find myself feeling very unprepared. If only the buzz from anti-inflammatories could incite the same creative juices that liquor seems to inspire in famous writers.

Let me check my backlog of topics that seemed like a good idea at the time. “Live blogging of Ambien effects.” Talk ab0ut a snoozefest. “A critique of the pulmonary system, like you’d review a movie.” Makes me winded just thinking about it. “The over-automation of modern cars.” “People who always end their phone calls saying ‘I love you.’” “My cat’s opinion on the debate over health insurance reform.” “Some kind of fun link.”

I can at least do that last one …

…but I’ll need to do better than that.

Maybe I’ll write a little about the different venues I typically choose to work on blog posts. There are four of these, and I have a feeling it’s going to take a visit to each in order to finish this entry.

For starters, I’m sitting at University Fire Grill, a fast-food outlet located across the street from the university. They’ve only been open since the start of the school year, so workers have yet to sink into the sullen surliness featured at the larger chains. To the contrary, they’re annoyingly helpful, stopping by my table several times to ask if I need anything, maybe some extra ketchup, and have you tried our cookies? I’m trying to get by with the purchase of a soft drink in return for their free wi-fi.

“Just a small Coke for the moment,” I tell them as I set up my laptop. “I’ll be studying your combos while I work.”

“We don’t have small. Will medium be alright?”

“Yes, whatever is smallest.”

The first time I worked here, the manager didn’t even know he offered wi-fi. As I searched the available networks — wading through the dozens of slyly named routers I was picking up from a nearby dorm — I asked him what to look for. “Don’t really know how that works,” he admitted. “But we did make too many fried mushrooms this morning. Would you like some?”

I accepted the fungal offering then asked him to show me a wall outlet I could plug into. One was awkwardly located under a booth while the other was immediately beneath the self-serve soda fountain. Either I’d have to crawl on the floor of a burger joint, with all the health risk that entails, or combine a sticky keyboard with my greasy fingertips (maybe the two would offset each other). I decided to operate on battery power.

One last observation about the UFG work environment: They have some of the most thorough hand-washing signage I’ve ever seen in a public restroom. With everyone from the President to corporate managers encouraging hand hygiene during this flu season, it’s good to finally see someone telling us how to wash our hands. A bank of signs tells me that a 38-degree Centigrade water temperature, a vigorous scrubbing lasting at least 20 seconds that includes both the fingernails and the forearms, and a single-use paper towel are essential. Also, don’t handle dangerous chemicals or take out the garbage after you wash.

Moving on to the next location, it’s now about two hours later and I’m camped out in the EarthFare cafe. EarthFare tries to be a lot of things — purveyor of organic produce, friend to local farmers, profitable — but tends to fall short at all of these. Basically, it’s a grocery store, and that’s good enough for my tastes.

You see, I absolutely adore grocery stores. I would’ve gotten married in the cereal section if my wife’s relatives didn’t threaten to withhold the wedding gifts (talk about clean-up in aisle five!). I almost never go food shopping any more, as it seems to degrade and objectify the element I find so intriguing, the items offered for sale. I prefer to approach it instead like I would an art gallery, where guacamole, fusilli, cream of celery soup and cassava chips are museum-grade objets, and the meat department is a post-conceptual post-organic installation. Let us each summon our own impression of the aesthetics of each display, and remember that the coupons are tripled on Tuesdays.

It’s perhaps a little odd I would feel this way, since my first-ever job was a much-hated stint as a bagboy during high school in Miami. I only lasted eight weeks, with the last three of these spent loitering in the adjacent department store while my parents thought I still had the job. My primary memory now, 40 years later, is the urine stench of the employee’s men’s room, and the need to put cans on the bottom of the bag, boxed items in the middle and bread at the top. Oh yeah, and don’t pee in the grocery bag.

It’s starting to get a little crowded here in the cafe corner of the store, and I’m worried that security camera over my left shoulder may have picked that last phrase in the previous paragraph. So I’ll shut down for now, and resume early tomorrow morning at another favorite spot …

… the kitchen counter.

The challenge at this location is easy to see in the above photograph. Somehow, our home has become infested with three small furry automatons who generally operate in a sleep mode except when there’s activity in the kitchen. The cats haven’t yet learned the difference between me blogging at 2 o’clock in the morning and me stumbling around packing my lunch for work. All they know is that the Big Ugly One Who Sometimes Gives Us Food is active, so they need to be on the lookout because anything could happen.

I’ve started a bad habit of giving each of them a small shred of lunchmeat as I prepare my sandwich, and the whole thing has gotten out of control. Seems there’s this thing called a “conditioned response” and I believe they’ve used their studies in the field to purr and meow and rub against my leg to make me give them a piece of food. Apparently, intermittent reinforcement is supposed to work best, but I don’t think they made it to that chapter yet in their reading of the landmark work of L.Y. Abramson, M.E.P. Seligman and J.D. Teasdale on “Learned Helplessness in Humans” (1978 – Journal of Abnormal Psychology). (I found it hiding under their catbox.)

Otherwise, I actually enjoy working on my blog at this early hour when the rest of the house is asleep. I’ve got the pressure of a deadline driving me on (I have to leave for work by 4:30) and I can take occasional breaks on the couch watching updates of the news and learning about the details of ABC World News This Morning’s anchor Vinita Nair’s upcoming wedding. (The groom is from Texas!)

Great — now there’s a fight somewhere down the hall; they’re involved in their traditional post-prandial inter-cat squabbles brought on by the increased energy you get from a small slice of oven roasted chicken breast. I’ve got to break this up, then start getting ready for work, where I hope to finish this post in between projects before the daily 8 a.m. posting deadline…

I’m now at my desk at work or, I should say, I’m at my desk located at work. Business in the world of financial services is still a little slow, so I can usually squeeze in the last few paragraphs of a post in between the proxy statements and the offering memoranda. I just have to be careful about any cut-and-paste copy getting from a work document to the blog or, God forbid, vice versa.

The sterile environment of an office is not the best locale for creativity. All the background chatter, gossip and occasional need to do real work can be distracting. I’m usually able to prohibit or limit, by regulation or order, payments by any insured depository institution or its holding company for the benefit of directors and officers of the insured depository institution, though sometimes I can’t. And when I can’t, it really, really hurts.

Uh-oh. I see that I’ve just pasted a boilerplate phrase about banking regulations into the previous paragraph. That means that, some time in the next four to six weeks, common and preferred shareholders of First National S&L of Salleem are going to be getting notice of a special meeting at which I’ll be peeing into a bag of groceries. They can vote on the issue via the Internet, by proxy, or by attending the annual meeting in person.

I’m going to have to stop working at work.

Fake News: You call these benefits?

Opposition to health insurance reform seemed to be crumbling across the country this week as employees began receiving notification that it was time for their annual benefits enrollment.

“No! Anything but that!” said John Beck, head of the Atlanta-area Tea Party Movement and a systems analyst at BellSouth. “I’m not going to have to sit through one of those boring human resources presentations am I? I don’t think I can take that.”

“Oh, God. Is he going to use that same PowerPoint again?” he added. “No!”

Typically, most Americans who consider themselves satisfied with their healthcare coverage are receiving insurance benefits through their employers. The traditional process has been a painful autumn full of angst and frustration as workers learn how much will be deducted from their paychecks each week for medical and, in some cases, dental and vision coverage.

Enrollment is completed in November, then the holidays intervene, with most forgetting how much it’s costing them. By the beginning of the new year, most have returned to a vague notion that they’re getting healthcare for very little out-of-pocket expense.

At the moment, however, they’re wrestling with heavily shaded rows of spreadsheet data, clunky brochures and HR representatives whose answer to every question is “I’m not sure about that — you should really check out the website that Corporate has set up.”

“Was I supposed to be able to read those numbers?” commented Alan Jansen after he attended a presentation at the suburban Washington bank where he works. “They had like a 70% screen on the category that applied to my situation. I think they sent me something in the mail but my wife thought it was junk and she tossed it out.”

Jansen said he had been a strong opponent of the reform plan that seems most likely to pass the Senate next week, saying it represented a slippery slope toward socialized medicine. Now, he admits he’s reconsidering his position, especially since he’s forgotten both the user name and the password needed to sign up for his employer’s plan.

“It’s the same crappy routine every year,” Jansen said. “There’s always several smaller sites that are teleconferenced in to the meeting, and those people ask the dumbest questions. I can barely tolerate sitting through it.”

Harold Taylor, a part-time Republican campaign worker and a full-time document specialist at Chicago’s United Airlines headquarters, agreed. He complained about the flexible spending accounts, the health savings accounts and the so-called “wellness credit” that will reduce his premium by $1,000 if he completes a health questionnaire on-line and agrees to quarterly counseling sessions with some idiot grad student at the University of Michigan.

“I studied all the stuff they sent us before hand, and they still made me go to the meeting,” Taylor said. “I can’t believe there’s money taken out of our paycheck and yet we still have a co-pay, co-insurance and a deductible that would choke a horse. I’d take a death panel over this mess any day of the week.”

Tea Party leader Beck said he now feels like a fool for attending the anti-reform rally in Washington last month, and thinking that his employer and the big health insurance companies were giving him a better deal than the government could.

“I’ll admit, for maybe ten months out of the year, it feels like you’re well-covered,” Beck said. “Then you sit down and study the difference between ‘Plus’ and ‘Select’ and ‘Preferred’ and you think, aw, they’re just messing with us, now.”

“I hope I don’t have to try to get anything out of that ‘new dental partner’ they were talking about,” said Jansen after his company meeting. “Every year they say they’ve brought in someone new because the old plan was so bad. I could’ve told them that last year.”

“Long live Obama,” Taylor said. “I’m ready for Scandinavian-style socialism after watching that HR woman fumbling with her laptop. She didn’t even realize she accidentally backed up ten slides — she just read the same thing over again, in the same steady robotic tone. I say, bring on Big Brother!”

Website Review: Latisse.com, for longer lashes

With very few exceptions, we seem to be a culture at war with our hair. In most cases, we want to obliterate it completely, as if it were some smaller, furrier version of the Taliban, but without the car bombs. In a few places, we hope simply to control the outbreak, like in our nostrils where we know the insurgents are necessary to retain some sense of local order, as long as they stay mostly hidden in caves.

I can think of only two places where we want our hair growing full and luxuriant. One is obviously the scalp; the other is more difficult for most people to recall. I’ll give you a hint: it’s a head-based hair common to both sexes, the best of them are thick and dark, and if we’re not happy with our natural ones, it’s possible to glue caterpillar-like appendages into place as fakes. No, not the moustache. It’s the eyelash.

The lash does perform a function from its sensitive place atop our eyelids. Face scientists tell us it acts much the same as whiskers in cats, providing a warning that an offensive intruder — an insect, a dust mite, Sean Hannity — is near, signaling the eye to close reflexively. However, even in our earliest history, the eyelash was also seen as decoration, a way for people from as far back as the Bronze Age to put down their bronzers for a minute and instead consider ways to make their eyes pop, without having their heads stepped on by a mastodon.

Now, the cosmetic pharmaceutical industry has been kind enough to step forward with its usual barbaric solution. Not quite as bad as needles stuck into your face or having to watch Cialis ads with your son, a new product called Latisse can give you longer, fuller, darker lashes in only 16 weeks of poking yourself in the eye with a chemical-covered wand. This week’s Website Review takes a closer look at this product.

Allergan is the creator of Latisse.com and the maker of Latisse, along with products such as Botox, Juvederm (a “dermal filler” to eliminate parentheses from your cheeks, while leaving other facial punctuation unedited), and the Lap-Band Adjustable Gastric Banding System. They also make Natrelle, described as the “world’s most elegant” breast implants, and allow you to order a “test drive” kit to help determine your “breast goals” from the over 140 different styles. Fortunately, my own breast goals simply involve touching someone else’s, so I’ll be saving a ton on shipping charges. (Still have to pay for handling, unfortunately.)

The home page of Latisse.com prominently features the product’s spokesmodel, actress Brooke Shields. I’d always thought she was known more for her eyebrows, yet perhaps that’s why she was chosen, to give women the confidence they might be able to grow lashes so long as to obscure the brow. The claims offered by Latisse are that you can make your eyelashes 25% longer, 106% fuller and 18% darker with only 16 weeks of treatment, so it’s worth considering how far along you could be after five to seven years. You may not even have to worry about how the rest of your face looks.

Throughout the website, Latisse is referred to as “the first and only FDA-approved prescription treatment for inadequate or not enough eyelashes,” an awkward phrasing perhaps but far better than the condition’s technical name of “hypotrichosis.” (Your eyelash deformation could be worse — among other conditions described in the medical literature are blepharitis, caused by small mites living in the lash; external hordeolum; or trichotillomania, a disorder that compels you to pull them out).

There are a number of pull-down menus to offer the curious shopper what they might be in for with a regimen of Latisse treatment. The How to Apply section includes a video of the five-step process, noting several times the applicator must stay on the base of the upper eyelash, because the product can cause hair growth wherever it lands, including your eyeball. There are Tips for Success that encourage a nightly routine, safe usage with the FDA-approved applicator (no Q-tips, toothbrushes or trowels) and the suggestion to chart your progress by marking a calendar and taking pictures for your own “before and after gallery.”

The What to Expect section warns that it may take up to eight weeks before most people start to see results, so patience is key. You might also want to keep an eye out for possible side effects, such as itching, redness and the color of your iris changing from blue to brown. Your new improved lashes could also grow in at different lengths, thicknesses and colors, and may grow in different directions, giving an unaesthetic bushiness to your look. If that’s the case, you may want to contact a member of the Hadza tribe of central Tanzania, where the custom is to trim your eyelashes rather than grow them long.

The Frequently Asked Questions section is always a good place to slip in a few of the less-desirable features of the product in the context of what appears to be a casual conversation. How does Latisse work? No idea. Is it a replacement for mascara? No. Can I get a prescription from any doctor? Possibly, though you might want to consult the handy on-line list of those they managed to take on golf outings. What are some of the scary-sounding but inactive ingredients? Citric acid, hydrochloric acid and lots of chemicals with sodium, which is known to be violently reactive with water. Also benzalkonium chloride. What should I do if I experience itching? Scratch your eye. Can’t you figure out any of this on your own?

Under a Before and After section, there’s extensive photographic documentation of how you’ll never be as beautiful as Brooke Shields, even if you have diamond grills instead of eyelashes. “From the silver screen to the red carpet, Brooke’s iconic eyes have always been front and center,” reads the introduction to Brooke’s gallery. You’d have to agree that front and center are good locations for eyes, though you’d probably prefer one eye to be slightly to the left and the other slightly to the right. The interactive slide show allows you to zoom in, zoom out and “mouse over” Brooke’s eyes as pictured at various stages during her four-month treatment, to see all the different angles at which her lashes are swelling to inhuman proportions. There’s also a Featured Women gallery showing results for model-types like Mekenna, Kelly and Sarah, and the Clinical Trial Gallery where they put the average-looking woman who, along with hamsters, were used during the testing phase of development.

Note how his eyes 'pop'

Under the Testimonials pull-down, there’s a page featuring the compensated endorsement of Anastasia Soare, described as Beverly Hills’ “definitive brow expert,” as well as a collection of patient comments. “I literally had no eyelashes before and my eyes looked weird,” wrote Jeannie. “I never realized their value until they were gone. Now, I have beautiful long lashes.” Jolynn comments that “my eyelashes got so long, the tips hit the lenses in my sunglasses!” Ticklish, perhaps, but a great way to keep your glasses clean.

There’s a neat timeline on the “evolution of lash enhancers,” that goes all the way back to 4000 BC when ancient Egyptians used a mix of soot and metal to give them their distinctive look. In the European Middle Ages, cosmetics “flourished” among those whose faces weren’t hopelessly deformed by smallpox, plague or being British. In 1916, filmmaker D.W. Griffith featured the first on-screen use of false eyelashes, a technology that was successfully transferred a year later to the trench warfare of World War I. Modern lashes date their origin to the 1960s, as popularized by the model Twiggy, who had wood shavings for eyelashes.

There’s a place where you can Tell a Friend by sending an e-card to the lash-impaired acquaintance of your choosing. There are templates for the “social butterfly,” the “wedding belle” and of course the “modern woman,” who is told “you do so much, so well, so effortlessly, it’s amazing that you even have time to do things just for you. Ask your doctor if Latisse is right for you, since it’s available by prescription only,” though if you know a guy who knows a guy, you’ll save on that pesky co-pay.

Finally, there’s the obligatory nod to charity and good deeds. The Latisse Wishes campaign has teamed with the Make-A-Wish Foundation to raise money for children with life-threatening medical conditions who want to experience one final joyous experience that hopefully involves longer, fuller lashes.

Latisse.com is a well-constructed, informative website with lots of pictures and video of Brooke Shields, and I can recommend a visit to those looking for improvements in the upper half of their heads. I come within an eyelash of giving it five styes on a scale of one to five.

Revisited: Waiting in line

I’m writing today from our local EarthFare 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’m 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.

How about a little help with MY life?

One could make the case that Republicans didn’t do such a great job of managing something as large as the federal government when they had the chance earlier this decade. Though I rarely find myself in agreement with them on most issues, I must admit they’ve recently shown some real potential.

Specifically, I’m thinking about many of the smaller-scale suggestions they’ve made recently about President Obama’s governing style. Certain members of the GOP have shown genuine insight into what might be better ways for the chief executive to be using his time.

Glenn Beck criticized Obama for his recent attendance at what he called a “Latin dance party,” otherwise known as part of a White House salute to the nation’s diverse musical styles. The president’s visit to Copenhagen in a failed attempt to bring the Olympics to Chicago was roundly repudiated by Republicans as a poor use of time that could otherwise be spent on the nation’s economic woes. Even last week’s trip to New Orleans — which hosted no fewer than seven extended visits by former President George W. Bush, including a flyover where he looked out the window at them — was rebuked as too short, clocking in at a mere four hours on the ground.

He hardly even had time to get his feet wet.

I’m starting to think the conservatives’ strength lies in the minutiae of government. President Obama might have grand ideas for ways to address large and chronic problems facing America but, let’s face it, the guy is hardly a master of time management. The eye for detail that helped us find the WMDs in Iraq, capture Osama bin Laden and avoid the largest financial crisis in 80 years is a real strength for the Republicans. And since they’re so eager to pipe up with observations of every little thing the president is doing wrong (and since it’s unlikely they’ll get to use this insight in a real government any time soon), I’m hoping they might be available to help me run my own life more efficiently.

So if there are any Republicans out there who can offer me the same incessant advice they’re giving to Democrats, I’d like some help with the following pressing issues facing me on an everyday basis.

• When I make a sandwich to take to work for my lunch each day, I’ve been adding a thin slather of mayonnaise to both slices of bread. Might it be better to add a slightly thicker layer to just one slice?
• I’m getting a little tired of msn.com’s online Solitaire offering to get me through the slow times at work. What’s a better alternative — Rise of Atlantis or Cubis 2?
• I’ve found myself putting on a little weight lately. Should I buy myself some new slacks that are a size larger, or simply diet myself down a few pounds? I know a shopping trip to Target would help the October consumer retail numbers, but I also realize any healthcare reform that passes is going to be so narrow that it’s unlikely to cover the gastric banding procedure I’ve been looking at.
• When I go running on the treadmill at the gym, does it look better for me to wear ankle-high socks or those longer tube models that go halfway up my calves?
• On my daily commute to the office, is it better to get off the interstate and deal with all the traffic lights on Westinghouse Boulevard, or drive about five miles farther and end up closer to work on South Tryon? I’d consider using MapQuest for help, but I’m afraid of the mainstream media.
• Should I visit Starbucks or Panera on my coffee break? Panera often has abandoned copies of USA Today I can pick up for free, yet Starbucks is more likely to have free samples.
• I love watching “PTI” on ESPN every day. I’ve got it set up to record on my DVR but I usually get home just as it’s halfway through. Should I watch the second half live, then back up to watch the first half on tape, or wait till the whole thing is over and watch it in order? Does the fact that I don’t like Guinness beer factor into this decision at all?
• Should I personally invade Iran, or are the efforts of one person not going to make that much difference?
• If there’s no one driving behind you and you’re making a right turn on a largely deserted street at 3 o’clock in the morning, do you really have to use your turn signal? I know it’s “the law” but it just seems like an unnecessary government intrusion. Also, do I have to stop at stop signs?
• Is it worth the effort to offer cashiers a penny along with my paper money when a purchase ends in .01, .06, .11, etc.? I think I’m just confusing them.
• Is it absolutely necessary that I add a comma after this phrase, or is it just as clear without?
• I forgot to pay property taxes on my car, and had to show up at the assessor’s office to pay in person. The woman in front of me in line spent at least five extra minutes at the window telling the official that “people were getting fed up” and “I think we’re in the end times and ready for the rapture” because “I just heard on the radio there was another earthquake in Indonesia, and there are all those hurricanes in Mexico.” Is it okay for me to be steamed, or should I have added “yeah, and how about that tsunami in Guam?”
• Paper or plastic? Credit or debit? Do I want fries with that? Can you help me decide once and for all?

Revisited: Sunday meanderings

It’s Sunday so of course I’ve just finished up a bunch of household chores, the last of which was leaf-blowing. We’re at the peak of fall here in my part of the South, which means my tree-covered lot can be cleared of fallen leaves just in time to start all over again. My right arm, with which I held the blower, is very weak and sore right now, so I hope you’ll excuse me if I don’t type too many words from the right-hand side of the keyboard. Topics thus eliminated for consideration include hijacking, polkas, and PIN numbers (ouch!)

What I’m actually going to discuss today is a variety of short topics:

• Is there any household chore more overwhelming than dusting? I made myself devote an hour to it this morning and I’ve barely scratched the surface (guess I should’ve used a softer cloth). Our home office with all its dust-attracting electronics was especially imposing — the shelving under our computer desk looked like a deserted alpaca refuge. After getting most of the obvious surfaces cleaned, I looked up at our wall of built-in bookshelves and realized that to do it right, I’d have to remove every book and wipe it down till the entire shelf was empty, then wipe down the shelf. Then repeat 16 times. Just as wrinkle-resistant clothing eliminated ironing and the modern blender allowed us to make smoothies without the use of a diesel engine, I wonder if technology will ever conquer household dust. Perhaps if our homes were converted into airless vacuums, there’d be no way for dust particles to travel from wherever the hell it is they originate. But then I guess breathing might be an issue.
• I stubbed my toe badly as I came out of the shower after today’s yard work and it (eventually) hurt. The delay it takes for pain signals to travel from your foot to your brain and back is absolute torture. It’s like knowing the date three weeks in the future that you’re going to die. I kicked the tub hard and thought it was going to be a bad one, so I preemptively cried out in anticipated agony, then felt a little disappointed when the anguish didn’t materialize. This is what my life has come to.
• Did you read the other day about the airline passenger who became so unruly during her flight that they had to subdue her by taping her to her seat? I wonder if the airline had one of those new a la carte pricing structures and charged her for the tape.
• Wouldn’t it be great if you could live your life sequentially instead of on the normal space-time continuum? Do an entire life’s worth of a single task as soon as you’re born, then another, then another. You could take care of all the unpleasant, tedious and painful chores at one time and get them out of the way, so you’d be able to spend your final years doing nothing but the enjoyable. It might be difficult to spend eight months straight doing a lifetime worth of shoe-tying and the three weeks in the dentist’s chair would more painful than a tanker truck of nitrous could possible alleviate, but once done, they’d be out of the way forever.
• Whenever I get a haircut, I typically ask for just a trim so it won’t be obvious. I’m trying to avoid that awkward conversation that inevitably ensues several times the next day when someone confronts you with “you got a haircut!” That’s merely an observation, not a compliment, so “thanks” isn’t the proper response and is in fact presumptuous. Maybe they’re being nice by not saying it’s the worst haircut this side of Chris Matthews. I think the most appropriate and equivalent response might be something like “you’re wearing a shirt.”
• Speaking of which, I’ve noticed that long-haired female anchors on the 24-hour news channels invariably display half their locks cascading down in front of one shoulder while on the other side, the hair goes behind the shoulder. I assume this was test-marketed with focus groups who for whatever reason preferred this half-and-half look. I just want to know if there’s someone on set who’s responsible for making sure the hair-halves return to their proper position every time the anchor looks off to the side.
• In these difficult economic times, there’s a no-risk way to make a little extra pocket change by visiting your favorite fast-food outlet. It’s called Teenage Cashier Roulette. Make whatever purchase you like and then give them a more-than-sufficient but wholly inappropriate amount in payment. For example, if your value meal comes to $3.88, give them a ten-dollar bill and 13 pennies. The correct amount of change would be $6.25 though, thanks to the American educational system, you could get back any amount between five and a thousand dollars. If you calculate what you’re supposed to get, you complain if it’s less and get out of there as fast as possible with your tidy profit if it’s more.
• I was wondering out loud the other day why it seems that celebrities have such a high incidence of twins. My wife said it’s because they can afford fertility treatments and those have a greater chance of resulting in multiple births, but I think it’s because they’re at least twice as good as the average person.
• When I get mad at fellow motorists during the morning rush hour, I tend to use under-the-breath name-calling rather than gunplay to get satisfaction. Over the years, I’ve developed a glossary of terms for different kinds of incompetent drivers that might be helpful for others to adopt. A “moron” is someone who’s driving slower than I am, an “idiot” is someone who was driving adequately until they plowed into that guardrail, and a “maniac” is someone who’s driving faster than me. A “jerk” is someone who makes a turn without a signal, won’t make a right turn on red even though the way is clear, or commits any other turning-related offense. An “imbecile” is anyone with a nicer car than me who commits even the most minor infraction (driving slightly off-center in their lane, for example). And finally, a “hat driver” is anyone older than me driving a big car at least 15 miles an hour under the speed limit while wearing brimmed headwear.

Fake News: No more eulogies?

The last truly decent person who always had a kind word for everyone and would light up any room they entered, died yesterday.

Ernest Hebert was described by friends and family as someone you could always count on in a time of need. He never let hard times get him down, and children always flocked to hear him tell stories about his youth. He’d give you his last dime if you were short of money, and was always available to do whatever favor you needed him to.

“He was truly a very special man,” said long-time friend Ken Cash. “There won’t be another one like him for a long time.”

In fact, experts believe there may never be another one like him. It is likely that Hebert could be the last honest, hard-working, conscientious, caring human being on the planet. Virtually every individual who has died in the previous decade was described by surviving friends and family in glowing, positive eulogies following their passing. If mathematical models for good versus evil are correct, Hebert represented the last upstanding person alive. Everybody left is either a jerk-off or a lame-o.

“We’ve been aware of this trend for quite some time,” said Marie Andrews, chief demographer at the U.S. Census Bureau. “Whether it’s a celebrity or sweet old Mr. Johnson from the post office, people just can’t say an unkind word about the dead.”

Andrews pointed to two recent examples to illustrate her hypothesis. Pop star Michael Jackson, hounded for years as a washed-up singer, plastic surgery addict and probable sex offender, was instead found to be a loving father, loyal friend and brilliant artist during investigations begun immediately after his death last June. Also, Harriet Taylor, Andrews’ 78-year-old neighbor who constantly complained about kids making too much noise and the oak tree that wasn’t planted on her property but still dropped leaves and acorns on her side, turned out in death to be a kindly soul who left $10,000 to the local library.

“It’s pretty certain we’ve now reached the point that all the good people are gone,” said Andrews, who admitted that she herself was a shrewish harpy, a dangerous driver, a bad tipper and a full-on bitch. “You can expect obituaries to start taking an ugly turn as more awful, awful individuals begin passing away.”

Death to the fire ants!

Now I am become Shiva — destroyer of worlds.

I did what I thought would be the last bit of lawn maintenance for the season this past weekend — a little mowing, a little raking, then free Sundays for the next six months. Instead, I came to find that my back yard was infested with fire ants, and that they have plans that differ significantly from mine.

The fire ant, an invasive pest found primarily in the South, came to the U.S. in the early 1900s. It is one of a variety of stinging ants found worldwide. The queen and her colony form reddish mounds of dirt that can reach heights up to 15 inches. The venom of the sting causes a burning pain, pustules and can even lead to anaphylactic shock in sensitive individuals. They have a pedicel with two nodes and an unarmed propodium, both of which sound really handy. They often attack small animals, and can kill then.

Fortunately, I’m a large animal, so for me they represented more of a nuisance than anything. As I pushed my mower up and down the yard, I had to be on guard for the domed hills that each housed hundreds of thousands of the insects, any one of which could scramble onto my shoe and threaten my life. I could run over the smaller mounds with the mower, though I doubted it would inflict much damage beyond a lacerated thorax or two. The bigger piles would clog the cutting mechanism and had to be avoided.

When I finished the mowing, I was left with a yard dotted with uncut clumps of grass and dirt. I looked closely at one, to learn a little more about the ants and their culture, so I’d be better equipped to return later and obliterate their carefully planned society.

Ants have long been admired for their strength, their work ethic and their intelligence. Americans could learn a lot from their industrious nature (specifically, how to overrun a country, then sting and consume the locals). The pie-sized circle of dirt I examined was quiet at first glance, at least till I jabbed it with a stick, and then it came to life. Teeming thousands of the tiny beasts instantly began looking for the intruder. When they saw it was a human, I noticed a look on their comically small faces that combined both fear and loathing. They were scared of what I might do, but also resented the fact that I resided in a comfortable brick home while they lived in dirt.

I knew I had to remove them from the property, and individually transporting each one to some distant ant farm just didn’t seem practical. I would have to rain death down upon them. But what form should the execution take?

A few years ago, I had a similar problem, and had limited success putting my teenage son and his best friend on the case. They had just helped me finish clearing leaves with the new high-powered blower I had purchased, and came up with what in hindsight was a poorly conceived plan: aiming a jet of compressed air directly at the anthill. True, it excavated a deep, ant-less hole where the colony had previously been. However, in the process, it flung countless drones and workers all over them, which none of the parties involved appreciated. I had heard that toothpaste could be a good makeshift antidote, but the boys were too agitated to consider how they would brush each individual ant mandible, not to mention the difficulties of flossing.

So if mowing them doesn’t work, and blowing them doesn’t work, I figured my next best option was poison. I found an insecticide formulated specifically for fire ants, and set out to wreak my vengeance. The instructions called for sprinkling four tablespoons of the product in a circle around each mound, but that just didn’t make sense, especially the part about the four tablespoons (I’m killing ants, not baking a cake). So I took a styrofoam coffee cup, filled it with the yellow flakes and poured it directly on the ants. I then added some water, either to soothe their pain or soak the poison deeper into the nest, I’m not sure which.

You could tell they weren’t happy about this turn of events, but too bad for them. At least it’s more humane than what they would face from their only natural predator, the phoridae. This is a small, hump-backed fly that doesn’t so much prey on fire ants as it does mock them in a merciless and fatal fashion. These flies lay eggs in the thorax of the ant, then the larvae migrate to the head and eat it from the inside out. After about two weeks, they dissolve the membrane that attaches the head to the ant’s body, causing the head to fall off. (Ouch!) The young fly then lives in the head for another two weeks before emerging. In the NFL, that would be called taunting, and would merit a personal foul penalty.

By the time I made my way all around the yard, I began to feel a twinge of remorse. I’ve never been one to callously destroy inconvenient forms of life. I’m not into karma or anything like that; it’s just that I’d rather trap a stray spider between a piece of mail and a cup and move him outside than risk a nasty stain in the carpet. So when I came to the last colony, instead of poison I decided to give them the core of the apple I had just finished. I’m not sure that fruit is part of their diet, though fiber is good for almost everybody. I did read that they like plants, seeds and sometimes crickets, and an apple seemed better than the only other thing I had, a cough drop.

The poison is supposed to work within 48 hours of application, so I’ll be checking back later this week to see how many millions of God’s beloved creatures I have successfully terminated. I also want to see what happens to the apple.

Eat death, ants. Or have an apple instead

Fake News: Haven’t I heard this before?

WASHINGTON, D.C. (Oct. 21) — A bomb blast ripped through a crowded street market in Pakistan’s capital today, injuring more than 50 bystanders and damaging storefronts in a three-block area of central Islamabad.

“You don’t mean today, you mean yesterday, right?” said U.S. Ambassador Anne Patterson. “You’re talking about the attack out by the airport. No? There was another explosion today? Damn.”

Patterson said the American government had already regretted the casualties from yesterday’s airport bombing, and already hoped that Pakistan’s anti-insurgency forces would continue to fight the terrorist threat from al-Qaida and its allies. She imagined she’d have roughly the same thing to say about this most recent attack, assuming it really was different from the one she had already heard about, which she was pretty sure was near the airport, not downtown.

Meanwhile, over in the State Department, reports were emerging of a renewed series of missile tests in North Korea, signaling that nation’s continued unwillingness to halt its development of nuclear weapons. Three medium-range missiles capable of carrying a small warhead were fired into the Sea of Japan, according to televised reports in Tokyo.

“Are you sure you’re not thinking of those tests about a week ago?” asked under-secretary of state for East Asia Ron Allen. “They said they were going to stop after that, and we have every reason to believe they are complying with the wishes of the international community. What channel did you see that on again? NTV — that’s channel 435 on the satellite, I think. I’ll be right back after I check the TiVo.”

Allen said that while he was at it, he would also check on a news flash coming out of Jakarta that there had been an earthquake in Indonesia. The temblor, measuring a preliminary 6.7 on the Richter scale, rocked the island of Java shortly before dawn local time. It’s definitely different from the earthquake reported in the same area last week, and also completely different from the one on Oct. 12 that briefly triggered tsunami warnings in the western Pacific.

“You’re sure you’re not thinking of that one that was centered right off the coast?” Allen said. “Because I heard about that one and we’ve already dispatched several cargo planes full of relief supplies. Maybe I should get another batch of blankets and drinking water together. You think?”

In other international news, the prime minister of Italy or France or one of those countries denied reports late yesterday that he had attended a wild sex party at his villa outside Rome or maybe it was Paris. The brewing controversy, documented with photos in the local tabloids, could undermine efforts of the Obama Administration to reach a troop reduction agreement with the European Union, since this guy was scheduled to become the next president of the EU.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not at all what it looked like,” said Defense Department liaison Daniel Maple. “He already settled that issue with his wife and the electorate seems willing to forgive. Wait, this was yesterday?”

Finally, a report from Hollywood confirmed by both TMZ and Us magazine indicated that Octomom Nadya Suleman definitely has the hots for Jon Gosselin, the father of sextuplets who recently quit his marriage and his TLC show “John and Kate Plus Eight.”

“Finally, some real news,” said one observer familiar with the scene. “At last, someone is telling me something I don’t already know.”

Website Review: EdwinParrott.com

For this week’s Website Review, I’ll be cynically mocking a fine, upstanding citizen, a man who is an honorable public servant and a valuable contributor to his community. In the process, I’ll also be ridiculing his wholesome young family, as well as many of his all-American values. I do this because I’m envious and I’m petty, and those are two of my better qualities.

Edwin Parrott III is a city councilman in Charlotte, N.C., and host of the website edwinparrott.com. (I’m guessing he decided against “edwinparrottiii.com,” fearing it would look too much like a new generation of markup language, successor to “ascii”). I’ve always wondered what small-time locals have to say for themselves when they go to the trouble of setting up a whole website devoted to their presence on Earth. Usually these are realtors, insurance salesmen and politicians looking for a way to brand themselves in the digital world and, in the process, severely embarrass their children. This new-media method of self-promotion is only slightly more respectable than standing by the side of a major highway in a cow costume, and just begs to be ridiculed.

Like the good councilman, I am here to serve.

Edwin Parrott is a handsome blonde Republican family man first elected to the city council in 2007, in a race where he finished fourth in a race for four available seats. He may be “at-large,” but has decided to forsake the fugitive lifestyle long enough to set up a web page devoted to his reelection in 2009. The home page proudly announces that he’s already halfway there, having rounded up “over 21%” of the vote in a September primary, and is now preparing to do battle with an unnamed Democratic opponent in November.

“Greetings!” begins the exclamation-mark-riddled welcome. “I want to continue the job I’ve started! Thanks for visiting my site!”

In his biography, we learn that Edwin likes to be called “Edwin,” is a 39-year-old Charlotte native and works as vice president for the Pomfret Financial Company, what sounds like an investor in exotic french fry derivatives. He attended the private Country Day School, where he was co-founder of the Teenage Republican Club, then went on to the University of Georgia to get his bachelor of arts in political science, a certificate in global studies, a spot on the baseball practice squad and his future wife. As an active member of the Charlotte community, he also serves as an assistant T-ball coach and as a lunch buddy at Eastover Elementary School (2008 to present).

His blonde wife Amy is the mother of his two blonde children, Edwin Bruton IV and Avery Gail. Amy is a certified personal trainer with her own certified personal website (virtualathlete.com) where, not surprisingly, she lists her age as “39!” She is also certified in something called “CHIRUNNING,” which sounded at first like a new offering from Taco Bell but instead turns out to be a style of running that emphasizes a mid-foot strike and “opening up your flow of chi.” I still remember Grete Waitz’ brave performance in the 1986 New York City marathon when her flow of chi opened up around the 16-mile mark, and yet she still finished third despite the soiled shorts.

There’s a Frequently Asked Questions section that talks a lot about his stint on the council so far. He says it’s harder than it looks on TV but at least he got a chance to meet USAir hero pilot “Sully” Sullenberger. The part he likes most is how policy is made by interactions with others (so that’s how they do it!) and the part he likes least is the long meetings. He’s running again because “my job is not done,” a common bit of political reasoning that shows he’s got his eyes set on an eventual White House bid. His main issues are spending, planning and crime, he’s a “big fan!” of the current mayor, believes Charlotte may show future growth in the film industry, and gets an occasional “hall pass” from his wife to play golf and tennis.

Edwin does take this forum to discuss the only controversial question on the list, whether the videos that show up on his home page were paid for with taxpayers’ dollars. “Yes,” he says, but apologizes for “neglecting to disclaim this to the citizens.” To show his “special thanks to a concerned citizen” who was rude enough to bring this up, the council commissioned the city attorney to produce a six-page letter, breaking down the $12,000 expense in such embarrassing detail that we learn city staffer and part-time teleprompter operator David only made $27.40 for his hour-long brush with Charlotte’s nascent entertainment industry.

In the Viewpoint pulldown, Edwin shows as much disdain for the hyphen as he shows enthusiasm for the exclamation point in his discussion of issues like crime, diversity and the environment. He wants aggressive law enforcement in “high crime areas” (the mountains? skyscrapers?) and increased intervention to stop our youth from the “dead end path” of joining a gang, which he supports “whole heartedly” (the intervention, not the gang-joining). He characterizes his commitment to diversity as being “friendly,” even including a photo of him embracing it in the form of a fellow white person who, diversely enough, is not Edwin.

There’s even a section on the site called “For the Kids!” that documents the Parrott family’s commitment to a cleaner world. Wife Amy had noticed how much trash and debris there were along certain highways, so she made up a game for her children called the “Litter Hunt.” As they walk through their neighborhood, the kids enjoy an activity much like the annual Easter egg hunt, but with hypodermic needles and discarded condoms playing the role of colored eggs and sugar-coated Peeps. “People who litter should go to litter jail,” exclaimed young Bruton during one of these jaunts, and councilman Dad agrees, saying “too bad there’s not a jail large enough to put away all these offenders.”

Finally, I checked out the two semi-professionally produced video links, located right next to his Twitter account (he’s “EBPIII” for those interested, and he’s currently “pressin’ flesh at BBQ — boy am I enthusiastic!”). In the video, we see Edwin coming to grips with being the new guy on city council: “I thought I could end crime by myself, but I can’t.” We learn about how he preaches responsibility, both to his children and to the city at-large: “Practice picking up after yourself.” We see his wife reiterating that pro-environmental stance when she speaks of their children: “They’ve learned that trash isn’t good” and “they bathe only every other day.”

Lastly, we hear Edwin’s personal philosophy that has successfully guided him to this pinnacle of municipal government in a burgeoning mid-sized American city of the New South.

“Never make a poor man conscious of his poverty, an obscure man conscious of his obscurity, or any man aware of his inferiority or deformity.” Sounds like a great plan for improving the economy, empowering the faceless, and avoiding contact with the great mass of people who will never be as good as you.

Revisited: 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.

Revisited: Attending WordPress WordCamp

Originally published in November 2008.

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 ninetieth 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.

Random thoughts for a Monday

The fire ants in my backyard are no more.

My full-out assault last weekend to rid the area of the killer insects appears to have succeeded. My generals had recommended a sharp increase in resources to battle the growing insurgency, so I poured large quantities of ant killer around and into the mounds. I refuse to help them rebuild their power-grid infrastructure or plan for democratic elections, because they’re ants.

The carnage I reviewed yesterday was fairly complete. The red dirt hills remained in place, but when you kicked at them there’d be no scurry of activity. I couldn’t be sure whether the fatal blow was dealt by my pesticide or by a recent spell of intensely cold weather, and I took comfort in this doubt. It allowed me the option of deniability should the guilt later overwhelm me. I was just one member of the firing squad; I’m not even sure it was my bullets that killed the victim.

In any case, it’s never a happy occasion to preside over the deaths of millions. They were definitely evil-doers and had to be dispatched, but there’s no joy in destroying over two dozen civilizations.

Maybe a little joy.

Should there be any survivors deep in the ground, or should future generations — sure to reappear next spring — want to honor their fallen forefathers, I left a small memorial at the site of one of the biggest mounds. Though they traditionally survive on seeds and the occasional cricket, I thought they’d appreciate something a little more substantial to remember those who had fought so bravely. The picture below shows the new Whopper Junior (No Mayo) and Small Order of Fries War Memorial that I hope will feed the proud history of the fire ants of 2083 Franklin Street, and any of their survivors.

Memorial combo

———————————-

Our local neighborhood Blockbuster is trying desperately to survive by diversifying its product offerings. There’s an area where customers are supposed to wait for the next available clerk, sort of a throwback to those bygone days when Blockbuster had more shoppers in the store than people who worked there. In this waiting pen there are magazines, candy, drinks, ice cream and other assorted items they hope you’ll decide to buy on a whim. For the Halloween season, there’s also a rack of costume accessories, including a pullover ski mask featuring a design from some recent horror movie I’ve managed to miss.

Offering a ski mask for sale within steps of the cash register is either very negligent planning, or perhaps the work of a marketing genius. “Stop by Blockbuster this Halloween season,” could read the advertising tagline, “for convenient one-stop armed robbery.”

———————————-

Along with the usual warnings about not mixing with alcohol and keeping the medicine in a cool, dark place, there’s this sticker on the side of my bottle of Ambien: “Report Disturbing Thoughts or Behavior.” Report to whom? Would an oral report be sufficient, or do I have to compile a written presentation complete with footnoted citations? Or will recent posts of this blog provide sufficient documentation?

———————————-

I had not known this, but I learned yesterday that October is Spinal Awareness Month. I am now aware of the need for awareness. I’m glad to say I was already familiar with my spine.

———————————-

My wife encountered another example of an unfortunately named website over the weekend. The magazine Real Simple (typically logging in at about 400 pages a month, which is an awfully complex amount of simplicity) was offering holiday gift-giving ideas, and mentioned a site that sold Elvis Presley mementoes. The URL was shopelvis.com. I just hope it doesn’t get confused with the adult-themed website where people show photographs of their pelvis.

———————————-

I know you can’t necessarily take Wikipedia as gospel, but I want very much to believe the following phrase in the entry about Julius Caesar: “In 85 BC, Caesar’s father died suddenly while putting on his shoes one morning, without any apparent cause, and at sixteen, Caesar was the head of the family.”

———————————-

One of the less-than-sharp temps working in my office admitted confusion the other day about the terms “sudoku” and “tsunami.” I’m grateful that she doesn’t work at the U.S. Geologic Survey. I also wouldn’t want to sit within 500 nautical miles of her if she starts doing number puzzles.

———————————-

Also overheard at work over the weekend –

Person A: “My friend in Washington said the subway was packed this morning with runners in the Marine Corps Marathon.”

Person B: “Are runners allowed to take the subway?”

Person A: “Not during the race. Only to get there.”

———————————-

Is there anything — anything — more annoying that dropping a bar of soap while lathering yourself in the shower? I’d have to say it ranks right up there with the failure of government regulators to foresee the subprime-mortgage-fueled economic meltdown of last fall, and with the geopolitical fallout after World War II, which set up artificial national boundaries in many parts of Asia and Africa that still provoke internal social tensions to this day.

———————————-

Fun Fact from this weekend’s Fiber Arts Festival in Fletcher, N.C.: Did you know that you don’t have to butcher a llama in order to harvest its undercoat for purposes of knitting? It can safely be removed from the animal with other less-invasive techniques. Hopefully, some day this technology can be transferred to cattle and swine herds so we can simply carve off a flank for dinner and leave the larger animal otherwise unharmed.

No butchering necessary? I’m glad to hear that.

Fake News: Stalin says “I’m just an entertainer”

MOSCOW (Oct. 26) — Documents uncovered this month in a museum near here reveal that Josef Stalin, the Soviet dictator widely viewed as architect of the Cold War and a butcher of millions of his own people, had considered himself “just an entertainer.”

“People take me way too seriously,” the tyrant responsible for the Iron Curtain and purges that destroyed Russian society for decades told an interviewer from Access Stalingrad shortly before his death in 1953. “Especially my opponents, or at least those who are still alive.”

Stalin ruled the Soviet Union with unfettered cruelty from 1924 until he died some 30 years later. Though his nation helped defeat Nazi Germany in World War II, he is more remembered among historians for the ruthless elimination of all political adversaries, and purges that killed as many as 20 million of his own citizens and exiled untold millions more to Siberian work camps.

“What I wish people would remember me for instead is my love of the ‘old soft shoe,’” Stalin said of the dance form closely related to tap, but performed in soft-soled shoes with no metallic heels. “I’ll take an old Gershwin standard over the pogroms and the forced collectivization of farms any day.”

Stalin defended much of his record of terror and at the same time downplayed its significance. Even as far back as the civil war that followed the Russian Revolution of 1917, the hated autocrat said his role in the rise of Communism was frequently misinterpreted. He pointed specifically to his backing of the Red Army of Vladimir Lenin against the White Army.

“I’ve shown over and over again that I have a deep-seated hatred of the White Army, and of White culture,” Stalin said. “I’m not saying I don’t like the White Army. I’m saying they have a problem.”

He dismissed widespread impressions that he was a racist by saying “of course I prefer Caucasians. I am, after all, from the region of the Caucasus mountains.”

Stalin also told the interviewer that other famous despots of the mid-twentieth century were equally misunderstood, and that all of them “just wanted to put a smile on the face and a spring in the step” of their peoples, even though that effort sometimes also included a knife between the shoulder blades.

“Adolf Hitler — I knew him as Glenn — he was a magnificent ventriloquist,” the late General Secretary of the Soviet Union’s Central Committee said. “Even without the moustache, you could barely see his lips move. And Benito Mussolini (his friends called him Sean), he could amuse thousands of his fellow Italian Fascists with a magic act that was, quite simply, marvelous.”

Stalin said that even Imperial Japan’s wartime leader, Prime Minister Hideki Tojo, was a simple performer who liked nothing better than staging his hypnosis act, during which he could make a volunteer from the audience cluck like a chicken while the rest of the crowd left to wage kamikaze warfare against the Allies’ Pacific Fleet in defense of the emperor.

“In private, he was just a regular guy, a real goofball,” Stalin said. “Mao called him a maniac, though he was technically more of a megalomaniac.”

My trip to the fiber arts festival

Pretty. Lovely. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Pretty. Cute. Pretty.

These are some of the words that were used to describe the goods on display at the sixteenth annual Southeastern Animal Fiber Fair (SAFF) in Asheville, N.C. They were used mostly by me, repeatedly, as I ran out of ways to characterize the knitwear and other yarn creations about two hours into the day trip my wife and I took this past weekend.

SAFF staged the three-day event for knitting enthusiasts interested in seeing animal-sourced fibers transformed from simple coverings for goats, llamas and alpacas into elaborate shawls, wraps and socks for humans. It doesn’t seem fair for those of us who already have so many options in clothing to be denuding innocent farm animals. Organizers at least provided capes for the shorn sheep but it seemed like a poor substitute for natural wool, as you can tell by the perturbed look on the face of the ewe below.

“It’s not a cape if it doesn’t allow you to fly,” grumbled one sheep.

My wife has recently taken up the fiber arts as a hobby and, I must say (really, I must), she’s produced some excellent samples of woven accessories, two of which I wear on my feet as I write this. The least I can do in return is to be a supportive husband and accompany her to this huge gathering of thread-heads at the Western North Carolina Agricultural Center on a gorgeous (lovely, beautiful) fall Saturday.

The fiber fair shared the fairgrounds with the Antique Farm Equipment and Engines Show. When we walked into the immense hall, I halfway hoped I’d see some cross-pollination between the two events — maybe a nice vicuna tractor cozy, or perhaps a diesel-powered loom — but the separate groups each stayed in their own separate worlds.

As we walked the circuit on the upper level of the main exhibition hall, I was astonished by the number of vendors who had travelled here from all over the South. Most sold items I hardly even knew existed, and my ignorance quickly showed through. “Look at the size of those number one needles,” my wife exclaimed at one point. “Wow, those are really big,” I responded, though in fact they were really small.

Amidst the tools of the trade, I’d spot an occasional item I was familiar with, and latched onto it with a carefully crafted enthusiasm. One merchant had dozens of scented soaps, many of which were made with extracts from some of the animals in attendance. Another one offered a goat-flavored fudge. One booth had a bank of caged rabbits, which I recognized primarily because they had carrots sitting next to them, not because they looked anything like rabbits under their heavy coat of angora fur.

“Can I pet him?” I asked, pointing at one of the open cages, and the owner said I could. “Kitty, kitty, kitty,” I cooed.

You can tell by the carrot there's a rabbit under there somewhere

After completing the upper loop, we headed downstairs to the floor of the arena, where many of the higher-end exhibitors had set up shop. I saw a nice mohair coat for $700 that I bet I would’ve enjoyed wearing, were it not for the steep price and my uncertainty about what kind of animal a “mo” was. Another lady sold cleverly inscribed t-shirts, including the popular “Yarn It All” model and the classic “I Knit … Do Ewe?” There was a dyeing demonstration off in one corner that disappointingly did not include any death. And everywhere you turned there was skeins and skeins of yarn which, despite a tremendous variety of unnerving, completely unnatural colors, still made me hungry for spaghetti.

The ground level was also home for the workshops and classes held in conjunction with the fair. Actual course names from the catalog included “The Perennial Indigo Vat,” “Nuno Felting: Unleashed,” “The Oops Workshop,” “All This Equipment” and “Fecal Testing.” (I’m hoping that last one had something to do with the healthcare of the fiber-encased animals, not a how-to on knitted toilet paper). For some reason, all the classes were held in a central holding area, behind bars. I don’t think they were trying to keep participants from escaping; I think these were probably used as stock pens when the state fair came to town.

Crafters behind bars at the "Fabulous Felted Hats!" workshop

After a lunch of lamb casserole, goat-head soup and llama beans (just kidding), we headed outside to see the live animal displays. I was becoming weary of all the polite women and soft fabrics inside, and yearned for a little action, maybe some sheep-fighting. A tired boy trudging along behind his parents probably had much the same idea as I did — when told by his mom that they were going to the “competition” in barn #3, he asked “are they going to race?” Unfortunately, it was a judged 4-H-style competition, with teenagers showing that you can become good at animal grooming even though it’s not taught in a videogame format.

Sheeps compete in the "Best Peak-a-boo Midriff" competition. I know who gets my vote.

At the end of the day, I was tired and ready to leave the world of knitting and pearling in the rear-view mirror as we drove back home. I’m reluctant to admit how good a time I actually had day-tripping like this with my wife. I built up a lot of spousal capital by being such a good sport as to accompany Beth to something as drenched in lanolin and estrogen as this event was. And yet I can’t deny that the chance to get away like that, to an exquisite mountain setting at the peak of leaf season with my lovely wife, turned out to be a “SAFF-tastic” time.

I’m looking forward to the next event on the professional fiber arts tour. Hope to see you at the Carolina Alpaca Celebration on Feb. 13, 2010 in Concord, N.C. Be sure to bring your party hats, preferably crocheted from organic wool.

Fake News: Something overshoots something else

I don’t want to, but federal regulations require me to write a satire of the recent news story about a Delta Airlines jet over-shooting its planned Minneapolis landing by 150 miles. The Humorists, Satirists, Comedians and Wiseguys Media Responsibility Act of 2008 states that I and every other humor writer must make up a story about the two pilots who were either falling asleep, playing laptop solitaire or engaged in a shouting match at 30,000 feet over the Midwest when, oops, wasn’t that our exit?

Because my heart’s not really in it, I threw together three different variations in hopes that one will fulfill my obligations and keep me out of Supermax. Take your pick.

Cruise ship overshoots port

MIAMI — A luxury cruise ship captain accidentally overshot the Port of Miami this weekend, travelling six miles up a canal and another 35 miles into the Everglades before realizing his error.

Capt. Arnold Shores was returning Royal Caribbean’s Hippopotamus of the Seas from a week-long tour of the West Indies when he was apparently distracted by a passing clump of seaweed, or it might’ve been a mermaid or mer-man. It wasn’t until he plowed a mammoth gash through the sawgrass west of the Miami International Airport that he realized he missed the dock.

“A lot of the passengers on deck thought it was a little unusual that we’d see automobile traffic on the high seas right next to us, but we just figured it was going to be one of the excursions,” said passenger Steve Nichols. “Our dining room table-mates then saw a couple of alligators and wanted to know if we could eat them.”

The giant ship appeared to be permanently lodged in the shallow waters, though most of the passengers insisted they were staying aboard at least through tonight’s Tropical Trivia Challenge in the pool bar. The captain, who several witnesses said appeared intoxicated, hopped aboard a passing airboat, commenting “let Flipper finish this stupid cruise.”

‘Balloon Dad’ overshoots media

DENVER — The unlikely story of “Balloon Boy” Falcon Heene continued to unravel yesterday, and it now appears the six-year-old parachuted out of the metallic flying saucer shortly after take-off. The helium-filled airship then overshot its planned landing at the high school down the street, veering off course for 70 miles before coming to rest in a cornfield.

“After his chute deployed, he apparently landed on the roof of his garage, magically transformed the chute into a pile of leaves, then scrambled into the attic where he hid from his parents,” said Sheriff James Alderden. “At least that’s what they’re telling me today, and I have no reason to doubt their story.”

Father Richard Heene had attempted to launch the family’s career in a new TV reality series with the publicity stunt, but underestimated the national clamor it would cause. What was planned to be a feel-good feature on local stations in the Denver area instead became a sensation that may result in charges against the Colorado space cadet.

“Admittedly, I may have aimed a little high in trying to get media coverage,” Heene said. “But when you’re competing against that ‘drunkest-man-in-the-world’ guy trying to buy beer at the Circle K and every piano-playing cat east of the Rockies, you have to think big.”

Obama administration overshoots recovery

WASHINGTON — President Obama’s economic recovery plan now looks like it has significantly overshot its goal, with the latest gross domestic product figures showing that every single American is now fabulously wealthy beyond their wildest dreams.

The stimulus package that passed Congress earlier this year and other efforts to repair the burst mortgage bubble turned out to be so successful that millions of citizens have had their natural teeth extracted and replaced with diamonds. McDonald’s is updating its famous Egg McMuffin with the “Egg McMahon,” a robotic sidekick featuring Canadian bacon, a slice of American cheese, and a mechanical head that will chuckle at your every joke. Toilet paper has largely been replaced with a thin gold foil.

“Yes, we wanted economic conditions to improve and Americans to get back to full employment but frankly, this is ridiculous,” said top economic advisor Lawrence Summers. “I mean, somebody has to be poor and struggling desperately to get by, or else how will the rest of us be able to appreciate our wealth?”

Expensive homes financed by subprime mortgages that only last month were termed “underwater” because their value had fallen so drastically are now actually floating about ten feet in the air, kept aloft by powerful wind machines homeowners are spending their bonuses on. What had been a bleak unemployment picture has evaporated, with many workers now holding as many as five or six jobs. Even family pets are reporting six-figure salaries that include stock options, travel on corporate aircraft and country club memberships.

“Here, have a hundred-dollar bill,” Summers told reporters at a White House press conference. “Take several if you want.”

Website Review: Exploritas.com

If you’ve ever heard of a group called “Elderhostel,” it likely struck you as something you wanted no part of. If you heard the name with no previous knowledge, you’re probably thinking of senior citizens who are very unfriendly, antagonistic, “hostile.” Like your mother-in-law, except not named Ruth. If you knew a little more background, you’re likely aware that this is a collection of aged adventurers who travel around the world in large packs, their giant tour buses descending on quaint European guest houses and turning them into ointment-scented gin-rummy dens.

That branding was apparently a problem for leadership of the organization, who recently changed their name to the contrived “Exploritas.” As President James Moses explains it, that’s a combination of the words “explore” and “veritas,” the Latin word meaning “truth.” If they’re really that concerned with branding, perhaps Mr. Moses should consider some rebranding himself, to make me stop thinking of a 120-year-old prophet leading the Jews out of Egypt, with an optional side-excursion to the beachfront hotels of Sinai.

You can even click on an audio link at his blog to hear him pronounce the new word, lest you think it rhymes with “margaritas.” (So it’s come to this — Moses has a blog).

Elderhostel was founded in 1975 and originally offered programs to those 60 and older who were interested in combining travel with learning opportunities. It’s grown from a small start-up in the Northeast to a worldwide organization, offering hundreds of excursions to its members. Not too long ago, it dropped its minimum age requirement to 55, then started allowing younger spouses to come along, then adult children, then well-behaved grandchildren. That slippery slope now results in the controversial name change, which Moses finds he has to vigorously and constantly defend.

Seems that the old-timers in Elderhostel became concerned they were about to be taken over by pierced whippersnappers and skateboard-riding jackanapes. As Moses himself revealed, “the erroneous idea that we will be seeking new participants as young as 21 has become a lightning rod, and led to the false fear we will be overrun with the overly energetic. We won’t be actively seeking any participants younger than Baby Boomers, but neither will we be turning them away.” Basically, he assures members that “most people in that age range choose to do other things with their available time” — such as avoiding anyone over 35 — so there’s no need to worry today’s youth will want anything to do with us.

Well, whether they’re called Exploritas or GrouchTrek or GeezerQuest or CootTroupe, the former Elderhostel has a comprehensive and interesting website, which I’ve chosen for this week’s Website Review.

The home page is a very busy affair, with colors and sounds and moving things that could frighten less-daring seniors, and confuse even the most adventuresome. At the top you see the world “ELDERHOSTEL” gradually transforming into “EXPLORITAS,” which if you happen to catch it in mid-morph will make you think you ended up at “ELDEXHOSTPLORITELTAS,” provoking you to look in the mirror to make sure the left side of your face hasn’t started to droop. Under that is a banner of destination categories such as Europe, Asia, Antarctica, etc., and under that is another banner featuring programs like Adventures Afloat and Road Scholar. Down the right side are a number of links for special offers and new features, and down the left side is a slightly edited site map of missions, histories and disclaimers. By the time I found what I wanted, I was ready to put my feet up, grab a lemonade (Sweet ‘N Low, please), and start telling you about that time in 1962 when I rode a bike.

When I finally get to the travel opportunities, I must admit I’m pretty impressed. You can take a trans-Caucasus odyssey through Azerbaijan and Armenia, float down Vietnam’s Mekong River on a barge, or even venture to obscure nations like Brunei, Uzbekistan and Africa. You can spend New Year’s Eve in Iceland (a so-called “celebration of fire and ice” likely to provoke memories of your hemorrhoid surgery), visit the Grand Canyon (though admittedly it’s “Oregon’s Grand Canyon”), or choose the mysterious option titled ”Northern California: Byzantium Revisited.”

And what you’ll do once you get to these places includes so much more than simply not drinking the water. In Costa Rica, there’s the hike-kayak-snorkel package that allows you to do three different things that might get you killed. (Question: Can they just entubate me, strap me to the bow of the kayak, and then I’ll walk back to the hotel when I’m done?) There are pastimes like winter sports, birding and something called “homestays,” which I guess is the same thing as signing off of the website and going back to your knitting. Or you can pursue those learning opportunities they talk so much about, including history, local culture and how to work a computer.

Concerns about activity level are addressed in an honest fashion. Exploritas realizes that some participants will have limited functionality, so you can measure your own personal situation on a seven-level chart, to make sure that if you sign up for that Antarctic para-sailing outing, you really do know how to freeze. Level one requires only being able to get yourself out of bed and climbing a few stairsteps. At level two, you have to be able to stand for an hour, get off a bus and walk a few blocks. Levels three and four require you to walk on an uneven surface, presumably stuff like cobblestone streets and Afghanistan. At level five, you claim to be able to walk five miles; at level six, you can do up to six hours of strenuous activity; and at level seven, you must have a “high level of physical fitness, expect full days of strenuous physical challenges” and probably survive a total lack of oxygen.

There’s a new social networking option called “Exploritas Connection” which allows members to share their stories and photos, join groups and make friends on something called “line.” After creating yourself a profile, you’re ready to discuss all kinds of topics, most of them centering around how much you hate the new name. “Rather than make an effort to explain what an ‘Exploritas’ is, I’ll continue to tell others about Elderhostel,” writes Janice. “Click on this link to hear James Moses pronounce the name,” writes Andy.

A participant named Janice says she’d “like to trade in your catalog with the geographically-challenged maps,” which hints at an accuracy question that could prove troublesome in international travel. One of the package tours, titled “Quebec,” is sub-titled “Boston to Montreal: A Cultural and Historic Journey.” A trip to Virginia mentions “wildflowers, Thomas Jefferson, and 100 Years of Comedy in Film.” There are two women-only programs with confusing names – one is a “Wellness Retreat: Renew, Relax and Reconnect” while the next entry down is a “Women’s Retreat: Restore, Refresh and Renew.” Which is it going to be? You can’t have it both ways.

Finally, I’ll mention a pull-down that offers Last-Minute Adventures, featuring programs that are fast approaching their enrollment deadlines. There are some great values in expeditions to China, Polynesia and Honduras, though you have to be packed and ready to go within days of your sign-up. In addition to saving a few dollars, this seems like a great option for elders who have been diagnosed with terminal illnesses and can’t be sure they won’t slip from Level 5 to Level 0 in the coming weeks.

Though I think this website is a little overly ambitious for an audience not as tech-savvy as a younger population might be, it had lots of great information and excellent opportunities for seniors to break out of their everyday routines and explore the world around them. Just be sure you notify the day nurse before you leave the property.

Revisited: 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.

(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.

Revisited: 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?”

I’ll circle the building only if I want to

Signs, signs, everywhere are signs

Blocking out the scenery, breaking my mind,

Do this, don’t do that,

Can’t you read the signs?

I don’t respond well to direct requests made by giant multinational corporations. For example, when the McDonald’s drive-through pre-recording asks me to “try our new Angus Third Pounder,” or the receipt implores me to “have a nice day,” I tend to resist. I have no problem following their subliminal requests to get fat and clog up my coronary arteries. I just don’t like the hard sell.

So when I drove into the newly redesigned Mickie D’s not far from my house several weeks ago, and saw that they were redirecting traffic to make the best use of their tiny piece of property, I wasn’t playing along. The entrance I chose was only a couple dozen feet from the speakerbox where you place your order, yet the sign next to the lane demanded that I “circle building to enter drive-thru.” At this time of the mid-afternoon, there were virtually no other cars in sight, so I swung my car around a small curb and went directly to the order board. I’ll show those corporate bigwigs who’s boss.

However, this past Saturday morning it was a lot busier when I stopped by to get my son an Egg McMuffin. Cars were already backed up almost to the front of the store, and it actually made sense to drive the short loop around to position myself in the proper sequence. (I’m not such an anti-establishment rebel that I’m going to avoid breathing just because “The Man” says that air is good for me.)

By the time I made the circle, a large pickup from a local sign company had come in the same entrance and angled directly to a position behind the car that would otherwise be in front of me. I pulled up tight in back of the same car, and it started to look like things could get tense. I know McDonald’s is no stranger to provoking explosions from the lower half of the body, but this potential eruption of emotions from the upper half was different.

I could see the face of the guy who was trying to cut me off. He was giving me the no-look defense, staring straight ahead to avoid eye contact. I adopted a strained facial expression that should have gotten his attention, but he continued to avoid turning in my direction.

So now I had to figure out if I should honk my horn at him. I made a quick assessment of where each of us stood in the two social hierarchies that most influence interaction among strangers. I was obviously superior on the socioeconomic scale, since he worked for a billboard company and I didn’t, but it was somewhat less clear that I could beat him up if it came to a physical confrontation. He was a good 15 or 20 years younger than I, and had a significant number of hardened tools in the back of his truck. I think I had a blanket and an old pair of work gloves in the trunk of my Civic, and maybe a box of cat litter, though unfortunately it wasn’t soiled.

He inched forward and I inched forward and we were rapidly running out of inches. Horn-honking was increasingly out of the question, since there was no escape if things turned ugly, unlike on the interstate where you can always cross the median and start driving wrong-way into oncoming traffic. I considered my other options, because increased grimacing didn’t seem to be working. There was the phone number of his home office plastered across the back panel of the truck, and I supposed I could call and complain to them. Though what were they going to do, fire him? He’d probably welcome the unemployment insurance, as opposed to teetering 60 feet off the ground and looking up at a giant Hugh Laurie face. I could complain to the McDonald’s management, except that they probably had surveillance video of that first time I violated their rules, and would likely be aghast at my hypocrisy, if they cared at all.

The two majestic bucks facing off in the forest for dominance over the herd had head-butted and reared and twisted their horns together, and it had become clear who had won, and who was going to have to settle for that homely doe with the bad teeth. I gathered up what was left of my dignity, gave in, and let him proceed to the ordering position. He asks for a dollar-menu egg biscuit and a large, no make that a medium, coffee. If he had added a side order of lichen, my defeat would’ve been total.

Now I look off to the right and here comes another intruder trying to wedge in front of me. This is a much younger woman, probably college-age, and she makes the mistake of catching my eye. This time, it’s a clear case that I’m the superior human being, so I assert myself immediately. I raise my index finger in the air next to my head, then move my hand in a rotating motion to indicate that she needs to circle the building before lining up to place her order. The look on her face is blank — she thinks I’m either signaling that she hit a home run, or I’m asking her if she has a lasso. I mouth “you have to go around” so now she’s convinced I’m a crazy menace and zips out of the way.

I place my own order without further incident and pay at the first window. The guy who butted is still in front of me, though there’s little left I can do, except maybe hope that they screw up his order. If it were one of those complicated ones — can I substitute a freshly killed groundling for the cheese?, for example — they might make him pull off to the side, and I can swoop past triumphantly and beat him to the exit. Instead, we both move swiftly through the last step and turn out of the parking lot and back into city traffic.

When I’m sure he’s far enough ahead that he can’t see me, I raise my fist in a sign of contempt.

The scene of Saturday's humiliation

Fake International Briefs: Asia edition

Maybe running, maybe not

KABUL, Afghanistan (Nov. 2) — The leading opposition candidate for the Afghan presidency was reportedly reconsidering his decision late yesterday to drop out of the run-off against current president Hamid Karzai.

“If my assassination or the murder of my every living relative were the only things to worry about, that’d be no problem,” challenger Abdullah Abdullah told reporters at his compound. “But the Americans were telling me I might have to be interviewed on ‘Fox and Friends’ or have my character questioned by the Tweeters on CNN. That is something I could not stand.”

Abdullah said he initially misunderstood the perils involved in continuing his campaign after the August vote put him in second place. International observers feared security concerns caused by a resurgent Taliban would make another round of voting difficult. Abdullah said he was more concerned about media scrutiny than he was about having his hands cut off, or his feet cut off, or both his hands and his feet cut off.

“I am a shy man who just wants to pursue his life’s work in peace, with all my appendages,” Abdullah said. “I don’t need the aggravation of being the head of a failed state, but if my people call, I will serve. Fortunately, we have no land lines in my country and virtually no wireless, so I’m not expecting too many calls.”

Abdullah said he would reach a final decision on whether or not to pursue the presidency in the next 24 hours. He characterized his “life’s work” as efforts to reform the nation’s corruption-riddled judicial system. Even the simplest administrative task tends to get caught up in a web of bribes and kickbacks, and Abdullah has worked tirelessly behind the scenes trying to repair the courts. He is also trying to have his first name legally changed to Jason.

“That whole ‘Abdullah Abdullah’ thing was just too confusing,” he said. “Everybody wants to make joke.”

The former doctor may find he has some unexpected competition if he does decide to return to the political arena. His vice-presidential running mate from the first round may also be joining the race.

Saradullah Saradullah, who describes herself as “just an everyday hockey imam,” may decide to challenge both Karzai and Abdullah. The former governor of Badakhshan province, that squiggly part in the far north of the country, said her knowledge of local tribes and customs would allow her connect with the common man. She said she could also help advance the issues of women, assuming that’s what’s scurrying around the marketplace under those burkahs.

“Plus, I have advantages I can bring in the area of foreign affairs,” Saradullah said during a satellite conference call with potential supporters. “I can see Osama bin Laden from my front porch. In fact, he’s mowing his lawn right now. Oh how I wish he would put a shirt on.”

North Korea blames WordPress

SEOUL, South Korea (Nov. 3) — The North Korean government denied charges yesterday that it was behind a series of high-profile cyberattacks last July that caused Internet outages in the U.S. and South Korea.

“The people’s glorious republic was simply trying to put up a new post on its WordPress blog, and things got a little out of hand,” said communications ministry spokesperson Joong Kim. “That HTML editor is almost as unstable as we are.”

Kim said his nation’s efforts to compose the post in a word processing program, then copy and paste it into the blog host’s upload/insert field, resulted in the first and second paragraphs running together with no break. When they tried to edit the tags, it caused U.S. Defense Department computers to crash in what’s called a denial-of-service attack.

Later, attempts by the regime’s personnel to correct their spelling of “acommodate” by adding the second “c” ended unsuccessfully when the cursor jumped one character to the right and the misspelling “acocmmodate” triggered further outages in both Washington and Seoul. Then they tried to add an image from their desktop to the end of the post, and somehow it showed up at the beginning. Then they accidentally posted a draft before it was reviewed by Premier Kim Il Sung and run through spell check.

“We meant no harm to the Social Security Administration’s check-printing programs,” Kim said. “We just wanted to tell the world about that funny thing our uncle did at the big family dinner Sunday night.”

Kim said further errors of this sort were unlikely, since the North Korean military had attached the nation’s lone laptop to a medium-range ballistic missile and launched it into the Sea of Japan in frustration.

“We’re more comfortable using giant colorful posters and banners carried by hundreds of happy schoolchildren to get our message out,” Kim said. “WordPress might be better than Blogspot, but that’s like saying our agricultural sector is better than our industrial sector. It’s no great triumph.”

Live-blogging from the ditch near my house

My daily jog through the neighborhood takes me past a deep culvert just off one of the main roads heading into town. It’s not a drainage ditch or a creek bed; it’s more like a steep embankment probably built as part of the road construction. At this time of year, the thick grass lining the sides is dry and slick and matted and brown. It looks like a very slippery 30 feet from the sidewalk down to the deepest point.

It would be so cool if I fell in and couldn’t get out.

Maybe “cool” isn’t the right word, but it would be an interesting experience. You read occasionally about well-respected citizens who go out for a drive and are never heard from again, except perhaps 20 years later when their desiccated corpse is found by a utility crew. They veered off the road to avoid a deer and seemingly vanished from the planet. Every now and then they’ll survive on rainwater and gum for several days before gaining enough strength to haul their injured bodies up to the roadside. Then after all that, they get run over. Too bad, but it does make a great story. And the family is usually relieved to have some respectable resolution.

I’ve often wondered what it would be like down there in the ditch, pondering whether you’ll live or die, close enough to civilization to hear it passing by, and yet stuck in a world that is wild and primitive. If this ever happens to me and I happen to have my laptop along (and there’s a decent wi-fi hotspot within range), I’d love to live-blog about the experience.

It might go like this:

4:07 p.m. — Oops … oh no … sheesh … owww! … oof …

4:08 p.m. — Wha’ happened? What … ? Oh, shoot, my leg really hurts. Yow! Oh, hell, I don’t think I can get back up there. Oh, jeez …

4:13 p.m. — Well, that’s just great. I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. I’m like an old LifeAlert commercial. Great. How am I going to get back up to the sidewalk? Ow, my leg really hurts … I think it might be broken. What am I going to do?

4:15 p.m. — OK, try not to panic. I can still hear cars going by so I can’t be stuck here long. If I can just pull myself up this bank, I can signal for help. Guess I’ll have to crawl … ouch! Wow, I’m really up the creek. Heh, heh, that’s funny. Maybe I could blog about this!

4:47 p.m. — I’ve tried just about every way I can think to get myself out of here, but I’m not having any luck. Surely another jogger or walker will be by soon — I’ll yell out to them and maybe they can call for help. If I can find one not wearing headphones, like that’ll happen.

5:13 p.m. — This is definitely becoming a cause for concern. It’s starting to get dark. I know my wife and son are starting to wonder about me by now, but I don’t think I told them which way I was running. I need to focus, I need to think clearly, I need to concentrate on my … hey look — a squirrel with one leg missing!

5:58 p.m. — Wow, this sure does put any other problems I might have in perspective. Worrying about that dental hygienist appointment next week isn’t such a priority any more, is it? I’m going to start throwing rocks at the cars.

6:04 p.m. — Somebody stopped! Hey … help! Help!

6:05 p.m. — No, no, I didn’t mean to hit your 350Z. I was just … Yes, sir, I know I’m too old to be throwing rocks, but if you could just … Mister! Don’t leave, please!

7:50 p.m. — What are people going to think about this? They’ll probably think I’ve left the country, that I’ve got a secret second family somewhere. Jeez, I’m lucky to have one that will put up with me.

8:46 p.m. — Man, I’m really starting to get cold. I remember seeing a glove lying over there. At least I can keep my left hand warm. And … a sock!

11:31 p.m. — Getting so sleepy … What am I going to do without my Ambien tonight?

6:14 a.m. — Wow, I can’t believe I’ve been here all night. Unbelievable.

6:58 a.m. — It sure is beautiful out here early in the morning. The air smells so clean. Really makes you appreciate how nature can be close to home, and yet still exotic and wild. I think it was Henry David Thoreau who said it best, while he spent two years living in the wilderness on Walden Pond. He was fond of saying … Hey — jogger! Down here! Down here! Help!

7:26 a.m. — At least it’s getting light enough to see. Maybe I can look around and find something to eat. Is that a can of potted meat product? Maybe there’s a little left inside … nope, just ants. How can they eat that stuff? Hey, there’s a mayonnaise packet and I think I saw — yes, a grape jam packet from Bojangles. I can make dip!

7:44 a.m. — I think I smell pineapple or coconut. Oh, shoot, it’s just a discarded air freshener. I’ll hang it from this tree branch. Might as well make it things home-y if I’m going to be here a while.

8:22 a.m. — So thirsty… If I take this old sippy cup lid, and stuff a bunch of cigarette filters in it, maybe I can strain some water from that puddle over there and get a drink.

11:14 a.m. — Starting to get dizzy. Sure wish I could find something real to eat. You know, this would make a really great weight-loss plan. I’m going to try to sell something like it on the Internet when I get out of here. Wonder if ditchdiet.com is taken?

3:44 p.m. — Must keep my mind alert. Maybe if I found something to read. Here’s a cash register receipt from the grocery store. Wonder what is “FL BKD BEAN HMSTYL”? Sounds good.

4:33 p.m. — Not sure I can last another night. Thoughts turning weird … wonder if that raccoon over there would be interested in joining me in a provisional government. Man and beast, together at last, creating a just and peaceful society. Or I could club him with this stick and eat him.

4:53 p.m. — Hey, doggie! Here, boy. Come here, boy. Yeah, you’re a good boy. Here, let me attach this grocery receipt to your collar and you go tell your owner that there’s an MVP customer stuck in a gully. There’s some rewards points in it for you if you’re a good boy. Maybe even a free half-gallon of milk.

5:06 p.m. — Officer, officer! Thank you so much for finding me. I’m rescued at last! Thank God! Please, call my wife immediately and tell her I’m okay. And if you get the chance later, please check out my blog — davisw.wordpress.com.

That’s me, over on the right

Fake international briefs: European edition

Scientology: C’est hilarant!

PARIS (Nov. 3) — French authorities defended a weekend court ruling that convicted the Church of Scientology of fraud and fined it almost $1 million, claiming that the faith’s basic tenets were “simply way too hilarious” to merit official recognition as a religion.

A Paris judge stopped short of an outright ban on the group’s activities. The church, which has attracted celebrity adherents such as Kirstie Alley and John Travolta, has a long and controversial history in Europe, with many claiming it should instead be considered a business, although a really, really funny one.

“The French have a proud heritage of appreciating the absurd, going back to playwrights such as Camus and Beckett,” said ministry of culture spokesperson Philippe Tardieu. “But seriously, you can appreciate the randomness of existence and the ridiculousness of the human condition without building a religion around it.”

Scientology preaches that the “thetan,” the equivalent of a spirit, can be cleared of negative energy from this and previous lives through a process called auditing. With the aid of auditors, followers seek a state called “clear” and then advance through various levels of the “operating thetan.”

“Stop it, you’re killing me,” Tardieu said. “I’ve got you on speakerphone here, and this whole office is just falling out. Quit, please.”

The minister noted that his countrymen appreciated contributions to their flourishing comic scene from such well-regarded Americans as Jerry Lewis, Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell and Memphis Grizzlies reserve guard Allen Iverson. But he insisted that Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard was more pretentious than ludicrous, citing his use of an initial to replace his first name. He maintained that “if Hubbard was all that great, how come he’s not immortal, like the splendid Mr. Lewis? Huh?”

Tardieu also challenged the church’s concept of auditing, citing the French-born firm of Deloitte and Touche as recognized experts in the field. He admitted that accounting and similar assessments of financial records could on occasion be preposterous, though they too lacked concepts such as sin and redemption through a merciful God, so they’re not a religion either.

“When Tom Cruise shows up to tell us how wrong we are about all this, I’ll simply quote the master French mime Marcel Marceau,” Tardieu said. “He told us ’                                           ‘. Tom would be wise to model such wisdom.”

3G use getting heavy

BRUSSELS, Belgium (Nov. 4) — Communications experts have reported that the number of Europeans with 3G coverage now exceeds that of the United States, with as many as 70 million people on the continent living in areas where gravity has become three times as strong as normal.

Large portions of Western Europe as well as many nations of the former Eastern Bloc are now affected by the tripled gravitational pull that has taken the region by storm over the last year. The heightened force field has made economic recovery from the global recession considerably more difficult for a sluggish citizenry that even at its most vibrant could barely make it through an eight-hour workday without a wine-soaked lunch.

With many people now carrying as much as 500 pounds on their frames, large portions of the populace can only hoist themselves out of bed with the assistance of a system of pulleys.

It was originally hoped that the advance of 3G technology would herald a new era of productivity. After zero gravity was first explored during the space programs of the 1960s, most of the developed world spent the next three decades pulling a single “G”. Americans pioneered an increase in mass to as much as double their normal weight, but that had less to do with wireless data capabilities and more to do with poor eating habits and a sedentary lifestyle. Now, much of Europe is following the same path, or at least having their servants put them in a wagon or shopping cart and wheeling them on that course.

Experts say that 4G penetration in England, France and Germany will grow by more than 60% by 2010, at which point rising seas will consume subscribers in low-lying coastal areas. Wireless customers further inland will likely compress the ground under their feet to the point where seismic activity opens huge fissures across the picturesque countryside, swallowing millions in fiery death.

Website Review: dbmassage.com

It must be tough living the life of a professional massage therapist.

On a good day, you spend your time working the muscles of well-heeled strangers, occasionally placing a hot rock on their backs or perhaps applying soothing unguents to the crevices between their toes. They’re relaxed, pampered, on the verge of a physical and spiritual rejuvenation, while you’re using your years of schooling in the ayurvedic arts in hopes of making enough tips to repay your student loan.

On a bad day, you’re clarifying your skill sets to a befuddled long-haul trucker whose interest in “massage” begins with the second letter of that word and ends with the fourth.

A proficiently administered massage, in the hands of a trained masseuse, can be a wonderful thing, bringing a sense of well-being to bodies over-exerted by the stress of everyday life. It’s a chance to step back from the rat race and give in to that guilty pleasure you’ve secretly harbored for new-age music and scented candles. Unfortunately, its image is too frequently sullied by purveyors of another, lower-class type of rubbing — the “adult hostess” whose “escort services” include “massage” along with posing, squatting and as much fondling of themselves as of others.

I wouldn’t claim to know anything about this baser style of entertainment, not in a public blog any way. But I have had an authentic, above-board massage on several occasions, and I’m sure I would’ve enjoyed it immensely if I weren’t scared witless by physical contact with others. So I thought I’d investigate the ins and outs of therapeutic massage (though I understand they don’t like the term “ins and outs”) in this week’s Website Review.

For my subject, I’ve chosen the site dbmassage.com. Obviously, they don’t do the massage through the website; you have to show up at their salon in a major city not far from my home. The “DB” in the name stands for Day Break, not for “denuded bodies,” not for “don’t blow,” and not for legendary hijacker D.B. Cooper, the guy who extorted $200,000 from Northwest Airlines and escaped via parachute over Washington State in 1971 (after all, why would you touch strangers if you had two hundred grand in ransom cash?).

Day Break’s home page is a simple affair, featuring a large close-up of either a bowl of jasmine petals gently floating in water, or an especially thin cabbage soup. You’re invited to “enjoy a respite from your hectic schedule,” and you don’t have to feel guilty about it because “massage is no longer a luxury, it is a healthy necessity,” though they do note elsewhere that it’s not covered by any insurance plan known to mankind.

Under the “Day Break Difference” heading, they describe their focus on offering “the best possible massage experience for the client, not on the quantity of massages performed,” so you can linger peacefully on a table rather than being rapidly kneaded in passing. All massage therapists must clear an extensive background check, because nothing ruins a soothing diversion like the fear that there’s a registered sex offender hovering inches above your half-dressed form.

The “Benefits of Massage” are described as “numerous and significant.” The style they use most often incorporates “touch therapy,” which I would think is a good idea for virtually any massage. Practitioners focus on “soft tissue dysfunctions” (the tissue may later become hard), and might provide “dramatic results” for conditions as unlikely as asthma, depression, gastrointestinal disorders, high blood pressure, and scarring. Their “knowledge of anatomy and physiology” will guarantee that they don’t accidentally massage your face when your biggest complaint is abdominal bloating.

I won’t name the individual staff members listed on the site, but you can trust that they are “passionate” about their work, travelled to Thailand, got an MBA from Wake Forest, or first became interested in massage while working for a dentist. Several of them are LMBTs (Licensed Massage and Bodywork Therapist) and at least one of the therapists has pursued additional coursework in something called “myofascial release” (hello!).

The “In-Studio” experience can generally take the form of one of three styles: therapeutic massage, sometimes called “Swedish”; neuromuscular and trigger point therapy, which “balances the person’s body over gravity” (presumably so you won’t go floating away during your session); and pregnancy massage. All three are reasonably priced between $65 and $75 an hour, certainly more expensive than the therapeutic benefits of a haircut but not as costly as legal advice. For only $20 more, you can get an additional 30 minutes of manipulation, a remarkable deal that makes me suspect you’re actually unconscious at that point and they’ve gone out for a bagel.

Finally, I’ll summarize a few of the Frequently Asked Questions. When should you NOT get a massage? If you are ill with an infectious disease, a fracture, or have open skin lesions, though the therapist will be willing to work around the latter if they’re localized and not actively oozing. What should you expect during your massage? You should talk with your masseuse before-hand to “determine what massage modality best fits your needs,” likely to include “vibration, percussion, effleurage, petrissage and whatever they think will work best for your muscles.” How should you dress for your massage? You can dress or undress to your comfort level, even leaving garments on, which the therapist will work around “as best they can.” I’d probably be most at ease in a full business suit, which hopefully they could massage through.

As for the proverbial elephant in the room (who, I imagine, would require one of the 90-minute sessions), they answer the question “what is NOT appropriate during a massage?” The following are strictly forbidden: foul language, arriving intoxicated, or “asking for more than a massage, i.e., sexual favors.” These can result in termination of the relationship, or simply allow you to take it to another level. However, “it is OK for your therapist to massage your buttocks/gluteal muscles.”

I guess using the term “gluteal muscle” is one way to keep those truckers at bay.

Revisited: Happy Birthday to me

Yesterday was my fifty-sixth birthday. To honor the occasion, I’m reprinting the post I wrote for my birthday last year.

Today I celebrate what I calculate to be my fifty-fifth birthday. When you have to do the math to figure your age, you know you’re old. When your subtraction neglects to borrow from the hundreds column and you mistakenly calculate your age to be a negative number, you know you’re really old. With this birthday today, I think I’ve passed that threshold.

There are no party plans or other significant celebrations in the works. It’s a Thursday and we’re all still real tired from staying up for the election coverage the other night, so a party isn’t really practical (not to mention that I have no friends). My immediate family will be acknowledging me with cards, gifts and a special dinner that my wife is preparing. I got a few “happy birthdays” from my coworkers and I’m looking forward to a phone call from my parents tonight. But other than that, I’m on my own as to how I’m going to be receiving any unique treatment today.

It’s just the regular workday and the regular routine, so there’s not a lot of merriment I can inject into the occasion. I get up at 4 a.m., arrive at work by 5, take a lunch break around 10:30, get off at 1 p.m., stop by the Y for a workout, etc., etc. But I have managed to find a few small ways to honor myself on the anniversary of my birth.

• I skipped flossing today. This part of the morning bathroom routine is always a challenge, and I know I’m not really treating myself by increasing my odds of tooth loss. But there’s not much fun to be found at this hour of the morning, and it seemed like more of a tangible treat than my other idea – to slather a little extra mayonnaise on the turkey sandwich I prepared for my lunch.
• I chose a frayed, comfortable shirt to wear into the office. We don’t have much of a dress code, primarily because we don’t have much customer contact. I still like to wear a nice pair of business-casual slacks and what I guess is called a dress shirt. The one I picked out today isn’t what you’d call tattered but it has seen better days, like when I bought it for $2 at Goodwill about four years ago.
• Today is recycling day in our neighborhood and it’s my job to haul the bin down to the curb. When I collected the assembled piles of newspapers, junk mail and magazines from the counter and carried them out to the driveway, I chose to toss a small batch of cardboard into the regular garbage, just to lighten the load of the bin by a half-pound or so. Sorry about that, melting glaciers.
• Shortly after I arrived at work, my closest associate Arnie (a fellow Fifty-Something) gave me two slices of bread as a birthday present. It’s not as pathetic as it sounds. He bakes bread in a bread maker at home and this was from a nice dill and caraway seed batch he made just a few days ago. It was a little dry and a bit too seedy for my tastes but it was definitely not pathetic. He also gave me a Zip-Loc bag.
• Though our workload has increased in recent days because of an upcoming quarterly deadline, I still had excess time to kill and used a game of Scrabble with another co-worker to help with the killing. I usually think it’s pretty bush league to play two-letter words. However, today I indulged myself by using not only “oy,” but also “oi” and “oe.”
• Every time Arnie asked me a question or if I could help him out with a particular project, I responded by saying “Depends.” Incontinence humor is becoming a much more significant amusement for me than is probably healthy.
• For my lunch break, I decided to take a 10-minute walk to the neighborhood diner. It was a beautiful day for early November, sunny and approaching 70. Though I didn’t stop along the way to smell the roses, I did pluck a wilting gardenia flower from a bush outside the diner and detected a slight pleasant scent before it crumbled in my hand.
• I bought a cookie. I was going to use the change from the purchase to buy a local newspaper but as luck would have it, the change came out to be 48 cents and the newspaper stand required 50. I asked the diner cashier for change for a dollar and she declined, citing a critical lack of quarters in face of the upcoming lunch rush. Times are tough for everyone. I did find an abandoned USA Today in one of the booths, and that’s kind of a newspaper so I settled for that.
• While reading the paper, I indulged in one of my traditional birthday customs. I always read the column that lists which celebrities are also having a birthday today, and try to figure which of them I can beat up. I’d honestly have to say I’m in pretty good shape for a 55-year-old and I think I can still take screenwriter Mike Nichols, actress Sally Field and (probably) California First Lady Maria Shriver. I’d probably choose to run from a tussle with actor Ethan Hawke though. On the “Birthdays in History” list, I feel confident that I could soundly whip March King John Phillip Sousa were he still among us.
• Walking back to work from the diner, I took a scenic back road rather than risking my life along the shoulder of the truck-choked main highway. There’s no noise and no exhaust fumes and quite a few picturesque hardwoods, though the pastoral mood is lessened somewhat by the cinderblock back wall of a storage facility featuring the spray-painted message “redrum.”
• Not many opportunities for self-indulgence during the final 90 minutes in the office. Afterward, I climbed in my car and headed home right on time. When I hit the interstate segment of my drive, I decided I could splurge a little by declining to use the cruise control and instead went about eight miles an hour over the speed limit. You don’t get much opportunity to live life on the edge when you’re more than halfway through your fifties so I’ve decided to make the most of what time I have left.
• When I got home, I took a nap. Not that this is really anything all that special, since getting up at 4 in the morning each day makes the nap a necessary part of staying up past sundown.
• When I woke up, I headed off to the Y to end my day with a run on the treadmill. You might think I’d use my birthday as an excuse to skip the exercise for just one day, but I’ve found running to be so relaxing and so addictive that it would ruin my day to miss it. I did make a few concessions – I set the speed on 5.4 mph instead of my usual 5.5 and I brought the machine to a halt after only 25 minutes instead of my usual 30. If I ever used the incline feature, I could’ve cut back on that too. Maybe I should’ve tried putting the setting down below zero to see if I could achieve a negative incline, which would allow me to run downhill. On second thought, I’m probably headed downhill fast enough already.

On being Thoreau

One of the great things about keeping a blog is the excuse it gives you to do weird things. As you try to build your experience so you can get more unusual things to write about, you find yourself in places and situations outside your normal comfort zone.

For example, it would never occur to me to go down on one knee at the entrance to the local McDonald’s and take a picture of the sign telling how to navigate the drive-thru. When I wrote last week about my encounter with a “buttinsky” trying to cut in front of me, I thought a photo of the sign telling customers to “circle building for drive-thru” would lend a certain visual appeal to my story. I imagined myself a crusading investigative reporter, hot on the story of a thoughtless man abusing the freedoms on which this country was founded in order to get his Egg McMuffin ahead of me.

After the incident, I’m crouching down by the street, snapping shots of the sign from all different angles, completely oblivious to passers-by wondering what in the world is that crazy man doing? I’m not concerned with what others think of me, because I seek the truth — there’s a crusading cyber-journalist at work here.

I did feel the need to draw the line a few days later when I was preparing my thoughts about falling and becoming trapped in a roadside ditch. I was walking along a heavily traveled highway not far from my work, examining the litter that had accumulated in the weeds. I wanted to be able to create an essay that came from an authentic place (in my mind, not in the ditch) about the refuse that might suddenly become life-sustaining if I fell while running and couldn’t get up. I considered collecting pieces of trash and discarded cans for a photo montage, until it occurred to me there might be passing co-workers who thought I was using my coffee break to make a few extra bucks in the recycling business.

Another thing I enjoy is doing on-line research — okay, looking stuff up on Wikipedia — for background information. In the falling-into-a-culvert post, I wanted to make a joke or two about feeling like Henry David Thoreau communing with the natural world only steps from civilization. I had studied Thoreau and other prominent nineteenth-century transcendentalists in college, and admired their pioneering efforts in the environmental movement and in avoiding constructive work. Reading more carefully now about Thoreau’s personal life, I came to a new appreciation of what a lunatic he was. Were he alive today, he might even be taking pictures at the McDonald’s drive-thru.

What follows are a few interesting facts from his curious biography. Everything cited below is true; if I can’t resist making a sarcastic comment about a particular point, I’ll do that in italic. Wait, that last phrase wasn’t meant to be sarcastic, I just wanted to show what the italic would look like. Like people don’t know what italic is. Like that.

• He was born David Henry Thoreau and didn’t become Henry David Thoreau until college. He didn’t want to keep the middle name at all, but his mentor Ralph Waldo Emerson insisted.
• Novelist Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote that Thoreau was “as ugly as sin, long-nosed, queer-mouthed … but his ugliness is of an agreeable fashion.” He wore a neck-beard for many years, which he insisted women found attractive, probably because it hid large portions of his head. Louisa May Alcott said, however, that his facial hair “will most assuredly deflect amorous advances.”
• He declined his master’s degree from Harvard, in part because they charged $5 for it, and in part because the college offered it to all graduates who “proved their physical worth by being alive three years after graduating” and earning enough to be able to spare a $5 donation to their alma mater.
• He founded a grammar school with his brother John but had to abandon the effort when John became fatally ill after cutting himself while shaving. “See?” Henry told John as he lies dying in a pool of blood. “There are other advantages to the neck-beard.”
• Emerson urged him to start his first journal in 1837, and he did so with the following entry: “‘What are you doing?’ he (Emerson) asked. ‘Do you keep a journal?’ So I make the first entry today.” For the young people out there, I’ll note that a journal is like a collection of tweets, except if no one wants to read it, they don’t have to.
• After giving up teaching, he worked in his family’s pencil factory. He discovered a process to make a good pencil out of inferior graphite using clay as the binder. A pencil is like a laptop, except it can give you lead poisoning if it jabs you.
• In 1844, the original tree-hugger nature boy accidentally started a forest fire with his friend that consumed 300 acres of Walden Woods.
• His two-year experiment to live simply in the wilderness actually took place about a mile from his family home. Some historians claim his mom brought him a goodie basket of donuts and cookies every Saturday. You’d think that last sentence would be in italic but it’s not.
• In 1846, he briefly left the woods to make a trip to Mt. Katahdin in Maine. He later wrote a piece on the expedition that he titled “Ktaadn.” The transcendentalists were not known for their spelling skills.
• He wrote a two-million-word document that detailed his natural history observations over the course of 24 years. It didn’t sell well either.
• One night in 1859, he decided to go out during a driving rainstorm and count the rings on some tree stumps. He became ill with bronchitis and began a three-year decline that eventually rendered him bed-ridden.
• When he became aware that he was dying, he uttered his final sentence — “Now comes good sailing.” It sounds profound, until you learn that it was followed by the single words “moose” and “Indian.”
• Thoreau’s greatness was not recognized by some of his contemporaries in literary circles. Scottish author Robert Louis Stevenson said that living alone in natural simplicity was effeminate. He was “like a plant that he had tended with womanish solicitude,” Stevenson wrote. “In one word, he was a skulker.” John Greenleaf Whittier (again with the middle name) said Thoreau wanted to “lower himself to the level of a woodchuck and walk on four legs.”

Revisited: 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 with a fitfulness 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.

Fake News: It’s like hysteria reigns

WASHINGTON (Nov. 9) — Following House Minority Leader John Boehner’s comment last week that health care reform was “the greatest threat to freedom” he’s seen, other opponents of the plan are stepping forward with hyperbolic metaphors that characterize portions of the plan in similarly apocalyptic terms.

Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-Ky.) called the provision that creates a so-called “public option” offering insurance that competes with the private sector “worse than if the sun were suddenly extinguished.”

“Health insurance needs private companies in much the same way that plants need sunlight to create food for themselves, which in turn creates food for us all,” McConnell said. “The end of nuclear fusion on our closest star would mean death to every living creature. I wouldn’t vote for that and I won’t vote for this healthcare reform plan.”

Rep. Walt Minnick (D-Idaho) targeted the part of the bill that would set up health insurance exchanges where consumers can easily compare rates and coverage. He said such a marketplace would be “like taking all the puppies in the world and all the lions in the world, and putting them together in one big cage.”

“You can just imagine what would become of those cute little puppies,” Minnick said. “They would be mauled beyond recognition, becoming a giant pile of puppy remains. A forum offering a free flow of information about coverage options would be like the Wild West, except without the beautiful and rugged landscapes.”

GOP Conference Chairman Mike Pence (R.-Ind.) said a mandate that would require nearly everyone to have health insurance by 2013 reminded him of “what it would be like if Hitler hosted a reality TV show along the lines of ‘Dancing With the Stars,’ except with history’s worst dictators playing the part of the experienced dance partners.”

“It would be absolute chaos combined with unprecedented tyranny,” Pence said. “If American citizens, represented by a Daniel Baldwin, for example, are required to choose between an Ivan the Terrible or a Genghis Khan or a Pol Pot, that’s not really a choice at all. Mandates simply will not work — not for waltzing with a despot, and not for being required to purchase insurance.”

Asked to explain how mandating car insurance but not health insurance made any kind of sense, Pence said that in a world that had been taken over by gorillas with giant fangs and where people suddenly sprouted two additional but non-functioning heads — one on each side of their existing head — common sense would go out the window.

Other comparisons being put out as talking points by the anti-reform FreedomWorks lobby include:

• A requirement that health plans allow children to remain on their parents’ insurance plan until age 27 was “like Judas betraying Christ and then posting a picture from His high school yearbook on Jesus’ Facebook page. Totally not cool.”

• Federal financial help for low-income consumers to purchase insurance is “like a trillion gazillion hydrogen bombs all going off at once.”

• A stipulation barring insurers from denying coverage for pre-existing conditions is “like trying to do your federal tax return with your right hand while writing a Christmas letter to relatives with your left hand at the same time, and you’re wearing pants that are three sizes too small and your glasses are fogged up and you’ve got swine flu.”

• A ban on lifetime limits imposed on insurance coverage would be “as if giant aliens — creatures so big that each one’s eyeball alone is three times as big as the Earth — treated our planet like a shotgun pellet and blasted it over a cliff and into the Grand Canyon.”

• The proviso that imposes a 5.4 percent surcharge on people earning over a half-million dollars a year is “like having a hangnail on your toe, then stubbing that same toe, then tripping and falling and breaking your foot, then having gangrene set in causing your leg to be amputated, then having the whole bottom half of your body cut off, like one of those people you see riding around on a plywood board with wheels at the homeless shelter. And then, on top of that, your insurance carrier says having no bottom half of your body is a pre-existing condition.”

Proponents of the reform plan approved by the House over the weekend said they couldn’t understand why such a high level of hysteria had emerged among those opposed to long-needed improvements to the current system.

“It’s like a group of ideologues who care more about their bizarre political philosophy than they do about the well-being of the public have hijacked this debate,” said one of the president’s advisors.

Imprecise language should be next reform

Much has been made of the sheer size of the healthcare reform bill currently being considered by Congress. Hulking, manly legislators who wouldn’t normally allow their strength to be questioned in public were seen staggering melodramatically as they attempted to carry the legislation before cameras, even using little red wagons to assist them. One representative dropped it to the floor with a resounding thud, making some arcane point about sound waves; another threw reams into a cheering crowd of protesters — cheering, that is, until Section 41, Paragraph 32, Subparagraph 15 injured eight.

All reasonable parties in the debate realize that to have a reform package that addresses such a complex issue requires meticulous documentation. We need a couple thousand pages of hopefully precise language, just so we don’t accidentally neglect to mandate that surgeries be sutured when done, or that CAT scans not be given to cats (unless they’re covered by Medicare). We don’t want to end up with tweet-able legislation that remakes our entire health care system in 140 characters or less.

Not sick? Good. Not well? See a doc. Really desperately ill? Consider dying cuz we won’t pay. LMAO

Imprecise language is a problem of everyday life that we don’t need to see codified into law. In fact, I hope that once we can get 535 Congresspeople, a president, 300-million-plus citizens and at least one Fox pundit to agree on insurance coverage, we can start to tackle the confusion that clouds ordinary conversations. I already have a list of “low-hanging fruit” ready for work.

“Low-hanging fruit” — This much-loved corporate bromide is supposed to refer to a strategy in which easily solved problems are tackled first. The next time I hear my manager request it, though, I’m bringing him a larva-infested mango.

“Just a little for me” — A common response when someone is asked “do you want some?”, usually in reference to food, though sometimes sex (which I won’t attempt to quantify here). More concise would be to actually describe the measurable amount of what you request. Often, I won’t want a full cup of coffee but a half doesn’t seem like quite enough, so I might request 65% of a mug. I’m hungry for a substantial slice of pie although asking for half seems greedy, so I’ll request 135 degrees. That mixed-green salad looks good; I’ll take four lettuce leaves, three cherry tomatoes, two onion circles, one cucumber slice and eleven croutons, please. Related to this imprecise phrasing is the haircut request “just a little off the top.” That it’s coming off the top should go without saying, except perhaps in the most expensive salons.

“Let’s turn down the heat” — Does that mean you’re too hot or too cold? Turning down the heater will turn up the temperature, and vice versa. I’m not asking that people dictate exactly what they want in degrees (that should be reserved for pies, as noted above). I just think we need to speak in agreed-upon terms, where up is “warmer” — think about how toasty it is in outer space, if this helps you remember — and down is “cooler,” just like the frosty magma that courses through the Earth beneath us. It’s all about clarity and accuracy, people. Please!

“We’ll do that next Monday” — If today is Wednesday (and it is), next Monday will be here in five days. Tomorrow, however, “next Monday” becomes a week from Monday, or 11 days in the future. If that’s the date you’re going to be discussing, get back to me in about a week because by then we may all be dead anyway.

“Part of me wants to say…” — This is used to communicate a certain amount of self-doubt about the statement that follows, or to escape responsibility in case your idea something like rounding up all the Lutherans and sending them back to Eleuthera. Too often, though, it implies instead that spoken language is going to be coming out of something other than your mouth. Anything you and Señor Wences have to say using your thumb and the lowest knuckle of your index finger (especially if you have lips and eyes drawn onto your hand) is not something that any part of me wants to hear.

“Do you know what I stopped you for?” – Most often asked by the police, though if the phrase interrupts your PowerPoint presentation to the corporate finance committee, you better turn around fast and make sure your laptop isn’t showing Shakira’s shaking hips to your meeting. If asked this by the officer standing outside your car door, do not start guessing assorted crimes in the hope that if you answer correctly, you’re going to get a prize. He knows what he stopped you for, and he’ll be more than happy to tell you. In fact, if you’re lucky, he’ll probably be kind enough to write it down for you.

“Let me know if you want to…” or “Feel free to…” – This passive-aggressive request is often made between spouses, to suggest in a friendly and loving way that you need to get your ass off the sofa and into something productive. Most couples have a relatively equal disposition of household chores, though they’re perception of when and how these need to be done is occasionally at odds. So the wife may breezily say “let me know if you want to climb up on the roof, clear those tree limbs, clean out the gutters, repair a few shingles, then possibly fall to your death, and I’ll hold off on dinner,” to which you’re thinking “oh, I’ll let you know, alright.” Husbands are usually a little less subtle, offering stuff like “feel free to take off your clothes and put on those high heels and cover yourself with whipped cream,” and she’s thinking “you call that freedom?” The good thing about using imprecise language in these scenarios is that you can answer “OK” to the request and not actually agree to do the act, but only to think about doing it (which can actually work just as good for the whipped cream fantasy, though not so much for the gutter cleaning).

“It’s always something” — Well, it’s not always something. Occasionally, it’s actually nothing but the random vibration of vocal chords in the larynx of the first-rate idiot who has chosen to speak to you.

Fake News: Former acquaintance appears

YOUR HOMETOWN (Nov. 11) — The man standing behind you at the bagel shop this morning did in fact turn out to be the accountant who worked at your company up until about five or six years ago.

“Remember me?” asked Jeff, or it might’ve been Jeremy, when you inadvertently turned around to see if there were any abandoned newspapers at the local Panera. “My desk was right around the corner from yours. Good to see you again. How’s it going?”

You chuckled meekly as if in recognition of this vague acquaintance from long ago, then responded that things were “great,” and that you hoped things were good with him too.

“Pretty good, pretty good,” he said, failing to pick up on your subconscious cues that you didn’t really want to talk to him. “You know I left Consolidated and I’m working now over here at Premier. It’s been a long time.”

Yes, you acknowledged, it must’ve been around 2003 that he left, not long after that reorganization that streamlined operations and closed those two offices in Texas.

“I think it was around 2004, right at the beginning of the summer,” he corrected. “I remember because it was around the time my grandchild was born.”

How wonderful. He has a grandchild. So now you’ll have to ask about this youngster as well as the rest of his children, which you sort of remember him having.

“Yeah, little Max is great. He just started kindergarten a few weeks ago,” said Jeff, or Jeremy.

You glanced briefly back over your shoulder to see if it’s your turn to place your order with the cashier but it’s not, so you had to ask him how is “the family.”

“My oldest just got a job at the Apple store out at the new mall, and he’s happy about that,” he answered. “And my youngest is a senior in high school this year. Can you believe that?”

You replied that you couldn’t believe how quickly they grow up. You wisely refrained, however, from mentioning that you remember his youngest gave him a lot of trouble even before he was a teenager, and the reason you’re surprised he was in high school was because you thought he’d be a homeless addict by now.

“Here’s a picture of my grandson,” he said, holding forward a wallet with a photo of a standard-issue baby, though maybe a little more bird-like than most.

The cashier was ready to take your order, and looked at you and your distant acquaintance and asked if this would be “together.” After an awkward pause, you again chuckled and mumbled that no, you were separate.

While she retrieved and sliced your bagel, the strained silence virtually demanded to be broken, so you asked how his wife was doing. You thought her name was Nancy or Cindy or something that ended with an “ee” sound, but you were not about to take a guess at this point.

“Oh, she shot herself about three years ago now,” he said. “She had a lot of problems I just couldn’t help her with. That’s in the past now, though, and you have to move on, I guess.”

That’s terrific, you thought. Now you’ll have to feign sympathy for someone who hasn’t even crossed your mind in years and who, even way back then, you met maybe twice at company Christmas parties.

You’re sorry to hear that, you said. You really were sorry, but only because of how uncomfortable it made you to offer sympathy so long after the fact. No, you finally decided, you hardly knew each other, and you’ve got your own problems.

“It’s been hard,” he indicated, choking back tears that were plainly inappropriate in this casual setting.

Well, you stated at last, those things happen, and you’re glad anyway to hear the kids are doing well. You were going to have to head out now, and he seemed to pull himself together at least momentarily.

“Yeah, sure. Say ‘hi’ to Allen and Phil and that guy with the beard. I think it was Steve?” he said.

All of those people got laid off with the downsizing that happened last year, but you’re not about to go into all that now, so you agreed to pass along his greetings and claimed to hope you run into him again some time.

“Take it easy,” he stammered as you headed briskly toward the exit.

Him too, you muttered.

Website Review: gogeese.com

Canada Geese got their 15 minutes of fame earlier this year when a flock banded together into a makeshift terror cell and brought down a USAir flight in New York’s Hudson River. Their suicide mission into the engines of Flight 1549 nearly killed all aboard, with tragedy averted only by the heroic actions of pilot Capt. “Sully” Sullenberger. Commander of the bird strike, Field Marshall ”Goosey” Goose, didn’t survive to make the demands of his group known, though many believe they were stridently opposed to America’s War on Nuisance Fowl.

Since declining severely in numbers due to over-hunting last century, the Canada Goose has made a strong comeback, with its conservation status updated from “threatened” to “freaking everywhere” in recent years. Many have lost their migratory habits, preferring instead to reside in suburban office parks, where they foul the grounds with fecal droppings, molted feathers and rejected job applications. Growing to as large as 15 pounds, they often become aggressive to protect their young from their only remaining natural enemy, the Mexican landscaping crew. The two foes can often be spotted in a confrontational stand-off, the geese honking almost as loud as the leaf-blowing machines they mistake for a rival subspecies.

The birds have become such a problem in some locations as to cause potential health hazards, both through their pathogenic poop (up to a pound per day per bird) and their willingness to attack passing pedestrians. A cottage industry has sprung up in many areas to control populations in a more financially prudent way than sucking them four or five at a time into the turbines of passenger jets. Some of these use herding dogs to convince the geese that the next office park over is a much better choice than the one that saw fit to hire a “goose-busters” crew.

In this week’s Website Review, we look at one such enterprise, located on the Internet at gogeese.com.

The home page describes the business as “the humane and friendly way to remove problem geese,” noting that the giant birds are still technically protected, though it’s hard to imagine anybody at the federal level is really going to care. There are a few photos of the offenders, acting all innocent and natural, and then some great pictures of the Border Collies used in the patrol. These dogs are the eager beavers of the canine set, fired up on so many hormonal stimulants that their piercing look alone is known to make geese lose control of their bowels, though that’s pretty much their default setting anyway.

Under the “Contact Us” tab, we meet some of the highly trained anti-goose forces: there’s “Ivy,” the company’s first dog; “Gus,” an avid swimmer who will follow the birds into the water; “Tipper,” a new addition with almost limitless energy; “Diane Travis,” a former landscape designer; and “MaryAnn Mueller,” a retired physical therapist whose background in inflicting pain and suffering serves her well in this new endeavor. Together, they form a team given a superior rating from Angie’s List for their work to rid the Charlotte area of these aggressive pests from the north.

Another tab titled “The Problem” sketches out why it is we should hate these handsome animals with their black heads, white “chinstraps,” and adorable yellow-plumed gosling youngsters. They cause soil erosion, they aggressively protect their nests (a potential legal liability for property owners), and they produce cryptosporidium, chlamydia psittaci and rotavirus, which you can tell are hazardous just by their Latinate names. When they take to the air, they honk and they strafe and they form their flock into a characteristic double “V,” Vowing Victory over their human tormentors.

In “The Solution” pulldown, we learn more about the strategy used by the dogs in their battle with the birds. The instinct of the Border Collie is to herd, not attack. “They can quickly persuade even the most stubborn geese that future peace can only be obtained by finding another place to live,” reads the playfully written copy. The dogs’ “famous predator stance and crouching crawl” combined with their “intense gaze” will quickly intimidate the geese into leaving, at least for the ten minutes or so it takes to gather the collies back into their car. This page also discloses that Goose Busters uses other methods for bird pestering, including remote-controlled boats and lasers. There’s a picture of a toy-sized speedboat racing through the water in pursuit, though unfortunately Ivy and Gus and Tipper don’t appear to be aboard. (Maybe they’re water-skiing just out of frame.) They don’t explain how the lasers work, but I understand the geese now have much-improved vision.

The folks at gogeese.com also make efforts to get to the root of the problem by attacking its source, the vicious egg. “While it may seem cruel, keeping the geese from having a successful nesting season is the most humane way of controlling their population,” they write in a section called “Egg Depredation.” When the eggs are only a few days old, they are slathered with corn oil, which keeps them from developing. Then Goose Busters cruelly allow the mother to sit on the nest for another two to three weeks (or for as long as she can without sliding off) before finally removing the eggs. This tricks the parents into avoiding a late-season attempt at another go. They soon lose their flight feathers in the summer molt, tying them down to an empty nest when they’d rather be stretching their wings with weekend trips to mountain crafts festivals and that cute bed-and-breakfast that doesn’t allow kids.

Finally, there’s a description of “Levels of Service” available for clients. You can sign up for a yearly contract, where the patrol team “assumes total responsibility for goose control.” You don’t have to call them; they automatically show up five times a week “after an initial intense period of a week or two,” though you have to wonder how intense it is if they have to keep coming back virtually every day. You can also get this on a monthly or seasonal contract, or on an on-call basis where you’re billed a la carte. (No credit is mentioned for any foie gras that might accidentally be harvested.) You get a report detailing the dates and times of visits, number of geese found, and any other pertinent information. Proper permitting of the egg depredation activities will be provided, along with the year-end report you have to send the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service documenting your senseless slaughter.

All in all, gogeese.com is a simple but helpful site if you manage an office park, golf course or planned community and your job is to keep nature out of there. Unlike similar services that use retriever-style dogs, who prefer to discourage the birds by munching on them, the collie patrol is Humane Society and PETA-approved. It’s the compassionate and cost-efficient way to pursue a professional wild goose chase.

Revisited: My cruise to Alaska

The news story a while back 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 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!”

Revisited: My life with cars (help me, Honda)

With all the attention recently 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.

Monday observations

Perhaps the dumbest flash mob ever was held Saturday at Birkdale Village, near Charlotte. The village is one of those “new urbanism” developments, a so-called walkable neighborhood that has shopping, homes and workplaces located in one area. So it’s basically a mall with the roof ripped off and a gated community built next door.

Saturday’s newspaper had a notice in the local section reporting that Birkdale was hosting the flash mob to coincide with its tree-lighting ceremony, and that would-be mobbers could go to YouTube to learn the choreography that would be involved. The song was “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas, a raucous number hardly befitting the conservative all-white crowd that was likely to gather.

Now, as I understand the concept, a flash mob is a large group of people who assemble suddenly in a public place, perform an unusual action for a brief time, then quickly disperse, all to the surprise of those who aren’t in on the joke. It doesn’t have a public announcement notifying the crowd that it’s only 15 minutes away, it doesn’t have young moms trying to explain the notion to their three-year-olds, and it doesn’t have Santa Claus waiting in the wings to make his initial appearance of the Christmas season afterwards.

It did have about 2,000 people start hollering and throwing their arms in the air when the appointed hour arrived, but so did the Titanic and I wouldn’t consider that a flash mob either.

Your arms may be in the air, but I just don't care

*   *   *   *

My wife and I went to see the movie “2012″ this weekend and, though I’m generally not a fan special-effects disaster movies, I must say I’ve never enjoyed myself more while watching billions of people die in a worldwide catastrophe.

I was a little surprised by the casting of the primary characters, at least at first. Amanda Peat as the lead actress? What, they couldn’t get Teri Garr? And I know John Cusack is widely regarded as a professional who always turns in a first-rate performance. He simply seems well past his peak. I guess the money saved by not hiring big-name stars went instead to the computerized graphics.

And those graphics were absolutely great! I challenge anyone not to thrill to the scene where giraffes and elephants, dangling in harnesses beneath Army helicopters, appear over the crest of the Himalaya Mountains in the climactic rescue scene. Either thrill, or laugh hysterically — the choice is yours.

*   *   *   *

The holiday shopping season is right around the corner, and it won’t be long before I take a Sunday afternoon to engage in a long-standing tradition of goodwill and cheer that I’ve practiced in recent years.

I drive my car to the biggest regional mall in the area on one of the busiest shopping days, and circle patiently until I can find a really good parking place. I’ll park my car, walk briefly to the mall entrance, then return slowly to my car. I watch for a newly arriving motorist, and motion toward my car that I’m getting ready to leave. Inevitably I get a big smile and a mouthed “thank you” from the grateful driver. It makes me feel good inside to know that I’ve taken the time to help my fellow man, even if only in a small way.

Then I pull out of the space and repeat the process, pretty much for the rest of the afternoon. It warms my heart so.

*   *   *   *

It was sadly predictable to hear the Republican response last week to President Obama’s plan to bring the masterminds of the 9/11 attacks to New York City for trial. They were against the idea, claiming that it would make the city the target of another terrorist attack.

First the GOP co-opts the Democrats’ frequent cry of “racism” in response to every affront, and now they’re stealing our tradition of cowardice.

Republican opposition to everything that Obama stands for seems to have reached the point that White House strategists might be able to start using a little contrary psychology. Once the President decides on a policy course, he could announce that he’s going to do the opposite, then respond to the inevitable outcry by reversing his position to do what he intended in the first place.

I think this could really work well for the upcoming change in strategy toward Afghanistan. If, as is likely, the President wants to slightly increase troop levels but target the forces in a way that will yield the best results while at the same time setting measurable goals and deadlines for success, he should announce instead that he’s deploying a circus, several shipments of inflatable bouncy houses and a fleet of Segways, specially modified to handle the rugged mountain terrain.

Conservative ideologues could then demand a more sensible approach, and the President could go on national TV to shout “opposite day!” to a grateful nation.

*   *   *   *

With the football season heading into the home stretch, keepers of the Mayan calendar are now ready to reveal their predictions for the NFL playoffs.

Chief sports analyst Chichen Itza met with reporters at his Mayan temple in Las Vegas to announce his picks. Itza has worked with the Nevada gaming commission for the past several years, helping casino owners set the odds for crucial games in all the major professional sports leagues.

In the AFC, Itza likes San Diego over Uaxactun in their wild-card game, while in the NFC he gives the nod to Kaqchikel over Philadelphia.

“I think (Charger quarterback) Phillip Rivers has really come into his own this season, and I like his team’s chances down the stretch,” Itza said. “It’ll be a real interesting matchup against the Uaxactun defense, which is known for holding quarterbacks down by their four limbs, then ripping out their heart. I don’t care how big your offensive line is, that kind of thing is tough to defend against.”

Because Philadelphia hasn’t found an effective use for Michael Vick in an offense still dominated by veteran quarterback Donovan McNabb, Itza sees the Eagles falling to Kaqchikel in a tight match, then having all the Eagles’ wives and children kidnapped.

In the AFC’s next round, Itza thinks San Diego’s run of luck will end against the mighty defense of Chunchucmil, while New England tops Cincinnati. In the NFC, star running back and likely league MVP Yucatec Uxmal will lead his Huehuetenango team over the Minnesota Vikings, and the Iximche squad will fall in overtime to New Orleans. This sets up a final four that Itza said could prove to be quite unpredictable.

“I think the Saints will suffer a regular-season defeat before the playoffs, so the pressure of a winless season will be off,” he said. “That could be just enough to make the difference in the finals, as long as Uxmal’s running game is held in check. And a lot of that depends on whether or not he’ll be able to ride his jaguar on draw plays.”

“I like Tom Brady’s verticality just enough to give the Patriots the edge over Chuchucmil, which then sets up a Super Bowl with New England going against New Orleans,” Itza said.

His prediction for ultimate Super Bowl champion will be kept under wraps until the night before the game, or is available online now for $19.99 at mayanpredictions.com. He warned, however, that “all prognostications could go out the window” if the Q’umarkaj, Zacpeten and Dzibilchaltun tribes now involved in treaty negotiations reach an agreement by Feb. 1 and join forces to invade and enslave Miami, site of Super Bowl XLIV.

Fake News: Lady Gaga accepted at last

Lady Gaga, who rose from the New York dance club scene to the top of the pop charts in just over a year, saw her career officially end yesterday when Mr. and Mrs. Chester C. Olssen, a middle-aged couple from Oshkosh, Wisconsin, declared they kind of liked her music.

“Some of it’s pretty catchy, at least the few songs that I’ve heard,” said Mr. Olssen, a 57-year-old banker. “I’m not too sure about some of those wild costumes she wears in her videos, but I guess that’s what the kids like. She’s definitely an attention-grabber, I’ll give her that much.”

His wife, Greta, first became aware of the singer and her music during a trip to the local Wal-Mart. She saw Lady Gaga’s latest video, Bad Romance, playing on the HDTV on display in the electronics section and listed at the everyday low price of $499.

“She’s got some pretty wacky fashion sense, that’s for sure,” said Mrs. Olssen, a registrar with the city government. “That blouse she wears that shoots sparks out of it … I definitely couldn’t pull that off with my figure, but she seems real petite. I can’t imagine wearing a top like that with my ol’ grandma jeans, though. Besides, we have a no-smoking policy in my office, and I’m pretty sure having fire spitting out of your bodice would count as smoking.”

Mr. Olssen said that he’d consider wearing an outfit similar to what he called “the red getup,” which the singer wore at the MTV awards, on a casual Friday at his workplace. However, he was concerned the face-obscuring headgear might violate bank policy.

Mr. Olssen preparing for casual Friday

“No one’s allowed in the lobby wearing a hoodie, sunglasses or a ski mask, as a precaution against robbery,” Chester said. “But as an assistant vice president who works mainly in the back office, they’d probably let me slide.”

Additional reports came in over the weekend that the pop diva’s appeal was spreading to other segments of Middle America. A six-year-old girl shopping with her mother at a Rite Aid drug store in Pocatello, Idaho, was heard to say she wanted a lunchbox featuring the artist.

“Even my baby brother is all, like, ‘ga-ga this and ga-ga that,’” young Courtney told the pharmacy manager. “Lady Gaga celebrates the idea that any kid on the street can buy a bow, stick it on their head, and be making a fashion statement. I find that ability to express myself very empowering.”

Middle school teacher Anna Tegmeier of Norristown, Pa., said she admired Lady Gaga’s many years studying music as a youngster. The performer has said that she counts classic rockers such as David Bowie and John Lennon among her biggest influences.

“She was actually set to join the Juilliard Music School when she was 11, but ended up in a Catholic school at the last minute,” Tegmeier said. “She improved her songwriting skills by composing essays and analytical papers on topics such as art, religion and socio-political order. She even wrote a song for Michael Bolton before she became famous. How cool is that?”

Weighing in from beyond the grave on Gaga’s sensational rise from obscurity to a Grammy nomination for Best Dance Recording was veteran TV newsman Walter Cronkite. Speaking through a medium, Cronkite called the hit song Poker Face “absolutely epic” and characterized the video for Paparazzi as “a classic, matching anything that Fred Astaire could’ve done at the height of his career.”

Contacted in the midst of her European tour about the rising tide of positive sentiment among those whose tastes tend toward the traditional, Lady Gaga immediately cancelled concerts scheduled in Paris and Berlin and flew home to her native Yonkers, N.Y.

“I’m no fool. I’ve been in the business long enough to know when someone is through, and I’ve come to the realization that I am so over,” Gaga told a reporter for TMZ. “I guess what I’ll do now is just roam the streets of the city and live as a crazy person. At least I already have the clothes.”

Bagging Rogue: A Teenage Life

Excerpted from my upcoming book:

It was the Miami Norland carnival, May 1969. With the first light covering of summer humidity about to descend on Optimist Park, I breathed in the spring bouquet that combined everything suburban America with sunny splashes of South Florida. Cotton candy and foot-long hotdogs. Gefilte fish tacos and Cuban sausage. Salsa music, seashell etchings, grass-woven Seminole baskets, and devastating heat rashes grown under the tropical sun.

As I walked among the rides and exhibits, I felt a vibration on my hip and heard a low buzz. Since this was thirty years before invention of the cell phone, I knew I had bees in my pocket. As they began to sting me, I raced for home and the fateful news that would change my world forever.

My Uncle Jack, regional meat manager for the Grand Union chain of grocery stores, had arranged for me to get a summer job. What I thought was going to be my last summer of freedom before graduating from high school and heading off to college was instead going to be three months of bagging groceries at the market down the street. I had been perfectly satisfied in my role as spoiled son and seminal slacker, but now I was being asked to earn some money toward my education fund. A real “gotcha” moment.

I couldn’t refuse (my mom wouldn’t let me). My country beckoned. Well, maybe not my country; at least my community. Or at least the narrow segment of my community that shopped at Grand Union, a segment that – not coincidentally – dwindled to numbers so low within a year that the chain would pull out of Florida completely. My bagging skills were that bad.

When I showed up for my first day of work a few weeks later, I had the feeling almost immediately that this might not be a good fit. There seemed to be too many handlers, too many people with their own agenda, too many “professionals” telling me what to do and how to do it. I’d be spending most of time working behind the cashiers, collecting frozen dinners and canned goods as they rolled down the conveyor belt, and placing them in paper bags so they could be transported to the customer’s car. The rest of my time I’d be working at a variety of tasks back in the stock room.

There were so many rules that simply ran contrary to the good common sense I had accumulated in my sixteen years. The heavier items had to be placed in the bottom of the bag while the chips and baked goods and pretzels were placed on top. If a particular bag was going to be too heavy, I had to double-bag the merchandise. I should offer to wheel the shopping cart out to the parking lot and load the purchases into the trunk. I could accept a tip if it were offered, but I had to say “thank you.” During slow periods, I returned misplaced merchandise to the shelves and threw empty boxes into a compacter.

This was not at all what I was “wired” to do. What was so wrong about mashing everything together into one bag, using my feet if necessary to compress the softer items? If something was ruined in the process, they’d just have to buy more, which seemed to be a good thing for our capitalist system. Why couldn’t our elderly clientele carry their own damn six-packs of generic Bilt-Rite Cola to their vehicles? Why did the cardboard boxes that were no longer needed have to be compressed for orderly disposal? Just because the tree-huggers said we couldn’t throw them into the vacant field behind the store?

I tried hard to help our team of associates wage a successful campaign to keep the store in business that summer, but so often it seemed I was swimming upstream, like the salmon that cried out to be clubbed and gutted. I wanted to help our great nation address the pressing issues of the time, help America return to its position of international dominance, and all everybody else could talk about was putting product into sacks.

There were also the troubling incidents that have been so misrepresented by the press.

I came to work the first day wearing a perfectly respectable pair of jeans and a sweat-encrusted t-shirt. The boss told me I had to go home and change into khaki pants and a white dress shirt, and that I’d have to wear a tag that said “Hi, my name is DAVIS. Thank you for shopping with us.” It’s not my style, I wanted to say. I’m just a down-home regular average normal everyday ordinary Joe. But they would hear nothing of it.

One of the teenage cashiers got pregnant and a decision had to be made on what to do about her baby. My respect for life in all its forms (all its human forms, anyway) made me insist that the child be born, then brought to work with its mother and stuck in a corner with the bottle returns. The so-called “pro-choice” forces on the staff wanted her to quit immediately and go live in a home for wayward girls.

My boss was promoted to assistant manager during the middle of the summer, and had to pose for a portrait to appear on the “Our Management Team” board at the front of the store. He was a bit of an odd character, and was telling some of us that he wanted to do it nude. (We jokingly named him “Ricky Hollywood” because he lived in Hollywood, a Broward County municipality just north of Miami.) He was eventually convinced to wear his normal shirt and tie, and angled his shoulders slightly in the final pose, avoiding the full frontal shot that we had all feared.

When the end of the summer arrived and it was time to return to school, some of the teenage workforce would be offered weekend hours to continue into the fall, and some would be told their services were no longer needed. I still remember that fateful Decision Day, waiting anxiously for the results in a nearby hotel ballroom, or maybe it was my parents’ huge Impala. When it became clear that the judgment was not to be in my favor, I wanted to make a concession speech to the entire management group at Grand Union corporate headquarters, clearly laying out my concerns about the weeks that had just passed, and a little about my blueprint for the future (I was planning to ask Cindy Riley to go steady). But they would not hear of it, at least not until I published this book.

Now, I’m happy to say I’ve left that group of handlers and spinners in the past, and I’m prepared to move forward to the great tomorrow that represents America’s greatest challenge to its continued greatness. I’m my own agent at last, and I’ll do things as I see fit, and as my God-given conscience dictates. That’s why I’m now touring the country, traveling from grocery store to grocery store, offering my bagging services on a free-lance basis,  unconstrained by some focus-grouped, tradition-bound, green-grocer-as-usual business model. God is taking over my life, and I understand He prefers paper to plastic.

In closing, I quote the great French philosopher, Blaise Pascal, from his Pensées, for no other reason than to show I’m no one-trick-pony and that I’ve heard of French philosophy:

For after all what is Man in nature? A nothing in relation to infinity, all in relation to nothing, a central point between nothing and all and infinitely far from understanding either. He is equally incapable of seeing the nothingness out of which he was drawn and the infinite in which Man is engulfed.

Fake News: From Africa and points east

Somalis hijack North Koreans — do we care?

American officials reacted with a combination of dread and delight yesterday to the news that 28 North Koreans were the victims of the latest pirate takeover off the coast of Somalia.

“We strongly condemn the criminal actions of the hijackers and are very concerned about the welfare of the captives,” said State Department spokesperson Clark Montgomery. “At the same time, we are thrilled that the Somalis have taken such an active role in our campaign to deter the North Koreans from their aggressive ambitions.”

Montgomery characterized the ongoing peril to shipping in the Gulf of Aden as equal in importance with recent indications that nuclear arms development could be in full swing on the Korean peninsula.

“We can’t say which is the greater danger to our national security, so we’re frankly not sure what to think,” Montgomery said. “To put it simply, we’re conflicted. We’re ecstatic and distressed at the same time.”

Other officials did admit, however, that there’s a considerable upside potential to having two troublesome parties giving each other a hard time.

“This could be an ideal model in some of the other difficult scenarios we’re facing,” said one aide who spoke off the record. “For example, I can imagine the benefits we’d see if Iranian theocrats showed up at the big Wall Street banks and demanded a full accounting of executive compensation packages. Or what if Taliban insurgents from the tribal regions of Pakistan started making guest appearances on the CBS comedy ‘Two and a Half Men’? That would be so awesome.”

Maldives gets a lift

Climate changes that have contributed to rising sea levels have proven an especially difficult problem for low-lying areas of the world. Now, one country in the Indian Ocean has taken an innovative approach that could rescue its citizens from inundation.

President Mohamed Nasheed of the Maldives announced a program yesterday that will issue three pairs of high-heel shoes to every resident of the island nation.

“The coastal flooding that we’re projecting is a relatively small increase in water levels,” Nasheed said. “But our mean elevation of less than a meter makes us susceptible to a real calamity. Putting the entire population on stilettos will give us just enough height to make a difference.”

Nasheed dismissed the criticism of political opponents who claim the predominantly Muslim citizenry will object to the cutting-edge fashion statement made by five-inch heels, and that such shoewear will clash with traditional chadors and burqas. Some also cited safety and practicality concerns, pointing out that virtually all of the land area is covered with a fine beach sand.

“We must be innovative in our thinking if we’re to survive the effects of global warming,” Nasheed said. “And you can’t discount the appeal of the toned calf muscles we’ll see, or rather that we could see if limbs were allowed to be visible.”

Soccer match drags on — yay!

The soccer match last night between Algeria and Egypt, deciding which national team will get the last African slot in next year’s World Cup tournament, still had not been resolved early this morning, as the two sides entered the twelfth hour of play still knotted in a 0-0 tie.

“The excitement of this match, it is so incredible,” said commentator Gamal Kazen during a brief break in the action. “Something almost happened at the four-hour mark, then one of the strikers adjusted his socks about nine hours in. The spectators went absolutely berserk.”

At press time, all but three of the Algerian players had fallen asleep on the pitch while only two of the Egyptians remained awake. International football federation officials were busy making plans about how to resolve the deadlock should every last player slip into unconsciousness.

“The first tiebreak is going to be which country has the most ‘g’s’ in its name,” said Issam Salah, federation president. “After that, it’ll come down to which nation’s leader has a funnier first name — Abdelaziz Bouteflika of Algeria, or Hosni Mubarak of Egypt. Then, the final decider will be which country has more grains of sand in its desert.”

Salah said he expects a winner in the hard-fought rivalry to be declared some time in the next 500 years.

“We soccer fans are a very patient people,” Salah said. “However, we do expect widespread rioting to begin shortly throughout North Africa.”

Time for comments from the readers

It’s been an exciting week here at the awkwardly named DavisW’s Blog. On Wednesday, I was honored by WordPress with a 24-hour placement on their front page, a distinction I want to believe is a recognition of quality but suspect is actually based on some algorithm that essentially said it was my random turn. I got almost 900 views that day, and have every reason to believe that as many as five or six of these people may have read beyond the first paragraph.

So the champagne flowed last night and now it’s the morning after, a Friday morning on which I’m supposed to be posting the weekly Website Review. However, after such a momentous occasion, it seems proper instead to remember the long-term followers of this blog, the hundred or so people that tune in on a daily basis without being prodded to do so by a gimmicky promotion on a second-tier hosting domain. (Plus, I’m lazy). So I’m responding to the request made by reader Phyllis DePriest and reprinting, completely out of context, some of the comments I’ve recently received. Hope you enjoy.

Your posts flow over me … and I will read over them again.

I used to have a site like this once, but I got so much spam I had to shut it. You seem to have a better spam filter! Well done!

Most of us, I mean some of us, haven’t had that many cars in our lives.

What was the most important thing you did or are doing right now, if you don’t mind me asking?

Somehow the part of me that eventually says something is indeed always my mouth. I feel so limited. But not because I think if I were more confident my ears would speak.

Not only are there aliens with giant eyeballs that Dick Cheney doesn’t have under control, but they are illogical.

Swallowing millions of Eurotards in fiery death? I’m all for that.

You are contributing to the decline and fall of American civilization. Drive thru? or Drive through?

I haven’t really been following much lately, to be honest.

In the local tire repair facility, I encountered tissue so thin that I could actually read a book through it. When I pointed this out to the manager he simply shrugged his shoulders in a “well, whatcha you gonna do?” manner.

Massaging the face actually helps abdominal bloating. Especially if they are forcing my mouth shut thus keeping me from eating and getting bloated in the first place.

I stayed at a massage/hostel place in Ecuador. All the staff walked around in outfits that made me feel like I was in a Bond villain’s lair.

If I heard someone calling from the ditch, I might drive a little further to get rid of my garbage.

I hear the freshly killed groundling tastes really good with a side order of fries and apple pie.

I was following you until we got to the pulp/less pulp/no pulp issue.

On the weight front I’m the annoying gangly person you see at McD’s who eats as much as you do, but never goes anywhere near your proportions.

Option 4 is too harsh, but what about sewing his mouth shut?

No one takes any interest when I have my hair shorn.

The goal is to shear off the coat in one piece, as much as possible, and to do it faster than the other shearer. If you nick the sheep’s skin in the process, you lose points. If you nick the sheep’s penis, you are disqualified. I thought that was fair.

Don’t we all love people who believe in meritocracy because they happen to be the benefactors of nepotism or just particularly fortunate, and people who are deliberately obtuse about it when you tell them that equal chances in capitalist society is a gurrdamn chimera?

In Britain, you’d get at least five years in prison for writing the above.

I actually have pictures of me and my best friend from high school kissing a llama.

Fire ants in Virginia Beach are storming playgrounds.

I remembered cameras have zoom lenses, and that’s just the kind of insight that’s got me where I am today – in a tiny flat with only three news channels in English.

I have had some interesting neighbors, perhaps chief among them was the Vietnamese family two doors down who kept ducks in a pen behind the house. How sweet! I thought. Until they started slaughtering them one day in broad daylight. There had to be some city ordinance against that.

It’s Penguin right? … a penguin with crayons!

When they test you for an allergy to fire ants, they have a lot of trouble extracting the venom from a creature that is practically microscopic. So they take a bunch of them and grind them up, and that’s what they inject into your skin.

In the “pandemic preparedness” seminar I attended today with a bunch of other adult professionals, we learned from the presenters that hand sanitizer has to be 60% alcohol to be effective, and also from one of the attendees that it is flammable and burns with really pretty colors.

Just because someone tells you something with a straight face, doesn’t make it true. Self motivation: “I CAN DO IT!” ; check out a book, cd, dvd at the library. There are a lot of con artists who love preying on the gullible.

The squatters have established their territory with no regard for the rightful property owner’s rights; the property owner does the only thing left as a course of action — strike, and hard. Shock and awe, in a way. Will the ants develop a nuclear-capable response? Do they have ballistic capabilities? Who knows what goes on in the bowels of those hives? Their research and development department could, right now, be working on the plans for invasion to the brick dwelling for the purpose of conquering and … well, more squatting. Of course, too much fiber from the apple core may delay their plans by inducing excessive gas and diarrhea in their colony, but that will eventually pass.

I have nothing bad to say about those who have passed on. They don’t bother me and they don’t walk on my lawn.

You’ve got living consecutively wrong! I’d rather spend a bit of the first part of my life sleeping and most of the last part. I’d like to be awake from 20 to 60 or so.

Mrs. Dark Side is demanding I insert a Frasier DVD.

You can only personally invade Iran if you’re Dr. Manhattan.

I have become immersed in Saudi Arabia.

You try to imagine what the person ahead of you is going to do with 8 cans of lima beans, one bag of celery, and one quart of 10W30 motor oil.

I got to laughing so hard while reading this that I now have to pee.

Wally-World gets paid to accept returns so they get their money either way. Consumer satisfaction? I don’t think so. The places are on the verge of being dangerous. I’ve was robbed while inside one of those places and none of the associates could even get an outside line to call the police.

Miley – we can only hope.

I know when I go the freezers are empty, forget to get milk there is none, oh yeah try to find some decent clothes for plus size people.

If you button your shirt starting at the bottom and ending at the top, you can save 10-15% of the overall time required (as compared with starting at the top button and ending at the bottom button).

You left out Camilla Parker-Bowles.

If only the body could be adapted to make full use of all food and liquid intake.

Shooting birds in the woods is fun because we could have meat for dinner.

I was attacked by a woodpecker. He/she drew a lot of blood from the top of my head. It was startling.

Such a waste of space. Same goes with the TV magazine – and the daily TV grid. (With only 1/4 of the channels listed that are available.)

I was so moved by this. Especially the part about the Ice Age.

Thongs and bicycle seats…a dangerous combination.

Reminds me of the time I reached for my socks.

If I can’t ride my own hamster to the Blessing then I’m not coming.

I may put a safety clip on my ashtray.

I have Restless Leg Syndrome too, and take a drug for it because it was diagnosed during a sleep study for apnea and they couldn’t get that fixed until my legs stopped moving.

People who need ‘People’

Alyssa Milano had been staring up at me for several weeks now, and I was starting to get creeped out.

The star of TV’s Charmed was smiling broadly, obviously enjoying the happiest day of her life. Her new husband David Bugliari was at her side, clutching her hand and beaming at his good fortune to be marrying one of Hollywood’s hottest young actresses. His stare wasn’t quite as unnerving as hers because, after all, we were in the men’s room and he, as a fellow man, was supposed to be in here. Alyssa was not.

The August 31 issue of People magazine had been lying on top of the tank behind the toilet seat for several months in the restroom at work. True, it was in the handicapped stall, which gave all three of us plenty of elbow room to do our respective businesses. But I had grown weary of the experience of having this happy couple – along with Kourtney Kardashian, Bradley Cooper and “celeb babies” Nahla and Dolly — watching as I evacuated my bladder several times a day.

The bride was radiant, the commode was fairly clean

So I decided to evacuate the magazine from its resting place in the lavatory library on the back of the commode. I’m sure it had provided a comforting diversion to my male co-workers during its eight-week tenure, just as its fellow publications, the June 2003 issue of National Geographic and the TV insert from last Sunday’s paper, were doing. But it was time to turn the page and get this filthy periodical out of circulation.

It had no doubt spent time during its tenancy on the floor, lying open in the bunched-up underpants of numerous squatters, and God knows where else. The magazine didn’t seem to have any pages ripped out, which was probably a good sign given the janitorial staff’s chronic inattention to toilet paper supplies. Still, I wasn’t looking forward to handling it one last time, even if it was for disposal purposes. I’m pretty sure a hazmat suit would’ve been overkill, so I grabbed an old grocery sack from my desk and managed to safely encase these megawatt celebrities in plastic. I washed my hands thoroughly, then I washed them again.

Somehow, though, I couldn’t bring myself to just toss this issue in the can. My interest in the lives of these personalities had been piqued, and I wanted to know more. For example, how was it possible that a Kardashian sister, even one of the lesser ones, could exclaim in a People exclusive that her pregnancy had been a “surprise”? (I know that’s not the brightest tribe in Tinseltown, but surely she knew certain fundamentals of how human reproduction worked.) And what did Jon Gosselin’s “gal pal” Hailey Glassman have to speak out about? I’ve only rarely been afflicted with constipation since I stopped taking that anti-inflammatory medicine earlier this fall, so I hadn’t had the chance to read all about it.

I decided to carry the magazine home with me (in the trunk of the car, and splashed liberally with windshield washer fluid, which I imagined had some antiseptic properties) and research the issue further. I found a pair of surgical gloves, to discourage me from absent-mindedly moistening my fingers as I turned the pages, and began my study of the people of People. Here are some of my findings:

According to an ad for the show Vampire Diaries, “love sucks.”

There’s someone or something famous named Minka Kelly, and apparently Kate Hudson is having a tiff with her or it.

There was something causing pages 8 and 9 to stick together. Gross.

The couple who juked down the aisle at their wedding and ended up with 19 million views on YouTube didn’t mean to promote girlfriend-abuser Chris Brown by selecting his song for the dance.

“It was wonderful to catch up with the cast of Saved by the Bell,” according to reader Jennifer Sherry of St. Paul, Minn.

Does Katie Holmes look better with or without bangs? Find out the results of a poll at People.com (I checked for the winning style, but got distracted by a new feature — Robert Pattison’s 30 hottest stares.)

Director Tim Burton does not look good riding the giant caterpillar at Disneyland with his family.

“Does Jessica (Simpson) want to replace Paula (Abdul)?” asks a headline. No, says the story below.

There’s a “trendwarning” out on denim shorts with the pockets hanging below the hem.

I'd be wearing a rubber glove to hold a picture of Heidi and Spencer even if the magazine hadn't been on the floor of the men's room.

Country music star Kenny Chesney hardly ever stays in a hotel on tour because he’s got “the most comfortable bed in the world” on his bus.

Miley Cyrus has a nine-year-0ld sister. In related news, NNNOOOOOOO!

Important safety information in the ad for a new birth-control device called “Mirena”: Less than 1% of users get a serious infection called pelvic inflammatory disease.

It’s been six years since the previous Third Eye Blind album, but don’t expect any major developments from the pop-rockers.

The book Homer’s Odyssey is actually a memoir about adopting a special-needs kitten.

One of the Real Housewives of New Jersey used to buy a lot more toys for her three daughters, but now she’s better, just buying the “supercute stuff.”

Celeb baby Anni, daughter of Grey’s Anatomy star Chyler Leigh, is a happy, easygoing baby who sleeps through the night.

Olympic gymnast Dominique Moceanu chose a bold font for her son’s birth announcement because “he’s a robust little guy.”

Former child actress Soleil Moon Frye, against all odds, is still alive.

Rachael Ray was 41 on Aug. 28. But within days, her size had ballooned to a 44.

Model Crystal Renn used to be a size 0, which made her pretty much invisible.

Oprah likes candied fruit slices dipped in chocolate.

Whether you choose a vibrant dress or just a strategic pop of color, there are lots of ways to work the purple trend.

Cash for Clunkers is a success — what else would you like the government to give you cash for? Dane Cook answered “refrigerators” because he has three broken ones he doesn’t know what to do with.

Correction: Alyssa Milano is not a hot young actress at all. She’s 36.

Revisited: Thanksgiving comes early to 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, creamed 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.

Revisited: Going to a 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.

Fake News: Toward a simpler healthcare reform

Concerns over the level of detail laid out in the 2,000-page health care reform package now before the Senate have prompted some to sketch out a simpler plan for keeping Americans well.

One proposal gaining in popularity would require doctors to keep records of their casual conversations outside the office and count these as delivery of medical services to millions of the nation’s uninsured.

“When a general practitioner runs into his neighbor at the store and asks ‘how are you?’, this should be considered a consultation,” said Ken Reddling of the National Insurance Institute. “If the neighbor responds ‘fine,’ the doctor would make a note that he’s had a patient encounter and that the patient checks out as healthy.”

Doctors could also record queries such as “how’s it going?’ and “you doing alright?” as similar meetings with positive outcomes, as long as the respondent answered that they were “great,” “pretty good” or “not bad.” Physicians practicing in the specialties could also include “how’s it hanging?” as a formal exam.

To reach even greater numbers of those needing health care, another plan would erect pedestals at major intersections throughout a city that were topped by a large Plexiglas box. Sealed inside the container would be an internist or family practitioner, dressed in a white lab coat and wearing a stethoscope around his or her neck. Passers-by would then “see the doctor” as they drove past, which would count as a formal visit, even though the encounter might be slightly longer than what the patient would experience in a clinical setting.

“We need to be creative in the ways that we deliver care to the public,” said Reddling. “The Hippocratic Oath calls on doctors to ‘first do no harm.’ We can at least do that much at a minimal cost to the taxpayers.”

Meanwhile, recent studies showing that many preventive tests are neither medically necessary nor cost-effective may result in a different type of screening. Previously routine exams to detect breast cancer, prostate disorders and cervical disease have been increasing anxiety and expenses without a corresponding improvement in long-term outcomes. Some are now suggesting a more casual “quiz” replace the formal tests.

“These don’t have to be complicated. We’re not talking about essay questions but rather simple true/false or, at most, multiple-choice queries,” said Maurice Lerner of the Council for Approximation. “You phrase questions like ‘my head really, really, really hurts — true or false?’ and if they answer false, you’ve determined that they don’t have brain cancer.”

More complicated conditions would merit a more detailed inquiry. Even mental health could conceivably be covered with a well-structured, carefully phrased question.

“You ask the patient to answer the following: ‘I feel like committing (a) a personal foul, (b) my PIN number to memory, (c) a faux pas, or (d) suicide,’” Lerner proposed. “Only if they answer (d) would any follow-up be necessary.”

Initiatives like those mentioned above are already causing senators currently debating reform to hesitate final passage of a bill until all available data is in. Scientific studies in many of these areas may be considered complete enough to set public policy that provides the most good for the most people at the most economical price. But even advocates of unbiased analysis admit that all the anecdotal evidence has yet to be considered.

“I think we need to delay this bill until we’ve heard everybody’s story,” said Sen. Jim DeMint of South Carolina. “There are millions of aunts and uncles, and literally tens of millions of guys who knew other guys who wouldn’t be alive today were it not for some obscure procedure of highly questionable benefit. Numbers from long-term studies only tell part of the story. We need more anecdotes.”

My suggestions for Thanksgiving carols

It’s Thanksgiving tomorrow, and I think I know the reason it’s snuck up on us again. There are no warning songs, like you tend to get for weeks before Christmas. As much as I love the Thanksgiving holiday, it’s difficult to get in the spirit without appropriate musical accompaniment. (I think that’s why I always forget to buy everybody Labor Day presents).

To remedy this sad lack of audio cheer, I’m hereby submitting my ideas for new Thanksgiving carols. I’m suggesting existing holiday melodies, so once the turkey is done, we can easily transition into already familiar tunes for the rest of December.

[To the tune of "Joy to the World"]

Joy to the world

The bird has come

Let us remove his wings

Take out the heart,

Take out the lungs,

But leave the gizzards in

But leave the gizzards in

But leave … but leave the gizzards in

 

[To the tune of "Silent Night"]

Silent night, holy night

Hours until the first light

Time to hit the malls and stores

Time to start the busting of doors

TVs for $499

Xbox for $299

 

[To the tune of "Good King Wenceslas"]

Uncle Wenceslas looked down

On the feast from mama

Said she did a bang-up job

Then started on Obama

“He’s really Hitler in disguise, his policies are failin’”

Then the poor man gave us fright, said he’s reading Palin.

 

[To the tune of "What Child is This?"]

What time is dinner?

I need to know

Should I skip lunch

Or pick up “to go”

I’ll gladly starve

If we’ll eat at 3

By 4 though I’ll be crabby

 

[To the tune of "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"]

I watched stupid TV marathons

Nothing else was on Thanksgiving Day

“Dirty Jobs” will make you sick

“Real Housewives” makes you thick

“Hell’s Kitchen” makes you want to bludgeon Ramsey with a stick

 

[To the tune of "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire"]

Lions stinking in the Silverdome

Cowboys rarely scoring ten

Watching football on Thanksgiving Day

It makes you want to leave the den

Go to the kitchen and help the people cleaning plates

Here there’s fellowship to see

While in Dallas they’re imploding again

As Romo blows another third and three

 

[To the tune of "Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer"]

Rudolf the Grey Tofurkey

Had a very shiny glow

Made up of roots and veggies

Making your digestion slow

All of the other families

Eat a real bird of meat

However your hippie grandma

Likes to mix her food with peat

Then one foggy afternoon

Grandpa rose to say

“I refuse to eat this crap

That’s not gravy, that’s tree sap”

All of the other relatives

Jumped and shouted out with glee

“Let’s all run out to Wendy’s

For a burger and large Frostie”

 

[To the tune of "White Christmas"]

I’m dreaming of a Black Friday

Just like the one they had last year

Where the guy at Wal-Mart

Was torn apart

Because low prices started here

 

[To the tune of "Home for the Holidays"]

Oh, there’s no place for you in the dining room

Looks like you’ll have to sit back with the kids

Though they yell and they spit and they smell real bad

Now you know your life has really hit the skids

You met a girl from Tennessee

She looks just like your aunt

But you’re 21 and she is only eight

All she talks about is SpongeBob

While you like Gothic bands

They should have left her with a sitter

Man, you really want to hit her

Knock it off, you peckers

My Aunt Dora has a wonderful way with verbs. When she talks about a particular action, she’s usually close enough to the intended word that you get the idea, but the way she gets there is marvelous. “I saw that on NPR,” she’ll say about a news story she heard on the radio. “Did you eat the last beer?” she’ll ask her husband.

When I was getting ready to leave after a recent visit to her home, she asked me to do her a favor as I left. Her wooded home on a tree-covered lot draws many neighborhood woodpeckers, and she could hear one banging away on the siding outside her bedroom window. The bird had obviously confused her home with a nearby maple, an understandable mistake considering how concussed the poor animal must be.

Dora wanted me to shoo the bird off. “Tell him to go away,” she said.

I wasn’t sure how well the woodpecker would respond to a well-reasoned argument about the relative disadvantages of looking for grubs in a processed plank. I figured that throwing a pinecone at it would be more compelling. Still, I like the idea of reasoning with nature, and thought seriously about her proposal for dispatching the pest.

I knew that the Southeastern species of the Picidae Picumnus was notoriously poor at understanding spoken English. Along with its cousins the piculet and the wryneck, the woodpecker has evolved a number of adaptations to protect its head from repetitive motion syndrome. Among these, it’s developed an incredibly small brain. However, its widely acknowledged pecking skills made me think it might be pretty good at finding and reading something on the Internet, as long as it didn’t have to hold down the shift key.

So I’m laying out my case in this Open Letter to the Woodpecking Community of the Brookshadow Subdivision.

Dear Peckers,

(I hope that’s not considered pejorative.)

First of all, let me say that we all appreciate the ambience that the wildlife population lends to our neighborhood. The birds are particularly welcome. They bring color and song to our days and always seem to be able to get out of the way of oncoming cars, unlike some squirrels and chipmunks I could mention. Your droppings are few. Your appetite for bugs surpasses any plague of death that the exterminators could bring.

You generally have a good idea of where to find your meals without guidance from your human hosts. In fact, I imagine you could teach us a thing or two about the benefits of an all-natural diet, considering how rarely I see you inside a McDonald’s (except that one time your sparrow friend was trapped by the automatic door).

But let me explain a thing or two about our homes. We have constructed these to provide us shelter from the elements. We can’t protect ourselves with the ingenious feather covering you’ve devised, despite what you may have seen peeking in the window when we’re watching the American Music Awards. We have to rely on burly men, heavy equipment and expensive construction materials to make ourselves a place of comfort. Twigs and straw don’t cut it for most of us.

We spend a lot of time and a lot of money to maintain our homes. We paint and we stain and we reshingle the roof. We deal with deranged-looking transients who stop by periodically to clean our gutters and do any other odd jobs we can think of that we hope will distract them from killing us. We meet with equally unhinged insurance agents, purchasing their various riders and attachments simply because we’re told that’s what responsible adults do.

When you come along and mistake the surface of our house for the trees, it tends to create holes in our security. If these get big enough, the openings can admit bats into our living rooms, and we hate bats almost as much as you hate knots. The other bad thing for you is that a lot of the grubs can escape the outdoor environment and find their way indoors, where it’s much harder for you to get them. You can knock on our door and ask us to let you in but, I’ve got to be honest, that’s probably not going to happen.

I also might mention that we’re currently preparing to roasting a very large bird our oven. I’m not saying that could happen to you. I’m just saying…

So let me ask you to stick to the oaks and elms and pines when you feel the need to peck for a meal. We’re not thrilled with the idea that you’re bothering our landscaping like this, but we recognize that nature can be inconvenient. Some of those spindlier trees are starting to look a little diseased anyway, and I’m pretty sure they’ll be coming down in the first ice storm of the season.

So please stay away from our siding and stick to the trees. In fact, knock yourself out.

Sincerely,

The Guy Who Threw the Pinecone at You

Thank you for not missing the Website Review

I don’t know about you but I’m just about thanked out.

The wellspring of gratitude and appreciation that flowed from our guilty consciences yesterday was enough to put anybody flat on their back. There’s just something about being a grateful person that makes you incredibly sleepy, seeking the nearest couch on Thanksgiving night for a much-deserved nap.

Scientists tell us that certain chemicals flood our bloodstream when we thank and honor those to whom we are indebted. The same hormones that prompt us to choke up when football commentator Howie Long thanks the troops and to make small talk with the uncle who gave us $5 every birthday eventually start to back up in the brain, prompting an overall feeling of fullness and, ultimately, coma.

Showing genuine humble emotion toward loved ones when we count our blessings tends to wear you out. That’s why I audit my assets and honor them with appreciation only twice a year — at Thanksgiving and on Tax Day, April 15.

Now I’m ready to go back to the old way of doing business, living in a whirlwind of meaningless, pre-scripted “thank-you’s” offered solely as a way to evoke a certain behavior, usually getting you to leave the premises. These are the devalued, distorted expressions we encounter a hundred times a day, the ones that have so removed the true meaning of gratitude that when we feel the real thing, it gives us a very bad stomachache.

My son and I made a drive around the neighborhood yesterday afternoon, because we always get a kick out of seeing roads emptied and businesses shuttered on major holidays. It’s kind of a fun preview of what he might expect when he drives around with his son some bleak distant day in our dismal economic future. “Your grandpa and I used to exchange script for services in these burned-out storefronts,” he’ll tell young Davis the Sixth. “It’s a lot like how you find roots and berries to eat, except you do it online and we had this thing called bricks-and-mortar.”

Even McDonald’s was closed Thursday, despite the fact that in desperation you could’ve molded a super-sized order of fries into the shape of a small turkey, or perhaps a hassock for that cousin you weren’t expecting at the dinner table. As we circled the parking lot to get a closer look at this rare sight, we saw the signs that direct customers through the take-out operation. The first stop, at the big board of burger pictures, simply says “Order Here.” The second stop has a sign which reads “Thank You For Having Your Payment Ready,” a directive poorly disguised as a polite request. Finally, when you pick up your order at the last window, the sign reads simply “Thank You.” What they really mean at this point in the transaction is “Be Gone!”

I get the same feeling at the automated car wash. There’s a large electronic sign that guides you through the steps in the process as you pull your car into the stall. There’s “Please Enter,” a clear enough signal that you drive into the bay. There’s “Drive Slowly,” “Stop” and even “Back Up” for those who have moved beyond the proper position. When the wash begins, you see a different series of signals, such as “Wash,” “Rinse,” “Underwash,” etc., apprising you of the progress of the operation. Finally, there’s a brief moment of silent inactivity, at which point the sign flashes “Thank You.” This is their friendly way of saying you’re done, though I imagine some dimwits may sit there a while awaiting further instructions. I have a feeling that if you don’t move it within ten seconds, that you get one which reads “You’re Through, Now Drive Away by Pressing your Foot on that Narrow Pedal on the Floorboard.”

Another insincere use of the “Thank You” comes at the large warehouse shopping club. Some of the purchases come in containers too large to put in a bag, which is the traditional way of showing that you’ve paid for the product. So instead, a bright orange sticker gets affixed to the box saying “Thank You,” which is secret code for “This Item is Not Being Shoplifted.” Innocent enough at the time, perhaps, but a little disconcerting when you face several weeks of having a tub of cat litter thanking you for God knows what every time you need a rake.

Finally, I’ll mention the forced gratitude you’ll often see on the fields of sport. I used to play a lot of tennis on the public courts when I was younger and, though I was far from good, I was generally skilled enough to keep the ball within the court. Occasionally, you’d encounter a twosome on the next court over that had difficulty controlling the trajectory of their ball, probably due in part to the fact they were wearing jeans, street shoes and half-drunk expressions. As their tennis balls dribbled from their court onto mine, they’d call out “thank you” as a signal for me to stop what I was doing and retrieve their miscue. Once, a young girl was so wild that she put her ball over my court and over the ten-foot fence next to it. “Thank you,” she called out to me. “No, no,” I responded, “thank you.”

She had obviously been well-trained by her parents to express appreciation when someone did something nice for her. I’m always amused by the teaching technique most moms and dads use when socializing their kids on this critical component of human interaction. The nice man in the sunglasses offers you an ice cream cone if you’ll come into his windowless van to help him look for his missing puppy, and your mom stands there and asks “What do you say?” Most children learn pretty quickly they’re being prompted to offer a shy “thank you,” though a fortunate few respond “should I really be doing that?”

By the way, thank you for not noticing that this is supposed to be a Friday Website Review. To get by on a technicality, I did check out several sites on the subject of thanks.

There’s one called thanks.com, whose home page reads “The spontaneous thank you: Such power it wields. To awe. To rally. To cheer. And to Motivate. But well-timed spontaneity takes planning. We’ve done that part so you can do the fun part.” As you might guess, this is a business set up to take the annoying and inconvenient element of sincerity completely out of the act of an employer showing gratitude to an employee. For a minimal fee, you can generate the “instant certificate, a quick and easy way to turn your heartfelt sentiment into a frame-worthy expression of gratitude.” This can even be customized with a personal message (like the person’s name, typed in all caps), then printed out in your own office in seconds. You can also buy tangible gifts to show Ingrid in accounting how much you appreciate her overlooking that Spectravision charge on your last expense report. For $12, there’s an origami goose, contorted in much the same way as the actress in that PayTV movie. Or, for a little more, you can get caramel candy apples dressed up in tuxedo packaging, or a customized footstool imprinted with the inspirational urging to “Reach Higher.” Or, you can stock up for any number of future needs with an $18 cache of “appreciation buttons,” including “Wizard of Awe,” “Wow Factor,” “Big Kahuna,” “Grand Poobah of Great Ideas” and “Hello My Name is Fran Tastic.”

The site thank.com offers thank-you cards, notes, letters and gifts. They include convenient templates; for example, the proper way to express appreciation for a recent job interview, where you simply print out a sheet and hope that your potential boss’s name is “Mr. or Mrs. Blank.” They offer other sample letters as well, though this part of the site was temporarily unavailable when I tried to look (thanks for nothing). You can also order funeral cards and memorial plaques from thank.com, though I’ve always thought it a little forward to thank someone for dying.

At thankyou.com, there’s a rewards program where you can earn points toward tomorrow’s purchases with today’s. What stood out for me here was the Testimonials section, letters written by satisfied customers who bought tires, rented a Cadillac for their Nashville vacation or “finally got that meat slicer I’ve wanted for some time.” Another writer says they also have great customer service, which goes so far as to suggest if you don’t have enough points for the item you want, you can make up the difference in cash.

Lastly, just for fun, I checked out nothanks.com. It bills itself as a “lifestyle resource” and includes such features as Christian dating, where I imagine “no thanks” gets said quite a lot.

Revisited: 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 items come in such a huge variety of options 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.

Tax incentive to buy guns? Only in S.C.

Once again, my adopted home state of South Carolina is in the news and, once again, it’s not in a good way.

Our primary claim to fame on the national stage has been oafish politicians (Rep. Joe “You Lie” Wilson and Gov. Mark “I Lie” Sanford), brain-damaged beauty queens (such as Miss Teen South Carolina) and weird news briefs (armed robbers brandishing a banana, Waffle House waitresses shooting patrons, etc.). Oh yeah, and we also started the Civil War.

Now, we’re once again the laughing stock for offering a Christmas season tax holiday on the purchase of firearms. For two days this past weekend, gun buyers enjoyed a 9% tax break, a so-called “Second Amendment Weekend” voted into law by a state legislature that still can’t decide if Gov. Sanford should be impeached.

Originally part of a bill that offered similar breaks on energy-efficient appliances, that measure was vetoed by the governor. The veto was over-ridden by the legislature, then the law was struck down by the Supreme Court because it violated the “one subject” provision of the state constitution, which bars multiple issues in a single bill. So they got rid of the appliance part and kept the gun part (though I guess you could make the argument that firearms do reduce energy use, especially when they render previously vital creatures lifeless).

“The great state of South Carolina is putting its own sick twist on Black Friday” with the state-sponsored sales incentive, wrote the New York Daily News last week. “Not cars. Not clothes. Certainly not books. Just guns.”

I decided to check out the event for myself Saturday with a visit to my area’s largest purveyor of weapons, Nichols Gun Store. Located in a rural area just outside of town and serving primarily hunters, Nichols provides a number of offerings besides fiery fusillades of death.

Out back is a deer processing service, which I recognized by the strung-up, skinned carcass being displayed to the delight of several young children as I pulled into the parking lot. There’s a collection of 30-foot-tall hunting stands (or as those at the Daily News might characterize them, third-floor walk-ups), where outdoorsmen can lie in wait high above the forest floor for their victims to appear. There are Bad Boy buggies, all-terrain vehicles that minimize the chance someone might get some exercise while hunting.

Inside the front door, you see what looks like a typical convenience store off to the left, featuring snacks, sundries and a huge refrigerated case of beer, just waiting to cloud the judgment of armed bands. To the right is a small cooking grill to feed hungry hunters who choose not to eat their kills fresh off the ground for lunch. A gift shop sells bumper stickers (“If you can read this, I’m aiming at you”) and cute camouflage outfits for children (“Serious gear for serious babies,” reads one package). There’s also an area for incidentals like deer bait, backpacks, turkey calls and urine, the scent of which is supposed to lure or repel something.

Dead ahead is the core of the business, a showroom featuring literally thousands of handguns, shotguns, rifles, pistols, crossbows and assault weaponry. The store is filled with shoppers, almost all male, almost all eager to take advantage of this tax holiday, and almost all looking at the blogger who has never before set foot in such a death-dealing establishment. A large counter wraps around the edge of the store, backed by eager salesmen waiting on small clusters of customers.

Looking around at the inventory, I recognize a few product names, such as a Luger, Glock and Remington, and I can vaguely tell there’s a difference between them, though my exposure is limited mostly to what I’ve seen in television and movies. There are James Bond-style guns, cowboy-movie-style guns and Sopranos-style guns. There are even a few firearms you might imagine seeing on Charlie’s Angels. These have been painted pink, in a pathetic attempt to appeal to the extremely limited female market (I guess trimming a semi-automatic in lace just isn’t practical in the field).

Looking out of place at the gun shop

As the overhead intercom booms out strange-sounding announcements like “guns, line two” and “blood cleanup, aisle five,” I’m debating how I’ll respond if I’m offered service by one of the guys behind the counters. On the drive over, I was thinking how it might be funny to say I was looking for a flamethrower to give my aunt who’s checking into a nursing home known for its rough crowd, or a grenade launcher for the nephew headed to Harvard. Maybe I’d actually buy something, certainly not the high-priced weapons themselves, but maybe a box of bullets, or even a single cartridge if they were willing to break up a matched set.

“I don’t believe in private gun ownership so I don’t actually have one myself,” I might joke. “But if I’m ever faced with a home intruder, maybe I could throw a bullet and try to hit him in the eye.”

Somehow, though, this doesn’t strike me as the right atmosphere for such a put-on. I think back to the Daily News article, and the reporter’s attempt to get a quote from Chad Holman, owner of Woody’s Pawn and Jewelry in Orangeburg.

“I don’t care to comment to anyone from New York,” he said.

When I am finally offered help, I tell the counter clerk I’m still “just browsing” and comment awkwardly about how the inventory is “nice.” I can tell that he can tell I’m not a legitimate customer, so I motion toward the back of the store and suggest to my wife that we go “check out the arrows.” We head in that direction, but make a quick left at the decapitated razorback boar and make for the exit.

It feels like every eye in the place is watching me as we walk out the door and into the pickup-packed parking lot. I just hope that none of the eyes are attached to a telescopic sight.

Happy holidays to all, and to all a good hunt.

Revisited: 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 nineteenth-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 is available.

Fake News: Church calendar confusing to many

The wave of fresh converts to evangelical Christianity appears to contain many who are confused about certain details of this, their first holiday season.

“I’m still learning my way around,” admitted Sonya Bennett. “I mean, I believe in Jesus and all that stuff; I’m just a little hazy on the reasons for some of these celebrations.”

Much of the bewilderment became apparent during last week’s so-called “Black Friday.” Large numbers of newly minted Christians showed up at post-Thanksgiving sales at Wal-Mart, Target and other retailers, thinking they were observing the day Jesus was crucified at Calgary.

“I guess I was thinking of — what is it? — Good Friday,” said Heather Thompson. “I thought Black Friday was the day the altar was draped in black cloth, and a somber service acknowledged our Lord’s ultimate sacrifice for mankind. Turns out, it’s more about low, low prices.”

Thompson said many of her friends were also confused about the day. She said she felt that the Church of Christ, of which she became a member earlier this year, and the nation’s retail sector were “just asking” for there to be such widespread misunderstanding.

“I mean, think about it: Good Friday marks an occasion when something bad happened, and Black Friday marks a good day, a day of door-busting bargains. That’s just plain screwy,” Thompson said. “You’d think it would be the other way around. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only one expecting up to 60% off the cost of my salvation.”

Bennett, a recent convert to the Evangelical Lutheran Synod, said the church calendar at first didn’t make sense to her. She said she had time to meditate and reflect on her faith while waiting in line from midnight till 4 a.m. outside the Valley Hills Mall in Seattle.

“I finally puzzled through it,” Bennett said. “It just wasn’t possible that Jesus was crucified in late November, then born in late December, and then ascended into heaven in March or April. I know He can do some amazing things, but this just seemed totally whack.”

Similar puzzlement was expected during yesterday’s Cyber Monday, which has become the day on which close to a third of on-line Christmas gift sales are made. Either that, or it’s something to do with Simon Peter, or maybe the Immaculate Conception, or maybe Zhu Zhu pets.

“The one that always messes me up is Maundy Thursday,” said Oscar Bennett, who joined the Southern Baptist denomination in February. “I mean, is it a Monday or is it a Thursday? I’m all for talking in tongues, but come on. How can we have effective outreach to non-believers with this kind of double-talk?”

Raymond Price, a new member of the fundamentalist Mercy Schmercy Catholic Church in suburban Atlanta, defended Christianity’s elaborate calendar as something that novices should study and become comfortable with.

“It’s really not that complicated when you put your mind to it,” Price said. “Ash Wednesday is the day we remember volcano victims. Palm Sunday celebrates the day Jesus rode into Jerusalem in triumph after inventing the handheld personal digital assistant. Corpus Christi, in mid-June, marks the beginning of beach season on the south Texas coast.”

Price said his personal favorite day on the liturgical calendar was Ruby Tuesday.

“Any day that honors both the Rolling Stones and the Seaside Sensations combo platter is truly a holy day in my book,” Price said. “Ruby Tuesday — Fresh Taste, Fresh Price.”

Woods issues a new statement

The following is a statement from Elrick Woods

A lot of people are saying I should reveal more about the details surrounding the incident last Friday in which I was injured in a one-car accident outside my Florida home. I’ve always tried to be honest with my fans and the public at large, but this has been a new and difficult experience for me. My gut reaction was to protect my privacy; that now seems, however, to be impractical.

The fact of the matter is that it’s hard to say anything at all when your wife has used your favorite pitching wedge to give you a fat lip the size of the seventeenth green at Turnberry.

Let me rephrase that.

 ”I had a single-car accident earlier this week and sustained some injuries. This situation is my fault, and it’s obviously embarrassing to my family and me. I’m human and I’m not perfect. I will certainly make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

Actually, I think it is time to say just a little bit more. First of all, I want to thank all my fans for their support during this difficult period. I know I’m in their thoughts and in their prayers, and that’s a place I really appreciate being. So much better than that all-expenses-paid vanity golf tournament I’m having to miss in Hawaii this weekend.

Secondly, I want to go on the record to say I don’t think the following joke is funny. What’s so unusual about Tiger pushing his drive out of bounds and into a tree? Hasn’t he been doing that during the final round at every tournament this year? The only difference this time is that instead of laying up, he laid down. In the street.

I ask you not to laugh.

As I say, I do think it would be best at this point to tell more of what happened that evening. The speculation that’s out there is so wild and irresponsible that I feel I have to talk about issues I’d rather keep private. I’m going to retrace the events of Friday, and let the chip shots fall where they may.

I was sitting at home watching television, and it was late at night. I sometimes have trouble falling asleep at a normal hour, since I’m constantly travelling to distant time zones around the world in order to lead golf tournaments for three rounds before fading badly in the fourth. That takes a lot out of you (the time zones, not the losing so much, since I still get a hefty appearance fee).

I was feeling a little chilly. My Scandinavian wife likes to keep the AC cranked way high, and Lord knows we need to keep her frosty. Anyway, I was watching a commercial for the Snuggly and realized they’re now available in local retail outlets, so I decided to run out to the 24-hour Walgreen’s in our neighborhood and get one.

I called to Elin that I was running out for a Snuggly. You have to realize, of course, that our house is absolutely immense, probably the size of about a thousand Buicks glued together (the Buick Holiday Event is now ON, offering the best deals of the year, by the way) and she may not have heard me clearly.

She apparently misunderstood where I said I was going, thinking she heard me say I was getting some “nuggets.” She knows that the power windows on my Escalade almost never work, and that only the 24-hour drive-thru at Wendy’s is open at 2 in the morning, so she was nice enough to grab a golf club and come smash out the windows for me. This is something we routinely do when we know we’re taking the kids out for fast food, as it’s just easier to get a new Escalade later.

I was already at the end of the driveway when she caught up with me. She startled me so much that I ran into the tree and fire hydrant, as already reported in the news, and also a fence, an ornamental shrub, a lawn jockey, a light pole, a telephone pole, a photographer from TMZ, and a mailbox. The stress of all these collisions, and the fact that she hit me in the face with the golf club when she was done with all the windows, caused my surgically repaired knee to start throbbing, so I lay down in the street to do some lower back exercises, which almost always cause me to slip in and out of consciousness.

This is probably about the time my nosy neighbors, the Kravitzes, called the police. On this point, I want to say that I have fully cooperated with the Florida Highway Patrol in all aspects of their investigation, except for the part where I have to be awake when they arrive at my house. There’s something about knowing that the police are coming to your house that makes me really drowsy, almost as much as cuddling up in a Snuggly. The same thing happens whenever they stop me on the highway, and they’ve always seemed to understand this before.

As for my relationship with my wife, that’s not something I feel comfortable going into here, except to say you wouldn’t believe what a shrew she is. You see pictures of the woman and she looks absolutely perfect and, I’ll be the first to admit, she’s a stunning babe. But as those who have competed against me know, I’m a stickler that everything be exactly right, and she has this small mole at the base of her right index finger that makes her flawed. We’ve discussed this on many occasions and she steadfastly refuses to get a finger transplant, even though I could pay for it with my little pinky.

Now as for these scurrilous rumors that I’m seeing another woman, this VIP hostess Rachel Uchitel, I want to deny categorically there’s any truth to this. There is no way I would date someone with a last name like that. It sounds like “yuck.” That’s one of the big problems I’m having with Elin now, her name. She might try to spell it in a svelte Swedish fashion, but it’s still “Ellen” to me, and there’s just no one on the face of the earth with that name who is appealing. I’m thinking of Ellen DeGeneres or Ellen Barkin the whole time we’re together. And even though she pronounces it “ee-lin,” that doesn’t really help matters. That makes me think of the eland, a plains antelope native to southeast Africa.

A lot of people who see me on TV think that I have a temper, and wonder if this isn’t part of the story, and I suppose that it is. I will throw the occasional club if I make a bad shot, and I have been known to curse, but it’s just a sign of my competitiveness. And that’s why I’m pleased to announce at this time that I’m endorsing two new products — the Temper-Pedic family of fine mattresses and pillows, and a new golf ball I’ve helped the folks at Dunlop develop. The ball has the highest allowable compression ratio and a special dimple pattern I designed myself. I’m calling this new line the Goddam Sonofabitch Ball.

I do also want to make one correction of an earlier statement I made. It was something I believed to be true at the time but have since come to realize that it’s not quite accurate. I am now “putting all of it out there” because I don’t want there to be any hint of scandal remaining. Everything needs to be out in the sunshine.

I said earlier that I was not perfect. Frankly, that’s not true. I am perfect.

In closing, let me ask the public and especially the press to leave us alone, so we can return to our private lives. I can’t even go out of my house because of the crowd of reporters outside. I’m virtually a prisoner and I really, really, really need to get out of here.

Don’t make me run you over.

Fake News from Around the Office

He’s a nice guy, but a Nazi

THE BREAKROOM (Nov. 2) — It seems the nice, friendly guy from Purchasing you’ve been having lunch with, talking sports with and commiserating with over the weekend’s yard chores, turns out to be pretty much a Nazi.

“My wife made me this deli sandwich,” he observed during your shared mid-day meal yesterday. “Too bad the Jews have ruined sliced meats with all that Kosher business.”

Everett Jenkins, a six-year employee with the company who always seemed like a regular guy, then went on to observe that you at least had to admire Hitler’s efficiency, that the Monday night game between the Saints and the Patriots was a real snoozer, and that the German-speaking peoples of the Sudetenland deserved to be a part of the Third Reich.

“And don’t get me started on the bad rap that eugenics has gotten and how the master race has allowed itself to be mongrelized,” he continued. “So, are we still on for that 2 p.m. staff meeting, you think?”

Previous discussions with Jenkins had always centered on non-controversial issues like the weather, traffic, the best route to the beach, and what an idiot that new assistant vice president was. The closest you came to a political discussion with him was shortly after President Obama was elected, when he observed that “at least he’s different from all the other guys that’ve been in there.”

Now you’re not sure what to think of the co-worker. You always thought he had a great sense of humor and a realistic take on internal office politics that helped influence some of your career decisions, but since it’s become apparent he’s a right-wing fanatic with a penchant for genocide, you should probably keep your distance and start eating lunch in your car.

Everybody’s really sorry

THE THIRD FLOOR (Nov. 1) — Confusion over how to make a particular edit to a word processing file caused Sue, who attempted to make the change, to be extremely sorry to have misinterpreted the instructions, and made Barbara, who caught the error,  equally sorry to ask for the rework.

“I thought that one squiggly word was ‘elephant,’ but I should’ve known it was ‘element,’” Sue told Barbara. “I don’t know where my mind is today. I am so very sorry to have messed that up.”

“No, no, that’s OK,” responded Barbara. “You could definitely have read it that way. You didn’t really do anything wrong. I’m sorry to ask you to do it over.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright,” continued Sue. “I’m just sorry you had to send it back.”

“Don’t be sorry,” said Barbara. “I can see how you read it that way. I’m sorry my original handwriting wasn’t clearer — that was completely my fault.”

Observers of the conversation in nearby cubicles all agreed that both parties involved in the mid-morning incident were sorry. Real sorry.

You must be going insane

BUILDING C (Nov.2) — You know for a fact that you held down the Control key, then hit the letter “C”, and yet still the highlighted paragraph you wanted to move to another location failed to copy.

“I hate that,” you muttered to yourself. “This happens at least five or six times during the day, and every time it makes you think you’re going crazy.”

Whether it’s some kind of keyboard malfunction or, more likely, yet another sign that Microsoft knows it doesn’t have any competition so why worry about making users feel they’re losing their minds, it’s still annoying.

“It’s not just copy management functions using the Control or the Alt keys, it’s even simple clicks on a radio button,” you continue. “I see the cursor clearly sitting on the ‘OK’ and I depress the left clicker, and still nothing happens. Then you do it again and everything works fine.”

Even when the mouse isn’t involved, you find that the keyboard itself is sometimes not responsive for several moments at a time. You depress the “Page Up” button and nothing happens, then you depress it again and it works.

“There’s probably gunk inside the keyboard that’s fouling the contacts,” you think to yourself. “But I’m not about to take it apart and clean it. That’s too disgusting.”

The last time you did that, there were sesame seeds, bread crumbs, fingernails and enough dried-up bits of human flesh to make a whole toe. They don’t pay you enough to handle potentially hazardous waste like that.

Website Review: DavidWhiteman.com

Every now and then, I Google myself just in case I became wildly famous and somebody forgot to tell me. Most recently, the ever-helpful search engine took my request, and asked if what I meant to type was “David Whiteman.”    

Well, I don’t know — maybe I did, especially if this guy whose name is one letter different from mine is fabulously wealthy and keeps his money in a casually secured bank account. When I investigated further, I was able to stumble upon what is the subject of today’s Website Review.    

DavidWhiteman.com is a bare-bones site that promotes David and his Texas band. The combo plays the “widest range of songs around,” including R&B, hip-hop, Latin and dance music, and is apparently one of the most versatile and entertaining bands in the Dallas/Fort Worth area.    

When David brings together his ten or more musicians, they are known by two different names: there’s the “David Whiteman Experience” and “The Love Chocolates.” It’s not clear what the distinction is between the two. I also have an “experience” under my name, but it includes a lot more typesetting and proofreading, and a lot fewer Chaka Khan covers, than are happening in dance clubs throughout the Lone Star State’s second-largest metropolis. But there is one thing we do have in common – I too love chocolates.    

The home page says the band consists of male and female vocals, a horn section and a very experienced rhythm section of bass, drums, keyboards and percussion. Among their performance credits are “Oasis at Joe Pool Lake, Nine Fish in Frisco, the Glass Cactus at the Gaylord Resort, and the Dallas Arboretum.” I know that last location suggests they are very popular with plants, but I can’t for the life of me guess what those other locales hint at. The group also performs for private parties, weddings and corporate events that included a concert for the Chamberlain Ballet, where I would’ve loved to see the ballerinas trying to keep up.    

According to the Calendar section, it seems these relatively low-profile shows make up a big part of the David Whiteman experience. For example, there are seven days in the month of December alone that are jam-packed with dates. Tonight at 6:30, you can catch the gang at “Pappadeaux in Arlington Big 12 Championship Weekend.” This is a seafood kitchen off the interstate in the midst of the Metroplex that offers fried gator along with its David. The rest of the December shows include two performances at Reflections (where the band will share top billing with new wide-screen TVs, pool and darts), three private parties, and the annual Firefighters Christmas Jam.

It’s pretty obvious the big money happens at the parties, because the calendar warns “any club date may be replaced by a private function with advanced notice.” I guess you have to first get your name out there with the fish diners and the EMTs in order to secure those lucrative Dallas Geological Society gigs.    

Under the Band pulldown, we get a chance to learn more about the individual members, or at least those who have a life capable of being described in writing. (Four members — drummer Steve “The Big Bo” Richardson, percussionist Otis “The Big O” Tarkenton, keyboardist Gary Wooten and trombonist Gaika James — have bios “to come soon.”)    

David is “widely becoming known as one of the finest vocalists in the Dallas/Fort Worth area,” a description so broadly worded that I think it also could include Oliver Cromwell and Sandy Koufax. Both of David’s parents were musicians, allowing him to develop an early vocal style he claims was reminiscent of Barry White, a little hard to believe for a ten-year-old, but whatever. His skills in piano, vocals and guitar led him to spend 14 years working as a fireman with the Dallas Fire Department, where “he fought fires, saved lives, delivered infants and experienced the worst in death,” contributing to his “positive and upbeat attitude” that has translated so well to the stage, or at least that small tiled area in the corner of the barroom that serves as a stage.    

Bassist Narcisco Carballo is originally from Havana, Cuba, bringing a distinctively communist flavor to the group’s sound. He pursued a career in aviation for 13 years before joining “the Weekend Warriors program sponsored by Brook Mays Music where he brushed up on his chops” and, presumably, other select cuts of meat. He occasionally defects from the David Whiteman Experience (typical Cuban) to join others bands such as Chill Factor, the Right Time Band and Tejano Passion. His biography oddly includes the equipment he owns — various guitars, amps and cabinets.    

The group’s female vocals are handled by the soulful CiaMar. You can tell she’s a professional singer by the fact that she goes by a single name that includes a capital letter in the middle of it. (If she’d add an accent mark, maybe an umlaut, and perhaps a couple of punctuation marks, who knows how far she’d go?) She made her very first recording at age seven, though it may have been the greeting message on her parents’ answering machine. Since then, she’s been among the 25 finalists on the TV series Pop Stars, made an appearance on Good Morning Texas and sang the national anthem at several sporting events. Rave reviews that are quoted include “she will be incredible when her time comes” (from 1996), “you have great potential in this industry” (from 2000) and “waiting patiently is a mega-hit song!!!” (from 2003). I think it bears repeating that it may be time to consider some semicolons.    

Everybody else in the list looks a lot less charismatic. DeAnthony McGee was first chair alto saxophonist in the eighth grade, was nicknamed “Sax Man” in high school, and made the top lab band at Texas Tech. Trumpeter Corey Wilson worked in healthcare in Oklahoma and played with the Disney All-American College Band. Sound engineer Stephen Adkins is always smiling, formed a flag football team while working at the fire department and “keeps the dance floor packed mixing on the wheels of steel.”    

The Music section of the website carries two lists of songs that the band is capable of playing, one a mix of blues, ballads, jazz and dinner music, and the other strictly for dance. Most are covers of hits performed by better-known artists, or their poorly spelled counterparts. There’s Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone by Bill “Whithers”, Treat Her Like a Lady by the “Cornelious” Brothers, Billy Jean by “Micheal” Jackson, and It Ain’t Over til It’s Over by “Linny” Kravitz. Some of the dance tunes haven’t quite made it to my iPod yet, including Doin’ the Butt, Ms. New Booty and My Humps, though I’m confident they’ll appear soon enough. There are even several pieces by “ZZ Hill,” the legendary Texas boogie trio with not quite the prominence of ZZ Top, but certainly more elevated than ZZ Knoll.    

Finally, I’ll mention the Gallery of photos showing band members banging and blowing and otherwise abusing their instruments, and one where the guitar fights back, appearing to electrocute the unidentified axeman. There are 23 pictures in all, and I’ll leave you on your own to enjoy these if you like.    

All things considered, it’s an attractively designed website, not terribly full of worthwhile content and therefore reflective of its subject matter. There were some audio feeds that would’ve given me some idea of what the DWE sounded like, but of course these failed to work. Probably, not unlike the band itself.    

Experience the David Whiteman Experience

Revisited: 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.

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.   

    

  

  

  

  

  

 

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?”

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.”

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

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.

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.

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.”

Getting into the Christmas spirit

It’s the most wonderful time of the year, and I’m definitely starting to get into the Christmas spirit. But if being joyful and merry means I have to start being nice to people, I’m not sure I’m quite ready to make that commitment.    

See, I have a problem with goodwill toward men. I’m usually too impatient going about my daily activities to take the time to stop, chat, and have something akin to normal social relationships. It seems that if you took every opportunity during the course of a day to “chew the fat” with every acquaintance you met, your arteries would be hopelessly clogged and you’d never get anything done, except perhaps an emergency balloon angioplasty, and you’d have to squeeze that in.    

Take, for example, my almost-daily stop at a cafe near my house, where I’m working right now. There are several regulars that join me each afternoon, and by “join” I mean that we share approximately the same coordinates on the face of the globe. (Once, we shared exactly the same coordinates, but that’s only because they didn’t look behind themselves before sitting down).    

I’ll exchange at most a nod with these folks, because I’ve seen what happens when you do anything more. This one guy in particular …    

Yes, I'm talking about you

… is also working on his blog, as well as a book about why African-Americans should be flocking to the Republican Party (talk about a Christmas miracle). I’m not sure how he gets any work done, as he’s constantly shooting the breeze with baristas, cashiers, and anybody else that comes within a six-foot radius. “Are you on Facebook?” he asks the blood-spattered EMT tech who stopped for a quick double espresso. “What’s your email address again?” he inquires of a passing toddler. The other day he sighed loudly and said, to no one in particular, “I’m so glad I’m almost finished writing this book.”    

“Oh, you’re working on a book?” the friendly man sitting behind him might ask, though it’d probably be the last thing he says for the next half-hour.    

I am not that friendly man. I’m the bitter curmudgeon who responds in one of two ways when I see a familiar face enter the store — I switch to the other side of the table to put my back toward the door, or I’m suddenly transported into ultra-focused concentration on my work, internally debating the merits of comma or semicolon, dashes or parenthetical aside, new paragraph or yet another run-on. (Oh, damn, here he comes anyway.)    

However, it’s Christmastime, and even I am experiencing a buoyant spirit that pushes me beyond my normal inhibitions. I want to do something to reach out to others and share in the seasonal cheer, but I don’t want it to be mistaken for anything more than a limited-time offer. Don’t expect this kind of amity when January rolls around, because I’ve got the whole month penciled in for being dour.    

Maybe I could just hand out twenty-dollar bills. I tried that once with the homeless guy off the interstate exit ramp, however I ended up beaten in a culvert three states over.    

What I’m considering now is, for me, a radical step. I’m thinking of attending a holiday church service. This would allow me to kill two birds with one stone: devote a concentrated period to fellowship then get on with my life, and also soak up a little of the yuletide pageantry that I seem to be lacking in the broken 1989 Mannheim Steamroller cassette that continuously loops through the same song and a half. Three birds, actually, if you count saving my soul from eternal damnation.    

I come from a Christian family tradition, and regularly attended church as a youth, until I was confirmed at age 15 and promptly found better things to do. I have extremely fond memories of those times, as they’ve now become a colorful blur that fortunately excludes those excruciating sermons about how it’s good to be good, and bad to be bad. The music and decorations and family warmth, though, were wonderful.    

So I made a tentative recon sortie this past weekend, attending a “cookie walk” at the local Methodist church. Not exactly a formal date on the liturgical calendar, the annual sweets sale on the second weekend of December does provide a great opportunity to get a quick taste of the season with minimal human interaction. For $6, you get a small box from a friendly-but-distracted church lady, then walk down a row of decorated tables, pointing at the baked goods you want to be stuffed into your box. It’s a little like communion, only these dispensers handle the goods with sanitary gloves and don’t mumble quite as much.     

I made my way down the aisle with limited conversation, mostly a mix of “that one,” “this looks good” and “those are chocolate chips or raisins, right?” I was friendly without being grating, sincere without being affected, and completely superficial, just as I like it. When my box was full, I headed to a cake table where another slightly more eager Methodist stood watch. As I admired the Amish friendship bread, I heard the question I feared:    

“What church do you attend?”    

“Uh, none locally,” I stammered, hoping she’d think I was from a land far away.    

But now, I’m thinking I might be ready for a deeper experience that centers more on my eternal soul and less on my weakness for red-sprinkled shortbreads shaped like Santa. I’m looking at the church directory in our local newspaper for a house of worship that might possibly accommodate my belief that it’s possible a single small South Carolina parish is not the only group to have cornered the market on everlasting life.    

As you might imagine, there are many that don’t look particularly hopeful: the Real Life Assembly of God, the New Vision Freewill Baptist Church and the Calvary Ultimate Life Shield of Faith Evangelical Ministry, to mention a few. These don’t sound especially flexible in their theology (though I bet all the jumping up and down they do makes them quite agile physically), so I harken back to my Lutheran heritage. There’s a Missouri Synod branch called Epiphany Lutheran, though I believe I read that this synod maintains a strict belief in bad pro football teams (the Kansas City Chiefs, the St. Louis Rams, etc., hardly what you’d call solid rocks on which to build a church, especially their offensive lines). There’s Emmanuel Lutheran on Main Street, probably the town’s old-school congregation with old-school parishioners.    

I think I’m going to choose Grace Lutheran, not far from the local college. It offers both traditional and contemporary services and has a pastor named E. Ray Mohrmann, a great name for a Lutheran. They do claim to have communion at all services, not something I’d necessarily brag about but not a deal-breaker for me. Maybe there will also be communion in a larger sense, and I’ll get the chance to fraternize with cheerful, Christmas-addled types and consume wheat-based foodstuffs at the same time.    

 ”Take and eat, for this is the Body of Christ,” I imagine E. Ray will ask me. And I’ll be ready to respond: “Thanks for the snack. Hope you’re ready for the holidays. Have you gotten all your shopping done? I can’t believe those lines at the post office. I hear we might get some snow next week. Give my best to your family.”

Team-building breaks out at climate conference

I heard a news item on the radio the other day reporting that delegates at the Climate Change Conference in Copenhagen were dividing into “breakout” sessions. I immediately recalled way too many days during my corporate career spent in seminars listening to motivational, team and quality trainers spouting endless tripe while waving their markers in the air and pawing at their overhead projections.

At some point during these affairs, participants are inevitably broken up into smaller groups and given childish assignments that, if nothing else, wake them up. These “games trainers play” give the presenters a chance to go on the internet and look for a better job while their hapless audience makes paper airplanes and/or a beeline for the emergency exit.

Perhaps not the “breakout” organizers were intending but still a chance for team members to get creative and think outside the box or, in many cases, outside the local Hilton.

As a former corporate trainer myself, I wanted to find out more about these sessions. I wanted to sympathize with the government officials from around the world who not only had to endure a mind-numbing symposium but also Scandinavian winter and Danish food which, as I understand it, is woefully short of actual Danish. However, when I searched online for “climate change breakout,” all I could find were stories about the violence that had broken out among the thousands of protestors in attendance outside.

So I decided to dig out a manual from my old training days to figure what they might be up to in Denmark. “Team Workout” describes itself as a trainer’s sourcebook of team-building games and activities. It contains 50 recipes for getting seminar attendees on their feet and involved in activity — “icebreaking,” as it was called in those days before global warming, when such a thing was necessary.

The following are a few of the exercises that could play a role in saving our precious planet from greenhouse gas emissions which might otherwise doom us all:

Activity 6: Creating a Team Logo — The purpose of this activity is to initiate a discussion of team purpose and values employing an easel, flipchart, markers and push pins. At the end of the 45-minute session, the team presents its logo along with its rationale to the larger group. Other teams can ask questions for clarification, such as “what were you thinking?” and “can you believe they’re making us do this?” The book says “the team may elect to take the logo back to the workplace and use it in some fashion,” but that hardly seems likely unless there’s some type of spill that needs to be cleaned up. Variations include creating a team slogan, song or name, or selecting a well-known song, movie or television show that reflects the team’s values. I might suggest “Lost” or “So You Think You Can Team-Build?”

Activity 14: Get SMART — Six to eight people sit around a rectangular table learning the SMART protocol for preparing team goals. Goals should be Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Relevant and Time-Bound. Individuals suggest goals for the group, then 7 minutes is spent reaching a consensus. (Plenty of time to figure out how to undo a century of environmental abuse). A sample goal that meets all five criteria is “by the end of the third quarter, 90 percent of all requests from customers will be handled within 48 hours.” A goal that might not be exact enough could be something like “try not to die.”

Activity 16: How’s Your Team’s Vision? — This one gives employees the opportunity to learn about the “strategic planning process,” from “visioning” and “culture alignment” to “planning a plan” and “gap analysis.” A monster of an endeavor clocking in at 4 hours, this workout ends with the team evaluating how close they are to realizing their vision: on a scale of one to ten, one means “we are nowhere,” five means “we are halfway there,” and ten means “we are there.” Or, the facilitator can simply choose one of the listed variations – ”have the team members evaluate their effectiveness in advance” — but then the lunch break would come at 10 a.m. and the boxed sandwiches and stale cookies won’t be arriving till 11:30 at the earliest.

Activity 26: Rhyme Time — This game provides an opportunity for the team to work together on a joint task while sitting in a cluster of chairs. A deck of cards is prepared in advance, containing questions that will have a pair of rhyming words as the answer. The rules are that “there are no rules,” except of the course that the answers contain two words which rhyme. For example, a cause-and-effect diagram prepared by a team of well-to-do members is a “hightone fishbone.” An informal recognition given as a natural part of the regular work day is an “herbal verbal.” An ironic acknowledgement a team can give a manager who shows little interest in them is a “bored award.” You get the idea.

Activity 36: Tell-a-Story Teaming — This activity helps team members enhance their creative-thinking skills, works well with large groups and introduces the concept of 5×7 index cards. The facilitator instructs the group to develop a short story that includes eight suggested topics — a person, place, object, animal, activity, food, occupation and mood. ”Some dude went to the store wearing a mask and carrying his cat. He stole some Slim Jims from the clerk, and felt good about it. The end.” In the debriefing portion of the session, the team is asked how this activity will help them back on the job. This is when team members really get the chance to be creative.

Activity 50: Yea, Team! — I think this is supposed to be pronounced “yay, team,” but the sarcastic inflection (as in “yea, right”) is probably more accurate. This “energizing” activity requires a minimum of 20 people unfamiliar with each other and, perhaps not surprisingly, “a large enough room to allow participants to move around.” Prior to the session, the organizer has to learn information about people in the group — hobbies, interests, past experiences or unusual facts. There’s an elaborate description of the process for this activity, but it seems to boil down to having people mill about, eventually standing on large grid squares containing a trait that applies to them. Examples given include “likes to tie flies,” “survived an earthquake” and “has a rich fantasy life.” Every time you encounter someone who shares this characteristic with you, you write the letters T, E, A or M on a smaller paper grid, and at some point, somebody yells out “yea, team” and is declared the winner, usually of a t-shirt or hat with corporate logo. Variations include having a cow plop on the winning square, having Bob Barker serve as master of ceremonies, or having Bob Barker plop on a square.

…and this last bullet point proves I’m an idiot

Website Review: Billy Graham Library

The death Wednesday of televangelist Oral Roberts leaves behind only one other elder statesman of Christianity, if you don’t count God. The Rev. Billy Graham has spent much of his 91 years ministering not only to his Southern Baptist base but to presidents, world leaders and millions of participants in his crusades around the globe. He even found time during the turbulent 1960s to run the Fillmore music venue in San Francisco, introducing the nation to seminal bands such as the Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane.

No, wait — that was Bill Graham, promoter and rock impresario.

See, I could keep these two straight if only I’d visit the Billy Graham Library, a Charlotte, N.C. site that houses memorabilia from the famous minister’s life. Built in 2007, the 40,000-square-foot “experience” allows visitors to discover the life and legacy of America’s pastor. The 20 landscaped acres include the “barn-shaped” library itself, a multimedia presentation about his dynamic journey from farm boy to international ambassador of God’s love, a prayer garden and the Graham Brothers Dairy Bar, featuring sandwiches, salads, cookies and ice cream (as it is in Heaven, no outside food allowed).

Billboards throughout the Carolinas promote the library with the tag line “No Books to Check Out … Just His Story,” lest potential visitors be scared off by the prospect of having to read something. However, the advertising is probably intended more for those who are just passing through, as those of us who live here are already well aware of the now-retired reverend’s impact on the area. Visitors to Charlotte are still alarmed to find that, in order to drive to the airport, you have to “take Billy Graham,” the parkway named in his honor, not the actual man, who is too frail to do much air travel these days. Locals take the influence for granted.

Now I’m not about to start making fun of an elderly, gentle man of God, even though he may have made some questionable political choices during his career. Despite early associations with right-wing nutcase Bob Jones and a well-known chumminess with Nixon, Reagan and assorted Bushes, Graham did oppose segregation in the South, even going so far as to bail Martin Luther King, Jr., out of jail at one point. So while I may be willing to give him a pass, I reserve no such restraint for the website promoting his library, which is the subject of this week’s Website Review.

The home page includes some basic information about the library (obvious things like closed Sunday, no firearms or pets permitted, MasterCard and Visa accepted at the gift shop) and an overview of key features. There are re-creations of historic moments in Graham’s life, “amazing” films and more than 350 photographs, and an opportunity to “submerse yourself” in a special room dedicated to his late wife, Ruth. There’s also a brief video, slickly produced but a little lacking in audio quality, in particular the introduction that at first listen sounds like “experience the journey of one simple mind that impacted millions.” And there’s a description of the site’s centerpiece, the restored Graham Family Homeplace, which was rebuilt using 80 percent of the original materials and, presumably, 20 percent of stuff from Lowe’s.

The home page also includes news releases and testimonials about the power of God as exercised through Rev. Graham. There’s a statement in reaction to Oral Roberts’ death — Graham “loved him as a brother” and “looks forward to seeing him in Heaven” — and one from Billy’s son Franklin, who has taken over much of the day-to-day operations of the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association. Franklin, naturally, had spoken to Roberts’ son Richard, and judiciously avoided saying anything about how his father could now beat up Richard’s father.

The testimonials are mostly from average Christians who have visited the library recently. “I can’t think of a better place to spend my birthday other than Heaven,” notes Chrissy from Louisburg, N.C. “I lived across the street from the Smithsonian in Washington for many years and it has nothing on this library,” says Fred from Lexington, S.C. “My son is addicted to meth and was ready to commit suicide,” writes one father, a bit off-topic.

There’s also a long piece from a former atheist and alcoholic (there’s a difference?) who came to Christ after being told by her bartender she should attend the local crusade, then showing up and hyperventilating among 65,000 Christians, then fleeing to the sidewalk outside to catch her breath, then becoming “completely transformed” because the sermon could still be heard in the parking lot. Now she has a radio show and is available through the Captivating Women Speaker Bureau.

There’s a Reservations pulldown encouraging advance arrangements for parties larger than 15 people, so theoretically Jesus’ 12 disciples could just show up unannounced but will be advised to wear comfortable shoes, allow at least two hours for the visit, and need to provide their own strollers and wheelchairs. A Get Involved section solicits volunteer library workers who have prayerfully considered their ability to stand on their feet for four hours at a stretch (no mention of requiring familiarity with the Dewey Decimal system).

The Special Events area describes two recent happenings, a Teddy Bear Tea Party and something called “Bikers with Boxes,” and promotes the currently running “Christmas at the Library” festivities. The latter actually sounds like fun, with a live nativity, horse-drawn carriage rides through a beautiful lights display, strolling carolers and holiday goodies. If you can nudge the Joseph actor to break character and burst into a giggling fit, you might even qualify for a free plate of Mother Graham’s poundcake and hot apple cider, though that’s unlikely since I just made it up.

There’s an extensive Books and Gifts section with some great ideas for holiday giving, such as DVDs, festive cards and the library barn Christmas ornament. A daily prayer journal with insights from Billy Graham will help you keep track of which requests God has already granted and which are on back-order. And there’s a whole collection of resources “equipping tweens to live for Christ” called the “Dare to be a Daniel” series. I checked with my son, who is an actual Daniel,  and he hopes there’d be minimal emphasis on being eaten by a lion and more about going out to movies and Taco Bell with friends.

The pulldown about “Billy Graham, The Man,” is one I will respectfully decline to deride, other than to note that his answer to the question he hears everywhere he goes is that hope in the future is possible “through Jesus Christ,” and that he looks ridiculous in his white wedding  tuxedo.

Finally, I’ll mention a Special Announcement that will be of interest to anyone who plans to visit the library soon. It will be closed. Despite being in business for only two years since its construction, the facility will shut down for several months of extensive upgrades and improvements beginning Jan. 11 and continuing until spring 2010. Local news reports at the time of the announcement indicated that there are significant issues with acoustics in many of the exhibits, allowing sound from adjacent rooms to bleed through the walls. So, for example, during quiet reflection in a chapel you may suddenly hear what seems to be the Lord Almighty ordering a tuna salad sandwich and a chocolate milkshake but is in fact bleed-through from bustle in the Dairy Bar.

But the website will continue to remain in service during construction, so you can virtually enjoy the glory of God as reflected in his humble servant Billy Graham from the comfort of your own personal family homeplace or barn.

Revisited: New ideas from 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

Revisited: More new ideas from 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.

“Avatar” is a movie (film review)

James Cameron’s Avatar has been described as a completely new type of filmmaking. Digital motion capture methods used in a three-dimensional format combine with expert story-telling and riveting action sequences to create a movie-going experience unlike anything ever seen before. So say most critics.  

This reviewer largely agrees, but believes several key points have been overlooked in the rush to praise.  

The film opens with lights dimming throughout the theatre and a murmur of expectation from audience members, all of whom are wearing plastic eyeglass appliances. Soon, a beam of light appears from high on a wall in the back of the room, and makes its way at hundreds of thousands of miles per second through the dusty air and onto a screen. Fortunately, the heavy maroon curtains had been opened several minutes earlier, so the images don’t appear as dark and muddy as they might otherwise be.  

Muted music accompanies the initial appearance of various letters of the English alphabet, assembled into small groupings and flashed onto the white vinyl. The word “by” makes several showings, as do what appear to be proper names. Past participles — indicating direction, production and something called “executive” production — seem to indicate that physical beings were involved in the assembly of the images.  

Soon we see colors and shapes moving in what at first appear to be random motion. Photons emitted from the projection room bounce off the vertical screen surface and reflect back to the audience, whose optic nerves fire reactively. Perceptions are cast into the prefrontal cortex of the brains in attendance, which then interpret the images and make them out to be some type of creatures. Most in attendance seem pleased at the moderate level of stimulation.  

Despite its pre-release buzz as an “action” picture, the light dances slowly at first across the towering white panel. Soon there are vocals, probably vertebrate in origin, that begin to be heard, and the shapes form into vaguely recognizable pictures. The voices speak softly at first, as a quiet setting is established to better contrast with the loud noises that will follow. More musical tones are clumped together in an arrangement at once both random and concerted.  

About a third of the way into the film, a man in a business suit appears just in front of the stage. He holds a small flashlight but is careful to keep it shining on the floor in front of him. This helps him ascend the steps without tripping. A foreshadowing sequence from earlier in the movie indicates that he may be looking for users of cell phones; not just those receiving calls but some who might be text-messaging or perhaps even attempting to record a “bootleg.” Viewers in attendance were told earlier to either set their phones on vibrate or turn them off entirely, so the suited man’s likelihood of success in finding a perpetrator is in doubt. Within a few minutes, he turns and leaves.  

Back on the screen, it’s becoming increasingly noticeable that there’s a small seam in the vinyl. It may be the beginning of a tear, or it may simply be the point at which two different parts of the plastic are connected. When the film shows representations of deep space, forested venues on the planet Panera, or Sigourney Weaver’s face, the ugly scar is not as obvious. But when bright sky or other light-colored likenesses are shown, the mark is distracting at best.  

About halfway through Avatar, there’s a prolonged scene where individuals are running around and making loud noises, while the music rises in accompaniment. This is exciting. Many of the shots are close-ups, while others are what’s known in the trade as “long shots.” The cinematographer frequently moves his camera at this point in the film, sometimes making a smooth “pan” while at other times simulating the anarchy of the moment by jiggling it up and down, to and fro.  

Just when the action seems to be approaching its climax, a fat lady decides she has to leave the auditorium, probably to purchase a concession from the stand outside or to relieve herself. (I fault the screenwriter for not making this more clear). I found this to be one of Cameron’s more lightweight portrayals, though the character did make quite an impression on the foot of the guy next to her. As her immense form moved across the screen in front of me, I could see that the director’s intent was to create an interruption, a distraction that would make the soon-to-arrive finale even more all-enveloping. Within minutes, the woman returned with a medium-sized popcorn. The audience quietly admired her resistance to the upsell she probably faced (only 25 cents more for a large). Yet in our row, it was just more annoyance that she had decided to return.  

Outside, the Earth continued to experience climate change — perhaps influenced by man, perhaps not – while farther out in the ether, galaxies spun at rates that could only be guessed at. Inside the cineplex, none of this mattered, as the audience continued to be tightly gripped into the 150th minute of the historic epic unfolding in front of them. The tall blue things, members of the Navaho clan, waged a do-or-die battle with the shorter beige things. Whether blue or beige, all involved seemed to be highly agitated.  

Finally, the broad beams of colored light changed to a simple white, and shaped themselves into “THE END.” Then, there are more letters and words rising from the bottom of the screen to the top, symbolizing how the lowly can overcome their pedestrian position and still rise up. At least in Hollywood, anyway.  

No animals were harmed in the production of this film.  

Patrons exit the theater, too numb from the experience to speak much, except for the occasional reference to how their back is killing them, or a reminder to throw the candy wrappers in the bins provided. The auteur behind such landmark works as Titanic, The Abyss and Terminator 2 has worked his magic again. An assistant manager sits quietly in a small room next to the box office, counting up how much was spent on tickets, and how much of that will be the cut of his franchise. (Not much, since most of their profit comes from concessions).  

Outside, people get into their cars and drive away, going on with their lives, yet eager to relive the experience tomorrow with friends and relatives who were going to a later show.  

A significant part of the movie "Avatar"

Fake News Briefs (holiday edition): Death, disease and Hitler

Woman described as “chicken” dies

TOPEKA, Kansas (Dec. 21) — Jane Hampton, 57, beloved wife and mother, and a friend to nearly everyone she met, died Saturday after a less-than-courageous struggle against Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.

Diagnosed with the fatal ailment almost a year ago, Jane did not fight tirelessly against the malady that would eventually claim her life. She pretty much knew there was no chance she would survive and she figured, why bother?

“We see so many patients who come through here battling with all their might to overcome their sickness. Jane was not one of these,” said Dr. Henry Emerson, chief of neurological disorders at Plains General Hospital. “She was scared to death. Well, not literally scared to death — that can be attributed to the spongiform encephalopathy that was eating her brain.”

“But I’ve rarely seen anyone who gave up so easily,” Emerson said. “What a chicken she was.”

Family members remember Jane reacting with dismay, then resignation when she learned she had what is commonly known as “mad cow disease.” When she found out that a new treatment regimen could prolong her life by as much as several years, she said there was no way she would allow herself to be poked with needles and given other types of aggressive care.

“I still remember the look in her eye when we spelled out her options,” said head nurse Ellen Jensen. “She told me in no uncertain terms, ‘No. Get away. That machine looks like it will hurt.’ They were just simple x-rays but she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, even though she was afraid of just about everything else.”

Vaccination fever spreading

ATLANTA (Dec. 21) — Widespread shortages in the swine flu vaccine reported earlier this year have apparently dissipated. Now, an excess of the medicine on the market is requiring health care professionals to get creative with ideas for how to dispense the drug to those not yet vaccinated.

The newest method of distribution is being seen at convenience stores. Vials of the H-1-N-1 vaccine are placed next to the take-one-give-one penny tray, with customers being encouraged to inject themselves as they pay for their gasoline, cigarettes and beer. It is hoped the similar rhyming meter of the two phrases will trigger a connection that encourages preventive care along with the attempt to reduce pocket change.

Some stores are also offering the medication as part of their fountain drink set-up. Capitalizing on the popularity of the self-serve ”Big Gulp,” the Seven-Eleven chain is dispensing the anti-flu remedy through a drink nozzle. To eliminate the need for dangerous syringes in an area of the store so often inhabited by oafs and clods, specially hardened plastic straws will be made available for customers to jab themselves with.

Also joining in the effort to get most of the U.S. population inoculated by the first of the year are Subway sandwich shops and GameStop, a retailer of video games. Subway’s “sandwich artists” will have a vat of the serum positioned next to the vegetable toppings, so that patrons can have it sprinkled onto their orders along with lettuce and tomatoes. At GameStop, clerks will circle a phone number printed onto receipts and encourage people to respond to a customer service survey, noting that random callers will win an Xbox game version of the disease.

Perhaps the most innovative approach is being taken by the Harris-Teeter chain of grocery stores. As part of their “Very Important Customer” loyalty program, shoppers who spend a minimum of $50 per order for 12 consecutive weeks will win a free Easter ham that has been marinated in the flu vaccine. With a tag line of “When Swine Flew,” the campaign will borrow from the popular adage “when pigs fly” to encourage VIC customers to protect themselves and their families from the pandemic while “racking up savings that will make your wallet as fat as a hog.”

Hitler was mending his ways at war’s end

BERLIN (Dec. 20) — Newly uncovered documents at the German national museum reveal that World War II madman Adolf Hitler was just starting to turn his life around when he died in an underground bunker as Allied troops advanced on the city.

The Nazi murderer responsible for perhaps 30 million deaths during aggression on three continents had “come to see the negative impact his behavior was having on relatives, friends and co-workers” and had sought counseling to address his genocidal impulses. Only two months before the 1945 fall of the Third Reich, Hitler had embarked on a twelve-step program to curtail his more harmful urges.

“He was working his way down the list of people that he had wronged, trying to personally apologize to each and every one,” wrote Hermann Witzer, human resources manager of the Nazis’ Berlin office. “It really looked like he was headed in the right direction after so many years of difficulty. All of us had noticed a change in his manner.”

Several observers interviewed by Russian and American officers in the days following victory in Europe noted that “it was such a tragic shame” that he didn’t have time to show the world how his outlook on life had improved.

“We were starting to see a new Adolf, one who was more concerned with the feelings of others and less fixated on world domination,” said Witzer. “He had already been on probation twice so he knew we were watching him. He didn’t want to get written up again but, more importantly, I think, he wanted to improve himself for his own internal satisfaction.”

Hitler’s final desperate acts in April of that year — killing his dog and its puppies, then ordering mistress Eva Braun to take poison, and then shooting himself in the head — were “totally out of character with the person that he was rapidly becoming.”

“It’s so sad to see such backsliding,” Witzer told investigators. “There was such a potential there.”

Who's a good boy?

Christo: The reason for the season

Only two more days till the big day is here. Most of us have finished our shopping, finished our party-going, and are just about finished with being cheerful. The time has now come to settle back with loved ones, and let the true meaning of the holiday wash over us.

It’s time to put “Christo” back in Christmas.

The man whose birth we celebrate on Friday came from humble beginnings, only to emerge later in life as the transformative fabric artist we all know. Even if we don’t worship him as a God, virtually everyone acknowledges the positive impact he’s made on Western culture.

The performance/outdoor installation master we know today as Christo began life as Christo Vladimir Javacheff, born in a tiny Bulgarian town in 1935. His actual birth date was probably around June 13 (scholars have arrived at that date from contemporary descriptions of flocks in the field and from well-maintained birth records in the registrar’s office) though we now stage our celebration around the time of the pagans’ winter solstice.

His father, Vladimir Yavachev, was a scientist, yet he didn’t allow unblinking loyalty to the scientific method to cloud the metaphysical belief that his son was the Christo Child. Mother Tsveta Dimitrova worked two full-time jobs, as both a secretary at the Academy of Fine Arts and as a virgin (the latter position didn’t pay very well but had great benefits in a time when Europe was ravaged with venereal disease).

Young Christo displayed artistic talent at a very early age. Legend has it that once, when his mother experienced a chill, he picked up a throw rug and draped over Tsveta’s shivering shoulders, presaging a career that would see him wrap both natural and manmade objects in immense swaths of cloth and label it “environmental art.” He studied at the Sofia Academy and in Prague for four years, then spent the spring break of 1957 on a train trip to Austria after bribing a railway official to let him out of the Communist bloc.

In October 1958, he was commissioned to paint a portrait of Precilda de Guillebon, the mother of the woman who would become his wife and partner for the next fifty years, and known simply as Jeanne-Claude. Initially attracted to her half-sister, he got Jeanne-Claude pregnant instead (sounds like a tragically missed encasing opportunity). Already engaged to another man, she proceeded with the wedding at Christo’s insistence — it’s said he was intrigued by the prospect of seeing so many covered packages among the wedding gifts – but abandoned her new husband immediately after the honeymoon. Jeanne-Claude’s parents were displeased with the relationship because he was a refugee, even though they had plenty of other good reasons.

By 1961 Christo had become wealthy with the invention and patent of the cooking oil Crisco, allowing the two young artists to begin their first major work, covering barrels in the German port of Cologne. In 1962, without the consent of local authorities and as a statement against the Berlin Wall (?), they blocked off a small street near the river Seine with a different set of barrels, while Jeanne-Claude convinced approaching police to let the piece stand for several hours. Somehow, this made them famous in Paris, which convinced them to leave for the U.S.

Flying to New York on separate planes to ensure that both would not die in the same accident, unless of course the two planes crashed into each other, the duo began their American careers. Christo struggled with the English language (as he had struggled with French, and Bulgarian, for that matter), which led him to simplify the crediting of work done by both he and his wife. Even though Jeanne-Claude was the natural organizer, the extrovert and the one who dyed her hair bright red and smoked cigarettes, it was “Christo” who was famous artist. It wasn’t until 1994 that he retroactively gave her half-credit for the work.

Christo loved the freedom of America, and loved how many things it had to wrap. He had been “stateless” since his arrival in Austria years before, and decided to become a U.S. citizen in 1973. He studied hard to pass the citizenship exam, and had to take it several times until it finally sunk in that cotton, denim, acetate, acrylic, nylon, flannel and microfiber were neither presidents nor provisions in the Bill of Rights. One of his proudest moments would come in 2005 when New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg said it was okay with him if Christo wanted to erect his most famous project, “The Gates,” in Central Park, as long as he cleaned up after himself. It was that signature piece — 7,503 gates made of saffron-colored fabric and placed on paths throughout the park — which cemented Christo’s image in the public consciousness.

His other most notable works included “Documenta 4,” an inflated air package that hovered 280 feet over Europe for ten hours in 1968; “Running Fence,” a curtain of fabric that ran through the mountains and into the sea; “Surrounded Islands,” the wrapping of eleven islands in Florida’s Biscayne Bay in pink woven polypropylene in 1983; and the 1995 packaging of the German parliament building, the Reichstag, in fabric. He also installed thousands of umbrellas in Japan and California in a seven-year project appropriately called “The Umbrellas,” that ended colorfully (blue for Japan, yellow for the U.S.) but tragically (two people killed) in 1991.

Not all of Christo’s work was so serious as to be potentially fatal. An important part of Christmas is the fun and levity the season brings, and this is reflected in some of his most light-hearted work. After cartoonist Charles Schulz drew an episode of his comic strip “Peanuts” with Snoopy’s doghouse wrapped in fabric, Christo constructed a wrapped doghouse and presented it to the Schulz Museum in 2003. The artist is also considering ways to enrobe some other popular animated figures, including the Taunting Robot who jumps up and down in the corner of the screen during Fox TV football broadcasts, and Senator Mitch McConnell (R-Kent.).

Tragically, Christo’s life partner Jeanne-Claude died of a brain aneurysm only a month ago, casting a pall over the current holiday season. But knowing Christo’s resilience and his central role in the seasonal theme of new life, he’ll probably take that pall and wrap it around something festive, much like he folded himself into sackcloth to create the Shroud of Turin during his early years in Europe.

So as you finalize your Christmas preparations over the next 48 hours, don’t forget to take time to remember the reason for the season. When you wrap up that last present and put it under the tree, don’t forget that it was Christo who was born into this world to save mankind and to offer the idea that gifts temporarily concealed by gaily colored swathing was a great way to celebrate the advent of a Savior.

Christo: He's in there somewhere

No obligatory ‘Twas the Night’ parody this year

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the press

All the pundits were searching for words to address

How insurance reform to improve our healthcare

Could be done if Joe Lieberman would only play fair

 

The Senators nestled all snug in their seats

While the House members clamored for pork barrel teats

Obama’s in Denmark, Glenn Beck’s on TV

All I want is a doctor who’ll help me to pee

Aw … screw this.

There will likely be thousands of parodies of “A Visit from St. Nicholas” published in the next 24 hours, with probably 90% of those about the healthcare reform debate going on in Congress right up till Christmas Eve. The more I think about it, the more I’d rather not be a part of that thundering herd of journalistic caribou.

I could just re-run the parody I wrote last year at this time. It’s a hilarious take on the difficulty President Obama was having selecting members of his first cabinet, and has as much relevance today as, well, as the Y2K bug and Garth Brooks. So maybe I’ll go in a different direction.

I’ve already done a lot of research on obscure Congressmen, how their vote could sway the final tally, and how well their name could fit into the rhyme scheme of the above-aborted parody. It was not looking easy.

“On Ruppersberger! On Frelinghuysen! On Faleomavaego! On Christian-Christensen! On Judy Chu! On Anna Eshoo! On Flake, Fudge and Stupak!”

Then there was the prospect of dealing with the leading Republican opponent of reform in the House, Minority Leader John Boehner. Does he rhyme with “insaner,” “moaner” or “Donner”? And if he did play the role of a reindeer in the poem, wouldn’t his orange pallor clash with Rudolph’s red nose?

I finally got distracted enough by the list of House members to abandon my attempt at parody, and simply enjoy a good laugh at the expense of certain representatives with amusing names. Now I realize we’ll never surpass the height of immature hilarity we had in the golden times earlier this decade, when the three most powerful men in government were George Bush, Dick Cheney and Colin Powell, and their top legislative lieutenants were Dick Armey and Tom DeLay. (If only Secretary of Defense nominee Seymour Butz hadn’t been rejected in that nanny-cam scandal…)

So here I present members of the Funny Named Congressional Caucus. If you want to try to arrange them into some semblance of a poem, good luck.

• Steve Austria

• Joe Baca

• Brian Bilbray

• John Boozman

• Madeleine Bordallo

• Bobby Bright

• Norman Dicks

• Chaka Fattah

• Jeff Flake

• Marcia Fudge

• Al Green

• Dale Kildee

• Marcy Kaptur

• Jerry Lewis

• David Loebsack

• David Obey

• John Shadegg

• Adam Smith

• Zachary Space

• Bart Stupak

• Chris Van Hollen

• Zach Wamp

• Tony Weiner

• Joseph Cao

• Louie Gohmert

• Bob Goodlatte

• Mike Honda

• Chellie Pingree

• Eric J.J. Massa

• Bobby Rush

Already thinking of next year’s Christmas card

Merry Christmas to everyone!

(There’s an original start to a blog posting for today.)

That being said, I’m already starting to look forward and plan for next Christmas, and I need your help. Christmas Eve is usually my favorite part of Christmas, in part due to the air of expectation of what the next day will bring, but also because everything is still open for business and people are scurrying about in merry preparation.

I spent yesterday cleaning up my yard, then took a brisk walk to the grocery store, then headed up to the big regional mall to buy one last Christmas present for my son. It was simultaneously chaotic, reflective and cleansing, and may end up being my fondest memory of the 2009 holiday season (especially considering we have pouring rain forecast for the entire day today).

In the process of yesterday’s activities, I snapped a few photos with my cell phone, and it occurred to me how great it would be to capture yesterday’s mood for repackaging in next year’s Christmas cards. Personalized cards are easier to produce than ever. Usually, they show a happy family wearing their Christmas finery and gathered around their tree, or perhaps a new baby in the family, or maybe a cow. Mine is going to portray one of the following joyful scenes from yesterday.

Please review the pictures, read a little bit about the context, and send me a comment about which one you think might make the best cover for my 2010 Christmas card.

I started Christmas Eve day leaf-blowing the final remnants of fall out of my yard and onto the curbside. See how nice my lawn looks and what a neat pile of leaves I’ve left in the gutter? This scene of blessed order amidst the randomness of nature could make a great representation of why this time of year is so special to so many people.

This is me, walking to the grocery store. I may not look particularly jolly on the face of it but, trust me, I’m literally bursting with good cheer. I think the light and shadow are nicely captured, as is the discount bridal barn I’m passing across the street. I don’t think anybody’s going to mistake me for Santa, but this shot does show I have the chunky old man part down pretty good.

This is the inside of the Apple store in Charlotte’s SouthPark Mall around 3 p.m. Christmas Eve. Notice the red-shirted elves helping all the customers decide how best to dispose of their life savings. (We opted for the hard-to-find “Magic Mouse” which had just arrived in the last shipment before Christmas). I was also wearing a red shirt, and would’ve enjoyed being mistaken for an Apple employee. “Yes, this model is just what you need,” I could say. “It even has a calculator and a clock!”

Revisited: Doing the Charleston

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.

Holiday weekend leftovers

Tip to film producers: How about if we, as the movie-going public, assume that your production will star Robert Downey Jr. and Sandra Bullock, and you just tell us if that’s not the case. Just put “No Robert Downey Jr.” or “No Sandra Bullock” in the credits; otherwise, we’ll suppose they’re part of the cast.

♦   ♦   ♦   ♦

After listening to “Silent Night” for about the hundredth time over the holiday season, I began to think how awesome it would be to have “radiant beams from thy holy face.” The “holy” part doesn’t seem as critical, but having radiant beams emanating from your face (presuming they could knock bad guys to the ground or set them afire) would be a wonderful super-power.

♦   ♦   ♦   ♦

I tried to send the text message of “Merry Christmas” to a relative on Friday. Not only was that a big faux pas on a social level, it nearly led to a very significant misunderstanding. When I typed the first two letters into my ancient Razr phone, the auto-complete feature wanted to change my intended “Merry” to “Merely.” Once I corrected this and began typing the second word, the next suggestion was “Chronic” instead of “Christmas.” So my wishes for a joyous holiday season could have come out to be “Merely Chronic.” Even after I corrected the second error, and got as far as “Chri-”, my phone suggested “Christchurch” instead of “Christmas.” Are references to the second-largest city in New Zealand really more common the biggest holiday on the calendar?

♦   ♦   ♦   ♦

I know cats are supposed to be one of the cleanest creatures around, but surely people aren’t that far behind, are we? I hugged my sleeping cat the other day, and as soon as I let him go, he started licking all the human off his fur. Made me feel absolutely filthy. Tom, I’ve seen your cat box and, trust me, you have as many hygiene issues as I do.

♦   ♦   ♦   ♦

My wife and I donated blood on Saturday at a drive being sponsored by the local movie theater. As reward for our goodwill, we’ll each receive a free movie ticket. However, certain high-quality first-run showings currently in release are excluded from this offer, so I’m guessing there will either be Morgans or chipmunks in the film we see.

Incidentally, the email that reminded us of our blood drive sign-up included a Bing-created map with directions of how to get from the theater to the bloodmobile sitting in its parking lot. Apparently, you make a left turn out of the cineplex, walk 80 yards in a straight line, and you’re there. I did not realize that Web-based travel sites could be helpful on such a small scale. I’m going to try MapQuesting the way from my kitchen to my bathroom. Maybe there’s a shortcut I’m not aware of.

♦   ♦   ♦   ♦

I watched enough football games in the last few weeks to be severely disappointed that nobody gave me a new Lexus for Christmas.

♦   ♦   ♦   ♦

Probably the nicest Christmas gift I received was a handmade knitted piece from my wife that I can drape over my nightstand. It’s a beautifully woven work that she put a lot of time and effort into, and makes a wonderfully personalized present. Unfortunately, I didn’t know exactly what to call it when I described it to my mother during our Christmas phone call, and apparently “doily” is not the proper term (at least I didn’t use “placemat” or “coaster”). There’s apparently a thing known as the “dresser scarf” that “everybody” (except me and perhaps every other man on the planet) knows about. I stand humbled and corrected.

♦   ♦   ♦   ♦

I hate America. Not the nation, the seventies soft-rock band. I had forgotten how horrible their body of work was, remembering only vaguely the monotonic “Horse With No Name.”  Now, thanks to some random button-punching on my car radio yesterday,  I’ve been reminded of their 1971 hit “Sandman,” the lyrics of which still speak to us with poignancy almost 40 years after its release. “Funny, I’ve been there/And you’ve been here/And we ain’t had no time to drink that beer/Cause I understand you’ve been running from the man who goes by the name of the Sandman/He flies the sky like an eagle in the eye of a hurricane that’s abandoned.” So true.

♦   ♦   ♦   ♦

Actual “breaking news” headline crawl across the bottom of the screen from CNN the other day: “Dog Stuck in Hole.”

♦   ♦   ♦   ♦

The attack on the Pope during his Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve was invariably described in the press as a case of the pope being “knocked down.” Why was this the action verb of choice? It makes him sound like an inanimate object, like a mailbox or a fence. The poor pontiff was physically assaulted by a madwoman, for Christ’s sake (well, maybe not Christ’s, but whatever demon she answers to). I can’t wait to hear the formal charge authorities place against her. Probably “premeditated shoving.”

♦   ♦   ♦   ♦

It’s been great to read all the Ten Best and Ten Worst lists being published at the end of the decade. I would agree that “H” was the best consonant in the last ten years, but would argue strongly that “V” was far worse than the survey’s choice of ”P” for the bottom letter. I don’t think there can be any doubt, however, that leading the top ten for best member of the popular country singing group Brooks and Dunn was Brooks, while Dunn definitely belongs in the bottom ten.

♦   ♦   ♦   ♦

I’m standing in the ten items or less line at Target on Saturday. The guy in front of me has only three items, yet one of them is a big-screen TV that he’s using some combination of gifts cards, debit cards, credit cards, cash, store credit and, apparently, shiny stones, to pay for. Doesn’t this violate the spirit of the express lane? Shouldn’t the physical mass of the objects being purchased count as much as the number of separate articles? I propose a “ten cubic meters or less” line so that volume can be given proper consideration. Also, a “two-bottles-of-soap-and-a-DVD” line, because that’s what I was buying.

♦   ♦   ♦   ♦

The winner of Friday’s contest to select my personalized Christmas card for next year was the photo of dead leaves in the gutter in front of my house. Thanks to all who voted.

 

Revisited: A review of the bowl games

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.

Fake News: Terrorist threat canned

DETROIT (Dec. 27) — An attorney for accused terrorist Umar Abdulmutallab has denied that her client’s pants being on fire was evidence that the Nigerian was a “liar liar” when he failed to tell security of his plans to blow up Flight 253 Christmas Day.

Public defender Miriam Siefer said Abdulmutallab was never asked by authorities if he intended to detonate an explosive device aboard the Amsterdam-to-Detroit flight on Friday. The 20-year-old student was overpowered by fellow passengers when fire erupted in his lap during the Delta jet’s final approach.

“We’re not saying he didn’t do anything,” Siefer told reporters. “We’re just saying that those who chant accusations of guilt in a sing-song manner have yet to fully review the evidence. Just because one’s trousers are ablaze doesn’t mean one has misled the authorities.”

Siefer said Abdulmutallab was “an innocent” who didn’t realize federal regulations prohibited in-flight destruction of a passenger airliner.

“Show us where it’s written on the ticket that you can’t do that,” Siefer said. “If it’s in there at all, I doubt it’s bigger than 7 point.”

Meanwhile, an al-Qaida website claimed responsibility for the attempted attack. In a post on imamblog.wordpress.com, a top official of the terrorist network said its operatives would “continue setting our junk on fire until the imperialist American presence in the Arab world is eliminated.”

“If the glorious martyr had not worn zippered pants with briefs, and instead wore the boxers and robe we specifically told him to wear, his crank would’ve properly exploded, raining death upon the land,” the statement said. “Regardless, his fiery tool has shown once again that we can strike any time, anywhere.”

Officials at the Department of Homeland Security continued to review how to tighten procedures so that last week’s incident would not be repeated. A new rule requiring passengers to remain seated during the last hour of international flights could make it harder for potential terrorists to assemble their bomb-making materials in airliner restrooms.

“We just have to make sure we don’t end up with a plane full of exploding bladders instead,” said transportation undersecretary Ronald Pierce. “Passengers who have been nursing cocktails since take-off in Europe have the potential capacity to bring down a 747.”

Pierce also said flight attendants would be instructed to watch for travelers who have covered their lower bodies with blankets and appear to be rubbing two sticks together underneath. Friction-sparked fires are possible in such a scenario, even though it’s just as likely other unseemly activities could be transpiring down there.

“Everyone needs to be vigilant to make sure we rub out this threat,” Pierce said.

The focus will continue to be the on-board toilets, however. A false alarm Sunday in which another Nigerian man was observed spending excessive time in the bathroom led a Delta flight crew to fear a second attack was being prepared. When the passenger did finally emerge after an air marshal repeatedly called to him, it was determined he was merely ill.

“Oh, yeah. You could tell right away he was sick,” said flight attendant Sandra Kirchner. “Everybody knew immediately as soon as he opened the door. Whew — I wish he had been making a bomb.”

Nigerian embassy officials in Washington cautioned against singling out its nationals just because of two incidents. The west African nation, one of the world’s leading oil exporters, is no more likely than other regions of the globe to have citizens who have to go to the bathroom, a spokesperson said.

“The oil, it has nothing to do with it,” said Akbar Amman. “It’s not making our gastrointestinal tract slipperier. It’s not like we are drinking the oil. We have the same rate of bathroom use as any country in the developing world. When you have got to go, you have got to go.”

(What could’ve been) the Decade in Review

We never did come up with a definitive name for the decade we’re just now completing, though “the aughts” or the “oh-oh’s” seem appropriate. We ought to have done a better job managing our lives and our finances, we ought to have avoided a poorly conceived war in Iraq, we ought to have foreseen that a city built 12 feet below sea level would flood during a hurricane. Oh-oh, we accidentally elected George W. Bush president.

It was a mistake-filled decade, one I keep hoping some great replay official in the sky will declare as a “do-over.” What if that could happen? What if I tossed a red flag onto the field of life, the referees huddled around a monitor that displayed the passage of the years 2000 through 2009, and emerged to throw their arms in the air and wave off the last ten years?

“Upon further review, the last decade will not stand,” comes the announcement. “Let’s try that again.”

I’d like to imagine an alternate history that wasn’t as devastating as the reality turned out to be. How could that have transpired? Let’s check the timeline of what might have been.

January 1, 2000 — The Y2K bug turns out to exist after all, but its effect on computers and the Internet worldwide is that they can only be used for good. Productivity increases dramatically, education is available to everyone, and healthcare information is at our fingertips. Time-wasters like Facebook, YouTube, the blogosphere and Twitter are technically impossible to invent. Just to be on the safe side, a young computer geek from Massachusetts, would-be founder of Twitter “Biz” Stone, is accidentally electrocuted while trying to program a workaround.

Would-be Twitter founder "Biz" Stone

November 7, 2000 — Al Gore is elected forty-third president of the United States. Thousands of confused retirees in Arizona who thought they were voting for Wile E. Coyote accidentally selected Gore instead, putting him over the top in the Electoral College.

September 10, 2001 — Within a one-week period, three airline pilots are discovered to be drunk, another crew accidentally overshoots a destination by 150 miles while discussing their schedules, and a third squad falls asleep at the controls. The FAA orders the entire American fleet of passenger jets grounded for two days, demanding that airline personnel “shape up or go back to your jobs at the convenience store.” Flights resume on Sept. 12, including one that carries a frustrated contingent of Saudi travelers back to the Mideast.

September 4, 2002 — Kelly Clarkson narrowly defeats Justin Guarini for the title of first “American Idol.” However, results are overturned by the U.S. Supreme Court five weeks later, which declared in a 5-4 decision that the singing competition was “stupid” and installed Dick Cheney as the winner.

April 9, 2003 — President Al Gore, having completed his landmark negotiation of a final peace agreement between Israel and the Palestinians, thereby permanently settling the once-troubled region, travels to Baghdad for a well-deserved vacation. Long-time friends from his college fraternity days join the president for what they term a “shockingly awesome blast of massive proportions,” and paint the Iraqi capital red.

January 11, 2004 — The first legal marriage of a same-sex couple occurs in the U.S. It is totally gay.

May 1, 2004 — The largest expansion to date of the European Union takes place, extending the federation by ten member-states, including Slovakia, Slovenia, Slomotion, Sloeginia and Wal-mart.

April 2, 2005 — Pope John Paul II dies. The entire hierarchy of the Catholic Church goes into deep mourning for its loss, but then the Guy at the top remembers, “Hey, wait a minute, that’s him right over there.”

August 29, 2005 — The Katrina and the Waves Summer of Fun Tour stops in New Orleans, where concert-goers greet performance of the group’s hit “Walking on Sunshine (Tryin’ to Feel Good)” by staging a massive riot that guts the Louisiana Superdome. Survivors gather in the streets outside, spelling out “HELP US” with discarded souvenir tour t-shirts, but aren’t rescued by the National Guard until six days later.

Katrina and the Waves

October 9, 2006 — North Korea performs its first successful nuclear test, scoring an 86 and getting a “good point but remember that punct. counts” comment on the essay portion of the exam.

March 2, 2007 — Shiloh Jolie Pitt, daughter of actress Angelina Jolie and actor Brad Pitt, is introduced to the world. The world pretends to get an urgent cell phone call and has to step outside for just a minute, then sprints off across the parking lot.

May 2, 2008 — Cyclone Nargis makes landfall in Myanmar, causing massive flooding and widespread destruction. A butterfly displaced by the storm sneezes, causing a tiny atmospheric disruption that slightly raises the humidity half a world away. Presumptive Republican presidential nominee John McCain detects the change, and somehow interprets it as a sign that he should pick Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin to be his running mate.

September 14, 2008 — A collapse of Wall Street is narrowly averted when city engineers detect a faulty beam in the subway platform beneath the New York Stock Exchange and repair it just in time. Grateful investment banks thank the American taxpayers by subsidizing a nationwide “Merrill Lunch” on Sept. 30, during which anyone who buys a small order of fries from a fast-food outlet gets a free upgrade to a medium.

French fries, or perhaps President Joe Lieberman

November 4, 2008 — Following two successful terms working closely with President Gore, Vice President Joe Lieberman is elected forty-fourth president of the United States. That butterfly in Myanmar commits insecticide.

June 24, 2009 — South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford is the latest in a continuing parade of politicians who call a press conference to acknowledge loving their wife and family, and being unable to imagine life without them. Women nationwide ask their husbands why they can’t be more like that, while the men pretend to get an urgent cell phone call.

June 25, 2009 — Texas State Senator Mike Jackson (R-District 11), delivering a five-minute routine of jokes and other humorous stories to fellow legislators gathered with him at the Galveston Olive Garden, dies when nobody laughs.

Texas State Senator Mike Jackson

November 23, 2009 — Golfer Tiger Woods crashes his Buick into a Nike shoe outlet, apparently distracted by his AT&T phone and a bottle of Gatorade he had spilled in his lap. He checks his Tag Hauer watch to note the time of the accident for the police report, then calls Accenture to ask what the hell they do, so he can screw that up too. Fortunately, no endorsement deals are jeopardized.

December 30, 2009 — About 100 readers of an obscure, excessively wordy blog find something way better to do with their time.

Closed captioning and Alex Trebek

I love watching closed captioning on TV, especially when it’s done poorly. Trying to keep up with live broadcast feeds must be an incredible challenge, and it’s easy to understand how certain words get misinterpreted as they’re rapidly keyed onto the screen.

“This Justin. Please report manna study in banker library.” (Translation: This just in. Police report man in custody following bank robbery.)

While on the treadmill at the Y Tuesday, I was reluctantly watching a syndicated daytime talk show called “The Doctors.” In what must be a wildly inappropriate breach of medical ethics, viewers call in to describe their health problems and are diagnosed on-air by a panel of photogenic physicians. So much easier than trudging to a real exam with your ugly doctor and his even uglier co-pay.

Yesterday’s episode was something of a year-end wrap-up wherein the doctors answered the top 100 questions they had received in the last 12 months. It was the usual sensational afternoon pap, focusing on the titillating (can you get pregnant in a swimming pool?) rather than the mundane (what’s this thing on my neck and why is it green?).

Naturally, sexual health was a primary concern and the subject of at least a third of the questions. As a tease right before one of the breaks, the panel told the audience that coming up was a question about how frequently “relations” should be had (I’m guessing they were not talking about my aunts from Indiana, “relations” I’d had enough of over the holidays). The last words to appear in the subtitles were “… HAVE SEX FOUR TO FIVE TIMES A WEEK,” and then they cut to an uncaptioned ad for insurance company Colonial Penn.

Unfortunately, the closed captioning remained on the screen throughout the commercial.

So we see a worker sitting in his cubicle and talking earnestly to the camera. Then Alex Trebek comes strolling up behind him, a disturbing development in any office.

…HAVE SEX FOUR TO FIVE TIMES A WEEK, continues to read the caption.

“Apply now online,” begins the ad copy superimposed across Alex’s chest. “As close as a phone call away.”

…HAVE SEX FOUR TO FIVE TIMES A WEEK

“Guaranteed acceptance. No physical exam. 30-day free look.”

…HAVE SEX FOUR TO FIVE TIMES A WEEK

“We provide affordable coverage.”

…HAVE SEX FOUR TO FIVE TIMES A WEEK

“You cannot be turned down because of your health.”

…HAVE SEX FOUR TO FIVE TIMES A WEEK

“It’s so simple. Just takes a few minutes to apply.”

…HAVE SEX FOUR TO FIVE TIMES A WEEK

“Lock in your premiums and benefits for 20 years.”

…HAVE SEX FOUR TO FIVE TIMES A WEEK

“Special situation? Add an optional rider.”

…HAVE SEX FOUR TO FIVE TIMES A WEEK

Finally, the worker appears to have had enough of Alex and his suggestive sell. The scene fades to black, with white overprint:

“For over 50 years, we have served the needs of our customers with a dedication to ‘old-fashioned’ customer service.”

By the way, in case you missed it, yesterday’s showing of “The Doctors” included a list of ways to improve your health in five minutes or less. These include:

→ Always stand when you flush the toilet to avoid getting bacteria from the water on you.

→ Don’t wet your eye shadow with saliva.

→ Use olive oil as a moisturizer.

→ Keep birth control pills next to your toothbrush.

→ Have your baby wear sunglasses.

→ Specialty flip-flops can help tone the body.

→ Avoid wiping your eyes with your fingers. Use your shirt instead.

→ Hugs help prevent heart disease.

→ Exercise toes.

→ Put aluminum foil or pepper on your counters and tables, because cats don’t like these on their paws.

My new year’s resolutions

Allow me today to list by new year’s resolutions for 2010:

Get taller — Many people start off the new year with a full-on attempt to change their dimensions (lose weight, become 2-D, etc.). I’d like to try something a little different. I’m going to get taller. No medieval racks or awkward orthopedic surgery for me, though; I’m going to use those discreet and adjustable Uncle Sam stilts you sometimes see people wearing in Fourth of July parades. You wear them under your (increasingly) long pants, and nobody will notice if you progressively change the lengths slowly enough. I show up for work on Monday maybe an inch or two taller than my current 5-foot-11, then add another inch a few days later and, before you know it, I’m 8-foot-4 and nobody’s the wiser about how I did it.

Maintain and become more comfortable with my species choice — When I was a little boy, I remember considering the options when someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I could be a fireman, I’d think, or I could be a cowboy, or I could be a tiger. When my parents and teachers told me that my potential to be whatever I wanted was unlimited, I took them literally. In my naivete, I thought you could choose wild animal as a career option as easily as you could choose anything else. It wasn’t till later I realized that such an occupational choice would offer very poor pay and limited benefits (virtually no dental insurance, for example) as well as negligible opportunities for advancement (promotion to lion). As I grew older, I learned to set my sites on more realistic aspirations, but I’ve always retained that glimmer of hope that I could, if just the right break came along, change species. In the year ahead, I am to reconcile my fate and become more satisfied with my humanity.

No heavyweight crown for me — Along similar lines, I aim this year to accept that I’ll never box my way to the world heavyweight championship. I’ve never been much of a brawler, even back in high school when it was pretty much an extracurricular club. The only encounter I remember was in ninth grade when Ronnie Salerno and I took turns punching each other in the bicep for about 20 minutes. Other than that, I’ve been pretty civilized in resolving my disputes with others. Now, at age 56, I’m much more comfortable calling a lawyer than I am calling on my haymaker in times of conflict. I also look at the modern landscape of what old-time sportswriters call the “sweet science” and am dismayed at the fragmentation among the governing bodies of boxing. Plus, I’m not sure what weight class I’d be in — pudgyweight or huskyweight. This is a dream I need to set aside for good.

Get hit by a car — I’ve complained in this space before about how I yearn to be hospitalized. All my previous visits were out-patient at best. To take a week off from work, lie in bed, be hooked up to various machines providing all kinds of comfort from pain medicine to automatic pee removal sounds like my kind of vacation. And the most dramatic way to end up in this setting would be to get struck by a car. This is an achievable dream that I’m already taking measures to see through to reality. I’m doing less running on the treadmill and more walking through the streets of my neighborhood, and occasionally I’ll even cross the road without looking first. Someday soon, I’ll be sprawled in the gutter of a highway, police and onlookers aghast at my serious but survivable injuries, a screaming ambulance en route, and a guilty, hand-wringing driver ready to hand me huge amounts of insurance cash. Then it’s off to the hospital for all the morphine and jello I can eat. Party!

Arbitrarily alter the numbers in my bloodwork, just for fun — After my annual physical a few years back, I got a call from my doctor’s office saying that I had “elevated levels of Billie Rubin” and needed to come back in for a recheck. I had no idea who Mr. or Ms. Rubin were, but I hightailed it back into the clinic fearing the worst. Turned out that “bilirubin” is an excretion product with no “normal” levels, but that can sometimes be an indicator of hepatitis, cirrhosis or Gilbert’s Syndrome (I’m guessing Gilbert is somehow related to the Rubins). It all turned out to be a false alarm. Still, I was intrigued that a reference rate out of the 0.2-1.9 μmol/L standard range was of interest to my doctor. So, in a bid for more attention and possible bulk rates on my 2010 healthcare costs, I’m aiming to get my numbers up around a hundred.

Scoot Everest — Climbing the tallest mountain in the world has been done to death. Now, to get any press for the event, you have to have a hook — do it without oxygen, be blind, be seven years old, have a hook for a hand, etc. It seems we’re rapidly running out of unique angles to getting a newsworthy climb, but I think I have one: scooting all the way to the top. Scooting, for those of you unfamiliar with this form of locomotion, is moving across a surface in a seated position, propelling your butt along with your arms and legs. Readers with dogs who have anal worms will know what I’m talking about. If I set out in late March for Nepal to get a jump on the climbing season, scoot my way to base camp by April 1, then scurry across the Cwm Icefall by the fifteenth, I’ll be able to summit by the beginning of May. I’ll literally be sitting on top of the world.

Suppress internal monologue — Like everyone, I have this secret voice inside my head that’s constantly commenting on people and events that transpire around me. (Everybody has that, right?) This internal commentator is quite the insensitive jerk. He thinks drivers who dare to make a right turn in front of him are “idiots,” coworkers who show up late for work are “slacker-douchebags,” and waitresses who neglect to bring cutlery in a timely manner are “morons” and/or “really hot.” The sarcastic tone of this secret voice is getting on my nerves, and starting to get in the way of my remaining social relationships. In the new decade, he will be suppressed and he will be defeated. And maybe he should be medicated, too.

Eliminate last vestiges of fun — As I begin life in this, my seventh decade, I think it’s finally time to stamp out the remaining shreds of fun from my life. Fun is for the young and for the young at heart. My priorities need to be responsibility, stewardship, sobriety, caution, and cholesterol, not on how to enjoy myself. I’ve already successfully erased most remnants joy from my daily grind. (You know you’re already close to this goal when a mid-morning chocolate coffee milkshake made with skim milk and nonfat ice cream is the highlight of your day.) In the year and decade ahead, I will aim to weed out these last bits of pleasure with a proper diet, financial prudence, hard work and mature behavior. By this time next year, I hope to report on an existence that has finally captured the essence of drudgery.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Revisited: 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 of actual band names 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 was 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

Post-holiday leftovers

Nobody can begrudge the president taking a year-end vacation, and it’s not his fault that fabulous Hawaii is one of the places he grew up and calls home. Certainly nobody expects him to spend the winter holidays in Chicago.

But it makes for a difficult public perception issue when the inevitable mini-crisis requires him to interrupt his respite and speak to reporters. He has used modest settings for the most part, though the press hasn’t been as restrained, appearing on-camera in their flowered shirts and garlands, with beaches and palm trees forming the backdrop. At least they’ve kept their pina coladas out of the shot.

I can’t imagine this sits too well with the average American, struggling to make ends meet and survive the holidays without strangling Uncle Cal. Still, it’s not that easy to find many vistas in Hawaii that are as alarming as our current national malaise.

My suggestion: Next time there’s a would-be underwear bomber or a suicide blast in Pakistan or the Indianapolis Colts decide to pull their starters in the second quarter, set Obama up in front of the constantly erupting Kilauea volcano. While Sulfurous Hell Itself tries to break through the Earth’s crust in the background, the president can reassure the nation that we’re not all about to die, at least those of us not hanging out with lava.

 

+++

Driving back home from a holiday visit to Charleston on Saturday, I was reminded once again how boring interstate travel is. It’s only about a three-hour drive, though the lack of stimulation en route makes it seem like so much more.

Your threshold for what’s entertaining and what’s not gets drastically lowered in such a situation, and you find yourself amused by the most innocuous things. Signs, for example.

Several times during the trip, I whipped out my notepad thinking a particular phrase or place name was hilariously funny and worthy of a mention on this blog. Now that I’m home, enjoying the stimulation of being able to stand up, I’m not sure if these signs are funny or not.

What do you think: Mungo Homes? Exit Realty? Nitro Moose Family Center?

+++

Here’s a bad idea for provoking family conversation during a long New Year’s Day car ride: “Let’s each pick two resolutions for personal improvement we’d like to see the others choose for themselves.”

+++

I noticed that among the new state laws taking effect on January 1 were numerous bans against texting while driving. There was also a measure, in Texas I believe, that requires an adult to accompany any teenager who wants to visit a tanning salon.

Two questions: Does the adult have to accompany the teen into the tanning bed? And, is texting while tanning still okay?

+++

Is this finally the time that we abandon the “two thousand and …” wording in the name of the year, and instead go with the more breath-conserving “twenty …” prefix? Do we realize how much carbon is emitted with those extra two syllables? So wasteful.

I predict the more concise language won’t happen for another two years, when we hit “twenty twelve.” After spending a year fumbling through the seven-syllable monstrosity that is “two thousand and eleven,” we’ll finally come to our senses.

+++

I was listening to the NPR cooking show “Splendid Table” the other day, when the host announced halfway through that they were “sponsored by Mars.” Is this a preemptive effort by an advertising firm to make sure the Red Planet doesn’t suffer the same PR disaster that befell Pluto when it was demoted to “134340 Pluto, second-largest known dwarf plant in the solar system (after Eris)”?

No, apparently not. Turns out Mars is a maker of “fine candy bars” in addition to being the fourth planet from the sun.

+++

I lamented last week in my New Year’s resolutions post about how this would finally be the year that I stamped out the last vestiges of fun from my life. I can barely remember the last time I said “whee” — probably the memorable summer of 2005 when my son and I took a roller coaster tour of the South.

But later that Friday, I came excruciatingly close to crying out in involuntary glee. We were riding in the elevator of a Charleston hotel when I noticed the inspection certificate next to the door. Inspections in South Carolina are handled by the “Office of Elevators and Amusement Rides,” one reason we have such low taxes but also the reason so many people die from punching electrified “up” buttons.

I believe in safety-conscious fun so I quickly looked around for the harness and belt that would keep us attached to the floor of the car when we hit that zero-G inversion curve near the fourth floor. It was nowhere to be found. I thought about forcing open a small door in the back of the elevator to look for it, but by then we had creaked to a stop about six inches above the lobby (as close as we were going to get).

As the door opened, I stepped down and out of the elevator. “Whee?” I wondered.

+++

It was that time of the year this weekend to post new calendars around the house. My wife and I are very insistent that, no matter what room we’re in, we must know what year it is.

She had a nice collection of about six different kinds, and asked me to choose which would hang on the wall of our back bathroom, where I groom myself each morning before heading off to work. All of them had nice pictures representing the various months we’d be encountering this year (January, February, etc.). I based my choice, however, on who in these pictures would be watching me as I went about my morning ablutions, some of which are more embarrassing than others.

There were cats, there were forests from the Blue Ridge mountains, there were wild animals in their natural habitats. All were animate objects who could conceivably judge me and find me lacking.

Finally, I picked street scenes from various old cities around Europe. There were a few people in the distance in a couple of the photographs — some hiking Belgians in May and a couple of strolling Macedonians in an ancient piazza in September — but mostly it was just buildings and streets. There was a horse in April, though he had his back to the camera.

So I figure that gives me about three months to clean up my act. Or find sticky notes small enough to cover the eyes of the Belgians and Macedonians.

+++

I wanted to at least acknowledge that today is the worst day of the year. Here’s a link to my post last year on the subject.

http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/01/05/happy-worst-day-of-the-year/

Revisited: 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. The cause of death was said to be 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.

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.

Fake News: Security experts turn to the wacky

WASHINGTON, D.C. (Jan. 4) — Humorists, comedians and jokesters from around the country are being called on by the Department of Homeland Security to offer suggestions on how to beef up inspections at international airports.    

Government officials are turning to the humor community in response to an attempted bombing by a Nigerian jihadist on Christmas Day. Previous contributions by the nation’s funnymen resulted in much of the current system, and it is thought a new round of outrageous ideas can further enhance the fight against terrorism.    

“Pat-down searches were first brought up as a joke. They called them ‘enhanced tickling techniques,’” said Secretary Janet Napolitano. “The same is true of whole body imaging. I believe it was Carrot Top who said we should use ‘X-ray Spex,’ which is what gave us the idea for the current generation of scanners. We call on Mr. Top and others to give us some new ideas.”    

“America needs the help of its nutty and its kooky like never before,” Napolitano said.    

A website has been set up by the DHS for collection of the proposals. Access to ZaniesAgainstTerror.gov is open source, so that comics can feed off of each other’s krazy energy. Though the domain was only set up Friday, there’s already an impressive collection for officials at the Transportation Security Administration to consider.    

Among the ideas:    

• Require passengers to submit to exploratory surgery before their flight so that inspectors can search for contraband deep inside the body.    

• Have agents meet with travelers several weeks before their scheduled trips to establish long-term relationships that would hopefully reveal who’s a psycho and who’s not.    

• Put up a “no terrorists” sign at all checkpoints.    

• Medically induce coma in all passengers before boarding so they’ll hover near death for the entire flight.    

• Employ powerful vacuum hoses inserted into mouths to turn bodies inside out, allowing suspicious organ systems to be fully reviewed.    

• Require all flyers to swear on a stack of Bibles that they “promise on [most recently deceased] relative’s grave” that they won’t blow up anything.    

• Apply Roomba technology to terminal security sweeps, developing roving robots that would randomly confront travelers and keep butting against them until they admitted their conspiracy.    

• Mandate that persons stepping up to the scanners remove their shoes, then put their shoes onto their hands for the remainder of their time inside the security zone. (It’s thought that a lack of manual dexterity will inhibit on-board bomb construction).    

• Ban any flyer whose name contains the letters A, B, D, U and L. (This would have the added benefit of effectively removing Paula Abdul from the entertainment industry).    

• Demand that everyone urinate into a cup, not so much for purposes of drug-testing but to stimulate the onset of dehydration. On arrival at their destination, the dried husks of the passengers could be safely rehydrated.    

• Employ profilers to use techniques developed by the Israelis to determine psychological traits that may indicate potential fanatics. Anyone who is nervous, tired, disgusted, sleep-deprived, tense or uneasy can be identified in advance as someone who is thinking about flying on an airliner, or has recently flown on an airliner.    

Carrot Top is summoned again to help the nation

Doing my (jury) duty

It’s said that justice deferred is justice denied. However, jury duty deferred, to paraphrase eminent American jurist Oliver Wendell Holmes, “totally rocks in a clear and present fashion.”  

Actually, I was kind of looking forward to my week-long service in the Court of General Sessions (though I’d obviously prefer the Court of the Crimson King). I had been summoned to the Moss Justice Center along with about 200 others to provide a pool of potential jurors for the first term of the new year. I was proud to be doing my service as an American citizen and, not inconsequentially, eager to avoid citation for contempt of court.  

I’ve always been something of a judgmental person, so this seemed like just the thing for me. I’d be spending four days away from the drudgery of the normal weekday, working the sensible hours of 9 a.m. till whenever we decided to convict somebody, then I’d still have half the day for napping. I’d be regally dispensing justice to all manner of York County miscreants and, in my occasional mercy, I might even decide to let a few of them live.  

I made the 11.7-mile drive — at 36 cents a mile I’d be pocketing a cool $8.42 for the round-trip alone — through frigid weather and farmland out to the western part of the county. I arrived at the sprawling government complex, looking for signs to indicate where I was to park, and ultimately deciding I was probably more of a “visitor” than someone interested in “prison parking.”  

I joined the others who were streaming into the modern facility, ready to do their part in maintaining law and order. We were supposed to be “petit” jurors, according to the green summons card we clutched in our hands, but it was obvious that holiday over-indulgence had boosted most of us to more of a plus-size range. I hoped the judge wouldn’t mind, because I could tell this was a bunch of people eager to dispense some serious justice.  

As we entered the lobby, a large man in a suit made sure we were herded in the right direction. “Jury duty,” he bellowed repeatedly. “No cell phones.” (There went my plans to phone a friend should I be stuck in particularly difficult deliberation). We lined up in the hallway for what I presumed to be a trip through the metal detector. Instead, it was simply a brief logjam to pick up official badges before entering the large waiting room. I was a little taken aback at the lack of security but soon came to see that the surprisingly welcoming juror lounge, complete with magazines, vending machines and comfortable chairs, would convince any potential terrorists to rethink their plans.  

The room was rapidly filling up, so I headed to the back and found a good spot next to the gum machine (gum is a very sober snack). Before I picked up Time magazine to learn more about the race between Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton for the Democratic nomination, I took a few minutes to check out those around me. The group seemed like a reasonable cross-section of South Carolinians, though maybe a little on the white side. The guy across from me, immersed in his Field and Stream, looked like a hunter, at least I hoped that’s why he was wearing camouflage. A friendly businesswoman chatted with a short guy. An Asian man sat right next to me, even though there’s another open seat next to no one right over there, buddy. A student was reading the first few pages of a huge Ayn Rand book, probably not a good sign for the accused.  

Finally, some official-looking folks came into the room and announced “please remove your hats.” Sounds like a judge or some other authority easily offended by headwear was about to appear. Instead, we get to meet David Hamilton, clerk of court, the personable young official who’d be telling us how soon we’d be raining down our guilty verdicts before heading back to our families.  

After a brief welcome and a description of how he got such a sweet job, Mr. Hamilton took a decidedly apologetic tone.  

“Looks like you’re getting a late Christmas present,” he said. “We got an email from the solicitor’s office late yesterday afternoon informing us that all the cases scheduled for this week’s docket have been resolved. You will all be dismissed for the week in just a few minutes.”  

The crowd remained quiet but you could tell there was a great wave of relief, followed almost immediately by the question of why the hell they couldn’t have told us this before now. “There are these devises called telephones,” I wanted to point out. “You can use them to talk to people without making them drive 11.7 miles through 25-degree temperatures. Even the guy bellowing in the hallway has heard of them.”  

Before he’d let us go, Mr. Hamilton had a few procedural issues he had to cover. We’d still be getting our $10 juror fee. Anyone needing a written excuse for work could see his assistant on the way out. Anyone whose summons had to be forwarded to a new address was warned their mileage reimbursement check could be delayed. Was there anyone who had really wanted to serve on a jury and would like to be considered for the next session? Surprisingly, about a dozen hands went up, though most were retracted when he added that they’d be paid only for the new session, not for today.  

Finally, he said he wanted to acknowledge his staff for their work in this tremendous waste of time and money. He started introducing his assistants, almost like you’d expect Bruce Springsteen to break mid-concert to recognize the talents of Little Steven on guitar and the “Big Man” Clarence Clemmons on sax. I don’t think we were supposed to applaud, and we certainly couldn’t hold our cell phones high over our heads in silent tribute to their talents. He didn’t end these introductions with a rousing “let’s here it!” so we quietly gathered up our coats and prepared to leave.  

I did regret in a fleeting way that I wouldn’t be getting an insider’s view of the American criminal justice system. I knew that would mean lots of waiting around and listening to boring judge talk and continuances and sidebars, but somewhere there’d be a nugget of justice to make me feel like I was making a difference. I’d be viewing the evidence, pondering the testimony, looking into the eyes of the accused, then deciding their fate based on the needs of the insistent juror who was really trying hard to make her 1:30 salon appointment.  

And the gum — don’t forget the gum.  

As I exited the parking lot and drove home, I passed a herd of cows and pronounced them guilty as charged, just to see how it felt. It was rewarding yet humbling to be sitting in judgment of others, even if they were only livestock.  

Now it’s back to real life, where I have to endure constant affronts with a smile and a shrug. No jury of her peers is going to deal with that woman in front of me at Starbucks who wants to use a check to pay for her coffee. No judge is going to take my recommendation that the driver who failed to signal his right turn is deserving of not less than five years detention at a state correctional facility.  

My only real reward comes to $18.42, which I’ll be receiving via mail in about three weeks.  

How they make sure each juror gets a fair amount of gum.

Fake News Briefs for the new year

You want the new Google phone

MOUNTAIN VIEW, Calif. (Jan. 6) — Google introduced a new cell phone Tuesday even though nobody asked for it.  

“Too bad,” said Google’s chief executive officer Eric Schmidt. “You’re getting one anyway.”  

The new device, called the NexusOne, doesn’t really do anything different than what’s currently on the market. Sure, it’s got a sleek design and there are all kinds of pretty pictures you can put on it. Still, it’s about time we got over fancy handhelds whose sole purpose seems to be making you feel like your current phone is inadequate.  

“You know, you didn’t ask for Gmail either, and look how that’s taken off,” Schmidt said. “We don’t want to hear any of your griping. Just buy the thing and everybody will be happy.”  

Schmidt discounted critics’ claims that the new phone is too big. He said a sturdy wheelbarrow, lawn cart or red wagon would be sufficient to carry the NexusOne with you.  

Huge new Google phone towers over frightened scientist

  

That was yesterday

An unidentified man reported to authorities Wednesday that all his troubles seemed so far away and yet, by Thursday, it looked as though those same troubles were there to stay.  

“He believed in yesterday,” police department spokesman Sgt. Raymond Vance told reporters at a morning press briefing.  

The man told police that, in a sudden and unexpected development, he was less than 50 percent of the man he used to be. He claimed there was a shadow hanging over him, and that Wednesday dawned on him more quickly than he had anticipated.  

“He told officers that a female acquaintance of his ‘had to go’, and he didn’t know why because she wouldn’t say,” Vance said. “He speculated that he had said something wrong, and now he wished he could go back in time to before the event occurred.”  

Vance said the man, described only as doe-eyed and shaggy yet obviously sincere, reported that love was “such an easy game to play,” but now he needed a place to hide away, presumably in case the acquaintance returns hoping to exact some sort of retribution.  

“He definitely believed in yesterday,” Vance said. “He repeated it several times before ending his written statement with a brief hum.”  

Conversation attempted, averted

Some people who are showing up at the gym for the first time in ages obviously don’t know you’re not supposed to talk to the person on the next treadmill over, and attempted to ask you how it was “going” as you began your workout yesterday.  

The individual in question was wearing khaki pants and street shoes, striding slowly on the moving belt as you approached the area. He smiled as he spoke, and obviously intended to follow the introductory question with additional conversation.  

“Doesn’t he know that we don’t do that here?” you asked yourself. “I can’t walk and run at the same time. This isn’t some chat room or something.”  

The potential exchange was quickly averted as you put your earbuds in and started listening to music. He soon turned to another person on his left and appeared to begin a discussion with him, probably regarding how cold it was outside. However, that’s not your problem.  

You continued your workout for another ten minutes or so before noticing that he was poking tentatively at the control panel, perhaps attempting to end his session. The huge red button reading “STOP” escaped his notice, though he eventually jabbed at a down arrow long enough to bring the machine to a halt.  

As he climbed down from the platform, he picked up the disinfectant bottle intended to wipe down the equipment, and sprayed it on himself.

Website Review: RefineInstitute.com

The billboard rising up in the distance along the interstate looks enticing at first. Hard to tell exactly what it’s advertising, but you can make out a great swath of bikini-clad flesh from a mile away. Your attention perks up in anticipation of some provocative treat amidst all the signs showing fast-food options and diesel prices at Truckland Truckstop ($2.63 a gallon; up a little from last week).

Soon you can see more detail on the billboard and there are actually two scantily clad torsos, the first trim and sexy and the second — whoa! — it’s got a huge sagging appendage where the abs should be. I’m repulsed, and that’s apparently the proper reaction, because it’s an ad for The Refine Institute, a Charlotte-area plastic surgery practice, trolling for patients along I-77.

The tagline reads “Changing the shape of Charlotte one person at a time,” which sounds like it’s going to take a while, if you’ve ever seen the line for biscuits at Bojangles. The “REFINE” logo is graphically intriguing too; the “R” is extra bold, the “E” a semibold, the “F” merely bold, the “I” roman, the “N” light and the “E” extra light, a progression from fat to thin type suggesting how you too could stand a little font change after all that cake you ate.

All of which makes me want to learn more about plastic surgery and leads me to the subject of this week’s Website Review, RefineInstitute.com.

The home page is a simple affair, a black center square containing the company name and four shaded squares surrounding it, suggesting perhaps how the surgically improved will be the center of attention among her fading friends.

The box on the left tells about “Technical Expertise,” how the surgeons of the practice bring a “sharp” eye to their craft, using “cutting-edge” technologies, subconsciously setting you up for the scalpels that will inevitably follow. The bottom box, conversely, promotes the “High Tech/Less Invasive” nature of the work, including laser-assisted liposuction and something called “fractionated CO2 skin resurfacing,” in which I’m guessing they remove some fraction of your skin, probably using a carbonated beverage. The right box is “Core Consultation,” about holistic wellness and treating the “whole person,” not just the sagging parts.

It’s the top box that has the pulldowns going into more scintillating detail: body contouring, facial sculpting and “breast aesthetics” (hubba-hubba.)

But first, of course, we want to hear about the institute’s philosophy before we learn about the expensive fees, the pain and, ultimately, the slight enhancement of your frankly disgusting eyelids. Refine believes that cosmetic surgery is “rooted in gentle precision and polished elegance.” They offer a “unique 360° approach to restoring your image,” so much better than that earlier business model where only 180° of you was fixed, and you constantly had to triangulate and shift positions so people would only see your front.

We read about surgeon Dr. Ralph Cozart, who did much of his residency in Minnesota, where it seems the extreme cold would give any tightening efforts a nice boost. In his current practice, Dr. Cozart uses Vectra 3-D technology to take “before pictures” of your troublesome body part, then he does NOT — I repeat, NOT — put these on Flikr, then he creates a three-dimensional image of your projected outcome. It’s not mentioned whether your husband will have to wear Avatar glasses after your procedure, though you’ll probably have to go to an IMAX theatre to be fully appreciated.

This is also the area of the website that features “summer specials.” I was fully prepared to make a joke about buy-one-get-one-free, but Refine beat me to it with their SmartLipo offer for “50% of an additional area after first at regular price.” It really does say “of,” not “off.” I hope that’s just a typo and not a special to fix all of one breast and half of another.

Under the “Body Contouring” section, we learn about the various liposuction techniques. “LipoSculpture” is good for small stubborn areas of fat that resist exercise and diet. It’s laser-assisted and only requires “tumescent anesthesia,” which I hope isn’t what it sounds like. “SmartLipo” uses twenty-first century technology to remove fat and tighten skin, so much better than the eighteenth-century technique some surgeons use that involves lopping off as much as a flank. There’s also the “tummy tuck,” requiring your navel to be moved (can you put it on your forehead?) and the “minituck,” wherein your navel stays put.

Special mention is worthwhile here for the “Brazilian Butt Lift.” Developed deep in the Amazon and expected to be an exhibition sport in the 2016 Rio Olympics, the Brazilian Butt Lift takes fat from a part of your body where you don’t want it and transfers it to your bottom. The fat can be harvested “from any place” — I’d choose the Food Lion meat department — and can create a very natural look and feel. You can’t sit down for a week, not all the fat will “take” and it could require more than one visit, but an increase in gluteal volume is virtually assured.

Under “Facial Sculpting,” you can get a “blepharoplasty” to fix your eyelids, the “SmartXide DOT Laser” to resurface your skin with the help of the Department of Transportation, or the “FineLift,” using “fillers to restore lost facial volume.” There are also fat transfer options for the face. You can use that saggy neck to enhance your lips, or you could simply run into a door. Aesthetic services are mostly facials, massages and relaxing acid peels.

Obviously, it’s the “Breast Aesthetics” pulldown (ouch) that you’ve all been waiting to hear about. Augmentation uses silicone or saline implants that can be shaped, much like balloon animals, into any style you like. These are somehow “adjustable” and I’d be glad to volunteer for that. The Breast Lift doesn’t involve any insertion of foreign objects and instead focuses on tightening to create a youthful profile. The website’s use of terms like “droop,” “sagging” and “pendulous” struck me as a little insensitive but I guess it does get the point across (ha-ha). Breast Reduction services are also offered, including a special procedure for men suffering from what Dr. Cozart describes as an ”emotionally devastating” condition I’ve rarely thought about, though now that he mentions it, maybe I’m a candidate for “complete removal of the breasts.” On second thought, no.

The final section is “Patient Information” and contains some handy Q&A. You’re told to look for board certification in any doctor you choose, so as to avoid those amateurs in the mall kiosks. “Does this surgeon care about the rest of me or are they just selling a procedure?” you should ask, and if they don’t care, avoid them too. A forum writer asks if saline implants are subject to evaporation and it turns out they are, but usually not condensation or precipitation.

This is also the area that offers online consultation, in which you can chat with Dr. Cozart and send him your picture. Though he maintains a strict “no fatties” policy, the doctor will give you a free initial estimate of how much work you might need. Financing is also discussed in this part, including a gentle reminder that it’s standard to require payment up-front, and that you’d be better off turning to a firm called SurgeryLoans.com rather than waiting for Obamacare.

There’s also a list of products the practice sells that must be effective, or they wouldn’t have names like Skinceuticals and Glominerals. One of these is a skin lightener with the following explanation: “The enzyme tyrosinase converts the amino acid tyrosine into melanin. Hyperpigmentation can result. Ingredients such as arbutin, kojic acid and thymol can suppress tyrosinase.” The only part of that I understand is the “kojic acid,” which I believe Telly Savalas used in his TV cop show of the 1970s to maintain his smooth baldness, and is now available for home use to remove unwanted hair.

All kidding aside, RefineInstitute.com is a well-constructed website providing valuable information about a service for which there’s a legitimate need. It would be easy to make fun of plastic surgery and tummy tucks and boobies, and forget how many women and men are helped by these practices. I hate to be shallow or superficial and think of beauty as only skin deep.

But I did it anyway.

Kojak: "You mean I don't have to look like this?"

Revisited: 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 post 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.

Revisited: 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.

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…

Monday shorts

Memo to coworkers coming in from the company parking lot: Don’t tell me my tires “look a little flat” unless you plan on doing something about it.      

+++      

The outdoor welcome sign at the Baptist church near my house, in an apparent attempt to appeal to teens, reads: “Hang out with Jesus — He hung out for you.” Is that how we’ve come to describe the Crucifixion now, as “hanging out”? I can hardly wait till the liturgical calendar gets around to the Ascension. Will the sign then read “Let’s get high”?      

+++      

In the financial disclosure documents I edit at work, there’s frequent use of the term “bottom-up research”. This involves doing due diligence on a company that could be a target for acquisition, investigating its records starting from the very base of the organization. During a rewrite I saw recently, the term was changed to “bottoms-up research”. Maybe all that drinking going on in corporate boardrooms explains some of our current economic ills.      

+++      

The scramble at TV networks’ sports divisions began in earnest this weekend to find programming to replace football. First up at NBC was the annual “World’s Strongest Man” competition, this year broadcasting from Malta. It was nice to see the sunny landscapes of the ancient Mediterranean seaport, but all these hulking behemoths kept getting in the way. I don’t know if there’s a world governing body for this “sport.” If there is, they need to get their act together and come up with events that aren’t so laughable.      

This year, in addition to the cannonball tote, the log lift and the always-exciting hernia production, there was the “car carry.” In this competition, the chassis is removed, the body of the vehicle is gutted and a strap is installed allowing the strongman to essentially wear what’s left from inside the car. It’s so heavy he can only take baby steps as he hauls the frame from start line to finish.      

His face and neck rapidly grow red with embarrassment at how much he looks like Fred Flintstone.      

Yabba-dabba-don't (try this at home)

+++      

NEWS RELEASE FROM NBC UNIVERSAL – Andy Newman will be joining The Weather Channel (TWC) starting Jan. 15 as an on-air meteorologist.      

Newman, known previously as “Thunderclap” Newman, was the author of ground-breaking climate research in the late 1960s that determined conclusively there was “something in the air.” The “something” was initially identified as “a certain stickiness,” though later studies pinpointed it as humidity or water vapor.      

Newman will be the first of a group of singing forecasters coming to TWC in 2010. He joins a new breed of weatherpersons at the network who will have enough sense to come in out of the rain.      

+++      

The “Sounds of the Season” music channel on our local cable provider finally stopped playing Christmas music over the weekend, and inexplicably began to play a nice mix of R&B. I hope that’s not their way of honoring next week’s Martin Luther King Day.      

+++      

My cell phone got a wrong number text message last night asking “is dis ryan?” No, it’s not.      

+++      

I want to thank loyal reader Anton for his comment “Добрый вечер! А можно ли ссылочками с вами обменяться?” I want to thank him, but I don’t know what it means. In any case, please keep the Cyrillic coming.     

+++     

I got yelled at Saturday by the caretaker at the county recycling center for putting cardboard in the chipboard bin. Am I supposed to feel like an idiot? Sorry I’m not more knowledgeable about my pressed composite paper products.    

+++  

Walking down the hall at the Y the other day, I nearly collided with an oncoming pedestrian coming around a blind corner. We both stopped just in time, and he offered a contrite “excuse me.”  

I countered with my all-purpose response for such a situation: “S’ryt.”  

Pronounced “s’ryt,” the word is a combination and contraction of the phrases “sorry” and “it’s alright,” and comes in very handy for situations where you’re not sure which end of an apology you’re supposed to be on.

Neither of us really did anything wrong. If anyone is to blame, it’s the Christian faith for establishing an exercise facility where young people can come together in fellowship and efforts to improve themselves, but neglecting to install yield signs. 

Nevertheless, social norms dictate that you’re supposed to verbally acknowledge each other in such a near-collision, so we did. I was proud of my nimble response, though next time maybe I should work on my physical agility instead.

+++ 

I wonder if any of those latter-day longhairs playing in the NFL use hair extensions to get that flowing-out-of-the-back-of-the-helmet look. 

There may be a few who do, though none quite to the effect of the lovely new hairstyle being sported by Kate Gosselin. Except perhaps for the dazzling number 11 on the Arizona Cardinals. I’m not sure of his name, but I know it starts with “Fitz-” and ends with “-ald.” 

+++ 

(GIRLFRIEND NEWS NETWORK) — Your girlfriend reports that she encountered a man yesterday who was counting to ten. 

The man was counting only whole numbers, she said, and was moving through the integers in numerical order. 

“He was reciting them in ascending order, beginning with the number one and ending with the number ten,” she reported. “He was saying them aloud as he went through each number, not just thinking of the number in his head.” 

The man was counting all of the numbers between one and ten, not just some of them, she stressed. 

“First he said ‘one,’ then he said ‘two,’ then he said ‘three,’” she asserted insistently. “He followed that with ‘four,’ ‘five’ and so on.” 

Following his pronouncement of “five,” he continued on with the next three numbers in the sequence before concluding his count. 

“He ended up with ‘nine’ and then he said ‘ten’, just like that,” she said. “Are you listening to me?” 

Yes, you acknowledge, the man had counted to ten. 

+++ 

With all this talk of he-men and football players and Kate Gosselin, I thought it might be appropriate to end with one more picture of a strong individual.

Imagine this guy trying to get through airport security

NBC readies for life after Leno

HOLLYWOOD (Jan. 11) — NBC announced its lineup of new programming Monday to replace the ratings-challenged “Jay Leno Show” in its weekday 10 p.m. slot. The new shows, most of which feature test patterns as a central plot component, will debut in February.

The slate of hour-long dramas, half-hour comedies, reality series and British imports are hoped to draw more viewers than the former “Tonight” show host was able to do with his mix of interviews and stand-up.

Initial plans to air several innovative shows had to be scrapped to please affiliates who were concerned about the network taking any more risks, in light of the failure of the Leno concept. Among the promising pilots ditched at the last minute were “Stairwell 2010,” profiling life off the beaten path in a New York elevator building; “Paint (Drying),” a home-improvement reality show; and “A Year in the Life of a Rock,” about a year in the life of a rock.

Instead, NBC will rely on tried-and-true formulas that hark back to TV’s early days, when half the programming day was taken up with static images that allowed engineers to gauge pixel resolution. A sneak peek of the new lineup was shown to critics over the weekend. Given the best chance to return competitiveness to the fourth-place network were:

“Pattern” (Mondays)

This crime drama will feature a team of inner-city detectives who try to piece together seemingly random whole numbers, circles with targets in the center, and a variety of grey-scale screens into some semblance of a plot. Starring a plus sign and rapper-turned-actor Chart 156.

“What Pattern is Your Test?” (Tuesdays)

This reality show, adapted for television by HDNet and Zenith, offers contestants the chance to move down a ten-step ladder as they try to read progressively smaller typesizes. If they can pass this eye test in the allotted minute and 18 seconds, they qualify for a "Digitize the Experience" round in which they can win 40 of something by not going blind.

“Tic Tac Toe, With Puppets!” (Thursdays)

A comedy originally broadcast on Britain's BBC features a young girl and her fabric companion enduring countless ties at the classic game of X's and O's. They smile slightly off-camera while surrounded by colorful neighbors and angular rules.

“When I Saw Him Standing By” (Fridays)

A physician's assistant who leaves the Sioux reservation to assist doctors in a big-city hospital fights to keep his Native American identity and his gigantic war bonnet despite strict OR rules against feathers in the sterile field. Keanu Reeves returns to his TV roots as Chief Forceps in this star-studded romp.

Trying for freebies at the Chick-fil-A

The taste of humiliation I have in my mouth doesn’t blend well with the chicken-y goodness of the golden-fried white-meat strips I’ve just eaten. I think I prefer honey mustard sauce to shame as a condiment.    

Earlier this week I tried to pull a fast one on the fast-food industry, and had a decidedly “combo” experience. I got a free dinner but paid for it with embarrassment and disgrace that will cost me for a long time.    

Tuesdays, as cheapskates everywhere know, are better known as “Topper Tuesdays” at most Chick-fil-A outlets. Patrons at the drive-thru window may be treated to a pack of complementary chicken pieces with the purchase of a regular meal. So if, as my son and I did, you buy the tenders combo, it comes with three additional nuggets of chicken. (I think you can also get the meat formed into tetrahedrons or spheroids as well, and even droplets, if you can stomach what that suggests).    

All you have to do to qualify is have a promotional cow-headed antenna topper on your car. I didn’t have an antenna on the car I was driving at the time, so it didn’t make sense to have a topper either. I use an iPod rather than a car radio to get most of my musical entertainment while driving, and I can’t imagine affixing the cow to my earbuds — they’re uncomfortable enough as it is already.    

I didn’t think that someone making minimum wage working the headsets at Chick-fil-A would be conscientious (let alone conscious) enough, to enforce the topper requirement, so I figured I’d try to fake my way to a gratis appetizer. I didn’t exactly lie as we drove up to the order box; I figured a little creative deception would do the job.    

“What’s the deal on the ‘Topper Tuesday’ again?” I asked.    

“Dad! No!” objected my son, but I was intent on teaching him a lesson, in frugality if not honesty. He slumped deep into the seat as I continued our order.    

The voice explained the rules of the promotion. I placed an order for the number 6 combo, then added “and we’ll do that topper thing.”    

We pulled forward into a line of four or five cars waiting to pay and receive their food. It was only then that I noticed a security camera pointing mostly at the back door, where people come to rob the place, but also in our general direction. Uh oh, I thought, we’re going to get caught, as soon as we spend the next ten minutes waiting our turn. Now I was learning the anxiety-filled anticipation Mr. Abdulmutallab must’ve felt flying over the Canadian Maritime Provinces on Christmas Day, except I had to stay in my seat and he got to use the bathroom.    

When we finally made it to the window, we were greeted by friendly young Amanda. She leaned out of her glass turret and examined the top of my car. Not even one of those stubby antennae, much less the livestock she was looking for.    

“Where’s your topper?” she asked.    

“Oh. Uh…it’s not up there?” I asked, craning my neck as if I could actually see the roof from the driver’s seat.    

She peered into my car, but said nothing.    

“Shoot,” I finally said. “It must’ve fallen off. Or maybe it’s on my other car. I think maybe I have the wrapper here in my glove my compartment — can I show you that?”    

“You know it came with an adapter, so it should snuggly fit any style antenna,” she said.    

How can they possibly afford to incent employees like this with all the giveaways they offer? The three-dollar holiday calendar alone has coupons good for at least triple that amount, including September’s offer of a free poultry farm. Only chumps pay for food at Chick-fil-A.    

“Well, I guess you can take the free part back,” I offered lamely. By now, my son was so deep into his seat I was afraid he’d pop through the undercarriage.    

“We’ll let you go this time,” she smiled at last, as she handed over the large white bag.    

“Thanks,” I mumbled, and drove quickly away.    

“You know, we can never go to any Chick-fil-A ever again, don’t you?” my son said.    

He was right. I might be able to swallow my free chicken shapes with enough vigorous chewing, but I’d never be able to swallow my pride enough to return, except perhaps in a full-body disguise.    

+++    

“Important Consumer Information” from the wrapper of the topper package:    

1) If Antenna Topper impairs your visibility while driving, remove Antenna Topper.    

2) If antenna behaves erratically with Antenna Topper attached, remove Antenna Topper.    

3) Works well with most retractable antennas    

Warning: Choking hazard.    

Antenna topper of shame

Website Review: BabyNames.com

The year is 2050. Actress Dakota Fanning has been kidnapped by aliens. The extraterrestrials demand a ransom of Twizzlers (the cherry ones, not the licorice ones) in an amount that would cost nearly the entire GNP of the earth to produce and package.  

The Hollywood of the future springs into action the way it knows best: by staging a cheesy benefit to bring in donations to help fund the massive cost of Twizzler production. All the big names in show business are there to demonstrate their support, even though the captured actress’s most recent film work hasn’t been quite up to par.  

Mars Badu, daughter of singer Erykah Badu, is there, along with her brother from another father, Seven 3000, whose dad was Andre 3000 of OutKast. Audio Science Clayton, son of actress Shannyn Sossamon, is there. Moxie Crimefighter Jillette, daughter of magician Penn Jillette, and Speck Wildhorse Mellencamp, son of singer John Mellencamp, are a dating couple now, and have arrived together. Poet Goldberg, daughter of actress Soleil Moon Frye, and Elijah Bob Patricus Guggi Q Hewson, son of musician Bono Vox, are there, as are the daughters of singer Bob Geldof – Fifi-Trixibelle Geldof, Little Pixie Geldof and Peaches Honeyblossom Cheney (nee Geldof, and now the wife of reanimated former vice president Dick Cheney).

Even a few of the elders from previous generations make an appearance: Zowie Bowie and Diva Muffin Zappa join together in a duet written for the occasion, “It’s Not Our Fault Our Dads Were Rock Stars (Dakota Come Home).”  

Forty years ago, all the bizarre names in attendance might’ve taken focus away from the plight of Miss Fanning, now struggling so gamely to breathe in the thin atmosphere of East Pluto. But thanks to the creativity of parents everywhere, inspired by websites like babynames.com, virtually the entire world is now populated with goofily-named spawn. Today’s Website Review looks at this source of inspiration for parents and a lifetime of being bullied for their kids.  

Babynames.com is a darling site for prospective moms and dads looking to find just the right name for their bundle of Joiyieux, and not terribly concerned with the harmful effects that laptop radiation might pose for the unborn fetus. It has all kinds of helpful features to direct visitors to over 15,000 naming options, along with advice, games and shopping opportunities.  

The home page provides easy links to the top baby names of 2009, a search engine to allow you to browse for names by different categories, and a “Name of the Day.” Yesterday this was the two-star-rated “Verlee,” a combination of Vernon and Lee, and about as ugly as having two redneck dads might suggest. You can also buy an iPhone App to carry name ideas wherever you go, and can follow late-breaking names on both Facebook and Twitter. (If you sign up for these, you may want to consider not being pregnant quite so much).  

The most popular names for boys last year were Aidan/Aiden/Aden and Cayden/Caden/Kayden/Kaden, and for girls were Amelia/Emilia and Isabella/Izabella. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t saddle my child with all that slash drawing every time they had to sign their name, but I suppose it’s still better than plugging in a ∞ or a ∂ or a ‰. Other notable appellations to make the top 100 include Logan, Rhys and Xander for boys, and Isla, Esme and Aurora for girls. The once-popular John barely makes the list at the final spot.  

If you’re interested instead in a name that reflects a certain cultural background, there’s an option for you too. Most major nationalities are represented as well as some you’d think were long buried in ancient history. While there may be no Sumerian, Neanderthal or Australopithecus names, there is a nice list of Aztec names including Tlalli, Quetzalxochitl and the unfortunate Atl, who’s likely to spend a lifetime being constantly diverted to Hartsfield International Airport in Atlanta.  

If you’re not sure which of several names you’re considering are best for you and your baby, there’s a place to list your finalists and have site visitors vote on their favorites. Obviously, there’s no requirement that you go with majority rule, which is a good thing if you want to avoid Internet trends like Stephen Colbert, Megan Fox or LongerPenisCanNowBeYours.  

There’s an Info and Advice pulldown that features message boards, a celebrity baby blog (‘just barfed again,” reports Atlas Tupper, son of Anne Heche), and a name consulting service. “Tips for Writers” suggests romance authors steer clear of exotic names like Chesapeake Divine or Rod Remington, and that science fiction writers avoid unwieldy titles like Zyxnrid.  

The predictably named Jennifer hosts an “Ask Babynames.com” forum to answer specific reader questions. No, she tells Anna, you shouldn’t name your twin girls “Tara” and “Clara.” Danielle is concerned that her choice, “Akuji,” was copyrighted by a videogame of the same name, but turns out it’s not. Kimberly wants to name her son “Dresden,” but is concerned it will recall the German city firebombed into ashes during World War II; not great, Jennifer advises, yet still better than “Hiroshima” or “Pearl Harbor.” Tyler wants to know the derivation of the name “Stamatina” and is told its root is “stop” in Greek, and therefore a good name for a girl.  

In the Fun Stuff section, there’s a “Random Renamer” feature. I typed in my first and middle name and got options for the “wild” me (Juke Mason), the “stylish” me (Tempest Jareth), the “quiet” me (Jokull Seiko) and the “philosophical” me (Daytona Raul), all of which would also result in the m0rtified me. You can also guess the stage name of people who chose to change their birthname for show business. For example, R&B singer Akon was born Aliaune Damala Bouga Time Puru Nacka Lu Lu Lu Badara Akon Thiam. Audrey Hepburn was Edda Kathleen van Heemstra Hepburn-Ruston. Della Reese was Delloreese Early, Elle McPherson was Eleanor Gow and Laura Nyro was Laura Nigro.  

A list of games that can be played at baby showers starts out fun but trends toward the creepy and ultimately the ghastly. A game called “Baby Got Back” directs players to ”get five little plastic babies and put them in a cup, have guests shake up the cup and toss the babies onto a table. The player with the most babies with their ‘bottoms up’ wins.” The game “Dirty Diapers” involves putting eight different chocolate candy bars in eight different diapers, microwaving them, then having each guest guess what candy bars they were originally (no tasting allowed). “Ice-Ice-Baby” again uses miniature plastic babies, this time putting them in cups of water and freezing them. “Each guest receives one ice-baby,” the instructions read. “Whoever can make the water melt first and announces ‘my water broke’ wins a prize.”   

Of course, the obvious temptation at a site like this is to check out your own name to see how it rates, so you can know if you’re a worthwhile human being or not. I searched for “Davis” and found that it’s the 395th most popular name currently in use and is contained on the tentative name lists of 547 expectant parents. The origin of the name is English and it means, not surprisingly, “son of David.” Other notables with the name are Sammy Davis Jr. and Bette Davis, but they’re not really using it any more. Though not common, ”Davis” is rated four stars on a five-star scale for desirability. For comparison purposes, I checked the name “Adolf” (German in origin, it means “noble wolf”) and it only rated two stars, so me and my fellow Davis’s are at least twice as good as, for example, Hitler. 

Below the name facts is a place to upload photos of your own special namesake. Adolf had “no pix uploaded, yet” but there was one cute little Davis, shown below: 

This one looks like a wise guy

I enjoyed reading through this website, and can definitely recommend it to anyone in the market for baby names. Readers of all ages who don’t have a name will find a virtually endless supply of possible things they can call themselves. And if people are already referring to you by some kind of label, you can still enjoy a few fun facts and diversions. Just watch out for those diapers and those frozen plastic babies.

Revisited: 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.

Revisted: 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 changed 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 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 wallboard installer.

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 to 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 apocryphal, 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.

Monday, briefly

Cats are lousy first-responders

I accidentally stepped on the tail of one of my three cats Friday. She was uninjured but let out quite a screech.

My other two cats immediately rushed to the scene, apparently to see what they could do to help. When they realized they didn’t have opposing thumbs or first-aid supplies or any EMT training beyond the application of cat saliva, they discovered there was little they could do to help.

So, they figured, what the hell – let’s attack the injured party.

Very catty.

A rare celestial alignment of my three cats

Excellence = survival

My wife and I accompanied a friend to a recent hospitalization for some tests he was having. We helped him recall his family’s health history for the admissions official. Both his parents are in their mid-80′s and still relatively healthy despite their age and the accompanying maladies one might expect at that point in your life.

As we recited those illnesses, you got the feeling the hospital lady was missing the larger point that, despite a case of high-blood pressure on his father’s side and a bout with diabetes on his mother’s, these people were still alive. Would she have preferred that they died disease-free from a double homicide in their forties? It certainly would’ve made her job a lot easier.

Soon, the on-duty nurse arrived to introduce herself. Like most hospitals, they hang a small whiteboard near the wall clock where they can write some basic information the hospitalized person will need to know: his room’s phone number, the names and hours of the nurse and her assistant, etc. After posting these, the nurse wrote the word “excellence” and an equal sign at the bottom of the board and turned to the three of us.

“And how would you define ‘excellence’ during your visit here?” she asked.

We looked at each other, puzzled, as we struggled to understand the question. The nurse waited, offering no clue about what the correct answer might be.

Suddenly it occurred to me, as a former trainer familiar with some of the nonsense that passes for continuous improvement efforts, that we were the victims of a corporate quality initiative. These poor nurses had been yanked out of service, yanked out of time that could’ve been spent training worthwhile skills like offering snacks and keeping people from dying, and run through some worthless quality course. “Find out the customer’s expectations,” I imagine they were told by a consultant, “and then find a way to exceed those expectations.”

As our silence continued, you could tell the nurse was starting to get embarrassed about the whole thing. She doubtless had a checklist on her clipboard reminding her to ask this question, lest she forget that one of her goals should be adequately caring patients. Maybe she thought about an earlier family who wanted to look up “excellence” on dictionary.com through their Blackberry, or the working-class parents who wanted to know “what they hell are you talking about? My kid is sick here.”

“Um, I guess we’d consider our stay an excellent experience if we find out what’s wrong with our friend, and you can help us fix it,” I said. “And then maybe exceed our expectations a little as well.”

The nurse smiled broadly. Oh, that’s a great answer, I could see her thinking; it’s just like the one the consultant gave during his role-playing exercise. She scribbled it into her notes.

I was happy I could heal her discomfort.

When a body meets a body …

As I drove toward home last week, I feared I had made a wrong turn and somehow ended up in Juarez, Mexico. Lying in the gutter, just across the street from my house, appeared to be a lifeless corpse.

The subdivision homeowners’ association is going to absolutely freak. And they’ll think it’s my fault because it’s near my driveway. My annual dues are going through the roof after this.

When I got closer, the legs came into clearer focus. Poking out of the long beige pants were a pair of avocado green shoes. Odd, I thought, those colors don’t really coordinate very well.

Finally, I realized that it wasn’t a body at all, but rather a rolled-up shag carpet, likely dumped by one of the condo owners across the way.

Now I was really upset. We’ve complained about those people and their illegal trash disposal practices before. And shag carpet, no less!

Fortunately, not a poorly dressed victim

My thoughts are with you, I guess

There’s a nice guy who worked in our office several years ago who transferred to another division. We still see him occasionally. Recently, he and his family were called to New York, to be at the bedside of his mother who was in the final stages of heart disease.

Former coworkers who heard of his plight circulated a sympathy card in my department. It seemed to me that sentiments like “may your memories bring you comfort” and “others care deeply and are remembering your loved one with special thoughts” might be a little premature, even if well intended. It also occurred to me that I didn’t really know the guy, much less his mother, yet was being asked to sign the card.

What could I say about the pending, probable loss? How could I possibly find the right words to express how I felt about the sad passing of someone I didn’t even know existed? Maybe this would’ve been appropriate:

“Like others have written, your family is in our thoughts and prayers, though in my case it’s more of a vague awareness. I didn’t really know you, or your mother for that matter, yet I admire her courage for hanging on long enough to be appalled at getting this card. Assuming she does eventually pass, may it help to know that a total stranger wishes to add his acknowledgement that dying is bad.”

Fake News Brief: North Korea is undecided

SEOUL, South Korea (Jan. 18) — North Korea announced yesterday that it will return to stalled international talks on its nuclear disarmament, then said no, probably not, after all; then said OK, we guess so; then said no way; then gave encouraging signs it was ready to negotiate.

The nation’s foreign ministry also repeated its call for a peace treaty to formally end the 1950-53 Korean War, wondering “what’s taking so long?” The spokesperson went on to stress that the conflict couldn’t officially end until the U.S. removed its forces from South Korea, but it might be okay if American troops simply all jumped in the air at the same time so they were no longer technically on the ground.

“We at least want to see sanctions ended immediately,” said Park Kim. “The Americans have no right to align the rest of the world against us. Alright, maybe they do. Whatever.”

The six-party talks – which include the two Koreas, the U.S., China, Japan and Russia — began in 2003 as an effort to convince Pyongyang to give up its nuclear program in return for aid and security guarantees. Discussions were halted in 2005 when tensions on the peninsula rose, resumed in 2006 for six months, stopped in early 2007 after a chief negotiator got a little stomach bug that kept him out of work, and then began again for about an hour and a half. The group broke for lunch that first day but failed to continue in the afternoon session when the North Koreans decided they’d rather hang out by the hotel pool.

Representatives from the communist north have made some tentative overtures to their long-time enemies in the south in recent months that were seen as a cause for hope the long conflict could be resolved. A joint factory complex near the demilitarized zone houses companies owned by the South Koreans and employing about 40,000 North Korean workers. The factories manufacture mostly rubber bands, yo-yo’s and boomerangs.

It was hoped the economic cooperation could lead to a long-term peace. However, relations were again strained when the North Koreans test-fired a ballistic missile over the Sea of Japan in 2009. Initial concerns about the launch in the West subsided when the rocket turned out to be attached to a long Slinky™, which yanked it back into northern airspace with a loud “sproing!”

The communist regime has long been regarded as unstable and unpredictable. The indecision of the rulers apparently goes as far back as the country’s founding shortly after World War II, when two rival factions couldn’t agree on a name for the newly built capital city.

“The story goes that one side wanted ‘Yong’ and one side wanted ‘Yang’,” said the State Department’s senior East Asian analyst Tony Kent. “They argued back and forth for hours, then one of the leading generals said he would resolve the difference in a few minutes but had to ‘pee first.’ When he returned, the group had already misinterpreted his parting words by compromising on ‘Pyongyang’.”

A look back at high school writing

The 1960s were a great time to be in high school, as opposed to, say, fighting in Vietnam or dying in a race riot. Sure, we had the rumbles and shoulder-punch-outs that seemed earth-shattering to us, but it was mostly a time to try being free and creative in ways we were never allowed before.

My senior year at Miami Norland High School was when I first got interested in creative writing. Mrs. Massey taught a journalism class that seemed to cover everything but journalism. Inspired by the ground-breaking social upheaval of the times, she didn’t take attendance and she didn’t mind taking guff from her precocious students, most of whom were Jewish, upper-middle-class and looking for intellectual trouble.

She ran her class as something of an educational experiment, giving us the freedom to talk and write about whatever we wanted. My first essay for her was a call for America to give equal rights to broccoli. Later, I attacked a grading system that allowed me to get a 93 while my friend scored only a 79. “Does this make me 117.7% better a person than he?” I asked, quite the profound question when you stop to think in those pre-calculator days that I had to use long division

And then there was the horrible but creative (but, more than anything, horrible) poetry. A favorite stanza I wrote still lingers in my memory over 40 years later.

When I at last have breathed my final breath

And my remains are lowered in the ground

I wonder what will people think of me?

When I like them had walked upon the earth?

Heavy. And not at all like the man I’ve become, who doesn’t even care what people think while his remains are still up and walking around, cutting people off in traffic and sighing loudly as that lady in front of him pays with a check check in the supermarket.

Little of that early writing has survived. However, I think I can create a replica, and thought it might be fun to try. What follows is the essay I might’ve written for one of her final assignments of that last year of high school: Pick a topic, any topic, and write a minimum of 500 words.

+++

Any topic, you say? ANY?

“Any” is such an expansive word and yet also so limiting, a mere three letters in a language replete with words of considerably greater length. There’s an “A”, and then there’s an “N”, and then there’s a “Y”. Why, indeed?

(I’m assuming that letters count as words in your arbitrary call for a minimum of 500 of such fleeting entities).

Webster defines “topic” as “something dealt with in a text or in discussion.” He tells us to also “see subject, theme, matter or issue.” But one must ask, who is he to be telling us what to see, with his eighteenth-century perspective and prejudices?

No one is really sure who he is anyway, whether he is Daniel or Noah or perhaps another Webster entirely. Or maybe he is some yet-to-be-conceived Webster, a man-child who will inhabit a space in the media of the future, perhaps an urban Chicago setting in which his parents were recently killed in a car accident and he’s adopted by George Papadapolous, played by Alex Karras. And perhaps he shall be known as Emmanuel. You never know.

These are times that demand more focus than to throw open a discussion such as this to the whims of high school seniors. We are but buds, still unformed, still uninformed, still uniform in our adherence to societal demands, not to mention the school dress policy. Mere buds, I say!

Speaking of nature, we should consider the moon and the stars and the galaxies that swirl around us in their impromptu dance of celestial wonder. They would qualify as a topic, certainly, but what good would it do to attempt to put them into the categories, the restrictions that language demands? Plus, it’s daytime, and even if it were dark out, my telescope is broken, and my stupid younger brother now uses its tubular length as a baseball bat. His naivete is so sad that it makes me weep.

I qualify not, though, as a crybaby, for I am a sensitive lad. Even my mother says so.

You label this class as “journalism”. I repudiate your labels, as we have not been asked to keep any journal whatsoever. (I’m not suggesting it; I’m just making an observation.) I heap derision and disgust on your provincial concepts of “objectivity” and “facts.” I do this by putting certain words in “quotes,” as is the literary fashion. Fashion, though, is of little concern to me and my generation, as the afore-noted reference to the dress code infers.

In closing, I stop to take a look at myself in the mirror and at the mask I wear which society — and my acne — has demanded. I see in the reflection a challenged soul, a primordial man, an adolescent in a shirt that is really too tight, though it claims to be a husky. In the background of the reflection, I see a can of Right Guard deodorant next to the bathroom sink, and its implied assertion that I need to eliminate all traces of nature from my essence. It’s an effort that is doomed to failure.

Maybe I should switch to a roll-on.

Fake News: Obama giving up?

WASHINGTON (Jan. 21) — President Obama marked his first full year in office yesterday with an acknowledgement to top aides that he has failed in his attempt to halt the universe’s continued tendency toward entropy.

Despite record popularity after his election and what was perceived as a broad-based mandate for change, the nation’s forty-forth chief executive privately admits that the universal trend from order to disorder reigns unchecked. This law of physics remains in place despite his ambitious personal agenda and filibuster-proof majorities in both the House and Senate.

“He realizes now he can only do so much,” said White House aide Arnold Woods. “A start toward economic recovery, a much-needed refocus on Afghanistan and progress toward healthcare reform are nothing compared the kind of change we really need. He tried but, eh, what’re you gonna do?”

Republican opponents of the president’s initiatives were quick to pounce on the disclosure as validation of their anti-everything stance.

“We already knew he had failed,” said GOP chairman Michael Steele. “Every time I drop a pen or spill a salad in my lap, I’m reminded that gravity’s tyranny over Americans of every stripe remains in place. If he can’t change the way stuff drops to the ground if not held in place, how can we expect him to succeed at anything?”

Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell agreed.

“When I take off my sweater and get an electric shock from the static, I’m reminded again of this administration’s failure,” McConnell said. “Electromagnetism, centrifugal force, black holes, dark matter, you name it, and the president has come up short. My face is puffy with frustration.”

The victory of a Republican in Tuesday’s Massachusetts Senate race only reinforced the impression that this presidency has deteriorated into a sorry sack of solid human waste. The election of Scott Brown to fill the seat vacated by the late Sen. Edward Kennedy was widely seen as a death knell for healthcare reform, since Brown has said he’d provide a pivotal vote against the current bill.

Obama, speaking of the Massachusetts results before a town hall meeting in Canton, Ohio, seemed discouraged with the effect the election will likely have on the reform package now in conference committee.

“You know what?” the president asked, “the hell with all y’all.”

The vacuum created by the doom of healthcare reform will likely be filled by a new GOP proposal now beginning to emerge from the conservative Washington think tank known as Bend Over America.

The six-point plan awaiting final approval from lobbyists before its formal release to the public was leaked to the Associated Press over the weekend. Its major points for overhauling the way Americans use and pay for health care include:

• Suck it up

• Quit crying

• What are you, a baby?

• Put a band-aid on it

• I don’t want to hear your complaining

• Be a man (seriously, be a man, because we’re not covering obstetrical services for women)

It’s time to leak the truth

In 1979, there was an accident at a nuclear power plant in Pennsylvania called Three Mile Island (TMI). Initial reports indicated there was a small explosion and perhaps some minor injuries. It wasn’t until later in the first day that it became known there was a significant leak of radioactive materials, into both the air and the ground.

As details unfolded in the week that followed, the public learned that we had narrowly avoided a so-called “China Syndrome,” in which the core of the reactor would melt deep into the earth. Groundwater could’ve been contaminated and the air could’ve been filled with poisonous gases. Pennsylvania could’ve become even more inhabitable than it already was. Fear gripped the nation as more and more details were released and we imagined what might have been.

Ever since this near-catastrophe, whenever anyone is given too much information about something fearsome and repulsive, we call it “TMI”.

The following post may contain TMI. Sensitive readers should — wait, this is the Internet; sensitive readers shouldn’t be a problem.

+   +   +

I didn’t do a real good job this year of coming up with worthy New Year’s resolutions. In the past, I’ve promised myself I’d lose weight or be more thrifty, and generally did a good job of follow-through all the way into February. I’ve put the ambitious agendas aside this year, and decided instead to work on smaller, more achievable goals.

The main improvement initiative I’m undertaking currently is to pick up things that have fallen on the ground. I’m still okay with stuff that’s supposed to be down there — pebbles, earthworms, the drunken homeless — but I’m trying to put forth a real effort to make my world a better place with the simple act of bending down and retrieving discarded litter. Some people have chosen to help earthquake victims; I’m thinking that charity begins at home, in an approximately three-foot radius of where I’m standing.

Pride is picking up

The real fact of the matter is that I’m contributing a lot of this debris on my own. Maybe I shouldn’t be so self-congratulatory for picking up after myself, and yet it still gives me a warm feeling to know I’m working to clean up our environment. Just because the trash is of my own making shouldn’t discount the substantial effort it takes for someone my age to squat.

It’s because of these “warm feelings” that I’ve been creating such a mess in my wake. You see, I have a problem that confronts many men in their 50s, and I’ve been using small wads of paper stuffed into my shorts to address it. I have a problem with dribbling.

In my younger days, I enjoyed many an afternoon in a robust workout on the basketball court. I’ve never had much of a vertical leap and my three-point shot rarely found the hole, but I’ve always been a good ball handler, even perfecting a behind-the-back crossover that frequently left me open for a layup. What’s been hurting my game in the gym lately is that the floor tends to get a little slippery when I have to splash through a puddle of my own urine.

Really, that’s an exaggeration. My touch of incontinence doesn’t result in the kind of fashionable gushers we’ve recently seen in concert from a certain female singer for the Black Eyed Pees (spelling?). The difficulty I have isn’t the uncontrollable release that wetted Fergie in the midst of all her booming and powing; rather, what I’ve experienced is the drop or two trickle that lies in wait until I’m all zipped up and heading back to my desk. It’s not outwardly noticeable, and I don’t think it’s causing any kind of hazardous spill that could injure or sicken my co-workers. It’s just that warm, then cold, moistness that suddenly shocks your upper thigh and reminds you a little too vividly of what it was like to be young. Very young.

Fellow incontinent Fergie

My solution to this embarrassment is to wad up a piece of bathroom tissue, forming a hood that contains the tiny spill. My slacks hold this cap in place just long enough to catch any fleeting beads, until the wad gradually works its way down my leg and I can pull it out and deposit it in the can. It’s a pretty good system, as long as you can subtly pivot at every turn to check your tracks and make sure you’re not depositing a trail of crumbs like some latter-day Hansel and Gretel.

So that’s how I’ve gotten into the habit of stooping down to pick up debris. If I’m doing it often enough that people who witness the act think I’m just being a conscientious employee concerned about the appearance of the office, then they won’t be suspicious if they happen to notice the tile comet sliding down my ankle. Only once has anyone commented on the emergent hat, and I was able to laugh that off by claiming it was a dryer sheet.

Well, I’m tired of laughing at myself over a situation that plagues so many otherwise hygienic people. “No matter how you shake and dance, the last drop’s always on your pants” makes for a playful adolescent rhyme, but I’m sick of having it ringing in my ears every 90 minutes like some particularly bizarre ABBA tune. For too long, the slightly incontinent have hidden in the shadows, peeing themselves in shame, paralyzed by the ever-present fear that someone will shine a light into that shadow and scare us into a lethal blockage. I say enough is enough. It’s time I was praised for my ingenuity instead of disgraced for a thoroughly natural glitch in my plumbing.

If we’re going to leak, let us leak with pride. Let’s take the steps we must in order to preserve a sanitary home and workplace, yet let us not feel as guilty as if we were responsible for some awful catastrophe.

It’s not as though the leak were radioactive.

Revisited: 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 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 ‘designated 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.

Revisited: 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 fifth 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.

Some questions for a Monday

I wonder, is there any connection between the fact that the nation’s leading sex addiction clinic is located in Mississippi, and that the state’s residents are among America’s ugliest citizens?

+++

Should I be concerned that the one word I overheard in passing our human resources representative’s conversation with another employee was “caliber”?

+++

Can you consider yourself a success in the art world if your drawing ends up in an Advil Sinus Formula TV commercial as an “artist’s depiction of nasal passage”?

+++

If I ever decide to open a hair-styling salon (admittedly an unlikely occurrence), I want to use a name as clever as all the “Hair We Are” establishments already out there. My business would be called “Turn Your Head and Coif”.

+++

When Brett Favre fills out his income tax return, do you think he writes “Viking” under occupation? If so, can he deduct the cost of pillaging supplies?

+++

The guy at the drive-thru in front of me at Taco Bell last night had his order come to $16.85. How is it even possible to spend that much at Taco Bell? Was he buying the whole franchise?

+++

How spoiled have I become when I walk 30 feet out of the way while exiting Target so that I can use the automatic door?

+++

Area squirrel hunters have petitioned the state wildlife commission not to move hunting season up by three weeks, because they’re concerned about orphaning the babies before they’re able to care for themselves. Wouldn’t it just be easier to get some tiny shotguns?

+++

Thanks to all the readers who commented on my Friday post about that personal health problem that I would’ve been better off not mentioning. I especially want to thank former NASCAR driver Dick Trickle for his sympathetic observation. And to those who wrote with concerns that my regular Friday feature, the Website Review, had been discontinued, I want to say I appreciate your support and hope that the new Friday theme — a weekly report on which parts of my body are leaking — will be equally popular.    

+++    

We just finished our annual employee survey at work. We were given ten days to answer 30 questions about how well the company was doing to provide a “positive work environment.” The multiple-choice questionnaire offered three types of answers: you could register your contentment at five different points between extremely satisfied and extremely dissatisfied; you could strongly agree, agree, disagree or strongly disagree with a statement; and you could comment on the frequency of good behavior by your supervisor.    

It was this last series that I had the most trouble with. Continuously responding “sometimes” instead of “always,” “almost always” and “never” started sounding suspicious, like the answers a child might give about his abusive parents after being taken into protective services. “Is your supervisor accessible?” Sometimes. “Does your supervisor provide recognition?” Sometimes. “Does your supervisor administer policies fairly?” Sometimes.    

It was the final request that gave everyone the most pause: “Please feel free to provide any additional feedback in the space below.” It’s not really a question, so that immediately throws you off balance a little. I suppose you could respond “no” but doubt that would be any better than simply leaving it blank. The survey is anonymous, however they ask so many questions about how long you’ve been with the company, what department you’re in and what site you’re located at, that you know they could narrow it down if they wanted to.    

Do I want to honestly express my true concerns about certain aspects of the work that are less fulfilling than they should be? Will any suggestions be taken seriously, as an opportunity for the company to improve its performance? Is this where I mention that I don’t like it when my boss touches me?    

I’m going with the blank.    

+++    

We recently had a new motion-sensing towel dispenser installed in the men’s room at work. The first few times I tried to use it, the paper was not coming out easily. I started experimenting to see what type of motion it preferred. I tried waving, rotating, seizing spastically, obscene-gesturing, wiggling and combing my hair, all of which worked sporadically at best.    

Finally, I tried being a little more friendly, offering a hand-shake. This showed promise, though the narrow surface of my extended palm felt insubstantial. At last, I settled on the fist-bump, which works perfectly.    

Detect this!

The card reader on the door that leads back into the office allows access only to those who have the properly badge. There’s a clip attached that lets you to hang the badge wherever you want, though the reader itself is located about belly high. There’s really not a good place to display it on your clothing, so I keep it stuffed in my shirt pocket.    

Consequently, I find myself offering a ceremonial Japanese bow whenever I want to enter the door. It might look silly but it feels very cosmopolitan.    

+++

Let me get this straight. Not only do I have to slave away at work each day advising investment bankers how to use the proper language to document their screwing of the American taxpayer… not only do I have to abide annoying coworkers who even now are talking about their daughter’s dance class… not only do I have to fill out surveys and fear HR gunmen and dance around in front of the paper towel dispenser. But also, in order to see how much I’ve been underpaid for these thankless tasks, I have to “remove side edges first, then fold, crease and tear this stub along perforation” to open my pay stub. Four specific verbs to open an envelope, performed in a specific order. So much work.

+++

The obituary section of the local paper allows the family of the deceased to choose which action verb best describes their loved one’s demise. Most choose “died” or “passed away,” simple and to the point. Some get a little creative (“sadly left us” or “joined the church eternal”) while others get a little crazy (“stepped over the narrow bridge we call death and landed safe in the arms of Jesus”).

When I pass, I want it said that “Davis used the restroom one last time, complained about Cavaliers’ turnovers in their game against the Lakers, turned the channel to MSNBC, and then was consumed by spontaneous combustion as he stepped into a hopeless, endless void.”

+++

Extracted from the interior of a "Deluxe McGriddle," this is supposedly an egg

Fake News: NFL writers search for feel-good story

MIAMI (Jan. 25) — With the matchup now set for pro football’s Super Bowl, members of the media have begun their desperate annual search for the “up close and personal” angle that will portray aggressive hulking millionaires as the kind of human beings we can all relate to, even though we’re pitifully inferior to them.

Unfortunately for sportswriters, family and friends of NFL players are generally in good health, thanks to of modern medical techniques that keep most people from hovering near death. Colts wide receiver Pierre Garcon’s parents are originally from Haiti, a promising lead in light of the tragedy that struck that nation. But it’s expected that by the February game, the devastating Caribbean earthquake will be so Jan. 12, and therefore out of the news cycle. Saints quarterback Drew Brees knew a guy who knew a guy who thought he had AIDS there for a minute, but it turned out he just had smudged some toner on his face.

Preliminary reports by writers already investigating players’ backgrounds hint at some of what we could be seeing in the run-up to the Big Game.

The spotlight could be falling on the ill-fated brother of Colts QB Peyton Manning, a young man named Eli who has endured numerous severe beatings in the last five months while in New York. The younger Manning had hoped to carve out a career for himself in the NFL, but instead ended up being repeatedly ambushed by street-wise toughs despite a contingent of burly but inept bodyguards.

“It’s a really sad story,” said ESPN writer John Rich. “He had such a promising future a few years back, but it all came crashing down.”

Saints cornerback Malcolm Jennings might do a good job arousing sympathy. Several in his immediate family have seen recent hardship, including a brother who lost his cell phone, a nephew who got short-changed by a vending machine, and a health scare recently experienced by his father.

“He had a thing on his neck that was kind of crusty and misshapen, like a scab but yellow around the edges,” said a friend of the family. “We thought for a while it might be malignant. It wasn’t.”

Colts tight end Justin Snow has a sister who was thought to be battling cancer. Snow said she received a note from her doctor following an annual physical that she needed to get treatment for a “canker,” but the physician’s handwriting was so bad she thought it said “cancer.”

“I was really worried there for a day or so, and I thought about dedicating the NFC championship game to her,” Snow said. “Fortunately, the confusion was cleared up pretty quickly. Good thing too, because I didn’t get into the game since I’m not that good.”

Saints linebacker Marvin Mitchell actually did lose his mother to heart disease about ten years ago, though he was in junior high school at the time and no one could foresee he’d later be in such a premier game.

“I’ll always remember her final words. She said ‘ouch, cardiomyopathy sure does hurt.’ I’ll remember that forever,” Mitchell said. “I only wish she could’ve been here with me now so I could use her to get the sympathy of millions of Americans who will watch the pregame show.”

Like Garcon, Colts offensive tackle Charlie Johnson has a heart-rending Haiti connection. While on a honeymoon cruise in 2006, an on-shore excursion to an exclusive island off the coast of Cap Haitien had to be cancelled when not enough people signed up for it. Later that same day, the ship had some problems with its stabilizer, causing the deck to roll excessively in a mild storm.

“It almost felt like an earthquake. Sort of,” Johnson said. “I know the self-leveling pool table in the Windjammer Lounge was completely out of commission.”

Saints defensive end Bobby McCray is a native of New Orleans and still lives year-round in the city that was flooded by Hurricane Katrina. He has voiced strong support for the rebuilding of neighborhoods in the city’s hard-hit Ninth Ward, especially since he drives through there on the way to practice yet can no longer take a favorite short-cut.

“Those folks have been through a lot,” McCray said. “If they could only get that Bypass Bridge fully repaired, the whole community could be opened up to people like me passing through.”

There’s still a chance a more sympathetic story can be found before press coverage hits its peak by the end of this week. There was an unconfirmed report that one player had a cousin who was born without a head, and that another player feared his playing days could be cut short because he has severe osteoporosis and brittle bone disease, preventing him from ever blocking or tackling. The Colts defensive line coach thinks he hit something with his car in the dark the other night, and hopes it was only a dog or a deer.

“Every year we go through this search process, and every year we eventually find someone who’s vaguely sympathetic,” said writer Rich. “We can always use a player’s pet if we have to.”

Tomorrow’s news today: The State of the Union

WASHINGTON, D.C. (Dateline: Thursday, Jan. 28) — Speaking before a joint session of Congress, President Obama declared Wednesday night that the State of the Union was “around here somewhere,” declaring he had “just seen the speech a few minutes ago,” and promising to ask his daughters if “perhaps the dog had eaten it, or key parts of it.”

The president’s first address to the nation before assembled congressmen, Supreme Court justices and cabinet officials seemed a little scattered, as Obama frequently veered from the usual assurances that the country is sound, even appearing at points to be stalling in his presentation.

“We’ll get started here in just a moment,” Obama said after the welcoming ovation had ended and he took his place at the Capitol podium. “Those of you who want to take notes might want to get out your pencils and paper at this point, while the rest of you can chat with your neighbor for a second.”

The president left the stage briefly before returning with a sheaf of papers, which he dropped and then hastily gathered back together.

“Heh, heh, I may be starting on the last page here,” Obama said as he tried to reassemble his address. “You’d all probably like that, wouldn’t you?”

It was at this point that several members from the Republican side of the aisle began shouting “c’mon” and “let’s go” as well as “we don’t have all night here, ya’ know.”

“Alright, alright,” the president began.

Obama said the American people had endured a lot of hardship in recent years, and that it was time for positive actions to replace words and promises.

“I admit, it’s been tough,” the president said. “We’ve all seen the articles in the paper and the stories on television. By the way, how many of you here saw ‘Idol’ last night?”

Several members of the audience tentatively raised their hands, but Speaker Nancy Pelosi signaled to the House clerk that a roll call vote should be taken. After a brief delay, it was determined that 265 members had seen the episode while 173 did not and 28 abstained or couldn’t believe the question.

“That one gal with the hat and glasses was funny,” the president observed after the vote. “I was laughing.”

The chief executive, delivering the first State of the Union address of his presidency, noted that “we’ve debated a lot of stuff and had our disagreements, but I think at the end of the day, we’re all great believers in the good sense of the American people.”

“Now I know some of you here and some of you watching at home don’t like all of the changes I’ve proposed and, that’s cool, that’s cool,” Obama noted. “You can’t win ‘em all. If I was interested in a popularity contest, I’d probably be singing in front of Simon and Randy. How many of you saw ‘Idol’ again?”

At this point, Vice President Joe Biden approached the lectern and whispered briefly in Obama’s ear, to which the president nodded his head and responded, “Oh, right, right.”

“I think I’m supposed to spell out some proposals about initiatives I’d like to introduce in the year ahead, so I’ll do that right now,” the president said.

Obama avoided many of the large-scale issues such as healthcare, the economy and the fight against terrorism which had provoked so much resistance in 2009, and focused his agenda instead on smaller, more soluble problems.

“I will bring a bill before this body that requires the fine print in pharmaceutical ads to be a full pointsize bigger, with many parts in all capital letters or even bold type,” Obama said. “And I will be asking the Congress for funding of a program to require weekend forecasts on the local news to begin on Wednesdays instead of Thursdays.”

The president did mention the issue of job cuts that has plagued his administration from day one, with unemployment now soaring over 10 percent.

“That’s simply an unacceptable percentage,” Obama said. “I’m going to start thinking of it in terms of the fraction one-tenth, or perhaps that the odds are one in ten that you don’t have a job. I’m also setting up a special office in the White House that will proofread resumes.”

The president then took a moment to recognize several special guests in attendance, who were sitting in the front row of the balcony with the First Lady.

“Michelle is being accompanied tonight by a couple of gentlemen who represent those qualities that all of us, regardless of party affiliation, can universally admire,” he said. “Let’s give a warm and appreciative welcome to the man in the blue suit with the red tie, and that other guy in the Army costume.”

Obama then drew his address to a close with an overall assessment of the condition of the country in language that has become a tradition for presidents going back to Herbert Hoover.

“I am proud to report to you tonight that the state of the union is strong–” he began to mounting applause. “Let me finish, let me finish. The state of the union is strongly dependent on how willing Asian countries are to buy up our debt.”

The president then thanked the assembled crowd, waving and smiling as he mouthed the words “gotta run” before hopping down to the floor of the House. Subdued Democrats refrained from an enthusiastic standing ovation, preferring instead to crouch or stoop slightly. Republicans offered two or three polite claps and then streamed for the exits.

Mind if I text you?

My trainee sat quietly as I explained what her temp job with my company would involve.

“You’ll want to make sure the changes have been made to the document,” I instructed.

“Hmmm,” came the response.

“We’re not responsible for typos the client has created,” I added.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And be sure that you make your marks legibly,” I said.

“Mmmm,” she seemed to say. “Mmmmm. Hmmmm. Mmmm.”

Finally, it occurred to me that this rather stout woman wasn’t voicing acknowledgement that she understood my instructions. Instead, the low vibrating noise was coming from the vicinity of her lap. Perhaps she was pregnant instead of chubby, and the baby, ready to be delivered, was clearing its throat to get her attention. Or maybe she had swallowed an electric razor and it was getting ready to pass.

No, wait — that’s right, this is the twenty-first century. It must be her cell phone set to vibrate.

“Do you need to get that?” I asked, gesturing toward her crotch, and immediately regretting the move.

“Oh, it’s just my cell getting a text,” she said. “It can wait till later.”

Text messaging is one part of the wireless revolution that I can vigorously endorse. Like most people my age, I feel I should be annoyed by others talking on their cell phones. For one thing, they’re almost inevitably younger than I am, which I resent. They also seem to have friends, friends who want to talk to them with such urgency that they can’t wait to get near a land line. The conversation must be had now, regardless of whether they’re in the middle of outpatient surgery, being sentenced to prison, or sitting on the can.

I prefer texting to phoning for a number of reasons. I like to type. I like to get to a little thing I like to call “the point.” I like to know that I’m not interrupting something important on the other end of the line.

When I do have to call someone’s cell phone, I’ll typically text them first and ask if it’s a good time to talk. The portability of cells means they’re being carried everywhere, and not all of these places are places that civilized people want to talk. My sister finds this habit highly amusing, but I think she genuinely appreciates the opportunity to avoid talking to me.

Then there’s the issue of concern for who might overhear the other end of the conversation. I’m really more amused than bothered when I listen in on strangers’ discussions. It’s a little peek into lives almost always more interesting than mine, and I enjoy the voyeurism of it all. I wouldn’t necessarily be in favor of allowing this to happen on airline flights, as is now being considered. The babble of several hundred businesspeople confined in a space where they have nothing better to do than talk is an even more frightening prospect to me than catastrophic decompression at 30,000 feet. Allow wireless on jets and too many of us will be thinking about which type of explosives cause the least amount of chafe in our shorts.

It is a little irksome hearing about all the things going on in my coworkers’ lives while I’m trying to earn a living. I was minding my own business at my terminal the other day when a woman walked up behind me and cooed, “I love you so much.” Needless to say, she wasn’t talking to me but instead to a distant boyfriend. Another employee gets calls from her daughter asking what time it is. Several have idiot husbands who think their wives can mystically triangulate where their favorite shirt is from 20 miles away.

Worse than the chatter are the ring tones. For security reasons, we’re really not supposed to be taking calls on our cells at our desks, so one dutiful data entry lady always jumps up and heads for a small alcove near the door whenever Michael Jackson starts crooning “got to be there … in the morning.” Even if I need her to be here instead of there, to enter my sales order, she sprints off to learn the latest developments in Bob’s half-hearted search for employment.

Of course, the worst scenario is in the bathroom, where a surprising number of people have no problem at all mixing the sound of their voice with less musical tones being emitted from elsewhere on their persons. There’s little that’s more disconcerting than to hear a conversational opening in the stall next to you, and wondering if it’s you who’s being addressed or some distant acquaintance tuning in via satellite. Even once you’re relieved to learn it’s Frank, not you, who’s being told “yeah, I thought that was a great game [gurgling noise] but I felt sorry for Favre,” I still feel compelled to muffle my own sounds. Nobody wants to see, smell, taste or feel what’s going on in a presumably private setting; why would they want to hear it?

Cell phones have become so common that it now strikes me as unusual not to see them. When I stop by the local college to visit my son, I feel sorry for the two or three people in the crowd of pedestrians who have to be content listening to their iPods rather than phoning a friend. They seem lost, and frequently fall down from sheer loneliness. I even imagine there will be cell phone conversations in the afterlife, though the angels will obviously be having fewer dropped calls (because of the antenna-like haloes) than will their counterparts suffering eternal damnation downstairs. You’ve got to think all that hellfire will play havoc with decent reception.

I’ll take texting over talking any day, even though I realize there are safety concerns when you try to do it in a moving vehicle. I saw in the news yesterday where the Department of Transportation has banned texting by truck and bus drivers, probably a good idea considering the size of their rides compared to my Honda Civic. But I think, at the same time, we’re missing a great opportunity to open up the conversation on America’s roadways as a way to stifle road rage and other aggressive driving habits. Think about how much better we’d all get along if every car had its driver’s cell number posted in the rear window, and we could openly discuss constructive suggestions for improved motor vehicle operation.

I could preload “you goddam moron ” into my Quick Notes and be ready to meet the world head-on.

Website Review: ChristianProphet.org

Normally, I wouldn’t lower myself to the level where I address a mere “dot-org” domain in my weekly Website Review. I’m making an exception because in this particular case, I almost had to lower myself out of my crushed vehicle and into a “Jaws of Life” following a barely avoided collision with a large, colorfully decorated motor home at an intersection near my house.

The RV that nearly sent me to be with Jesus was, appropriately, owned by “bobgriffin.org” and presumably driven by that self-same Bob. Drawn to its huge decals of the burning World Trade Center towers and a Bob-penned book that purported to tell the “real story” of Sept. 11, I hurried home to go online and learn more about this RV of Death.

The website, which also operates under the name “7flames.org,” is a pretty minimalist affair, mostly spent promoting Griffin, his book called “Standing in the Shadows of 9/11: The Vision” and the hare-brained concept that Bob is a genuine Christian prophet. Anybody can predict The Rapture, but Bob takes his gift a step farther and can predict all types of future events, though apparently not the fact I was running a yellow light while he was making a right turn without first coming to a full stop.

Griffin’s story, described in the “About Bob Griffin” pulldown, is best told by the Living Bob himself.

He grew up in a rough neighborhood of Chicago and faced “many challenges” during his childhood (probably code for bullying and/or polio). “After a series of dramatic supernatural encounters, Bob surrendered his life to Jesus Christ … and discovered he had been given a keen prophetic gifting.” This allowed him to “give thousands of accurate words” during his 15-year ministry, words that apparently did not include “look,” “out,” “we’re” and “crashing” on a recent Tuesday afternoon.

Bob’s “gifting” has taken him to 25 nations where he claims to have met with presidents, prime ministers, senators and, most importantly, celebrities to spread his vision of what lies ahead for their various constituencies. Bob also consults with U.S. and international agencies on matters of national security, and “using his prophetic gifting he has located Al Qaeda terrorist cells.” My own guess is that such consultation takes place mostly in airport interrogation rooms after he’s been detained by TSA officers for fitting the profile of an unbalanced lunatic.

The biography concludes with a line that I bet is a real show-stopper on his resume: “Bob is sent with an apostic and prophetic anointing to break the yoke of bondage over individuals, regions and nation.” And he’s available for parties.

The rest of the website is not much to look at. The home page encourages viewers to join in a Thanksgiving conference being held on Nov. 25, 2009 and an assembling of the “armies of God” at a Yonkers, N.Y., church for a special New Year’s Eve service. (While Bob’s busy knocking around in the future, I guess his followers instead live in the past.) There’s an “Events” section, where “currently no events are available.”

The “Media” area is mostly links to YouTube videos of Bob and his wife Jayne and their five lovely but extremely embarrassed teenage daughters, featured in clips from his popular weekly internet television show. The video I sampled involved the Griffin family riding around New York City in their RV, talking earnestly to the camera while the wicked streets of Manhattan whiz by behind them.

Filmed the day of that brutal windstorm that took down hundreds of trees in Central Park last summer, the Griffin girls gleefully recount how Dad is interpreting the event as a preview of God’s plan to harvest enough wood to “build an ark in the park.” Other segments show the teens describing how a homeless man tried to break into the van but decided otherwise when divine intervention reared its head; how “demonic spirits” were driving the recipients of free copies of Bob’s book to toss it in the trash can; and how the youngest daughter encountered a Muslim who grilled her about her father’s ideas.

“Soon he will be a witness to scales being removed from his eyelids,” the tween-aged girl says uneasily, knowing how dead she will be when her middle-school friends get the chance to ridicule her on Facebook, while still delighting in the bright future that probably awaits her in the field of ophthamology.

But the whole reason for the website seems to be selling copies of the 9/11 book, the first chapter of which I was able to download for free. It tells, a bit cryptically, the story of how Bob got started in prophecy back in the mid-1990s. One day he was confronted by a “very large face” who told him that “landscapes are changing!” Most of us might simply think a close-talking itinerant gardener was offering to rake our yard. Bob, however, knew this was different.

“It was piercing the night just like traffic lights below were stabbing at the night with their melancholy rhythms, cars sailing through the night traversing the arteries that bring evidence of life to the darkness,” Bob writes. “And why so fast?”

(Again, I might point out the light was yellow.)

Next, Bob was pulled through time to witness the 1995 bombing of the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, then back to Sept. 10, 2001, in what he acknowledges was “a confusing moment for me.” In 2001, he sees the Statue of Liberty crying a single tear, “liquid light sliding down her face,” while twin towers standing next to her go up in flames.

It’s hard to tell if Bob was actually in Lower Manhattan on that fateful day. He talks about a “giant cloud of dust roaring toward me,” then turning to run toward a fire escape which he climbs with “supernatural strength.” A giant ball of choking grit engulfs his vision, then he hears a voice saying “I’ll be with you in a minute” (McDonald’s drive-thru?), then he’s flooded in the bright lights of a television studio and greeted by a producer who says “He is going to do for you what He did for us.”

Bob replied, “What was that?” The producer responded, “Worldwide web, worldwide radio, worldwide television. TELL-A-VISION!”

This is Bob’s cue that he needs to tell people about his visions because the “FUTURE is the place where FEW TOUR,” and now it seems this whole ministry of prophetic giving thing is descending into a play on words.

There’s one last scene from the first chapter that may give us a little more insight into Bob’s rare powers. He’s going out with the rest of the office to a staff lunch at a quaint restaurant near a lake. He’s preoccupied during the lunch with ducks and geese walking on the backs of carp, “the bubble- blowers and the water-walkers” he calls them. He asks the group “has anyone ever cried real tears in your dreams before? I have! I did last night!”

Bob writes:

“Pass the rolls,” I heard them say. I felt the stabbing pain of rejection again, along with the anger which always tries to rise up. I heard one of their thoughts. “Oh boy, here we go again with another dream.”

And you thought your co-workers were weird.

Reading over the website and the book excerpt again, I think I may have figured out the source behind the Griffin magic. The main heading across the home page reads “Let My Love Open the Door to Your Heart.” The book, again, is entitled “Standing in the Shadows of 9/11.”  Another line in the book reads “Here comes that tear again.”

I think Bob may have hit his head while the RV was making a sharp turn one evening, then fell into semi-consciousness while Z-93, playing ALL hits from the sixties and seventies ALL the time, blared from his radio. Fragments of song lyrics from the Who, the Four Tops and Jackson Browne coalesced in his concussed brain and he awoke to believe the future is past, the past is future, and that a fat carp was being lifted from the water and then was no more.

Do I remember a song by Neil Young called “The Fat Carp Was Lifted”? I think I do.

Revisited: 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.”

Revisited: Alarming 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

Monday observations following the snow

Tremendous Grammy Awards show last night. My grammy especially enjoyed Elton John. 

It completely amazes me how people are able to perform with such consummate talent. Regardless of your tastes in music, you have to admit that the logistics and physical demands of some of those production numbers were unbelievably intricate and yet mostly executed without a flaw. My personal favorite was the Black Eyed Peas. 

How do they ever remember the words and the moves and the stage direction and the props and how to avoid running into each other? If it were me and my memory, I’d be locked in on a handful of index cards with my carefully spelled-out directions: “Shimmy, then squat. Roll on the floor three times. Jump back up and pull your shirt off. Kick an audience member in the face. Turn to camera three and sulk, then back to camera two and spit.” 

Oh, no! I dropped my cards and now they’re all out of order! Who do I set on fire next? 

+++ 

A friend of mine just got a new watch as a tenth anniversary present at work. In addition to telling time, it also monitors your heart rate. Now, in the event of some potentially fatal cardiac event, he can look at his wrist as if checking the hour and observe, “Oh, it must be time to have a heart attack.”        

+++        

While researching my Friday post, a website review about a prophetic Christian organization called “7flames.com,” I looked online for the significance of that phrase. Either it represents the seven continents as spikes in the crown of the Statue of Liberty, or the seven sacred flames as described in the New Age collection “Telos, Volume 3: Protocols of the Fifth Dimension” (hope it has “Up Up and Away” in it — I love that song), or a prayer altar, offered for sale in conjunction with “the Planetary and Cosmic Hierarchy, as physically and etherically anchored and activated by the ‘I AM’ University.”  

Because I Googled the term as “7 Flames,” it also came back as the score of a 2004 NHL hockey game: “Blackhawks 7, Flames 1.”        

+++        

Sam’s Club announced the layoff of thousands of employees last week. Those affected had been involved in offering the tasting demonstrations in the warehouse club stores. CEO Brian Cornell said the operation would be outsourced to another company.

Well, that’s not exactly what he said. Instead, he announced the following: “In the club channel, demo sampling events are a very important part of the experience. (The outsource company) specializes in this area and can take our sampling program to the next level.” Translation, to the terminated workers summoned to the mandatory meeting last Sunday morning: “You’re fired.”      

+++        

A person from the Iraqi city of Kirkuk is known as a “Kirkuki,” pronounced “kir cookie.” Coincidentally, this is also a crisp sweet wafer flavored with black currant liqueur. I hope this isn’t too confusing for our brave troops fighting the war on terror.        

+++   

I don’t like to be considered a “regular” at restaurants or other places of business. It makes me feel too predictable, when instead I’d rather be impetuous.   

“Where to today?” I think to myself each morning. “Paris? The Levant? The Amazonian rain forest? Or instead, will I take a coffee break at the Steele Creek Cafe on Westinghouse Blvd., in southwest Charlotte?”   

Obviously, it’s the latter that I do on a too-regular basis. A short walk from my office, I can usually make it there and back in about 30 minutes. I stand at the counter long enough to order my coffee or, on a day when I want to splurge, coffee and a cookie, and then I beat it for a corner booth and my own private world.   

On Friday, I didn’t have time to prepare my lunch before work, so I called in a take-out order for the hot dog platter and picked it up at the drive-thru window. The woman waiting on me there was the same one who often took my coffee order at the counter. Apparently, I was rocking her world.   

“Are you the hot dog platter?” she asked. “Wow, I’ve never seen you get food.”   

First of all, I am not the hot dog platter. I am a human being, an individual worthy of basic respect. Secondly, just because I usually order only coffee doesn’t mean that I can’t occasionally break out in an entirely new and unpredictable direction.   

And finally, yes, I do sometimes get food. All of us do. It’s essential for our survival, in case they didn’t teach you that at cashier school.   

+++    

We had an ice and snow storm in the Carolinas over the weekend, making driving treacherous. Like thousands of others, my family had the bright idea of ordering a pizza. The nearby franchise was ready for us when they answered the phone: “Papa John’s Midtown/Take-out only today.” Interesting greeting.      

So we placed the order and it was agreed that I’d be the one to drive out into the storm and pick up the pie. The trip was uneventful, and my family was thrilled to see the piping hot pizza safely entering the house, followed by me (also safe but, more importantly, bearing food).       

On the side of the box, the following phrase was imprinted by the shop’s automated label maker: “Your pizza experience today has been managed by Michae…”. However many characters they had been allowed by this program had apparently not been enough to get Michael’s credit fully spelled out.       

So my so-called “pizza experience” — which involved eating, wiping up the sauce, tossing out the unwanted hot pepper, cramming the box into the garbage, and getting one awful stomach ache — turned out to be incomplete. “Michae” had inadvertently omitted the requested pepperoni.    

+++     

Next time I forget to pick up milk on the way from work, fail to clear dishes from the sink or otherwise underperform as a husband, I’ll take comfort in the example set by former Sen. John Edwards. Imagine the questions he faced when he arrived home after a long day at the office.     

“Honey,” his wife asks, ”did you remember to avoid having a mistress, not father a child with her, then disown the poor child, all while I’m suffering from terminal cancer?”     

“Damn, I forgot,” John responds. “But I did remember to pick up the 12-pack of Deluxe Charmin.”     

“It was supposed to be Ultra Charmin.”  

+++        

Glad to report the malfunctioning toilet in the men’s room at work has been fixed. We were all quite alarmed by the scene that greeted us one morning last week.        

Is police tape with the warning "DO NOT ENTER" at least a little overkill for a broken urinal?

Fake News: High court looks at makeover

WASHINGTON, D.C. (Feb. 1) — Sources inside the U.S. Supreme Court report that justices aim to reverse recent negative portrayals with a series of reforms. Among the changes on tap are plans to murmur rather than announce newly decided opinions, corporate sponsorships of judicial precedents, and agreeing to hear cases of personal grudges as matters of constitutional law.

When six members of the nation’s highest court appeared last week at the State of the Union address, Justice Samuel Alito was seen whispering “not true” and shaking his head as President Obama criticized a ruling that allows unlimited corporate campaign contributions. The incident garnered so much attention for the typically overlooked bench that it may become the standard for the release of legal opinions.

“Our usual method of posting trial outcomes on our website wasn’t generating much interest,” said clerk Eric Stern. “Alito’s muttering had over a million hits on YouTube alone, and we’re thinking that’s publicity you can’t put a price on.”

Under the proposal, future decisions would be announced in understated tones by justices from the midst of large crowds at sporting events, concerts or theatrical productions. For example, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg might whisper at the Daytona 500 that it’s been decided that lower courts do not have the power to release Guantanamo detainees into the U.S. Or Justice Anthony Kennedy might mumble the Court’s decision in Bilski v. Doll affirming key aspects of patent law during intermission at a Broadway musical.

“Anybody who really cared about the details — which, admit it, is virtually no one – could then check out the whole decision online,” Stern said. “But the Jumbotron would catch the essential up-and-down or side-to-side head movement. Any judgments or dissents that accompany the nodding could be captured by fellow audience members, who would meet with the media afterwards.”

The second reform floated would allow the financial underwriting of major rulings by large multinational companies. Since giving the green light to millions in campaign contributions, the Court has so far been unable to monetize this key affirmation of First Amendment rights and grab a little coin for its own pockets.

“There’s a case being considered right now called U.S. vs. Comstock which involves keeping sex offenders in prison after they’ve completed their sentences,” Stern said. “Obviously, neither side has much to offer the Court financially. But if we could rebrand the dispute as U.S. vs. Comstock, presented by AT&T, there would be significant income to the judicial branch.”

Finally, a plan for the justices to preside over minor disputes between individuals might be a way to connect with average citizens while provoking interest in matters juicier than cases like Salazar v. Buono, a battle over jurisdiction in the California desert. If minor barroom confrontations, misunderstood wager agreements or domestic quarrels were added to the docket, interest in proceedings in the third branch of the federal government could skyrocket.

“Who cares whether prosecutors can rely on crime lab reports unless they make analysts who prepared the reports available to testify?” Stern asked, referring to this term’s “hottest” case, Briscoe v. Virginia. “I’d like to hear what Chief Justice (John) Roberts has to say about how that drinking contest between Cooter and Junior ended up in a fistfight. Clarence Thomas would definitely have thoughts regarding why Elwood got home so late and forgot Lydia’s birthday (again!) that are worth sharing.”

Proposed changes are expected to be enacted before the Court’s term ends in April, though insiders admit that could be delayed pending the outcome of negotiations for a syndication deal with Fox TV for fall sweeps.

Water water everywhere, which now I have to drink

Life-giving water rains from the skies, cleansing our polluted air as it falls. It percolates through the soil, washes our streets clean and makes its way to the reservoir, bringing sustenance to the fish and fowl who breed and splash and die in it.

And I’m supposed to drink this stuff? I don’t think so.

I’ve never been much of a water drinker. As a kid growing up in Miami, my parents weren’t forward-thinking enough to allow us store-bought soft drinks. It was either an old mayonnaise jar of water with your name taped to it in the refrigerator, or refreshment straight from the yard hose. To this day, I fondly remember the taste of rubber hosing, and eagerly await its discovery by modern flavor-makers in the candy and fragrance industries.

As soon as I was old enough, I migrated to the popular cola drinks. Even as I took up running and other aspects of a healthy lifestyle, I retained a fondness for the juvenile joy of gulping down a high-fructose carbonated drink, eagerly waiting for those bubbles to repeat the flavor of cola back from my gullet, popping over my tastebuds and into my sinuses. Running a marathon in my 30s, I turned down the offerings at the water stations and saved up a ravishing thirst that I enjoyably nursed for days with Pepsi after delicious Crystal Pepsi.

When I took several business trips to India a few years ago, I made it a point to drink a fair amount bottled water, primarily to combat the dehydration of jet lag and ward off that certain looseness one tends to encounter about the third day on the Subcontinent. I tried the Coke product offered at my hotel in Tamil Nadu but, like almost everything else in that southern region, it seemed to be sweetened with coconut milk. The local beer was only average, losing much of its zing after you finished boiling it. The orange juice turned out to be watermelon juice, and the coffee turned out to be tea. Bottled water was about the only choice I had.

A few years later, some of the coworkers I had trained in Chennai made a visit to the U.S. to continue their work at learning how to take my job. My wife and I met them at the airport, then drove them to their hotel and helped them settle in. They wanted us to call the front desk to ask where their bottled water was, and were surprised to discover that the tap was considered as safe a source as any. This didn’t make sense to their foreign ways.

“Why would you go to the trouble of making the water you use in your garden and your laundry clean enough to drink?” Sudhir asked. “Wouldn’t it be easier to sterilize just the small amounts required for drinking?”

Silly Indians. They didn’t realize that in America, we don’t do things that way. We have cars and trucks and giant SUVs to wash, and are willing to spend millions of tax dollars on filtration plants just in case a few drops accidentally bounce off the windshield and into our maws. I still remember the monumental inconvenience of having to keep my mouth closed while showering at the Taj Connemara hotel, for fear that I’d get dysentery along with my refreshing bath.

Now, I’m older and wiser, and find myself putting on weight that I can’t explain. How could I spend twenty minutes a day on a treadmill, live mostly on turkey sandwiches and bran breakfast bars and yet still find myself ballooning over 200 pounds? It couldn’t be the 300-calories-per-serving soft drinks, could it?

So my New Year’s resolution this January was to cut back on the sodas. I got off to a good start, but began feeling pretty thirsty by about Martin Luther King, Jr. Day and realized you couldn’t just stop drinking pop. You had to replace it with something.

For a while, I considered trying to absorb moisture directly from the ambient air. It seemed to work well enough for plants, as a fern assured me it would. The problem was the hour or so a day I was spending in the musty YMCA; plenty of humidity was being generated in the cramped wellness center, though I didn’t exactly relish getting it inside me.

Finally, I realized I’d have to start drinking water. I began forcing fluids every opportunity I could, my enjoyable libation of the past now being replaced by an obligatory dosing that seemed more like medicine than refreshment. I put a bottle in my car, and tried to make it a habit to grab a swig every time I stopped at a red light. (I had to quit that practice when I found myself running the yellows just to avoid the bland liquid). I started to understand why so many dogs turn up their noses at the bowls of fresh water filled with such dedication by their masters, and instead head for the toilet to get a drink. At least the commode gives it some semblance of taste.

I think I’m starting to get the hang of it. I still treat myself to maybe 15 or 20 ounces of Pepsi a day, but even that I dilute with seltzer. I’m drinking more coffee and more juice, and I’m realizing at last there are more productive uses for water than as a frame for the eighteenth green at Hilton Head or as the source of the glistening sheen on the slender limbs of a wet T-shirt contestant. It can provide my aging cells with the lubrication and health they need to keep me going into my golden years.

I’m still going to miss those complex carbohydrates, that intricate structure of the cola molecule that so succulently combines up to half the elements in the periodic table. (My personal favorite: polonium). Water is so plain and dull. There are only three homely atoms in H20, and two of these are hydrogen. What am I, the Hindenburg zeppelin?

Don’t answer that.

Fake News: Terrorists, automakers do stuff

Bin Laden is going green

ISLAMABAD, Pakistan (Feb. 2) — Osama bin Laden put himself on record this week as the “Green Terrorist.”

No, it’s not effects of the long-rumored kidney disease reportedly being suffered by the Al Qaeda leader. Instead, bin Laden made a statement Jan. 30 criticizing Western industrialized countries for being responsible for the global warming crisis.

“Talk about climate change is not an ideological luxury but a reality,” bin Laden wrote on Al Jazeera’s English-language website.

Sources say the terrorist leader has begun a campaign within his own ranks to emphasize this new theme of environmental awareness among Jihadi fighters. Blue recycling bins have been spotted outside caves in the Pakistan-Afghanistan border region. Old cell phones are being converted into improvised explosive devices (IEDs) and are being demolished throughout the Arab world. Discarded aluminum cans of Coca-Cola, Mountain Dew and, bin Laden’s personal favorite, Dr Pepper, are being collected by newly homeless tribesmen whose farms had been transformed into a war zone.

The Saudi madman has even begun an “eat local” initiative, following a December incident in which he was unable to get Domino’s to deliver its sensational new pizzas to his cavern in South Waziristan. In that incident, which ended in a prolonged firefight between guerrillas and combined special ops forces from the U.S. and Great Britain, not only was bin Laden’s home judged to be outside the delivery area, but the local franchisee refused his request for goat toppings.

“Our guy taking the order thought he said ‘goat droppings,’” said Domino’s manager Abdullah “Pete” Mutallab. “We figured it was just kids playing around on the phone.”

Islamic fanatics have even begun working with local schoolchildren to drive home the point that “together, we can save the planet.” Second-graders at Ayman Muhammad Rabaie al-Zawahiri Elementary School recently showcased a project to use recyclable material in their artwork, with dryer lint collected from a nearby launderette being used to create beards in drawings the children made of their favorite extremists.

Even animal rights are being promoted by the now-environmentally-aware fighters. Sheep and camels are first being asked to give their permission before being ritually slaughtered. Most animals tend to agree to the request, in part because the word “mmeehh” means “go ahead” in the local Pushtan dialect.

Bin Laden also took the opportunity on Al Jazeera to praise the attempted Christmas Day bombing of an airliner near Detroit, saying that the “carbon footprint caused by modern-day jet travel was contributing to deterioration of the ozone layer,” and that’s the main reason he continues to try blowing planes out of the sky.

Speaking of Detroit …

DETROIT (Feb. 3) — General Motors announced a recall of 380,000 Chevrolets, Buicks and GMC Trucks yesterday for what officials described as “sudden, intentional acceleration” in several dozen documented cases where drivers actually arrived at their intended destinations promptly.

Reports have surfaced in the media that a significant percentage of motorists in GM vehicles experienced forward movement when pressing their foot to the gas pedal. A few have even told authorities that the cars were unexpectedly responsive and were actually able to achieve the posted speed limit within the first five minutes of operation.

“This is not what the public has come to anticipate in General Motors autos and light trucks,” said spokesman Allen Gibson. “It’s an issue that we will address immediately with this recall.”

Most owners of vehicles purchased from GM in recent years have developed a habit of parking their cars uphill of wherever they want to drive to the next day, and then roll toward their destination, stopping occasionally to push as needed. They’ve relied on sturdy braking systems and solid front bumpers that allow them to stop close to where they want to. Most are surprised, however, when they find that in addition to stopping, they can also go.

“Frankly, I thought that pedal was a foot rest,” said Missy Stevens, a LeSabre owner in Fond du Lac, Wisc. “I’ve counted on having that arch support after a long day on my feet. To have it cause my car to move forward down the street came as quite a surprise.”

Spokesman Gibson said GM was already at work retooling its manufacturing sites to prevent the problem recurring in future models. He said the so-called acceleration pedals will be removed entirely and replaced with a comfortable and stylish hassock.

Website Review: Let’s hear it for QuietRelief.com

This Sunday, one of my favorite musical groups of all time will be performing at the Super Bowl halftime show. The Who, or remnants thereof, are scheduled to play a 12-minute gig bound to include their countless greatest hits. Leader Pete Townsend will windmill his way through the set, then hopefully smash his guitar to bits while the crowd roars its approval.

I can’t wait till they take the stage: “Ladies and gentlemen, The Who.”

“I said, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE WHO.”

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE WHO.”

Though the approval, and the introduction, might be roared, Pete likely won’t hear it. Decades of fronting one of the world’s greatest rock bands has rendered the poor man virtually deaf. He now wears a hearing aid, and probably most uses the legendary band’s name as the question he asks repeatedly when someone calls him on the phone.

“Who is this again? Who? Who?”

Like many his age, Pete could probably benefit from the product I recently saw advertised on late-night TV. Quietus is a homeopathic remedy dedicated to improving what it calls “ear health” by confronting a key cause of deafness – tinnitus. Characterized by a ringing or buzzing or humming tone that interferes with normal perception, the condition kills thousands every year. Okay, well maybe it doesn’t kill them, but it makes them very annoyed.

To learn more about tinnitus and the Quietus claim to alleviate it, I visited quietrelief.com for this week’s Website Review.

The home page features a rotating collection of sufferers, from the Rick Moranis look-alike clutching his noggin in agony, to the afflicted rock drummer, to everyday workers like machine operator Frank P., factory worker Nelda R. and construction worker Jerry E. They’re followed by the equally suffering doctor in his white lab coat, grinning into the camera while standing next to a giant caduceus that’s surrounded by the word “homeopathic,” a Greek work meaning “doesn’t work.”

The introduction describes the Quietus product as dual homeopathic medications designed to treat roaring, whizzing and hissing in the ear as well as feelings of fullness. People at risk are those working in industrial settings, airports, the military and carpentry (this might explain one of the “seven words of Christ” as He was being crucified, when He asked His followers “Where is my mother? And who’s frying bacon?”). A rising new risk group are people who don’t work at all but instead spend their days listening to “music from an iPod, heavy machinery and firearms.”

The introductory page also includes sound samples you can download to experience the agony of tinnitus for yourself. The ten-second segments include ear ringing sound, lower frequency roaring, high frequency humming, shriek buzzing and high frequency buzzing. These can be combined to create a hideous mix of whirring and droning that you can blend and sample, generating a sound to rival the best efforts of Justin Bieber and Ke$ha. Once you play these and try to turn them off, they continue on in your head, compelling you to buy the product.

Quietus offers a risk-free 30-day trial and 100% customer support from a lovely blonde wearing a headset and smiling earnestly as she contemplates a once-promising modeling career that has now descended into telemarketing poses. She’s followed by a small-type disclaimer warning that results described in the testimonials section are not typical and not the ordinary experience of users. “Each person’s experience with Quietus is different,” implying perhaps that though you may lose the buzzing in your ears, you could pick up interference in other sensory organs — maybe visions of serpents in your eyes or smells of rotting flesh in your nose. (Incidentally, the entire website never says how you consume these pills, so I’m making up that if you can stick them in your ears, you can also stick them up your nose and into your eyes.)

There’s a whole section that features success stories from users who offer what are frankly less-than-ringing endorsements of the product. Frank says it stopped the ringing in 40 days. Susan says “it tones down the ringing … I experience some quietness in my right ear now.” Terry notes that “my left ear is almost silent,” Lois said the ringing is “still there occasionally,” Stanley says it works about 70% of the time, while Guillermo gives it an 8 on a scale of one to ten. Perhaps somewhat off point but still worth hearing are Kenneth who claims “I’ve had all kinds of pills” and Ouida who notes “the ringing in my ears is not 100% but the ringing is 100%.”

A profile of the customer care department details how you can yank the pills out of your skull at any time and return them for a money-back guarantee. First, you must obtain return authorization, then pack up your tablets with the original packing slip and authorization number, then insure and ship it in a traceable form. “Orders paid by credit card cannot be refunded by check nor can phone check, check, or money order payments be refunded to a credit card.” If all that sounds too complicated, you can simply phone a customer representative but all you’ll likely hear from them is a loud screech, probably in a South Asian accent.

Perhaps the most compelling part of the website is the story of how it was “discovered by a rock drummer.” A man identified only as “Brad – Creator, Drummer” spent 18 long years suffering from jingling, jangling and clanging that sapped his energy and kept him awake at nights. “I couldn’t take it, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t concentrate. I heard it constantly, I couldn’t hide from it, it wouldn’t go away. It drove me nuts.” Like any proper rock musician, he experimented with different drugs in search of relief from the noises in his head. Gingko biloba, zinc and magnesium didn’t work, even when he smoked them from a bong. Finally he discovered the “active, all-natural, homeopathic ingredients of my new product Quietus … the same select herbs FDA compliant as Homeopathic Pharmacopoeia of the US.” What?

“Huh, huh,” he chortles at the end of the embedded video clip. “It’s awes–.” Then the audio goes dead.

Finally, we learn some hard facts about the reality of tinnitus. “Tinnitus is real. The symptoms are real.” It’s a phantom noise originating from within the ear instead of from the environment, and cause headaches and dizziness. There are three strains of tinnitus: tonnal tinnitus is most common, producing the constant ringing; pulsatile tinnitus sounds more like a beating heart; and objective tinnitus is an extremely rare condition where “sound is heard not only by the individual with tinnitus but also by others near the individual.” You know you’ve got some bad ringing in your ears when you’re also driving coworkers and relatives crazy with the noise. (A friend at work is always emitting strange rackets but they seem to be coming from areas behind and way below the ears.)

The makers of Quietus recognize that prevention is always the best medicine, so they wind up their discussion of the subject with advice for those yet to be afflicted. Always respect your ears, they advise, and wear protective hearing equipment when you’re around radios, driers and lawnmowers. Keep earplugs handy but never put anything in your ears, not LifeSavers, not quarters, not baked goods and definitely not pointy objects like pens or sticks or Ty Pennington. Avoid jet airplanes, artillery fire and lounge-grade rock bands, especially Brad’s.

Quietrelief.com is an informative website that appropriately offers a fraudulent cure for a made-up medical condition. What’s always worked for me when I don’t want to hear something is covering my ears with my hands and chanting “la-la-la-la,” though I can see how this might not be an effective treatment in certain professional situations, like going for a job interview or giving the weather report on TV. Maybe Quietus would at least be worth a try after all.

"I don't want to hear another word about tinnitus!"

Revisited: 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.”

Revisited: 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.

If Sunday was super, why does Monday suck?

Notes from the weekend

My old Honda came down with a cracked windshield last week, so I had to call my insurance carrier to place a claim. The South Asian lady on the other end of the line was very polite, very professional and very well-scripted. Since they’re typically dealing with people who are reporting damage and injuries of one sort or another, they’ve been trained to express a sympathetic tone at mention of the accident. At each mention of the accident. 

She went through a long list of questions about my claim, which required me to repeat several times that I had a small fissure in my glass. Each time I mentioned it, she replied carefully, “I’m so sorry to hear of your loss.” 

The first time I said “thanks.” The next time I said, “Oh, it’s not so bad.” By the third time, I was getting pretty annoyed at her pre-programmed compassion, and became tempted to amp up my response. 

“You have no idea how painful this is for me,” I wanted to say. “I’ve had that windshield ever since I bought this car back in 2001. Every day I looked through it at oncoming traffic, and every day it allowed my vision to pass through, even though I’m sure there were mornings when it would rather have been opaque than transparent. We had a very special relationship, and now it’s gone. Gone! It can never be replaced. 

“But if it can, I’ll have the car outside my home, located at 384 Brookside Drive, and can be there between 1:30 and 4 p.m. for the Autoglass replacement guys.” 

+++ 

Spent Sunday working (again). Note to management: When the men’s room runs out of paper towels, toilet paper is NOT considered an acceptable substitute. What kind of way is this to run a Fortune 500 company?  

+++  

I see the Animal Planet network showed the “Puppy Bowl” again yesterday. This annual bit of genius counter-programming to the Super Bowl involves numerous playful young dogs cavorting on a green carpet painted like a football field. I wonder if the Puppy Who played at halftime?  

+++

This year it was Pete Townsend’s turn to have a wardrobe malfunction during the halftime show. He had to constantly flip back the edge of his cardigan to keep it from interfering with his trademark guitar strokes, and then every time he jumped, we got to see his pasty sixty-something midriff. The head scarf he borrowed from Axl Rose and the fedora he borrowed from your hipster cousin further confused those who expected to see the seminal guitar hero and instead witnessed the reincarnation of Elvis Costello’s dad. Still, a great show. 

And they had fireworks! 

As for the ads, I’d like to thank all the old people (Betty White, Abe Vigoda, Jim McMahon), all the midgets and all the animals for allowing themselves to be run over. And to all the scruffy late-twenty-something protagonists of just about every commercial, thanks for being so cool and giving my son such a high level of slackery to strive for. 

And this just in: Queen Latifah has finally finished singing “America the Beautiful.” 

+++  

If you sit next to someone all day at work and barely speak to him, why do you have to say “hi” when you encounter him the bathroom?  

+++  

Another bizarre news story out of my adopted home state of South Carolina this week. Workers at a Columbia-area KFC arrived in the morning to find a car already waiting at the drive-thru window. When the driver did not respond to requests to take his order, the manager investigated and found the man dead in the driver’s seat.  

I think I was behind this guy in the line at McDonald’s last week.  

+++  

Shouldn’t our federal education policy leave at least some children behind? At least for the sake of future Wal-Marts.  

+++  

Speaking of America’s favorite big-box retailer, I overheard a couple of people talking in their seagull-infested parking lot the other day. (Just driving by — I swear). “The worst thing about working at Wal-Mart would be having to be nice to the people who shop there,” said the first man. “I don’t think the employees see that as an issue,” observed the second.  

+++  

And what is the deal with all the seagulls in the parking lot anyway? The birds presumably have a choice between floating softly on a sea breeze above a picturesque harbor, and eating garbage disgorged from people’s cars in Wal-Mart parking lots. And they choose the latter? Maybe it’s a South Carolina thing.  

+++  

Before the Super Bowl, the airwaves were filled with predictions of results for the big game. This always seemed like a pointless exercise to me. No one can tell with any certainty what’s going to happen, and anyone can make as good a guess as anyone else.  

That’s why I’m going to try something a little different. Instead of a prediction, I’m going to make a post-diction: New Orleans 37, Indianapolis 21.  

+++  

What exactly is the point of having Jesus' evil twin brother selling insurance all over the internet?

+++  

Tearful quote of the week, from a visibly upset mistress of Tiger Woods at her press conference: “I’ve come forward because I think it’s wrong to make a golf ball with my face on it.” She said she was really uncomfortable stepping into the public eye like that, but she’s doing it for all the other women out there, including daughters yet unborn, who may one day face the trauma of having their faces put on golf balls.  

And also, there’s the forthcoming book she wrote.  

+++  

Interesting story in the press this week about the so-called “greying of the blogosphere.” Apparently, keeping a blog has become something more likely to be done by older people, while the younger generation invests its time and energy into short forms like Facebook and Twitter. So once again, I find myself at the cutting edge of trend-killing.  

+++  

Have you ever noticed how tiresome observational humor has become?  

+++  

The safety committee at work came up with the very reasonable concern that electric space heaters could be a fire hazard. With highly variable temperature conditions throughout our office, some people were using company-provided heaters to stay warm. Somebody accidentally left theirs on one evening, so now we have a written standard policy and a “check-out” procedure for heaters.  

At the beginning of each shift, if you want a heater you have to sign a clipboard list indicating the date, heater number, time out and time in. The system is periodically audited by a mid-level manager.  

“Your safety is our number one concern,” explains the sign at the heater depository. Then it adds, somewhat off-topic I think, “Please be aware of others.”  

Incidentally, these small appliances feature the latest in modern design. They are so stylish, I believe the “space” actually refers to outer space, where their elegance would make them right at home. They even project an eerie red light onto the floor in front of them that indicates a danger zone of possible fire danger. Makes them look like a cousin of R2-D2, who was also available for checkout on the Millennium Falcon, as I recall.  

"Beep beep," says R2's cousin

Fake News: Palin says she’s not a palm reader

NASHVILLE, Tenn. (Feb. 7) — Sarah Palin yesterday defended herself against accusations that she consulted a “cheat sheet” written on her hand during an appearance at the conservative Tea Party convention.

“Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us beautiful, like butterflies,” Palin told reporters in a brief meeting at the airport, lifting her shirt and twisting to look at her lower back. “What doesn’t kill me only makes me stronger. Turn your wounds into wisdom.”

Palin appeared uncharacteristically demure at the impromptu press conference, frequently glancing down at her clothing, limbs and shoes. She responded slowly and deliberately to questions, but denied she was reading her answers.

“Property of the University of Wisconsin Athletic Department,” she said. “I’m with Stupid. Charlotte Observer 10K and Marathon, April 13, 2003. This is my boyfriend’s shirt.”

After blasting President Obama for relying on a teleprompter during his speeches, Palin denied it was hypocritical of her to be glancing at notes scribbled on her palm in a session immediately following her keynote address Saturday night. She insisted she was merely speaking “off the cuff” and “to label my actions otherwise was false.”

“Made in the Republic of the Philippines. Machine wash cold with similar colors,” the 2008 Republican vice-presidential nominee said. “When needed, tumble dry low but remove promptly.”

Palin extended her leg forward at one point and appeared ready to make a comment about being kicked while she was down, or perhaps staying ahead of the pack. Already changed into casual wear for her flight back to Alaska, she had on the same running shoes that she wore during a recent profile in Runner’s World magazine.

“Upper: leather/nylon. Upper lining: nylon,” she told the crowd of journalists. “Adidas — the brand with three stripes.”

Glancing at her wrist to indicate it was time to board the private jet provided by Fox News, the former Alaska governor offered one final observation on the controversy.

“Timex Ironman triathlon,” she said. “Start, lap, reset.”

Do not dry clean if decorated

Vaguely remembering the joys of cooking

I was already in bed and mostly asleep when my son had the sudden urge for an omelet. He’s not been feeling well lately, so I was glad he had an appetite and more than happy to venture into the kitchen for an attempt at cooking.

Problem was, I had already taken a sleeping pill. My doctor-prescribed Ambien was cutting in with a vengeance as I stumbled down the hallway and into the light. I’ve read the pharmacists’ warnings about the dangers of “sleep-driving,” “sleep-eating,” “sleep-investing” and “sleep-presidenting” while using the drug, but I didn’t remember anything about hazards of cooking under the influence of this hypno-sedative. I should’ve known better, though. I’m dangerous enough in the kitchen when I’m stone-cold sober, so you can imagine the high state of alert my household assumed as I fired up the grill.

Even the cats kept their distance. We’ve all heard the stories about wild animals sensing earthquakes and other natural calamities before they happen. I guess the same applies to domestic pets who see me holding a cooking implement.

Rob didn’t need anything fancy, just a simple cheese omelet. I’m not sure I’d ever made an omelet before, though I remember hearing somewhere that it involved eggs, a frying pan and the application of heat. Throwing cheese into the mix couldn’t complicate the process that much. It was basically a matter of lumping four things together in approximately the correct order.

I knew enough to set the burner for “on” and to spray the pan with Pan (obvious even to me). I cracked two eggs into a bowl and stirred them vigorously until they only vaguely resembled mucus. The pan appeared hot by now, so I poured the egg in and waited for an omelet to appear.

As the yellow blob started smoking, I figured I should poke at it with a stick or something. I saw a tool that looked like an ice-scraper in my wife’s collection of utensils — I learned later this was the much-talked-about “spatula” — and began turning the egg over onto itself so it would be receiving an even amount of heat. What had started out looking like a proto-omelet had now devolved into scrambled eggs. I sprinkled in the grated cheese and called Rob over, warning him first that the scene could be disturbing to sensitive viewers.

“It’s not really an omelet, is it?” I asked.

“I don’t know, it looks okay to me,” Rob said generously. “It smells good.”

“I think I’m going to call it a ‘scromblet,’” I joked. “Half scrambled eggs, half omelet.”

“Sounds like something from McDonald’s,” Rob said. “Except they would have to call it the ‘McScromblet.’”

“And they’d have to drop it on the floor before they served it to anybody,” I added. “I think they have that as a rule.”

My history of food preparation is not anything to be proud of, so this latest chapter hardly injured my self-esteem. My mother was an excellent cook while I was growing up, so I never learned much more than how to assemble a glass of milk. Every other recipe had basically a two-step set of instructions: (1) yell “Ma!” and (2) add “I’m hungry.”

When I went off to college, I relied mostly on the university meal plan for my nutrients. I’d occasionally get inventive by enrobing my french fries in tartar sauce, or dropping a dollop of chocolate ice cream into my coffee, but other than that I basically ate what was issued to me.

After I moved out of the dorm and into an apartment, it was Ragu and rigatoni that became my bread and butter (bread and butter became my salad). I didn’t own a strainer so I’d slosh the excess water out of the pasta as best I could before adding the canned tomato sauce. The result was a little damp but not bad if you ate it with your eyes closed while imagining that spaghetti soup was a thing. For a change of pace, I’d occasionally set an open can of Dinty Moore beef stew directly on the burner (an earlier experiment using a still-sealed can ended disastrously). This saved on dirty dishes while adding a distinctive metallic flair to a flavor-challenged mass of potatoes and beef and, I hope, carrots. It also put some nice burn stains on the label that I could imagine were Dinty’s sideburns.

When I settled down into married life, I was blessed to find myself with not only a wife who was a fine cook, but also a modern new appliance called the microwave oven. The latter had a revolutionary impact on my food preparation skills, as I soon discovered that virtually everything tasted better after being heated to several thousand degrees. Potato salad, bagels and ice cream were among my favorites to irradiate. Leftovers of the excellent meals my wife prepared could also be warmed quickly, though to this day Beth and I disagree on the best way to do this. She insists that everything be reheated in five-second increments, with careful testing of the food after each cycle. I’d rather go with the automatic five minutes for everything, and if solid transforms into liquid and then into gas, so much better for my calorie-counting.

The birth of my son in 1991 stimulated my provider instincts to the point where I nearly lactated. I wanted to participate in his meal times as much as possible. However I learned that burning-hot strained vegetables were offensive on so many levels that I’d do better to stick to the snacks. When he was old enough for solids, I used to carve apples into thin oval slices, then fashion letters out of these so I could create fun phrases of encouragement. “Good boy,” I wrote once, and another time “eat apple”. The need to choose circular letters limited my messages significantly, but at least I was doing something I knew how to do, even if it was more like type-setting than cooking.

Now my son will soon be leaving home so I cherish the last few opportunities to cook for him, even in an Ambien-induced haze. I’d prize the remembrance of Monday night’s well-intentioned attempt to create a nourishing late-night meal for him, if the sleeping aid hadn’t wiped my memory clean. I only vaguely recalled anything about it at all the next day because of the eggy coagulates still sitting in the sink.

If only I could’ve shaped the scromblet into letters reading “food,” I might’ve made something I could be proud of. Maybe even the cats would eat it, assuming they can spell.

Fake News: Ketchup packages recalled (fondly)

PITTSBURGH, Pa. (Feb. 10) — H.J. Heinz Co. announced a recall yesterday of 807 trillion single-serve ketchup packets being distributed through fast-food outlets around the world. Company officials said the foil containers were not dangerous, but instead represented a minor inconvenience that on-the-go consumers of burgers and fries had endured for over 40 years.  

“In the current climate of corporate responsibility, we are committed to doing the right thing,” said Dave Ciesinski, vice president of Heinz Ketchup. “We are not about to let Toyota and Domino’s Pizza be the only ones out there telling the public what a load of crap their product line has been up till now. Our condiments and sauces have sucked every bit as much.”  

The new ketchup pack is shaped like a shallow cup and will serve as a “breakthrough dual-function container.” The top can be peeled back for dipping, or the end can be torn off for squeezing, and it holds three times as much ketchup as before.  

“The packet has long been the bane of our consumers,” Ciesinski said. “At least that’s what we’re telling them now. Frankly, most people never gave the product a second thought until we brought it up. Then, they were like all ‘we want something that’s easier to use in the car.’”  

A team of designers at Heinz spent the last several years giving focus groups actual road tests of the now grievously old-fashioned packages. The company bought a used minivan to study what each person in the vehicle needed. Passengers wanted the choice of squeezing or dunking. Moms requested a single pack that contained enough ketchup for the meal and didn’t spurt onto clothes so easily. Drivers yearned for something they could sit on the armrest, and for everybody in the back seat to shut the hell up so they could concentrate on driving while simultaneously talking on the phone, checking their hair in the mirror and eating french fries.  

The most important feature for teens — the ability to stomp on the packet and make it squirt ketchup across the sidewalk — remains unchanged.  

The old squeeze-only parcels, first introduced in 1968, were designed for people who preferred to tear the metallic wrapping with their teeth and then, when that failed, stop at the nearest dollar store to buy a pair of cheap scissors to cut it open. Ciesinski said that design was also carefully considered before its release, and may have been right for its time.  

“Where we failed was actually in a slight over-design,” he said. “The ragged perforations on the top and bottom edges always numbered exactly 57, in keeping with our ‘Heinz 57′ branding theme. But the public didn’t seem to appreciate this, especially as life became more and more hectic and people no longer took the time to count the notches.”  

Ciesinski said Heinz was now in the process of trying to “catch up” with the demands of the modern consumer.  

“Ha, ha,” he added.  

A bloodied victim of the now-recalled Heinz ketchup packet

+++  

One occupation I’m still waiting to see profiled on Discovery Channel’s “Dirty Jobs” series is corporate public relations writer. While I understand the allure of watching episodes about worm dung farmers, avian vomitologists and bologna makers, it’s the wordsmiths who create company press releases that for me hold the most appalling fascination. You imagine they have to stop at least several times during the average workday just to shower.  

I was reminded of this lower life form while researching the ketchup article above. Rather than attempting to satirize the actual story that ran on the business pages last week, I was seriously tempted just to reprint the actual release.  

What the heck; I’ll do it anyway:  

(Business Wire) — Whether you’re a dipper, a squeezer, or a health-minded ketchup lover, Heinz is giving everyone more ways to enjoy America’s Favorite Ketchup.  

Today, Heinz announced three ketchup innovations in response to consumer demand: Heinz Dip & Squeeze™, with a breakthrough dual-function ketchup package for the foodservice industry that promises to make eating on-the-go more fun and convenient; a reduction in sodium across its base ketchup line to support consumers’ desire for lower-sodium products; and the launch of Simply Heinz™ Tomato Ketchup, made with sugar, for the retail market.  

“For more than a century, product and packaging innovation based on a thorough understanding of what consumers want has been a critical part of the great success of Heinz Ketchup,” said William R. Johnson, H.J. Heinz Company Chairman, President and CEO. “Heinz Ketchup’s Dip & Squeeze product is just the latest milestone in our long history of packaging innovation. From the first plastic ketchup bottle to Top-Down™ and Fridge Door Fit™, Heinz continues to lead the industry in ketchup packaging innovation.”  

To Dip or Squeeze?  

A true packaging breakthrough, the Heinz Dip & Squeeze dual-function package gives ketchup lovers two ways to enjoy Heinz Ketchup: either peel back the lid for easy dipping, or tear off the tip to squeeze onto favorite foods. The new package holds three times as much Heinz Ketchup as the traditional packet.  

That means more ketchup when it’s wanted and where it’s wanted with less mess and a better overall dining experience. Now, busy Americans have a portable, clean and versatile package that makes it easier and more fun to dip or squeeze Heinz Ketchup no matter where they are.  

“Americans love Heinz Ketchup, and now the Dip & Squeeze product makes it easier and more fun for them to enjoy it on-the-go,” said Dave Ciesinski, Vice President of Heinz Ketchup. “From dipping nuggets and fries to squeezing ketchup on hamburgers or eggs, the Heinz Dip & Squeeze product gives consumers more flexibility, so they can have fun and enjoy eating Heinz Ketchup on whatever and wherever they want.”  

The new Heinz Dip & Squeeze product marks the first ketchup packet makeover for the foodservice industry in 42 years. In the past, on-the-go eaters have struggled to open multiple ketchup packets while worrying about making a mess.  

More Choices  

Heinz also is extending its range of lifestyle-driven products available in retail to include Simply Heinz Tomato Ketchup, which is made with sugar, instead of high fructose corn sweetener. The product will be available in 32-oz. and 15-oz. ketchup bottles beginning in March. This new addition extends Heinz Ketchup’s range of lifestyle products, which also includes Heinz^® Organic Ketchup, Heinz^® Hot & Spicy Ketchup, Heinz^® No Salt Added Ketchup and Heinz^® Reduced Sugar Ketchup. As the leading ketchup producer in the U.S., Heinz is passionate about providing its consumers with choices that fit a diverse array of lifestyles and dietary needs.  

Now with Lower Sodium  

To help in the effort to reduce consumers’ sodium intake, Heinz will reduce sodium by 15 percent in its core line of ketchup beginning this summer.  

“As the largest producer of ketchup in the U.S., Heinz is dedicated to meeting the growing consumer demand for better-for-you products, particularly with lower sodium,” said Idamarie Laquatra, Director of Global Nutrition, Heinz. “Heinz Ketchup is proud to provide consumers with lower sodium ketchup with the great taste that Americans expect.”  

This reduction in sodium will make Heinz Ketchup the lowest-sodium, nationally available ketchup in the U.S. So, whether people are on the go, eating out or at home, they will be enjoying the same great taste of Heinz Ketchup they love, with less sodium.  

Sharing the Love  

To give America’s ketchup lovers a place to express their love of ketchup, Heinz Ketchup is launching a Facebook fan page. The destination is a place for enthusiasts to share stories, videos, photos – anything and everything related to Heinz Ketchup. Fans of the Heinz Ketchup Facebook page also will be the first to receive exclusive news on new products and innovations, including the latest details on the launch of Heinz Dip & Squeeze.

Website Review: LaughterYoga.org

The road to enlightenment and inner peace isn’t typically paved with chuckles. When you think of the great philosopher-prophets of New Age theology like Gandhi, Yanni, Deepak Chopra and Mahareshi Mahesh Yogi, you don’t usually find yourself doubled over in laughter.  

Okay, maybe with Yogi, but that’s only because of his name.  

The pursuit of a more perfect soul is serious business. Yoga enthusiasts grimace with what we’d call pain (and they’d call something like “unblocked chakras”) as they contort themselves through their daily routine. Tai-chi-ers make everybody who watches them bust out chortling, yet they remain inwardly calm and completely unamused by their dance of pointlessness. Practitioners of transcendental meditation won’t even look you in the eye, much less offer a twinkle. You might be able to get away with putting whipped cream on their hair or marking up their faces with a Sharpie for your own amusement, though they won’t be particularly impressed.  

But there is one organization late to arrive on the mysticism scene who turns this self-serious attitude on its head, then hoots derisively as its shirt bunches around its neck revealing a paunchy underbelly. Laughter Yoga International was founded in 1995 by Dr. Madan Kataria to combine the relaxing invigoration of yoga with the joyous release of glee via chuckling and chortling. I visited his website at laughteryoga.org to do this week’s Website Review.  

Dr. Kataria’s tittering bald head is all over the home page of this site: in the banner logo where he’s laughing at a black guy, an Asian guy and a white woman, in the opening of a creepy video clip about quietly laughing alone while the rest of his temple sleeps, and all over the training DVDs and CDs he offers for sale. (Most of these are pretty expensive, but an audio titled “Ho Ho Ha Ha Grounding Dance” can be had for as little as $19.95).  

A segment of the home page called “Laughter Yoga News” cycles through about ten late-breaking updates of how virtually the entire world is now giggling its way through twists and bends and restorative inversions. At the Jamia Milia Islamia University in New Delhi, young Muslims take time out from their military drills to yoga and laugh. In Iran, the city government of Tehran has sponsored so many “laughing clubs” that they now claim 17,000 members. A huge crowd of segregated men and women in Mumbai form a hooting chorus of derision that circles the camera as if staging a scene from a Bollywood production of “Alice in Wonderland.”  

But it’s not just America’s sworn enemies in the worldwide war on terror who are laughing their way to sunnier dispositions and improved blood flow. Laughing clubs have sprouted up in places as diverse as Bulgaria, Boston and even Singapore, where Dr. Kataria recently attended the World Toilet Organization (WTO) summit and doubtless had convention-goers doubled over with all the obvious opportunities for bathroom humor. Even Staunton, Va., is making preparations for World Laughter Day later this spring. The annual holiday, set for the first Sunday each May, will make an awkward complement to the more-established Mother’s Day; I can’t imagine most moms appreciating being honored by their children with gales of laughter instead of cards and a buffet brunch.  

A recounting of the history of Laughter Yoga traces its origins to a gathering Dr. Kataria had in a park 15 years ago. It was a simple idea, combining yogic breathing (traditionally called “Pranayama”) with unconditional laughter (known for centuries as “Hahahaha”) into an exercise routine that became a complete well-being workout. The doctor documented this merger in a book titled “Laugh for No Reason” and soon there were over 6,000 social laughter clubs in about 60 countries. The “Laughter Movement” was now on the march, a dedicated army that could launch a show of force anywhere in the world to baffle and bemuse the unconverted.  

Dr. Kataria uses his medical background to discuss the biology of laughter. “Clapping in rhythm, chanting ‘ho ho ha ha’ in unison, and positive affirmations like ‘very good very good yaay’ helps the brain to develop new neuronal connections to produce happy neuropeptides,” he writes. Even if what you’re laughing at isn’t really funny (say, Jay Leno), the body doesn’t recognize the insincerity and still triggers positive chemical reactions. When you add yogic breathing to the equation — Kataria notes that it’s “difficult to survive if we stop breathing for even a few minutes” — you can achieve a “Life Energy Force that flows into the body from cosmic energy fields.”  

Laughter yoga is now spreading its reach through a variety of avenues supported by this website. Readers are told how to set up a local club: “Make sure it has adequate ventilation and toilet facilities … be careful you won’t disturb your neighbors as clubs can get very noisy … is the floor suitable for falling down?” There are online laughter clubs available through blogtalkradio.com, with the two most popular shows hosted by “Miss Lafalot” and “Laughing Lady Amy.” (For some reason, I’d love to see those two wrestle). There are telephone laughter clubs where you can join into conference calls and snigger along with dozens of fellow chuckleheads. There’s even a Skype Laughter Club that allows you hoot and cackle right into someone’s virtual face.  

In the “Ask Dr. K” pulldown, one reader addresses what would appear to be a fundamental conundrum of the movement. Its headquarters is located in Mumbai, India, one of the world’s poorest and most over-populated cities. I’ve been to Mumbai on business several times and — believe me — it’s no laughing matter.  

“What do you say to those who criticize you for not focusing on serious issues? How can you laugh when you see so much poverty? When so many people are hungry and sleeping in the road, how can laughter yoga solve this problem?”  

Dr. Kataria basically dodges the question, agreeing “we cannot ask poor people who have no food to laugh” while speculating that “if we make rich people laugh they will definitely look after poor people,” and hopefully not just as a source of jokes.  

Another humorless writer asks “what does your philosophy say about how we should respond to the horrific terrorist attacks on Mumbai where you lived?” The doctor says that even then he didn’t stop the laughter clubs from meeting, though “we did not feel like laughing when hundreds of people had lost their lives” so instead they simply gathered in a park to breathe and stretch (hopefully after the last gunman was finally hunted down, since breathing and stretching people make such an easy target). Terrorists and non-terrorists “all breathe in the same environment, so in a way we’re connected through breathing. I appealed to laughter lovers around the world to close their eyes and breathe for those who have lost their lives during these attacks.” True, the victims won’t be able to do much breathing for themselves, but that mystically projected assistance can’t really do much practical help.  

Regardless of the many troubles we face these days in such a cruel and complicated world, I think there’s definitely something to be said for the merits of this “global movement for health, joy and world peace.” I love a good laugh as much as the next person, and there are plenty of these (though most are unintentional) to be found on this website. The video images of Dr. Kataria staring into his laptop and demonstrating how he’s learned to quietly laugh by himself for his early-morning constitutional is pretty hilarious, though I would contend that his muffled guffaws sound more like asthmatic wheezing than anything else. Still, he makes a compelling case for optimism and community, and I would urge others to join in this movement by visiting this website and laughing heartily at Dr. Kataria and his whacky philosophy.  

What's so funny? Why it's you, my good doctor.

Revisited: Recipes for squirrel (garnish with tail)

Recently, 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.

Eat me

Revisited: Valentine’s cards for the holy

While doing research for a recent 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

Monday, Monday … How could you?

TRUE STORY: A South Carolina woman making a late-night trip to the grocery store found herself locked in when the supermarket closed unexpectedly.    

“All of the sudden everybody was gone,” said Loris resident Cheryl Freeman of her visit to the local Food Lion. “When I got up to the front, I thought I saw [employees] leaving in a car. I watched them drive away.”    

Unable to open the exit doors and realizing she had left her cell phone at home, Freeman started looking for a phone in the store’s office. An alarm went off, and police responded quickly to the call.    

Freeman said the alarm, which she described as deafening and continuous, was the worst part of the incident.    

“It kept saying, ‘You’re in a restricted area.’ The police came, but we couldn’t communicate because that alarm was so horribly loud,” she said. “I was pretty upset, but didn’t tell anybody about it.”    

After the incident, Freeman said she considered moving from Loris back to her previous home in Myrtle Beach because “they never locked me in a store down there.”    

+++    

During a recent visit to a Taco Bell, I noticed a plaque on the wall listing the store manager as “Zena Bailey”. I thought this was a funny name, and started relating it to friends and family.    

To a person, every single individual ruined the story by asking the same deflating question: “Was it spelled with an ‘X’?”    

No, I had to admit with much discouragement. It was with a “Z”.     

+++    

NPR was reporting a story last week about a transition in the top ranks of the Nigerian government.    

“The current president continues to receive medical treatment at a hospital in Saudi Arabia,” said the announcer. “The Nigerian senate yesterday approved a motion that would allow the temporary appointment of Goodluck Jonathan.”    

What? Did I hear that right? Sounds like a news writer jokingly inserted a farewell to his favorite intern into the live transcript.    

As it turns out, Goodluck Jonathan is former governor of Bayelsa, a member of the PDP ruling party, current vice president of the republic, and owner of the coolest name in political history.    

Nigeria is currently confronting some troubled times, and Jonathan will face a daunting task governing Africa’s largest country. I think we’d all want to offer him a hearty “best wishes!”    

+++    

The legacy of the Rev. Billy Graham is still a widespread presence in his hometown of Charlotte, N.C. Though the frail and now-retired minister lives in the mountains west of here, there are plenty of namesake reminders in the city that residents take for granted, but must sound odd to visitors.    

Charlotte boasts a Billy Graham Parkway, the Billy Graham Library, and the headquarters of the Billy Graham Evangelical Association. So it’s not that unusual to hear locals say things like:    

“The best way to the airport is to take Billy Graham.”    

“We were able to rent Billy Graham for both our wedding and reception.”    

“He’s got a good job. He’s part of Billy Graham.”    

+++    

My cats are getting more and more out of control around their meal times. I’m thinking of having them trained in photosynthesis so they can make their own damn food.    

+++    

Speaking of higher education, I saw a pickup truck in our area the other day that had three decals in the back window: one for Winthrop University, one for the University of Georgia, and one of the deer head silhouette frequently displayed by hunters. It made me wonder if there are colleges anywhere that offer a degree program in hunting. If so, they would probably call it something more academic, like the College of Wildlife Management and Assault.    

This same truck also had a bumper sticker for Ducks Unlimited. My son hadn’t heard of the organization, so I had to explain that, contrary the name, it was a group very much dedicated to limiting ducks.    

+++    

New locally owned restaurant opened in my hometown that seems even more doomed to failure than most. Its name: “Bats Barbecue”.    

+++    

Sometimes, instead of using the men’s room located just outside my office at work, I’ll hike across the warehouse to the highly-disinfected facilities used by the hourly temps. The cleaning solution used by the janitor there has a much more appealing smell, just the right mix of flowers and industrial solvents.    

This is how sad and pathetic my life has become.    

+++    

I finally got a chance to see “The Hurt Locker,” the Oscar-nominated film about an Army bomb squad operating in Iraq. Great movie.    

I was confused though by at least one part (not counting being unable to figure out why anyone would take a job even worse than mine). When the chunky guy in the high-collar jacket approaches a suspicious package, his fellow squad members call out the location of potential nearby dangers: “Possible sniper at 1 o’clock!” “Kid with a cell phone at 3 o’clock!” “Time for an MRE dinner at 7:30!”    

I’m not at all clear on how that works as a way to indicate location. I assume that “12 o’clock” is directly in front of me and that other points fan out accordingly. But if a guy to my right says there’s something at 9 o’clock, is that his 9 o’clock or mine? And what if one of us swivels?    

Seems to me a more common-sense direction would be something like “to your left” or “look out” or “you should’ve stayed in community college.”    

+++    

I’ve really enjoyed watching the Winter Olympics on TV so far. The Opening Ceremonies on Friday night were absolutely splendid, marred only slightly by interspersed clips of the Georgian luger being killed during his practice run.    

The Parade of Nations, during which the athletes enter the stadium smiling proudly and waving at the crowd, was a little dry, but not for lack of effort by the NBC executive in charge of figuring out where to insert the commercials. Each block of ads took up enough time to obscure the entrance of several national teams, and the network official had to figure which alphabetical chunk of participating countries were least interesting to American viewers.    

He couldn’t simply go by populations or team sizes, because of compelling story lines among small groups like the Cayman Islands and Vanuatu. Nations in the news also had to be included, so places like Iran and North Korea couldn’t be overlooked. Even usually boring lands like Canada had to be shown because, after all, they’re the Olympic host.    

So it came down to three different five-state groupings that were judged less interesting than appeals for more people to drink Red Bull: the Bahamas-Belarus-Belgium-Bermuda-Bosnia axis, the Kyrgyzstan-Latvia-Lebanon-Liechtenstein-Lithuania alliance and the San Marino-Senegal-Serbia-Slovakia-Slovenia coalition.    

Watch for some of these peoples to provoke a high-profile incident on the international stage in the near future, just to get their names out there. I predict San Marino and the Bahamas will join forces to invade Slovakia, then realize that they meant to attack Slovenia, and then figure, oh hell, what’s the difference?    

+++    

The composite sketch artist embodies two seemingly contrary interests: a desire to create skilled renderings of the human form and a yearning to hang out with crime victims.    

Sometimes, one proficiency is stronger than another, and you get a terrific portrait of shadow and color and light, but it looks more like an eighteenth-century aristocrat than the suspect in a triple shooting.    

Or sometimes, you end up with an amateurish portrayal that sends police off in search of animated cartoon characters.    

Two examples below exemplify some especially bad examples of composite sketch artistry.    

Be on the lookout for the Latino uncle of one of those big-eyed children from paintings of the 1960s.

This suspect is a recent skin-graft patient.

Fake News: Tea Party reaches out to the young

MIAMI, Fla. (Feb. 15) — Organizers of the conservative Tea Party movement are looking to the future by recruiting more young people to join the anti-government cause.    

One such example can be found in “Lady Ann and Lady Diane’s Teas,” a group of Libertarian 6-to-12-year-old girls who fondly recall an America where ladies could dress in gloves and pearls, enjoy tiny flower-shaped sandwiches and celebrate the days when Queen Victoria was president.    

“Dressing up is so much fun!” said chapter president Lady Diane. “In our party, you’ll feel as if you’ve been transported back to a time when only the gracious held power in this country. Each of our elegant soirees will provide an atmosphere of refinement and charm in which to rail against the socialist Obama and his Stalinist henchmen.”    

The collection of lace-bedecked young ladies espouse the same anti-tax, anti-spending, anti-stimulus position as the national Tea Party organization, but do so in a setting festively decorated with pink bow sashes, antique china plates, minks, wraps and fans.    

“It’s time to get the Washington bureaucrats out of office and let real Americans take their country back,” said a 7-year-old who identified herself only as Madelyn. “And while you’re up, I’d like another scone, if you please.”    

Unlike the boisterous crowds that often heckled congressmen during last summer’s town hall meetings, this new generation of arch-conservatives and white supremacists are mindful of the proper etiquette necessary to stage a reactionary coup with poise and style.    

“I just adore the old country roses and the Lady Carlyle fine English serving pieces,” said 11-year-old Addison. “And the sterling silver tongs would be just right to impale (House Speaker) Nancy Pelosi.”    

Members are careful to stress that despite their fondness for all things crystal and gold-rimmed, they remain committed to the cause of a smaller government that stays out of private enterprise, offers no health care to its citizens, and detests all who are not as darling and precious as they are.    

“And we’re dead-set against any liberal reform of immigration law that lets more undesirables cross over our borders,” said Chloe, age 8. “Especially boys.”    

Dressed in a lovely hat with netted veil and carefully holding a tasty tea savory in one hand and a placard reading “No Publik Opshun” in the other, 10-year-old Caitlyn described herself as a former Republican who grew disenchanted over the party’s close relations with Wall Street.    

“I prefer a tea cozy, not a cozying up to the big banks,” the delightful little lady said.    

"Show us the birth certificate," demand (from left) Abigail, Hannah, Leah and another Abigail. "Or get the hell back to Kenya."

Olympic observations

♦ Wouldn’t it be great of one of the ski jumpers hid a jet pack under his uniform and, at the apex of his jump, lit the rocket and continued off into the distant sky?

♦ I’m not sure what “Nordic combined” is, but it sounds like an ill-conceived effort at reconciliation that Tiger Woods might attempt with his wife and another woman.

♦ Speaking of combined, I’d like to see a new winter sport that united figure skating and speed skating, in a graceful yet mad dash around the oval.

♦ The musical accompaniment used for figure skating would be a great addition to other sports as well. I just watched a heroic rendition of “Impossible Dream” in the mixed pairs competition that would sound so inspiring piped through the loud speakers at the luge course.

♦ Curling is too easy to make fun of. It strikes me as an innocent combination of shuffleboard, horseshoes, hopscotch and bowling, but done on ice. I like the frantic sweeping motion with the brooms, but wonder if the sport’s governing body should consider entering the twenty-first century and issue the curlers vacuum cleaners or Swiffles instead.

♦ That fatal crash during the luge training was truly horrible and could’ve been avoided with a more sensible track construction. Raising the walls higher is one suggested solution. They might consider raising them so high that the chute becomes totally enclosed, more of a tube. The spectators might not appreciate it, but race officials could assure them “I swear there’s a sliding competition going on in there somewhere.”

♦ One thing that the winter games is sadly missing is animal Olympians. We’re sadly reminded of this by the concurrent staging of the Westminster Dog Show in New York. Imagine the excitement of seeing a Staffordshire Bull Terrier launched from the ski jump, or the Standard Schnauzer strapped to a snowboard.

♦ If organizers want to see a giant leap in ratings, might I suggest outfitting the skaters with skis, and the skiers with skates.

♦ The choice of cross-country skiing and shooting for the biathlon seems so arbitrary. Shooting is actually the only sport in these Olympics that doesn’t involve slipping on frozen water, at least not if it’s done right. I think they should unstrap those silly rifles from their backs and substitute something that uses ice and is thus more appropriate for the dead of winter: perhaps margarita blending, or baby seal hunting, or scraping your car out of a snow drift using only a credit card.

♦ Here’s a new idea of a downhill event that could put the excitement back in Alpine skiing. Let’s see them race an oncoming avalanche.

♦ Anybody can do downhill skiing. How about some uphill skiing?

Fake News: Potholes are next big thing

CHARLOTTE, N.C. (Feb. 17) — NASCAR racing officials are so happy with last weekend’s tight finish at the Daytona 500, caused in large part by having drivers slowed by a pothole that stopped the race several times, that they’re adding other everyday road nuisances to future events.

“Everybody’s been talking about what a bunch of rinky-dink amateurs we are to have our biggest race marred by a simple pothole,” said operations vice president John Lee. “That’s great publicity. Yee-haw.”

Weeks of rainy, cold weather in northeast Florida caused a 9-by-15-inch hole to be carved two inches into the Daytona Superspeedway’s surface. The biggest race on NASCAR’s calendar was stopped for over two hours while officials scrambled to fill the hole, mostly with discarded tobacco chaw. Now, events coordinators are looking to add other obstacles to generate more interest and sympathy among viewers who face daily frustrating commutes.

One idea is to put an elderly “hat driver” on the inside lane and have him drive 55 m.p.h. while stock cars race past him at three times that speed. Another concept would have a carful of young immigrants on the right side of the track making random, unsignaled turns. Some are even suggesting putting a left-turn-only lane to the pit area with a sensor in the pavement that only occasionally triggers the turn arrow.

“Drivers needing to pit may have to inch back and forth for several minutes to make the light change,” said Lee. “How exciting would that be?”

“I’ll be the ‘hat driver,’” volunteered 51-year-old veteran driver Mark Martin, peering through his steering wheel to see the road in front of him.

Other proposals being floated include having joggers dart out onto the track, awarding bonus points for striking kangaroos that would be loosed from the infield, and requiring any driver who crashed to block the course by waiting patiently outside his car for police to arrive.

“Ideally, only one car-width will be left open to get by, and all the other racers would slow to a crawl to see what happened,” Lee said. “One of the crash victims might be standing on the shoulder sobbing quietly into his cell phone, while the other scribbles out his insurance information leaned on the hood of his car. It’s something we can all relate to.”

To expand the audience of some races, officials are also considering installing a poorly labeled exit ramp that appears to lead to the garage area but in fact takes drivers into the parking lot of a nearby mall. The sight and sound of roaring Dodges zooming past startled young families could improve the demographic mix of typical race-watchers, at least among the families that aren’t run over first.

Lee said the more that Sunday afternoon auto races can remind the audience of the mind-numbing drudgery of spending up to 90 minutes a day creeping through traffic, the more Bojangles Bo’berry biscuits with extra cheese can be sold by race sponsors.

“We might even end up with a patch on drivers’ firesuits advertising the highway patrol,” said Lee, though he stopped short of suggesting that speeding racers be pulled over by police for going 168 in a 165-m.p.h. zone.

Revisited: Inside the neutraceutical aisle

Recently 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.

Stalling in the Stall: A Photo Essay

I think when I say that I don’t enjoy bumping into other men in a public rest room, I am not alone.

Perhaps I should be a little more specific. What I don’t like is coming out of a stall after I’ve done my business, and encountering co-workers wandering amidst the sinks and urinals. It’s such an intimate setting, it feels as though we should be talking to each other, sharing in the brotherhood of fellow men who have similar biological needs to ours. Yet it’s that very intimacy that intimidates us into fears that any overtures could be misinterpreted.

Besides, I don’t like talking to most people at my desk or in the hallway; why should I want to engage them in the bathroom?

So when I’m using a stall, and I can tell from the shuffle of feet or the splashing of water or certain olfactory indicators that others are in the room, I tend to linger in the privacy of the commode cubicle. It’s usually only a few minutes before I hear the exit door closing, signaling me that it’s safe to emerge into an empty room.

I actually view this respite as an opportunity for a little quiet time in the midst of a hectic day, and have created some diversions for myself to make the moments pass more quickly. Using only the common fixtures found in most restrooms, I’ve devised something of a “play time,” and thought I could share these ideas with others who yearn for both privacy and fun.

Fine dining and bathing?

I don’t know what these three devices are intended to do, but I won’t let that limit my imagination. The circular thing at bottom left appears to unscrew and so would make a fine plate for an impromptu meal, or perhaps a frisbee. I presume the spigot will release water, allowing a quick sponge bath with sopping tissue. The other piece of plumbing, attached to the toilet tank itself, looks like a fire suppression sprinkler, so I probably shouldn’t mess with it. I don’t want to set off any alarms. I’m here to evacuate myself, not the whole office park.

——————————————————————–

Feel the burn

Here are two opportunities for a quick workout while waiting on the urinator next door. The handicap grips can be used as uneven parallel bars for a speedy upper-body burn to build those biceps. (Don’t swing so high that your feet appear over the top of the stall — that could arouse suspicion). The plunger can double as a pogo stick.

——————————————————————–

——————————————————————–

Explore the dark side

Many stalls have a little metal door in the wall leading to places unknown. If you can stuff yourself through, it could be a chance for a wonderful and mysterious adventure. (Or, you could end up trapped between the wallboard and the insulation). Use the spray deodorizer to lube yourself down for the tight squeeze, then pretend the can is a weapon to fend off the dragons and satyrs of this mystical realm in the Land Beyond the Janitor Closet.

——————————————————————–

Me Tarzan, you hot

Catch up on your National Geographic reading from the library of periodicals atop the commode tank. This classic journal of world cultures has spiffed itself up since you probably last checked it out as a teenage boy. Gone are the half-naked native women of Amazonia, replaced now by fully naked lowland gorillas, like this seductress treed in a Tanzania national park. Her threatening gaze may say “no-no-no” but the romance of the primeval jungle will eventually convince her submit to your manly ways.

Revisited: Going to the organic grocery

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!

Feature writer pitches in periodically.

The call came early in the morning. The city editor said the crime reporter had called in sick, and they needed someone to cover the police beat.

“But I’m the features writer,” I said. “Crime reporting requires complete sentences, with verbs and commas. I deal in short, punchy phrases. I’m not sure I can do it.”

The editor cracked a silent smile. At least, that’s what I’m making up.

“You can handle it,” he said. “I like your style.”

Would I still be able to use lots of short paragraphs?

“Go for it, kid,” he answered. “And be sure to bring your bag of periods.”

Carolina Avenue is just two blocks from Arlington Avenue in the city’s South Central neighborhood.

Two streets where the best and the worst happened within three weeks of each other — and involved the same man.

Carolina Avenue is a street with a burned-out house on it. Arlington Avenue is where two police officers were wounded while serving a search warrant. Trying to keep crack cocaine out of the hands of children.

Police say the same man who shot the officers had told them 20 days earlier that he tried to get into a burning house to save a stranger.

Thirty-one-year-old Tymon Wells.

“The same guy,” said Lt. Brad Redfern, of the city police department.

In other news, a man trying to sell watches outside a liquor store told police he was robbed Tuesday.

The suspect snatched two silver watches from the vendor’s hands. Threatened to shoot him. In the face. With a gun. A gun that had bullets in it.

The victim described the suspect as light-skinned. Black. Male. Between 20 and 30 years old. Wearing a white coat and a white hat.

White hat, maybe. But definitely not one of the good guys.

Meanwhile, a York woman was arrested on assault charges after police says she threatened her daughter with a knife.

That’s right: her daughter with a knife.

Ebbie Hines, known fondly by her neighbors on Turkey Creek Road as “that crazy old bat,” told police she only grabbed the knife because her daughter grabbed another knife first.

“She was a kind woman, always letting others go first,” said somebody or other.

Hines said that earlier in the day, the daughter threw a salt shaker at her, striking her in the chest. It left a bruise.

On her chest, and in her heart.

Hines was arrested and charged with aggravated assault with intent to kill.

In Rock Hill, it was 2 a.m. Saturday. A time when most people are asleep. Unless they decided to stay up late.

No work on Sunday, you know.

But somebody was working late at the Sportsman, a hunting and fishing equipment store. They drove their GMC Yukon through the front door in an apparent robbery attempt.

The crash caused $15,000 in damage to the store. Enough to buy a toy for a thousand poor kids in Haiti. Or make 500 care packages for troops in Afghanistan. Or buy a golf cart for a mentally challenged teen.

Instead, a store has a destroyed foyer.

Officers followed footprints in the snow, but at the time of the report it was not known who was involved in the break-in attempt.

Hopefully, it wasn’t Santa Claus. Or Rudolph, that famous reindeer with the nose of red. Probably not, since Christmas was two months ago.

Finally, the back door of a Chinese restaurant was pried open during a burglary in which thieves stole $1,500.

That’s a lot of hot-and-sour soup with extra tofu.

Police said an unknown person or persons cut the phone line and ripped out the alarm system. The thieves first searched the front desk area, then entered a storage area.

A safety deposit box was stolen during the incident.

Not so safe after all, huh?

End of story.

At The Movies (In The Breakroom)

February is not the best of times in the world of cinema. The winter crap, er, crop of movies are generally artistic cast-offs designed not to distract voters considering Oscar nominations. Instead, we’re given fluff, misguided children’s fare and some guy named “Duane Johnson” who I swear looks exactly like The Rock.

With so few films of merit currently on the market, it only makes sense that you don’t need a New York Times egghead to help suggest what might be the best choice this weekend at the local cineplex. Your expectations are already pretty low. About all you need for guidance is the good word of a friend who liked that one scene where the guy and the girl sort of kissed but not quite, and in the background was that song — you know, that “la-la-la” song from the seventies — played on a harp.

So let’s turn to the voice of the commoners for some recommendations about the hits and the misses currently in first run. Overheard in an office breakroom that could be your own, let’s meet our critics. Rachel is also known as “Old Rachel” to distinguish her from the attractive young intern Rachel. Old Rachel has two preteen children who help define her worldview of Hollywood. We’ll also hear from The Lady From Accounting, a late-middle-aged divorcee who has the nerve to go to movies to be entertained, not challenged. There’s not a romantic comedy she’s viewed that she didn’t “jess loooovvvve.”

So what do you nice ladies suggest?

OR: I don’t like that “Shutter Island” movie. It looks too dark. It’s depressing. Leonardo DiCaprio was good in “Titanic,” and he was a cute kid on that TV show when he was young, but I don’t like him lately.

TLFA: I saw that preview too. No thanks.

OR: You know what I did like, though? I liked “The Squeakqual”. It was actually better than the original, and those Chipettes were just darling, I don’t care what Alvin says.

TLFA: Everybody says they don’t like Chipmunk movies, but everybody goes to see them anyway. Speaking of squeaky, I kind of liked that Sandra Bullock movie, you know, the one about the football player she adopts and he wins the World Series. They say she might win a Grammy for that.

OR: Right, right … I think it was called “All About Steve,” and she’s been kidnapped by a hijacker on a bus, then she wins the Miss Firecracker beauty contest. She’s so cute.

TLFA: You know what else was good? “Invictus.” I didn’t think I’d like it, what with all the soccer and Nelson Mandingo and Ben Affleck (or was it Matt Damon)? Anyhoo, I meant to see “The Wolfman” but I had looked at my ticket stub upside down, and I thought theater 7 was theater 1, and I didn’t even realize it was the wrong movie until about 45 minutes in. But “Invictus” was actually okay, at least for a movie without any werewolves in it.

OR: I was gonna see “Valentine’s Day” on Valentine’s Day — wouldn’t that be wild? But my car got all tore up and I couldn’t make it.

TLFA: Oh, I want to see that one. It’s got so many stars! And I just love romance movies. I heard it’s just great. It’s kind of like that old TV show — you remember “Love American Style”? [singing] “Truer than the red, white and blue, ew, ew, ew, ew …”

OR: Honey, that was before my time. But if you want to see a good, funny movie, go see that “Dear John”. These two kids fall in love and then 9/11 happens and he has to leave and she’s like all boo-hoo. It’s funny, but it’ll make you sad too. That’s what makes a good movie, if you ask me.

TLFA: Talk about sad, my friend was telling me how she cried the whole last half of “Tooth Fairy.” You’d think it was going to be funny, because it has The Rock dressed up in a tu-tu, but he learns some valuable lessons about helping poor kids whose teeth are falling out. It even has a message, if you like that sort of thing: Always brush after every meal.

OR: I love The Rock. I’d even see him in some Shakespeare movie, if he took off his shirt.

TLFA: You got that right!

OR: I’ll tell you what I’m looking forward to, and that’s “Alice in Wonderland”. It’s got Johnny Depp in it, and I think that singer April Lavigne is the one who says “off with her head.”

TLFA: You know, that Alice, she was on drugs.

OR: Well, she fell down a hole!

TLFA: That’s true. Anyway, I just loved Johnny Depp in that “Chocolate Factory”. That’s what he looks like in this movie, except I don’t think it has as much chocolate.

OR: Well, if you only see one movie this year, you gotta see “Michael Jackson, the Olympics and the Lightning Thief.”

TLFA: Wasn’t that his concert film? The one he was practicing for when he died?

OR: No, wait, not Michael, some other Jackson.

TLFA: Janet? I always thought she’d make a good actress, how much she looks like Michael and all.

OR: No, this one is about a teenage boy whose dad is God. Well, not the God, but a Greek god. And he’s flinging lightning bolts all over the place and it’s kinda like “Harry Potter” or “Lord of the Rings,” one of those kind of movies. The boy is real cute, too. My girls are crazy about him.

TLFA: And it has Olympics in it too? Is there ice dancing? Did you see where that guy riding the luge got killed? That was so sad.

OR: No, it really didn’t have that much Olympics in it. I was surprised. What’s been your pick for the best movie of the year so far?

TLFA: I really liked “Lonely Bones”. Where that girl gets murdered and tells her story from up in Heaven.

OR: Percy Jackson goes to Heaven too. Wouldn’t it be cool if those two met? Now that would be a great movie.

TLFA: That would be awesome.

OR: Well, I’d better get back to my desk. My spreadsheet just crashed and I’m about to throw some lightning bolts myself!

TLFA: Ha, ha. Okay, then. Maybe I’ll see you At the Movies.

Fake News: Toyota driving a hard bargain

WASHINGTON (Feb. 25) — The president of Toyota testified before Congress yesterday that lawmakers were obviously smart men and women who make wise purchasing decisions, and they look like they’re “ready now” to buy his excuses about the Japanese automaker’s quality.

“What would it take to put you in a position today to accept my explanation?” asked Akio Toyoda, defending his company against allegations of unintended acceleration in millions of recalled vehicles. “Because more than anything, I want to see you leaving here today as a happy customer.”

Toyoda, who noted in his opening statement that “it’s funny — my wife’s first name is ‘Congress,’” encountered some difficult questions from members of the House Committee on Oversight and Government Reform. But at each turn, he tried to deflect the interrogation by urging congressmen to accept his personal apology, which would only be available today.

“I met with another nice legislative body just this morning who was very interested in acquiring this particular defense of my company’s failure to adequately respond to safety concerns,” Toyoda said. “They said they’d be back later this afternoon, but I told them I couldn’t guarantee this justification of our actions would still be available.”

Rep. Darrell Issa (R-Calif.) challenged Toyoda’s assertion that he had another buyer, noting a television advertisement that claimed an “Excuse-A-Thon” would continue through the weekend, until Toyota had cleared out its backlog of 2008 and 2009 Mea Culpas.

“Sure, you could get a used alibi. However I see you as someone who won’t settle for less than the best,” Toyoda said. “Feel free to take my testimony home with you for the rest of the day, see what your friends and family think. If you like what I’m selling, then you can come back in the morning and we’ll do the paperwork.”

Committee chairman Edolphus Towns wondered aloud if the House panel could trade in some congressional excuses about bipartisan gridlock, budget deficits and last week’s Washington snowstorm in order to get a more thorough and self-degrading statement from the Japanese executive.

“You drive a tough deal, you’re very good at bargaining,” Toyoda said. “You’d be killing me on my margins, but I really like you. I really want to do business with you.”

Toyoda then asked for a brief recess while he could talk to his manager, who had to authorize such a deal. Rep. John Mica (R-Fl.) contested the maneuver.

“You’re the chief executive of the company,” Mica said. “Who’s higher up than you?”

Toyoda said any request for a deal of this extraordinary nature would have to be personally approved by Emperor Akihito, most heavenly master and lord of the Chrysanthemum Throne.

“Get yourself a cup of coffee and enjoy some complimentary donuts while you wait. It shouldn’t take too long,” Toyoda said. “Can I buy you a Pepsi? How about some Tootsie Pops for your kids?”

Tilikum the whale crashes health care summit

WASHINGTON (Feb. 26) — President Obama’s health care policy summit was horrifyingly interrupted yesterday when Tilikum, the killer whale from Orlando’s Sea World, burst into the Blair House conference room and began thrashing participants mercilessly.

“Aarrrhhhhh,” said Sen. John Kyl (R-Ariz.). “I’m being bitten by a killer whale.”

What was to be an opportunity for Democrats and Republicans to hash out a compromise on the medical insurance crisis instead had suddenly become a scene of carnage with a vaguely fishy smell. The 12,000-pound orca broke through an unattended side entrance to the second-floor hall and began his reign of terror at what was now a bipartisan buffet.

“Please, no, no!” observed Senate majority leader Harry Reid. “My leg! My leg!”

President Obama was among the few attendees who were uninjured by the rampaging whale, who appeared surprisingly agile for a beast without feet. Obama ducked behind Vice President Joe Biden as the killer approached the two, and it appeared the whale wasn’t interested in the stringy, gamey second-in-command.

“Look at me! I’m too big to fail,” Tilikum was quoted by onlookers. “I am raining down some major predatory practices on your sorry asses! You want to deal only in talking points? Well, check out these teeth — is that enough of a point for you?”

It took almost 20 minutes before Secret Service officials and Washington police were able to end the onslaught. The whale was briefly cornered before slipping out a window and escaping down an alley.

Homeland Security officials were at a loss to explain how such a blatant lapse of security could occur with so many of the nation’s top executive and legislative leaders gathered in one place.

“We do have footage from cameras at the Orlando airport showing Tilikum going through security,” said Transportation Security Administration spokesperson Amy Wolfe. “His carry-on baggage was thoroughly searched and no weapons were found. We’re at a loss to explain how he could fly into Washington on a passenger airliner and then carry out such an audacious attack.”

The whale apparently took a cab from Reagan National Airport in D.C. directly to the building across the street from the White House where the meeting was taking place. His credentials went unchecked by officers who were screening guests in the lobby. One guard who spoke off the record said he thought the massive man-eater was a lobbyist for the insurance industry.

After the attack, which left three senators dead, seven congressmen injured and another nine thoroughly soaked by water emitted through the marine mammal’s blowhole, Tilikum was seen climbing aboard a Metro subway, then disappeared in rush hour crowds.

“I think we actually made some progress toward reaching agreement on key points in this critical debate,” Obama said at a news conference following the summit/slayfest. “Since two of the mortally injured were Republicans, we’re back to having a filibuster-proof Democratic majority that will finally make universal health care a reality in America.”

“You’re going to need some pretty good insurance after I’m through with my reign of terror,” Tilikum wrote on his blog before the attack Thursday.

Revisited: Poets for our times (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.

Revisited: 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 at the grocery store? 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.

The nose knows

The human nose is a magnificent creation. It helps us appreciate our environment by allowing us to smell it. It filters out toxins and humidifies the incoming air. It tells us who’s beautiful (the pert-nosed), who’s ugly (the big-nosed) and who owns a chimp (those who’ve had their noses ripped off).

What we do with our noses has entered the common lingo as an indicator of how well we’re interacting with others. Keeping your “nose to the grindstone” means you work hard, as shown by the abrasions on your upper lip and cheeks. Being a “brown-noser” is one who kisses certain nether regions in hopes of pleasing bosses or other connoisseurs of posterior worship. Those who “powder their nose” go to the bathroom to snort cocaine.

“Keeping your nose clean” has more to do with being on good behavior than it does with any maintenance of nasal hygiene, though there are cleaning processes that have to be done. Because it sticks out so far from our face, there’s little we need to do to keep the outer surface shiny and unsoiled. It tends to be naturally cleansed by the rain. At most, you have to buff it with a shammy.

The inside of the nose is another matter. We’ve developed several techniques as a species to scour the interior regions, supposedly way evolved beyond what our primate brothers do by inserting sticks into their faces.

A build-up of congestion in the sinuses is easily cleared with a firm honk into a dainty, monogrammed handkerchief, making it one of the most civilized expulsions of bodily fluids we’ve devised. Why such a practice is freely done in polite company still escapes me. I’ve always tended to side with the young children who typically misinterpret the instruction from their parents as being a noisy inhalation instead. They know innately that it’s wrong to unleash their mucus into the public sector, and that it would make more sense to suck it farther into the skull for eventual removal by surgery, which can be done in private.

The more involuntary ejection of nasal debris is what we call the “sneeze,” and it is truly a blessed event. Though I’ve always tended to suppress mine, others revel in the opportunity to draw attention to themselves. The various grunts, groans and shouts that accompany the sneeze serve no real purpose in more efficiently expelling the irritant, and yet people do it anyway. My theory is that they’re trying hard for the notice that escaped them as a baby, when their parents (understandably) put them into storage for hours at a time without so much as a “gesundheit.” Now that they’re free and working in the cubicle next to me, it’s time to put on a Shamu Show every time there’s a little nose tickle, roaring out a tumultuous explosion that elicits blessings, sympathy and requests for ponchos from their neighbors.

Certain types of nasal rubble can’t be easily expelled with compressed air, and for these we have a whole different set of societal rules. As the mucus moves from a plasma to a more solid state, it can be maneuvered into the outside world with a series of snorts and spurts, but these rarely work. And when they do, the exhaled matter tends to end up on your shirt pocket looking like some kind of primitive coat-of-arms. When all else fails, we need to sneak off to a stairwell, a bathroom, or the southbound lane of the interstate doing 80 m.p.h. to pursue our excavation tasks.

I had hoped there was a more technical term for this act than “nose picking,” which doesn’t capture how elegant the booger selection process really is. Wikipedia wasn’t much help, offering only the term “rhinotillexomania” to describe the psychiatric condition of extreme nose-picking. (Seems that at a certain point even the craziest psychopath would realize there’s nothing left to pick, short of burrowing into their cortex, but who can account for the actions of the insane?) I did learn that nose-picking is a “common, mildly taboo habit” and that, confirming what my mother always told me, can lead to the spread of infections, nosebleeds and self-induced perforation of the septum.

As for it being “mildly taboo,” I think we’d all disagree with that. Something that can’t be done by the Queen of England at a state dinner is mildly taboo, though for some reason if she’s up to her elbows in her purse instead of her nose, that’s okay. Nose-picking instead crosses over into the realm of a horrific abomination, qualifying for banishment to the nearest atoll. Rubbing, stroking or pulling at your nose is fine, but once that fingernail disappears from view, you better start packing your Hawaiian shirt. And, please, for the benefit of the airport security guy who’ll go through your luggage, wash your hands first.

If you think about it, you realize that this practice is one of the last shameful public displays we have left in these liberated modern times. It’s perfectly acceptable to comb your hair, kill someone, or pee in the public square, yet any exploration into the center of your face is strictly verboten.

I think it’s time to change some of these puritanical attitudes, and I think, like everything else today, we need to turn to science for a solution. I’m imagining a device that incorporates microcircuity and other aspects of nanotechnology into a probe the size of a pen. On the tip, you have a video camera, a light, a scraper, a suction mechanism and a trimmer. If there’s any room left, include a GPS unit that will bounce the tip’s position off a satellite and allow you to navigate with precision. Then, with all this data at your fingertips, you can conduct self-surgery with complete confidence.

I hereby offer my proposal for the NEED: the Nasal Electronic Excavation Device. (Slogan: ** YOU NEED THE NEED **)

It’s the very sexiness of this tool that will finally bring nose-picking out of its ignominy and into the bright sunshine of public acceptance. Remember, it was only a few short years ago that hanging a large piece of electronics from your ear would’ve labeled you as old and deaf, and now you’re considered Bluetooth-enabled. With iPhones and Blackberrys and netbooks everywhere you look, why should a whirring wand inserted into your nose be seen as anything less than fashionable? Especially if someone can come up with a strong enough battery so that I can eliminate the 30-foot-long electrical cord from my preliminary designs.

I’m not much of an engineer, so I’m offering my idea here on the Internet and asking all the technophiles out there to make the NEED a reality. Slobs and misfits can be easily transformed into with-it hipsters. Mouth-breathers can close their stinking maws and once again enjoy the feeling of a fresh breeze coursing through their nostrils. Everyone — young and old, male and female, big-nosed and small-nosed — can be freed of the shame of being caught in mid-irrigation, and can instead be proud of their efforts to create a cleaner world right in front of their eyes.

This is what a nose looks like

Fake News: NBC finds everlasting curling

When workers arrived to remove television equipment from the Olympic Curling Center following Sunday night’s closing ceremonies, they were surprised to find curlers continuing their apparently endless string of round-robin matches.

Despite an empty stadium and none of the live TV coverage that marked 12 days of competition, rivals slid stones and swept ice much as they had throughout the Winter Olympics. One of the participants said they would continue the matches virtually non-stop for the next three years because “we’re curlers — what else are we going to do? A job that doesn’t involve sliding? I don’t think so.”

Executives at NBC immediately signed the teams to appear in at least 20 hours a week of prime-time programming, though there will be some slight rule changes to make the event more exciting for home viewers.

Gone will be the plain grey curling stone, to be replaced by a different “guest mass” each week. For example, the first week of shows to begin in mid-March will feature frozen turkeys, the second week will include newborn infants, and the third week will introduce the severed heads of recently discarded NFL running backs LaDanian Tomlinson, Brian Westbrook and Thomas Jones.

The new series, to be called “NBC – Nothing But Curling,” will run through 2013 from Vancouver, then go “on the road” for its final year. The last season will follow the players as they travel over land through Canada’s Northwest Territories, over the North Pole, and down into Russia, skidding toward the site of the 2014 Olympics one 150-foot length of ice at a time.

“We’ll be taking curling back to its natural state, along frozen rivers and lakes, and over the polar ice pack,” said curling commissioner Gordon Everhart. “We might lose a few skips to the polar bears, but that’s part of the excitement of the game.”

In an attempt to maintain the respectable ratings brought by the winter games, NBC is also debuting a new reality show from executive producer Jerry Seinfeld and bringing back Jay Leno to his late-night “Tonight” spot.

Seinfeld’s “The Marriage Ref” didn’t appear very promising during previews before affiliates and TV critics last month, but NBC President Jeff Zucker said the network “pretty much has to do anything that Jerry wants.”

One source from within NBC said the concept, which features celebrity judges resolving minor marital squabbles of real-life couples, was the “least of three evils that Seinfeld proposed.”

The other ideas that he reportedly floated were a show called “The Birthing Ref,” in which panelists would gather around laboring mothers-to-be to discuss the merits of a vaginal versus caesarean birth, and “The Coma Ref,” wherein stars such as Kelly Ripa, Alec Baldwin and Larry David will form a “death panel” to decide which critically ill patients will be unplugged from their ventilators, then presented with fabulous prizes.

The legendary “Late Night Wars” from the 1990s will be re-fought at the 11:30 hour, with Leno taking on CBS’s David Letterman in what is certain to be an epic battle to the death that will ultimately leave only one survivor standing.

Each host has lined up a blockbuster list of guests the first week. Leno will chat with a Predator drone and an array of heavy artillery weapons, which will then be sent cross-country to explode on the set of Letterman’s Broadway theater. Dave will play “Stupid Missile Tricks” with a Tomahawk cruise missile before it is released toward California to deliver its payload of napalm.

“Jay is playing for keeps this time. He will not be tricked again,” said one Leno aide, referring to the ill-fated attempt to move the comedian to a 10 p.m. slot on NBC last year. “There will be no more ‘Jay Walking.’ Now, it’s going to be ‘Jay Talking’ — talking in the language of modern warfare. Death to Dave! Death to Paul! And death to the CBS Late Night Orchestra!”

After this "end," we're headed to the Yukon

Meet Jim Bunning: And we wonder why Congress doesn’t work

Kentucky Senator Jim Bunning told America’s unemployed last week to get off his lawn or he would call the police and sic his dog on them.

“Go on!” Bunning yelled out the window of his office in the Dirksen Senate office building in Washington. “Get outta here, you punks. Don’t make me get my shotgun.”

Bunning had single-handedly blocked extension of federal funding for unemployment and health insurance, driving workers off job sites and patients out of health care. The arch-conservative’s filibuster temporarily ended benefits until saner colleagues from the Republican Party prevailed on the bluegrass nutcase to shut the hell up.

“Jim is what we call a very special man,” said GOP colleague Mitch McConnell. “He believes fiercely in bedrock conservative principles, and yet still is so mentally challenged that even I look like a normal guy next to him, despite my amphibian facade.”

The oldest Republican currently serving in the U.S. Senate, Bunning first came to national prominence in the 1950s as a star pitcher for the Detroit Tigers, and later for the Philadelphia Phillies. With the Phillies, he showed his stubborn side by refusing to follow directions from the team’s manager, contributing to the team’s famous collapse during the 1964 pennant race when they lost the last ten games of the season.

“He wants me to throw the ball over the plate,” Bunning said of the skipper’s meddling. “Maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I want to roll the ball up there, or maybe I’d rather remove all foreigners from the game. He can’t tell me what to do. I play by my own rules.”

After his baseball career, Bunning returned to his native Kentucky and ascended through state politics until winning his Senate seat in 1998. Then-president Bill Clinton said of the maverick “he was so mean-spirited that he repulsed even his fellow know-nothings … I tried to work with him a couple of times and he just sent shivers up my spine. This guy is beyond the pale.”

Critics have described the senator’s impact in Congress as fortunately marginal. In 2006, Time magazine named him one of America’s “five worst senators,” saying he “shows little interest in policy unless it involves baseball” and “is bizarre.” He’s very interested in investigations into steroid use and wants to see all illegal immigrants deported. His most famous legislation is the Bunning-Bereuter-Blumenauer Flood Insurance Reform Act, which included a little-noticed rider calling on the Phillies to “go all the way this year.”

During his 2004 reelection campaign, Bunning said his opponent, an Italian-American physician, “looks like one of Saddam Hussein’s sons.” Bunning used a teleprompter during a televised debate, which he had declined to attend in person and instead appeared via satellite. He said his opponent’s supporters had attacked his wife, and called the Democrat “limp-wristed.”

When his mental health was widely questioned during the campaign, Bunning told reporters “Let me explain something: I don’t watch the news and I don’t read the paper.”

After winning reelection  — because, after all, this is Kentucky we’re talking about — Bunning continued his peculiar ways. He didn’t bother to show up for the start of the January 2009 Congressional session because he had “a family commitment to do certain things, and I’m doing them.” He predicted Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg would be dead from pancreatic cancer in less than a year, then misspelled her name in a press release apologizing for the remarks. He missed even more Senate votes during the health care debate last December than 92-year-old, wheelchair-bound Robert Byrd.

Bunning has announced that he will not run for reelection in 2010 because fellow Kentuckian McConnell is “a control freak” and because virtually no one was contributing to his campaign committee.

After retirement from Congress, Bunning is expected to work with his non-profit Jim Bunning Foundation, which gives less than 25% of its proceeds to charity while paying Bunning a $180,000 salary for working an hour a week. However, he is credited with generating over $61,000 for the charity by attending baseball shows around the country and selling his autograph.

Most of the signed baseballs were part of the collection Bunning has amassed when neighborhood kids hit foul balls from a neighboring park into his yard.

“It’s mine now,” Bunning reportedly told 11-year-old Jon Moore after snatching his line drive on a single hop. “What are you gonna do? Cry about it? Let’s see the little baby cry.”

Website Review: RightWingNews.com

As one who harbored dreams of stardom on the web, it was quite discouraging the other day to come across an example of the limited heights that were available to me. I stumbled upon the work of one John Hawkins, publisher of the conservative RightWingNews.com and self-described pioneer of blogging.  

Hawkins is a schlubby-looking fellow, resembling the late comedic actor John Candy (it’s hard to be schlubbier than someone who’s been dead in the ground for 16 years, but Hawkins manages). He claims to be “one of just a handful of professional bloggers” who’s been in the game since 2005, aggregating the lunatic rants of writers like “McQ From QandO” and “Sister Toldjah.”  

John is the one on the right

His website is such a busy affair that it requires two slogans — “Kneecapping Barack Obama at Every Opportunity” and “Your Ad Here for Only $75 a Month.” In 2006, he led a group of bloggers who raised almost $300,000 for conservative candidates and is currently on the board of another group that’s come up with twice that amount. He says you may remember him as a consultant for the Duncan Hunter presidential campaign, though frankly I’d barely even remember Duncan himself if it weren’t for his cake mixes.

Hawkins runs a tight ship at his blog, forbidding commenters from calling anyone “towelhead,” “raghead” or “wetback,” and rigidly policing his rules against posting off-topic, spamming or challenging anyone to a fight. Such a high-minded business plan has allowed him to ask $2,000 plus travel expenses for speaking engagements. (I personally ask $8 million for each of mine, but that doesn’t mean I get it.) His busy schedule doesn’t allow him to respond to the 1,000-plus emails he gets every week and you can send him your (doubtless) self-published book if you want but it’ll take him two weeks to read it and he’s currently backed up, probably from eating all that cake.  

“Who is really behind RightWingNews?” is a question he’s frequently asked. He answers: “The truth is that I’m just an independent operator running a blog. I don’t take marching orders from anyone, there aren’t any think tanks involved, and I don’t have any big donors giving me cash.” Then he adds the dream that we both share: “Do keep in mind that I wouldn’t mind having a large cash infusion from a donor.”  

If a success story like John’s hasn’t yet resulted in untold riches, at least it allowed him to emerge from his mother’s basement recently for the star-studded three-day FascistFest that was the 2010 Conservative Political Action Conference convention. CPAC’s annual meeting in Washington last month was in the news for about 30 minutes when Glenn Beck delivered a keynote address that called Republicans “clowns” because that weren’t reactionary enough, and then a majority of attendees endorsed Ron Paul for president while a nearby majority booed the choice, and both forgot that there isn’t an election for three more years.  

John chronicles his personal experiences at the convention in a piece that gives a great deal of insight into what life is like in the stratosphere of the blogosphere.  

He started his quest wondering about the weird things his car was doing. Every week or two, the beater takes four or five tries to get cranked and occasionally cuts off while he’s doing 70. “It was probably either the fuel pump, the fuel line, a sensor or the ignition, but [the mechanic] couldn’t replicate the problem. Isn’t that just the sort of issue you want to have when you’re about to go eight hours each way on a trip?” I can’t imagine Rush Limbaugh or Sean Hannity letting car problems get in their way of attending, but such is the life of a Prince of the Internet.  

Once Hawkins does arrive, he recounts more issues that try to interfere with his ability to hate liberals in a supportive setting of like-minded fanatics. “I spent a good 20 minutes screwing up the color combinations on my suits,” he writes. Then, once he does manage to dress himself like a big boy, he gets lost walking from the hotel to the convention center. “Unfortunately, I got confused, and a 15-minute walk took more than 45 minutes.” Then he finds himself in a really long line to get blogger credentials, where he runs into a man he’s been bashing for months on the issue of something called the North American Union Conspiracy.  

At least he’s now in the vicinity of where he intended to be, and he’s starting to meet up with friends and associates. There’s Kristina “who is an absolute sweetheart” and she’s walking around with the “bane of Planned Parenthood, anti-abortion activist” Lila. He finds his way into the hall and up to Blogger’s Row, a large room situated over the main conference venue. Apparently, the conservatives love the bloggers.  

“Twice, I got into places that other people couldn’t go because I was a blogger,” he gushes. “I could have walked up to the podium and touched it while speakers were talking because I had a blogger pass. I flash my pass. ‘Oh, you’re a blogger! Go right ahead!’”  

The highlight of Day One comes a little later when Dick Cheney makes a surprise visit, and the crowd “absolutely ERUPTED” when he says “I think Barack Obama is a one-term President.” (I’m surprised they’re willing to give him that long).  

Later, the fun really gets going when the first annual Blogbash, a “pretty serious shindig,” starts hopping at a nearby hotel with “some great eats including cake.” The appropriately named former congressman Dick Armey shows up to give John’s friend Ed a blogger award. Fox commentator Michelle Malkin was also on hand, “especially cool for the bloggers, and not just because Michelle is the biggest sweetheart you’re ever going to meet.” Michelle joined fellow zealots Tabitha, Kathleen and E.M. to pose for pictures and show off their boots, pointed just enough to give the ladies life-long podiatry problems but not before they get to kick some progressive butt.  

These boots are made for kicking

On Day Two, John has a seminar on “Jihad: What They Aren’t Telling You” high on his list of priorities. Unfortunately, the event is so popular he’d have to stand in the back, which is no way to treat a professional blogger, so he skips out. By now, Blogger’s Row is again becoming the place to be so he’s back at his computer and looking up occasionally to schmooze with Liz and Bettina and Jenny and Ashley. Then he starts having trouble with his wireless connection and has to move down to the XPAC (Xtreme Politically Active Conservatives) lounge, where actor Stephen Baldwin has installed some comfortable couches and free video games. “It cost $15 to use for the conference, unless you were a blogger,” John writes. “We got in free.”  

By the afternoon, John is preparing for two interviews he’s been commissioned to do for an outfit called PJTV. More comfortable talking to his subjects on the phone than in person, John is nervous about how he’ll do with the two big, live fish he’s landed — Minnesota Gov. Tim Pawlenty and Ann Coulter. “You’d think it would be simple … but I don’t normally think about moving the microphone around,” he writes. He feels his Pawlenty session is “a little sloppy looking and, in case you were wondering, the governor is running from his old pro-cap-and-trade position at full speed.”  

The Coulter talk goes a little more smoothly, since she’s “an extraordinarily nice person and it’s not just me saying that. I’ve heard at least two people talk about how friendly she was.” There’s a bit of a stumble when his John Edwards question goes awry, and he follows up asking Coulter why she hasn’t gotten into a major controversy lately. “Have you gone soft on liberals?” he asks. “I don’t want to give away the response, but let’s just say the word ‘faggot’ was used three times. (Fun fact: I’m estimating here, but Ann must be 6-2 in heels).”  

Ann's blond head nuzzles Michael Steele's bald head

By the third and final day, things are starting to wind down. Once again, most of the action is on Blogger’s Row, where one of his fellow writers is wearing slippers. Melissa and Abby and Adrienne and Brooklyn rag on the New York Times for a while, and former Sen. Rick Santorum stops by to say he endorsed fellow Pennsylvanian Arlen Specter against the advice of his wife. John wanders over to the only booth in the hall still up and running, housing members of the John Birch Society. “I flat out asked [them] what sort of conspiracy theories they buy into. He said that the Council on Foreign Relations is engaged in some sort of secret, bipartisan effort to build one world government,” John writes. “Groups like [this] shouldn’t be allowed to be a sponsor. However, I suspect the kookier fringe brings in so much money that they can’t bear to give it up.”  

The last big story out of the convention is the Ron Paul straw poll victory. “I think I was the only person in the crowd who loudly yelled ‘Mitt sucks’,” John writes of second-place finisher Mitt Romney, who he says “has no ideological core.” Sarah Palin came in third, largely because she didn’t show up, which Hawkins calls “dumb, dumb, dumb” (though I’m sure Sarah’s used to hearing that one).  

After the final speech, John and 15 of his friends meet in the hotel lobby and head to a Lebanese restaurant “so disorganized that it was like we were actually in Lebanon.” It was a good group: Molly and Steve and Aaron and the obviously uncomfortable Ali Akbar.  

Ali looking a little nervous

Wrapping up, John notes that he did make it back home alive despite the car problems, “although I left an overhead light on and the battery was dead as a doornail when I tried to leave the hotel. The car also cut off once while I was doing 70 going down the road … you don’t care that much, do you?”  

No, we do care very much about you, John. But we care even more that your blog is so successful, and that VIPs from both the right and the far right vaguely recognize your name, and that you and your netbook will soon be getting this great country turned around and back on the right track and headed in the right direction. 

Assuming its battery doesn’t die and that fuel line issue gets cleared up.

Revisited: 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.

I can’t believe it’s Monday again

Tried to type “Olive Garden” in a cell phone text message the other day. The auto-complete feature wanted to change it to “Oligarch Garbage.” Either way, I think the recipient of my message would’ve known which restaurant I was talking about.  

+++  

I’ve written before about the fundamentalist aunt who didn’t bother to get the oil changed in her car because she felt the Rapture was at hand. I’m developing a similarly apocalyptic view with regard to my diet.  

It now seems likely that between global warming, terrorism, a devastated economy, earthquakes, rogue asteroids, and the rise of teen sensation Justin Bieber, the end of the world is truly around the corner. If such is the case, what is really the point in eating sensibly? Are clogged arteries or dangerously high blood sugar ever going to be a match for a fiery holocaust?  

I suppose I could wait until the End Times are actually upon us to begin to gorge, though I can’t imagine the new Triple Chocolate Muffin at Dunkin Donuts will taste quite the same with a bloodstream full of adrenalin.  

+++  

Is sympathy and caring that’s planned ahead any less sincere?  

I ask this question as I help my son through his current illness. When I go to bed earlier than he does, I’ll awake during the night and want to know how he’s feeling. I’ll typically do this by sending a text message from my room to his, so neither of us are stirred too much that we can’t return quickly to sleep. I’ll ask “doin ok?” and he’ll answer “yep” and we can both resume our rest reassured.  

I’ve learned that I can also pre-load “quick note” messages in advance into the memory of the phone, then call them up and send them with even better chance of getting back to sleep quickly. If I keep asking “doin ok?” every night, it’ll be obvious that his dad has essentially turned into a robo-caller, and he’ll next have to listen to me make him an unbelievable credit card offer. So I can mix it up a little: “feelin ok?”, “r u alright?”, “r u ok?” Then I only have to push a single button to make my concern known, instead of several.  

No, that just doesn’t seem right. Not only is the programmed nature of the concern ring phony, but the truncated spellings add to the air of insincerity.  

I think I’ve got a suitable compromise. Since there’s a hefty 140-character limit to these messages, I can type out a lengthier inquiry in advance, which will adequately simulate the nearby presence of a caring parent.  

+++  

Not known for its literacy or for its appreciation of sobriety, my home state of South Carolina has come up with an innovative way to direct poorly schooled drunks to the nearest liquor store. Giant red dots are painted on the exterior of the building.

You don’t need to read, and you don’t have to be sober enough to have retained most of your sight, in order to stumble down the street to find your favorite hootch. Even a thick bank of fog will be no obstacle to the poor alcoholic in search of a snoot-full. Just focus on the bright red dot and soon you’ll be swimming in sauce.

And for those who want it, there’s even an opportunity to improve yourself and your reading skills in the bargain. In addition to the dots, these stores display a giant “ABC” sign, originally to further identify the store as an outlet of the Alcohol Beverage Control board, but also to allow the semi-literate to practice their mastery of the alphabet.

And you wonder why we keep electing such outstanding public officials like Gov. Mark Sanford…

Just follow the dots...

+++  

When I paid cash for my breakfast at IHOP on Saturday morning, the cashier handed over my change but fumbled a coin down the side of her podium. It was obvious it would be difficult to retrieve. She gave me an exasperated look as she contemplated how much of a cheapskate I would be.  

“Oh, it’s probably just a penny,” I speculated. “Don’t worry about it.”  

“No,” she said, “I think it might’ve been a dime.”  

Now what am I supposed to say? If my losses are ten times what I thought they’d be, is that acceptable, considering that we’re still talking about a truly negligible amount in today’s inflated economy? Can we laugh off a dime even though I’d make her get down on her hands and knees for a quarter, and crawl through a sewer if she ever dropped my dollar there?  

“That’s okay, too,” I finally said, after what I’m sure was too much of a pause. “The cleaning crew tonight can consider it to be my tip.”  

I could tell she didn’t care for that response, but I figure I bought the right to be a jerk.  

+++  

News reports out of the Czech Republic told of a puppy born on the shore of a polluted river that had three heads. I think two heads make a touching political statement about the rape of our environment. Three heads, however, is just showing off.  

+++  

An astute reader pointed out last week that I had two consecutive posts where I used the word “vagina.” I’d like to apologize. At least for one of the vaginas.  

Regular followers of this blog will note that I refrain from trafficking in vulgarities. They present the opportunity for a cheap, easy laugh and I’d rather not be funny at all (mission often accomplished) than be dropping f-bombs left and right. I felt at the time that each reference was appropriate in its respective context: in one case, the word was used as an example of a seven-letter “bingo” in Scrabble, and in the other it was part of a joke about a game show in which celebrities decide the route through which a child is to be born.  

I believe now that there are other seven-letter words I could’ve used (“pointed,” “restrain,” “pollute,” etc.) to make the point about Scrabble. There are, however, no other birth canals available, and I stand by my use of the word in that reference.   

+++  

In my opinion, having a grown woman say “I’m going to the potty” does little or nothing to lessen the horrifyingly disgusting nature of the act she’s about to perform.

Revisited: 25 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.

Fake News: Democrats lose again

BAGHDAD (Mar. 7) — Democrats again faced widespread rejection at the ballot box over the weekend, as President Obama’s party failed to win a single seat in nationwide elections to Iraq’s parliament.

“I mean, c’mon,” said Democratic National Chairman Tim Kaine. “The president’s an Arab; the Iraqis are Arabs. What more do they want?”

It was the fourth set of mid-term results to go the wrong way for the majority party since dissatisfaction with Obama’s policies began to increase last summer. But earlier setbacks in Virginia, New Jersey and Massachusetts could be viewed as isolated events reflecting largely local issues. Results in Iraq, on the other hand, comprised a widespread rejection of the centrist agenda being pushed by the president.

In the liberal northeast of Iraq, where Democrats were given the best chance of holding onto legislative seats, several races were considered too close to call. Fox News is reporting however that exit polls show a majority of voters blew themselves up outside polling stations, indicating a preference for the home-grown candidates.

“We never should’ve run that Martha al-Coakley,” said one Democratic pollster. “Even with all the academics and so-called intelligentsia in this part of the country, you’d have to think putting a woman in the race in such a male-dominated culture was a bad idea. She couldn’t even spell ‘Iraq’ in her campaign literature. She spelled it ‘Irak’.”

Al-Coakley was beaten by an opponent who campaigned throughout the region in his pick-up truck on a theme of returning the parliamentary seat to “the people.”

“He had truck!” said voter Ahmin Malaka. “Not many people around here have truck. He let me ride in back. I vote for this man.”

In the conservative south and west of the nation, Democrats were being defeated by as much as a two-to-one margin. Most of the winning candidates were members of the largest opposition group, the Republicans Guard. There was also strong support for the Gulf Opposition Party (GOP), as well as a significant groundswell for the country’s growing “tea party movement.”

In the evening, most Iraqi families gather together for evening tea. No matter how busy the day, everyone sits in the living room waiting for tea. Iraqi tea isn’t simply a matter of tea cups and teabags. People drink tea with breakfast, they drink tea at midday, they drink tea in the evening. The color of the tea has to be just right — clear, yet strong — preferably a deep reddish-brown color. Also, if you don’t like their tea, they will kill you and your family.

International observers said the election appeared to be fair, with no one individual being able to vote more than ten times, since they had to dip their fingers in ink for each time they voted. Many voted only six or seven times, since that’s all the digits they had left after years of warfare throughout the region. One armless man had his head covered in purple dye, a testament to the vibrancy of this young democracy.

Traditional sectarian partitioning of the electorate seemed to be less of a factor in this election than in the last nationwide race in 2005. Kurds from the north, Shiite factions from the provinces around Baghdad, and the Sunni minorities all agreed that if Democrats couldn’t get their reforms through Congress, there was little chance they’d succeed in an environment like the Middle East, where tolerance and reason took a hike years ago.

“Their issues just didn’t resonate with us,” said political science professor Ammar al-Hakim of Fallujah State University (FSU). “What do we care about healthcare reform? In our society, injured or diseased body parts are simply removed until there’s not enough of the person left to complain about the high cost of treatment. We just want jobs. And more explosives — don’t forget the explosives.”

A truly taxing screenplay

While excavating the paperwork for preparation of my 2009 taxes, I came across last year’s filing. Those who were following this blog at the time may remember that I took advantage of an obscure provision which allowed me to forsake conventional methods in order to file my return in free verse. http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/04/15/o-america-i-file-now-my-taxes/

This year, however, I’ve been inspired by Sunday night’s Oscar ceremonies, and choose to present my information — not in the hyper-realistic style of stark numbers penciled into even starker boxes — but instead as a screenplay. Perhaps next year at this time, it will be I who stands in Hollywood’s Kodak Theater, tears streaming down my face and onto my classic black Elie Saab couture gown, thanking the Academy for honoring my adaptation of yesterday’s visit to my accountant.

The scene opens at the small Fort Mill accounting firm of McAdams and Dade, CPA. Davis sits in a well-appointed waiting area, pretending to read The Wall Street Journal so the receptionist will be impressed. A door opens and Ken enters, hand extended in greeting.

Ken: Davis! Good to see you again. Come on back. How you liking this gorgeous weather?

Davis: What would be the answer that gets me the maximum refund?

Ken (slightly perplexed): Ha-ha. They haven’t figured out yet how to tax a beautiful early spring day.

Davis (looking directly into the camera, in a menacing tone): Oh, they will. They will.

Cut to Ken’s office, large windows on two walls and an expansive oak desk. A train whistle blows mournfully in the distance.

Ken: That’s quite a shoebox you’ve got there. Careful you don’t drop anything.

Davis: Yes … quite a shoebox. At least it looks like a shoebox, but you never really know, do you? It could be an explosive device. An IED, I believe you call it. Maybe you should get out your bomb disposal suit.

Ken: Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Let’s take a look and see what kind of year you had.

Davis: Not too bad, I guess. Still have a job but not doing as much business travel, unfortunately. I collect röentgens … you know, units of radiation from the X-ray machines in security. When I get one million of them, I get a free case of cancer, and I get to sit next to the pilot.

Ken: That would be nice, I suppose. Were there any major changes in your income or family situation in 2009?

Davis: Well, I did adopt a hulking 6-foot-5, 320-pound offensive lineman. So I guess that gives me an additional dependent.

Ken: You adopted a lineman? Why didn’t you go for a skill position player?

Davis: You’re not prejudiced, are you? You know, it’s the guards and tackles that establish control of the line of scrimmage, which lets your running game take off, which lets your quarterback look like the star.

Ken: No, no, that’s very admirable. Yes, that should have a good impact on your refund too.

Davis: Are there any special tax credits for killing Nazis? I did a lot of that last year, too. Mostly in the fourth quarter, though. That won’t look suspicious to the IRS, will it?

Ken: You did save your receipts?

Davis: Sure did. (Again, looking directly into the camera). I sure did.

Ken: I think I might be able to come up with something there. Did you happen go into the future, by any chance? Maybe help invade a distant planet to steal their natural resources? Because there’s a special one-time energy tax credit Congress passed …

Davis: If I said I did, you’d have to believe me, right?

Ken: Let me check this new edition of the tax code I just received.

The accountant rises slowly from his desk. A gentle fog rolls in, and a slight rain begins to fall. Somewhere, a robin dies.

Davis: I might have some stuff that counts as charitable contributions too. I took an abused inner-city teenage girl on a balloon trip to South America.

Ken: What was the point of that?

Davis: I did it because it seemed like the right thing to do. Does everything have to have a price tag in your perfect little world of accountancy? Can’t we simply help our fellow man because it feels right?

Ken: No, I’m pretty sure you can’t.

Davis: Good God!

Davis pulls a can of cat food from his briefcase, and offers it to Ken.

Davis: As you can see from my income, I don’t have enough cash to pay you for this consultation. But you will accept cat food, right? It’s a special veterinary diet designed to reduce urinary tract infections.

Ken: I have been having a little trouble (he clears his throat), um, down there.

Davis: Here, help yourself.

Ken leaps up onto his desk and begins purring contentedly. After finishing the cat food, he licks his tiny hands clean.

Ken: One last question, I guess. Did you take any distributions from any IRAs or 401(k) accounts this year?

Davis: Who told you about that?! How do you know so much about me? Have your spies been working overtime?

Ken: You would’ve received a statement from your financial institution if you did.

Davis: Oh, yeah. I’ve got that right here. That’s the Schedule 3(b), right?

Ken: That’s it. (Ken examines the document, stroking his long chin, his eyes flashing with anger). Yeah, I think I can work with this. Since you had a decrease in your W-2 earnings, I think we can amortize or depreciate or do one of those financial things, and get you a tidy little refund.

Davis: So, we’re done then?

Ken: Pretty much. Just remember to email that home equity loan interest rate and the exact date your rental property was occupied by your new tenant, and you’ll be good to go.

Davis: Great. Oh, it’s such a relief to get this off of my plate and onto yours. I really appreciate your time … I know how busy you must be at this time of year.

Ken: Glad to help. Yeah, we’ve been pretty busy but it’ll be all over soon.

The two men rise and begin to shake hands. Suddenly, there’s a deep rumble in the room, and out the window, you can see a huge extraterrestrial insect, a “prawn,” descending from its spaceship.

Ken: Arrgghhh!

Davis: Well, there goes my refund.

The end.

Fake News: Starbucks lands terror trial

WASHINGTON (March 10) — Department of Justice officials gave in to pressure yesterday against holding the 9/11 terror trials in New York, and decided instead to stage civilian prosecutions at a Starbucks in Oshkosh, Wisconsin.

Khalid Sheik Mohammad, generally regarded as the mastermind of the 2001 attacks, and several other Guantanamo detainees will be brought to the U.S. to face numerous federal charges at the recently built coffeehouse about 80 miles north of Milwaukee.

“Oh, I’m sure we can handle it. I’m sure we can handle it,” said assistant manager Kristen Bowers. “We have a great crew here and we’re very, very energized about this. We’ll just move things around a little and there will be plenty of room, plenty of room.”

Local residents of this small town had mixed feelings about security concerns that al-Qaida would try to disrupt the trial with new attacks, though most were confident the staff could handle it.

“They let the workers have all the free coffee they want while they’re working, so I think the force of those vibrations and tremors will be enough to deter an attack,” said Shirley Eggers, a cashier at the nearby Culver’s restaurant. “You just walk in the door there and you can sense the high level of alert.”

Bowers said only a few minor changes would have to be made to turn the 1,400-square-foot shop into a courtroom that could accommodate a judge, jury, witnesses, the press, victims’ families and interested members of the public.

“We’ll just shift that instant coffee promotion into the back room, put a gavel on the checkerboard table, and slide the big comfy chair over there for the judge to use,” Bowers said. “The jury can sit on the couch, the families can have the chairs and reporters can stand against the wall. They won’t last longer than two hours at a stretch anyway, since that’s the limit we have on wireless usage.”

“And if the prosecution needs it for cross-examination, we can even convert the coffee-makers into boiling-hot water-boarding devices,” Bowers added.

Local franchise owner Frank Weiskopf also spoke up in favor of the plan, and guaranteed that the defendants would receive a fair trial.

“Between being Wisconsin natives and working at Starbucks, that staff is about is liberal as you can get,” Weiskopf said. “We’ll have those suspects exonerated, freed, and working in the local cheese museum before you can say ‘Green Bay Packers.’ Jihadists do like cheese, don’t they?”

Weiskopf noted that recently revised company rules which allow licensed gun owners to carry weapons into the chain’s cafes will also prevent any attack by sympathizers. In addition, an enforced lunch at the Culver’s to include butter burgers, fried curds and frozen custard will render the defendants mute and nearly motionless for much of the afternoon sessions.

“Plus, I’m sure we have some plastic knives around here somewhere,” said Bowers. “Those things have really nasty serrated edges. Or we could sharpen the ends of the wooden coffee stirrers to make cute little spears. Oh, I have so many ideas for this — it’s so exciting.”

Weiskopf acknowledged that with the eyes of the Arab world on Oshkosh, attempts at disruptions were likely, and that he would modify the drive-thru operation to accommodate the likely attackers.

“They can just roll up to the speakerbox, state the type of assault they have in mind, and we’ll be ready for them when they get to the window,” he said. “We’re very friendly here in Wisconsin, and will do everything in our power to make these visitors comfortable.”

The tire was almost as flat as the excuses

When I backed out of the parking space, I could tell there was something wrong with the car. More than the fact that it was ten years old and had nearly 150,000 miles on it. Japanese cars have been in the news lately for unintended acceleration, but mine seemed to have an entirely too purposeful sluggishness as I edged it into reverse.

Slowly moving through the parking lot, the clump-clump-clump told me that I had a flat tire. So did the guy waiting for my parking space, who began pointing his finger at my right front wheel and mouthing  through his windshield that either I had a ”flat tire” or a “cat fire”. That wasn’t the kind of help I was going to need.

I’ve changed a number (three) of flat tires in my time and always managed to get it done correctly if not promptly. Like everything else about cars, it seems like it used to be a lot simpler than it’s now become. There was a standard jack, a bumper, a full-size spare and only minimal amounts of strength required to loosen the lugnuts. You rolled up your sleeves, applied yourself while also trying to avoid being sideswiped by passing traffic, and usually survived long enough to end up with a new tire on your car.

Or maybe I’m the one who’s become simpler. Modern design is supposed to make equipment and processes progressively easier, yet with automobiles, everything instead has become harder. Nowadays, you practically have to return the vehicle to the dealer and get professional assistance to open your glove compartment and pull out an aspirin. The jack no longer looks like a jack but instead like a small tool you might’ve used in high school geometry class to measure angles. The handle has evolved from a crowbar to something akin to a bendy straw. The tire looks like it would fit better on Barbie’s Mini B pink Corvette convertible.

Regardless, I had to figure out pretty quickly how I was going to avoid being stranded all night in front of a GameStop video game store. It was already getting pretty dark, and my understanding was that around 9 o’clock there would be a hoard of tattooed, studded skateboarders descending on the area, all too eager to use my stooped back as a ramp.

I found another parking place with no surrounding cars and limped into it. I stepped out to survey the damage and contemplate what I was going to do. I’m proud to say that an extra $35 paid once a year has garnered me status as a premium AAA card holder, so one serious option was going to be whipping out my cell and calling for free roadside assistance, as well as financial planning, a zero-percent-interest credit card and a lovely faux-leather mileage journal for only $5.99 shipping if I couldn’t resist the upsell I was going to receive. Or I could fumble around in the dusk only to end up with a pesky crush injury.

The last time I used the service was about eight years ago, and I remember to this day being belittled by the tow truck driver who responded to the call. In his opinion, if it was above me to be down in the gravel doing physical labor, then I didn’t qualify for the title of Southern Man. And I would agree, I don’t qualify. I’m not “ept,” as my wife puts it. Instead, I am inept in the use of most major tools, and shouldn’t be counted on for anything more handy than buttoning my own shirt. Still, I didn’t think it was the proper place of a hired servant to be pointing this out to me.

I called the AAA number and navigated through a number of voice mail options to finally get the call center worker who would record my request and dispatch the help I needed. She paraded me through a litany of questions, some of which actually pertained to the situation I found myself in. I can see why she’d need to know my member number, the type of service I needed and my physical location on the planet, although what my middle initial had to do with a flat tire still escapes me.

A long pause followed each of my responses to her questions. She sounded like she was probably new to the job and still following a checklist on how to key my answers into the various fields she found on her computer screen. After about ten minutes of this, she seemed to be wrapping up the interview with a request for the phone number I could be reach at.

“Three-six-seven, six-eight-two-eight,” I enunciated carefully.

“Eight-eight-two-eight,” she confirmed.

“No, six-eight-two-eight,” I said.

“Six-six-two-eight,” she responded.

“No, three-six-seven, six-eight-two-eight,” I answered slowly. “Or maybe the tow truck driver could just yell my middle initial out the window and I could send up a flare in response,” I thought of adding.

She read back all the information she had recorded about me to confirm my request, then told me it would be about sixty minutes before help would arrive.

“Yes, all that sounds right, but did you say sixty minutes?” I asked

“We try to tell you the maximum amount of time it will take,” she said. “It’s usually faster than that.”

I ended the call and turned to the back seat to get the crossword puzzle I was undoubtedly going to need to occupy myself. But it was only a few minutes later that the phone rang and “Gary” was reporting in that he was only five minutes away and would arrive soon to help me. I could watch for his yellow truck with the word “Interstate” written on the side.

Gary was the model of expertise after he backed into the space next to mine. It was reassuring to be in the presence to someone who had dedicated his life to helping his fellow man get out of ditches. He moaned good-naturedly that he’d just been nodding off to sleep when the emergency call came to him, as he’d been up since five that morning. I commiserated that I’d been up since four myself, and what fun it was to find myself going to bed in the evenings before my son did. He didn’t have any kids, and was barely able to find time for a girlfriend. Okay, enough chit-chat – let’s get this Honda back in working mode.

He wheeled a professional jack into position (I think they call it a “john”) and quickly hoisted my car off the ground. A compressed-air-powered drill made quick work of the bolts it would’ve taken me about a half hour to wrestle off. The flat was removed and the baby tire was put into its place. Four more whirrs of the drill and the wheel was secure. He checked the air pressure of the new tire and topped it off with yet another hose off the back of his truck. Now, came my part: signing a piece of paper, and explaining why I couldn’t change a tire by myself.

“Sorry to make you come out tonight, but I couldn’t find all my tools in the trunk,” I shrugged. “I was in a bit of a hurry and figured a pro could do it faster than I could. Plus, I hurt my back a few days ago and was afraid to strain it too much.”

I thought of adding that I was allergic to rubber, my left hand was missing a pinky, I was legally blind, and that I was expecting a call from Dale Earnhardt Jr. looking for advice on how to break out of his NASCAR racing slump, so I had to remain upright. But then I remembered what I heard Barbara Walters saying on “The View” just that morning: “Only give one good excuse. If you give more than one, it sounds more like you’re lying.”

As Gary gathered up his equipment and I climbed into my finally-functioning car, I realized it had now become official: I was not a Real Man at all.

Revisited: 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.

Revisited: 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

Aren’t you glad you didn’t eat an orange?

The orange and I go way back. I grew up in Miami, so I have many fond memories of this refreshing fruit — walking past the bakery that made orange cakes, the smell of the groves as my family drove up the Florida Turnpike, the carefully sectioned after-school snack prepared by my mother from the tree in our own backyard. Then there were all those barefoot summers when my skin turned a bright precancerous orange.  

Citrus was our tropical icon. It represented a primary reason my family and others had abandoned the north for a life among the fruits. It was the perfect symbol for being a Floridian, its thick, leathery skin so similar to those pioneers who cleared the swamps and built the railroad, those alligators that still thrived in the roadside canals, and that Gloria Estefan.  

Oranges were so cheap and plentiful in southern Florida that when they couldn’t be properly disassembled by a responsible adult, we kids would just cut a hole in the top, then suck out the juice and discard the rest. To this day, I drink OJ with my breakfast every morning without fail, except for the month I spent in India on business where they thought watermelon nectar was an adequate substitute. Silly Asians.  

The orange doesn’t give up its sweet sunny taste easily. I typically eat the flesh only when it’s been carefully extracted by a hired hand and put into a fruit salad. Some varieties have been bred to make it slightly easier to get inside, though that convenience is often traded for taste. Those bastards the tangerines come closest to attaining a proper balance, yet I feel like a traitor to my homeland to consort with such mutants.  

Recently at work, management has brought out various food pellets to encourage us to work longer and harder during our busy season without needing to leave the room for nourishment. (I half-expect a Porta-John to appear soon next to my cubicle, so other biological needs can also be taken care of with equal convenience). In addition to the candies, donuts and meth-infused lollipops, we’re also given fresh fruit to spur on our activity levels. Among these are several bags of oranges, so I thought I’d revisit my youth and try to eat one whole.  

The following photographs chronicle my attempt:  

The uncut orange stands proud and defiant. "Just try to get inside me," it seems to say.

Removing the skin by hand is awkward and, if you have any open paper cuts, extremely painful.

Attempts to peel with a knife quickly deteriorate into a stabbing (insert OJ joke here).

If you succeed at all using conventional methods, you're left with a tiny sphere of flesh and a lot of wasted orange juice.

GODDAM ORANGE! Running it over with a truck may prove to be the best option for reaching that sweet, tangy interior.

Finally, the interior is laid bare and I can pick the juicy morsels from among the gravel of the parking lot. Now all I have to deal with are the seeds, membranes reminiscent of discarded condoms, and stringy white hairs that serve as the fruit’s last defense. 

Orange, if you didn’t want to be eaten, why did you have to be so difficult to master?

Fake News: Recent earthquakes ARE related

LONDON (Mar. 15) — Fears that a rash of earthquakes around the world may signal an impending geological cataclysm were debunked by a British scientist yesterday. However, he made the startling announcement that there is a connection between the quakes that could be even more frightening.

The common cause of major seismic events in Haiti, Chile, Turkey and Japan: fat guys falling down.

“Improbable as it may seem, we now believe that temblors of this magnitude have their origins with morbidly obese men losing their balance and toppling to the ground,” said Robert Holdsworth, an expert in tectonics at Durham University. “We’ve analyzed all the data and the results are very clear. Earthquakes are being caused by fat guys falling down.”

Holdsworth said Sunday’s 6.6-magnitude quake near Tokyo occurred only hours after a championship sumo wrestling match during which competitors were repeatedly thrown to the mat. The resulting tremor confirmed a hypothesis that Holdsworth’s team was preparing for release to the public.

“It’s not some fundamental weakening of the earth’s crust like you might see in a disaster movie,” Holdsworth said. “Instead, it’s the far more widespread problem of overweight people rising from their specially reinforced beds only to stumble and fall. This could happen anywhere, even in areas previously thought to be free of seismic activity.”

Holdsworth said the falling fatties don’t directly cause the subsequent quake, but instead create a shock wave that destabilizes the earth’s plates, which absorb the blow for a few brief hours before causing a massive shift. It’s this delay that prevented a quicker connection being made between the massive shocks that have rocked the globe since January.

“The final confirmation came with a compilation of security videos from the sites of this year’s biggest quakes,” Holdsworth said. “In every case, we’ve found that the faults gave way not long after a camera somewhere nearby captured images of a fat guy falling down.”

The March 8 pre-dawn quake in eastern Turkey, which measured 6.0 on the Richter scale, came after the previous evening’s huge Thanksgiving dinner tipped several revelers over the 600-pound mark. With “turkey day” celebrated daily in this part of Asia Minor, it was only a matter of time before someone became drowsy from all the carbohydrates and fell over.

The monster 8.8-magnitude temblor that rocked Chile on Feb. 27 followed closely on the heels of an empanada-eating contest in Santiago where part of the stage collapsed under the weight of the contestants.

“I think they were also eating chili rellenos in a preliminary event,” Holdsworth said, “but that might be the other kind of chili and possibly unrelated.”

“However, it’s no coincidence that Turkey and Chile — two countries with the same name as foods — were hard-hit. Based on this, we advise an immediate evacuation of Samoa, because of the Girl Scout cookie connection,” he added.

The most devastating earthquake of all in 2010 was the January disaster in Haiti. This event initially threw investigators off the trail, since so many people in that poor Caribbean nation are undernourished.

“But we found a video of what may have been the only fat guy in the entire country and, sure enough, he fell down only 90 minutes before the 7.0-magnitude shock,” Holdsworth said.

The geologist admitted that while his study showed a terrifying trend, there is something positive that people can do to prevent future events, short of hunting down the overly plump and physically dismantling them.

“A carefully planned system of municipal trusses, hammocks and trampolines, scattered throughout an endangered city, could catch some of falling fat guys, absorbing just enough of the jolt to prevent a major quake,” Holdsworth said. “It would take a monumental effort, but it’s got to be easier than improving the balance of the lard-bottomed.”

When I at last rule Ireland …

Family legend has it that, if the monarchy is ever restored to Ireland, it is I who shall be king. I’m not sure how historically accurate that tale is, or what the likelihood is that such a regressive political system would ever be re-adopted or, if it did, where I’d go to fill out the application and take the pre-employment drug screening.

And who would crown me? The most prominent Irishman I can think of today is Bono, and I see him more as a usurper than a kingmaker. I imagine I’d have him and everyone else in U2 imprisoned. And not just because of that last album.

I bring this up today because of the St. Patrick’s holiday we’re celebrating, and because I want people to know what kind of a ruler I’d be. I’d be wise, kind and beneficent, since I read somewhere that that’s what all the best kings are. (I’m not even sure what “beneficent” is, but I think it has something to do with fiber). I’d be stern yet kindly, generous yet thrifty, regal but also a regular guy. (I already have “regal” on my resume, so no changes necessary there).

I’d sit around the castle all day working on my blog, through which my various decrees would be issued. Most of these imperial imperatives would be quite reasonable. Common sense would undergird my philosophy, and yet I’d reserve the right to keep the Irish people on their toes by crossing them up every now and then with the occasional bizarre request.

Here’s a first draft of some commands I’m already working on:

–Stop hitting your brother (or sister)
–Do not go gentle into that good night
–Have it your way
–Hand me that stapler
–Get a jump on your 2009 tax return by filing TODAY
–Eat more chikken
–All thee born of noble parentage, ye shall help me move into my new apartment this weekend
–No more monster trucks
–The new MSN is coming
–Look younger and slimmer in seconds
–Everybody, keep an eye out for my cell phone — I think I lost it
–You go, girl

Finally, while my rule may be enlightened by historic standards, I will be very strict about the necessity of wearing green to honor St. Patrick’s Day. Those who disobey will be pinched, then shot.

+++

And now, a gift unto my people. The following is a reprint of the biography of our hallowed Irish saint written for last year’s holiday.

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-pro 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 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). The snake 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 today’s holiday.

Fake News: Pilots re-exam results released

Last October, a pair of Northwest Airlines pilots overshot their destination, flying more than 100 miles past their intended target of Minneapolis. After having their licenses revoked by the FAA for operating a plane in an “extremely reckless” fashion, Capt. Tim Cheney and First Officer Richard Cole found themselves grounded.

Earlier this week, however, a final disposition of the case was made that will allow the two veteran pilots the chance to resume their careers as early as this summer. All they’ll have to do to become recertified as pilots is to go through a basic training program, including passing an exam on the operation of a commercial airliner.

Sources close to the FAA have obtained a copy of the multiple-choice exam as taken by Capt. Cheney, portions of which are printed below, complete with Cheney’s answers.

1. Hello? Hello? Is anybody there?
A. Nobody up here but us monkeys.
B. Sorry, we stepped out for a minute.
C. [no response]
D. All of the above √

2. So did you ever get your new flight schedules figured out?
A. No, too distracted by yammering flight controllers.
B. No, laptops crashed but fortunately plane didn’t.
C. No, computers are just too damn complicated. √
D. Yeah, turns out we’re grounded for a year.

3. Do you still claim you weren’t asleep at the wheel?
A. That is our official story.
B. We stand by our earlier testimony.
C. Our account of the events remains unchanged.
D. Zzzzzz. √

4. What would’ve happened if the flight attendant didn’t eventually bang on your door?
A. We would’ve caught our error and corrected it easily.
B. Our instruments would warn us if we ran low on fuel.
C. We’d be heroes for landing our plane safely on Lake Michigan. √
D. European vacation!

5. Do you feel like the flight was ever in danger?
A. We are professional pilots … so, yeah, maybe a little.
B. Only while we were in the air. √
C. And maybe while taking off.
D. We would’ve landed eventually, one way or the other.

6. Which button on your jetliner’s controls answers a radio call?
A. The one that says “eject”. √
B. The one that says “abort”.
C. The one that says “bring the pilots another round of drinks”.
D. This one here on my shirt.

7. What time is it right now?
A. 9:30 a.m.
B. 1:15 p.m. √
C. 4:45 p.m.
D. The year 2525

8. What does it mean when the ground sensor says “pull up … pull up”?
A. Make sure your belt is tight enough.
B. Check your socks.
C. Time for big-boy underpants. √
D. Check your laptop.

9. What will you do in the future to make sure this doesn’t ever happen again?
A. Pay closer attention to the equipment.
B. Land at a different airport than planned and pretend like nothing happened. √
C. I’d rather fly into a mountain than go through that media firestorm again.
D. Give up flying.

10. Did special protection by the pilots’ union get you more lenient treatment than you’d otherwise expect?
A. Yes.
B. Yes.
C. Hell yes. √
D. Damn right.

________________________________

That is the end of the exam. Put your pencil down and return test to examiner.

SPACE BELOW FOR OFFICE USE ONLY.

Cheney: I don’t understand this question. Is this an essay question? Something about “space below”? Are you asking how much space should be below an airplane? Well, generally, it depends on where you are in your flight plan, because as you’re taking off, this is a number that will gradually increase as your plane climbs higher into the air, then later on you tend to kind of level off and maintain a consistent altitude and then … hey — check out this new flight simulator game I got installed on my laptop!

Website Review: LawnMowing.com

Two events in the news are making for an interesting convergence. On Tuesday, we witnessed the twenty-fifth anniversary of the first dot-com, when a computer company called Symbolics became the initial corporate presence on the Internet to be represented by the now-ubiquitous postscript. Then tomorrow, it’s the first day of spring, a return to warm weather and all the outdoor labor that entails for those of us living in the American suburbs.

For me, the convergence also means that my yard guy now has a website.

Well, he’s not my yard guy yet, but he’s trying hard to be. In a decidedly old-media marketing move, Eddie blanketed my subdivision with flyers stuffed into mailboxes advertising his landscaping business. (About the only way he could go older media than that would be to stand at the exit from the neighborhood, shouting at cars and pounding on their windshields).

His introductory letter is printed on a nice glossy stock using surprisingly well-punctuated language, and it promotes an “attentive customer service and quality workmanship” that will make Cutting Edge Lawn and Landscaping an “excellent candidate for developing a business relationship with you and your family.” Yard guys have come a long way since the days they’d bang at your front door, offer their best toothless smile and ask “cut your grass?” (and the implied follow-up: “if not, can I invade your home and murder your family?”)

To honor Eddie’s initiative without actually contracting for his services, I decided I’d take a look at his internet presence with this week’s Website Review.

The awkwardly named mycuttingedgegrass.com is a fairly professional though simple domain. It exhibits a clean design pleasantly free of the mud and manure you might expect to find on such a site. The home page displays a pastoral photograph of four sprinklers spouting water onto a grassy expanse with a couple of tree trunks looming in the background. All very green, very healthy, very much unlike my tree-covered lot where the sun don’t shine enough for me to cultivate anything more verdant than moss and mold.

“Customer satisfaction is the #1 priority” at Cutting Edge, as we’re constantly reminded reading through the promotional copy. “We go the extra mile, one yard at a time.” We’re invited to look around the site, which won’t take long considering it’s only four pages, and “find us to be your one-stop shop for all your landscaping needs.”

Services include a number of dirt-related operations, as well as a few I wouldn’t expect from a guy with a trailer full of weed-whackers and edgers. I know what mowing, shrub care and gutter cleaning are, but I’m a little in the dark about subjects as esoteric as core aeration, overseeding, and mulch installation. The only core in my possession that I know of, aside this apple I just finished eating, is the one in the center of my body that my doctor says needs to be not too hot during my summertime jogs. If running me over with a device that fills my torso with tiny holes which allow cooling air into my trunk is what I need, I think I’d rather give up running. Overseeding I think I can handle quite well myself, as the unused bags of grass kernels in my shed will attest. As for the fertilization treatments, I think at age 57 my child-bearing years are over, but maybe I should double-check with my wife.

If you do become a client of Cutting Edge, you’re encouraged to tell your friends about your experience, because they have a “very exciting referral incentive program.” I would’ve guessed there some kind of discount involved if they get new customers through you, though I hardly consider this “exciting.” Perhaps Eddie has access to wood nymphs — that would definitely get my interest up.

If you want to contact Eddie for a free estimate, you can either give him a phone call or, for the more internet-savvy, you can enter your information into a long list of fields and press “send,” something that I, as a relative computer newbie, am reluctant to try.

In the “About Us” section, we learn that the proprietor takes great pride in the work that his company performs and, in case we forgot since reading the home page a few minutes ago, “the customer is of the utmost importance to me and I’m not satisfied unless my customer is satisfied.” Eddie has been in the lawn care business for ten years, and incorporates the knowledge and professionalism that he gained from his previous job of almost 15 years spent as a sales and customer service representative for a “large manufacturing incorporation.” I’m not exactly sure how customer service experience translates into yard work, though I’d imagine you should expect to be put on hold if you try to ask him any questions about the mulch.

There’s a “Special Offers” page that tells how new customers can get their first cut free when they sign on for a year-round full maintenance contract. You may also qualify for 10-percent off on a one-time mow, or discounted rates for a service called “pine needle installation.” My pines seem to do just fine growing their own, and I can’t see the necessity of sending poor Eddie 30 feet into the air to glue needles back onto branches that have shed them.

Finally, there’s a “Gallery” section that appears to still be under construction. During the 2010 season ahead, Cutting Edge will be posting pictures of some of their best work here. “We are very proud of our work and strive for nothing but perfection,” we’re reminded again, and are encouraged to check back later in the year for photographs of the most sparkling clean gutters you ever conjured in your wildest imagination.

For a website promoting a lawn-care business, I’d give mycuttingedgegrass.com pretty high marks. There’s no unnecessary virtual raking games or attempts to entertain the kids with interactive pruning of Mr. Bush, Ms. Shrub and all the little Hedges. There are no links to give Twitter updates (“Look — a bee!”), no Facebook status updates (“Just cut off my foot”) and no YouTube videos of Eddie gassing up his leaf blower. Such high-tech embellishments would merely distract from the basic work of tending God’s green earth.

So while this website might be cutting edge in name only, I’d say that’s good enough.

Revisited: 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

Revisited: A fairwell to winter

A rare March snowstorm marched across the South this time last year, 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.”

Monday thoughts (some in italic)

I can understand being too lazy to read a necessarily large and thorough health care reform bill, or to dim-witted to understand summaries of it. But for opponents of the effort to carry signs reading “NO to health care” — I hope their own personal physicians don’t take them literally.

+++

The sign at the Arby’s drive-thru reads “We gladly accept bills up to $20.” I believe they’ll also accept larger bills, but won’t be able to use quite as positive an adverb about it. My research reveals that they’ll reluctantly accept fifties, wistfully accept hundreds, skeptically accept two-hundred-dollar bills (good thing, since that denomination doesn’t exist), hypothetically accept $500 bills, impishly accept thousands and ironically accept the rare $5,000 bill. That’s what I like: a multinational corporation with attitude.

+++

“KSM” is both the federal government’s shorthand name for terrorist mastermind Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, and the name of a power pop all-girl teen rock group from Los Angeles. See if you can tell the difference between the Man …

and the Band…

Lead singer is Shelby Cobra (The Man or The Band?)

Principal architect of the 9/11 attacks (The Man or The Band?)

Waterboarded over 70 times (The Man or The Band?) Remember: answer what actually happened, not what should’ve happened.

Mentored by the Go-Gos (The Man or The Band?)

Opening act for American Idol winner David Archuletta (The Man or The Band?)

Involved in the Bali nightclub bombings (The Man or The Band?) Careful — could be a trick question.

Pleaded guilty to mass murder (The Man or The Band?)

Described by critics as “spunky” and leading examples of “girl-ska-punk”. (The Man or The Band?)

+++

I always feel that if I’d been just a little gentler flipping the on-switch that the light bulb on the lamp would not have burned out. Is it possible to feel too responsible for your actions in life?

+++

Fun phrases and their possible definitions from the world of corporate news releases:

“Expansion of our footprint” — We’re starting to put on a little weight.

“We leverage multi-shore outsourcing expertise” — We own see-saws and other playground equipment at beaches around the world.

“We employ a suite of internet-based capabilities” — We have a whole room-full of workers shopping on eBay.

“As an integrated provider of solutions, we drive innovation” — We use both African-American and Caucasian employees to blend dangerous chemicals. Many of them own hybrid cars.

“Customer-facing applications” — We’ve learned to look at our clients.

“A 24-7 360-degree resource” — The football game had to be called in the third quarter when it got too hot.

+++

I drove up to the ATM at my bank the other day and confronted two separate lines of cars — one row had three vehicles, the other had a single auto from which a man my age (late fifties) had stepped out. He was hunched over, peering into the machine, with a card in his hand and a quizzical look on his face.

My instincts told me to choose the longer line, since those people had remained in their cars and appeared ready to make smooth and quick transactions at their machine. But I thought, no, that’s being prejudicial toward my own kind, and I shouldn’t assume a lack of hair corresponds to a lack of ability to interact with modern technology.

I pulled into the line only to regret it immediately; a woman had now emerged from the passenger seat of the older man’s car and was also looking at the ATM. The older couple was apparently trying to figure out how to apply for a modified home equity loan using a secondary residence as collateral, and couldn’t tell which slot they were to yell their questions into. Meanwhile, the other line proceeded nicely.

The man soon returned to the driver’s seat while the woman began rifling through her purse. When the car’s brake lights came on, I had hope that he was going to drive off without her, allowing me to nudge forward — not actually striking her with my vehicle, but offering a helpful bit of direction on how she should get the hell out of the line. The man pulled about a foot forward, then again climbed out of the car. Apparently, they needed a little more elbow room to transact their business. The man removed his jacket.

He looked pretty handy and I half-expected him to pull out a tool kit to try and force access to his passbook account. Neither of them looked in my direction, which was a good thing, as this was about the time I started shaking my fist. I pulled into reverse, moved across to the now-vacant other lane, and quickly finished my withdrawal.

Stupid people like me!

+++

The Methodist church near my home advertised the topic of Sunday’s sermon on the sign out front: “Jesus and the Smiley Face.”

At first, I figured the message would be predictable: Jesus recognized that life was difficult, that it wasn’t always easy to do the right thing, that doing things which make you happy may not be in the interest of God’s greater glory. There was no place on Calvary’s Cross for a round yellow head grinning ear to ear.

But then, I realized how the Lord’s message is frequently a nuanced one, and there are many layers of meaning in various commandments. (For example, “love thy neighbor” means not only to care for their souls and their well-being, but also to loan them your leaf blower and occasionally engage in secret sex with their wife). Maybe this is in line with that gospel of prosperity and joy I’ve been hearing about. Maybe Jesus does want us to be happy, and display that glee through a big, sloppy smirk.

Not that I’m going to spend a Sunday in church to find out.

Fake News: Health-care reform brings a new era

With Sunday night’s passage by Congress of the most sweeping piece of  social legislation in decades, America awoke Monday morning to a new day. Health care reform had become the law of the land, and socialism had become our new way of life.

When the alarm went off at 6:30 a.m. in America’s house, the nation leaned over and mashed the snooze button.

“This new system is going to be great,” the people muttered as they rolled over and went back to sleep. “‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.’ My ability right now is zilch, so I’m going back to sleep. This socialism stuff is going to be so cool.”

The U.S. slumbered peacefully until almost 8 a.m., when the utopian ideal of people working together for the collective welfare of society suddenly morphed into an age of totalitarianism. The phone rang and America’s boss was on the other end, and he was mad.

“WHERE ARE YOU?” the overseer shouted threateningly. “You need to be in this office and you need to be here NOW!”

The nation hopped out of bed and gathered up its clothes. Well, it muttered to itself as the coffee brewed, you have to make compromises sometimes for the greater good. Life isn’t suddenly going to become some type of paradise.

When America arrived at work, it found that the office had been rearranged over the weekend. Gone was its modest but comfortable cubicle near the window. In its place was a so-called “open floor plan” where all the actuaries would be huddled together in one cramped corner. The totalitarian state unveiled only 45 minutes ago had now become full-blown Stalinism, with the workers confined to their gulag.

As the people settled into their daily routine, they momentarily forgot about the new and oppressive environment. Guard towers may have replaced water coolers, but there was still the matter of completing the PowerPoint presentation in time for that 10 a.m. meeting with the new client from Italy.

When America walked into the conference room, the client was already waiting, his face pinched, his arms crossed, his gaze aimed dismissively down his Roman nose. The age of fascism had arrived.

“You must make my deadline of April 3rd!” the client shouted. “All within this date, nothing outside this date, nothing against this date!”

After the meeting, the nation got a chance to catch up on a few e-mails and sneak a quick look at Facebook. Noon wasn’t far off by now, and America’s stomach started to grumble as it thought about what kind of lunch might be available under such a radically new system of government. It didn’t have to wonder long as its supervisor arrived and announced the whole department would be going out together.

“We’re going to that new Ethiopian restaurant across town,” he proclaimed. “And because it’s such a nice day, we’re going to walk.”

And so began the era of Maoism — a forced Long March that would end with a cultural revolution consisting of a washcloth-like sourdough flatbread and a berbere-flavored stew.

By the time the meal was finished and a dyspeptic nation limped back to the office, it was becoming increasingly clear that America had changed for the worse. As the actuaries entered the lobby of their office building, fellow workers from the finance department had gathered around the railing of the second floor, angling their arms skyward as they waved a greeting.

“Seig Heil!” they sang in unison, and the age of Nazism was upon the land.

Back at its desk, the afternoon unfolded uneventfully for America. There was time to work on its performance review and several routine phone calls to answer before the 3 o’clock seminar being staged by the quality improvement consultant.

Walking into the small training room, the nation and its co-workers were pleased to find a large-screen TV monitor at the front of the room. The consultant was wearing funny horn-rimmed glasses and a fake moustache, and written on the whiteboard was the phrase “Laughter = Creativity”. As the group settled into their chairs, the screen flickered to life and the Marx Brothers’ classic film “A Night at the Opera” began.

Just as opponents of health care reform had warned, America was now living under a Marxist regime.

The movie took up the rest of the afternoon and was followed by a brief discussion session of how it would impact the way new ideas could bubble up through the corporation, and how improved quality didn’t have to be expensive.

The consultant summed up the afternoon’s activities: “The workers of this seminar have nothing to lose but their chains,” he said. “Workers of the sixth floor, unite! Unite to come up with a way to cut costs in each of your departments by 10%.”

It was now close to 6 p.m. and a tired nation headed home from work. America was hungry again, but didn’t want to spend a lot of time and money on dinner, so it stopped at Burger King.

The cycle of tyranny was now complete — the United States had been transformed from the most vibrant democracy in the history of the world into an icon of monarchism.

On top of everything else, the Whopper Junior must have turned because the nation got a really bad stomach ache. But at least it had universal health care and could afford to get it taken care of.

I’m “going” — to get rich

At a time when many people are happy to have one job, I have two. My primary career is a typical 9-to-5 office job, consisting mostly of financial document analysis with a little online Scrabble and tardiness thrown in for laughs. My newer vocation began about two years ago, when boredom with the daily grind and a desire for a little extra cash spurred me to become a large lab animal.  

A local medical research outfit was looking for volunteers in a study it was doing. There was a vaccine already in widespread use among patients age 60 and older, and research was being done to see if it would be equally effective for a slightly younger population. At age 55, I was intrigued by the opportunity to be considered “slightly younger” at anything, and by the token payment that would be made to participants. I had to show up at their office in south Charlotte for a brief exam and interview, receive a next-to-painless injection, and for my effort I’d be compensated $120, and an additional $10 a month for answering a series of follow-up questions on the phone.  

I forget now what the disease was that I’d be vaccinated against. I think it was “Shingles” or “Pringles” or something like that. If I received the real medicine, which went to only half the participants in the double-blind study, I’d likely avoid developing either a painful skin rash, or breath that reaked of “pizzalicious” flavor and fingers stained with grease.  

During that first interview, I was careful to ask several probing questions, including whether I’d be probed, and whether ”double-blind” meant that I’d be losing sight in both eyes (I wouldn’t, which was good; that’d be worth way more than $180). In return, they quizzed me about my health history, whether I’d ever had any headaches and for how long I’ve been having them. I said I thought everybody had headaches at least occasionally, and I’ve been having them for as long as I could remember, which didn’t sound good, but they took me anyway.  

The rest of the test was pretty uneventful. I never experienced any negative side-effects, except one time when the automated phone-in system malfunctioned and called me a “loser”. I received a cool ten-spot every month for six months, which I unwisely invested in the subprime mortgage derivatives market, and never got any “ingle”-related symptoms.  

Then, a few days ago, I got an e-mail at my work asking if I might be interested in participating in a new study for the same research firm. “Dear Davis,” it read, ”we just wanted to let you know that we have a new study for nocturia, which is waking at least two times a night to go to the bathroom. If you’re interested in more information, please call.”  

Though the e-mail warned that this investigation would be more labor-intensive, requiring ten visits over three months and a long-term follow-up, I figured I’d easily qualify. I was indeed an over-50 non-smoker without diabetes and I did indeed sometimes need to “go” during the night, often to the bathroom though occasionally to a play.  

I sent a copy of the correspondence to the printer next to my desk which, to my horror, began spitting out obviously unrelated pages as soon as I pressed the “print” button. Two co-workers had picked this inopportune time to actually do some work, and now my shameful case of “nocturia” would be mixed in with the management compensation summaries they needed to read. It’s outrageous enough to learn that the CEO of Comcast pulled down $15 million in stock options alone in 2009, but to then learn that he also had to pee in his sleep would be simply too much information.  

I quickly jumped up and huddled menacingly over the printer, successfully screening off the ladies waiting to retrieve their report. I’m already widely regarded as the weird guy in the office, and I didn’t need any confirming documentation going into widespread release.  

A few days later I called the number to learn some of the details. I said I was a little concerned about having to make that many on-site visits considering that I’m working some long hours during our current busy season. When she heard that I worked at a real job, unlike most other 50-somethings who were long ago down-sized and now urinate for a living, she agreed that this might not be the test for me.  

“You’d have to collect all your urine for a 48-hour period to begin the study,” she said. “I’m not sure how that’d work in your office.”  

I, on the other hand, am quite sure how that would work, and it would be not well. I thanked her for her time and asked her to keep me in mind for future research, preferably any projects that didn’t involve the collection of secretions or emissions.  

After the call, though, I wondered if there might’ve been a way to make this work. Is it possible to collect all your liquid waste in a discreet vessel and, at the same time, effectively determine the opening price of an initial public offering? Or is urinating into a discarded two-liter Mountain Dew bottle while standing at your desk not what they mean by “public offering”?  

I consulted with a fellow middle-aged male who helped me bat around some ideas for how we could do our job and do our business at the same time. He suggested employing the little-used blue recycling bins that everyone has under their desks after a well-intended “green initiative” the company started a few years back. While it’s true that blue and yellow do combine to make green, I’m not sure that’s quite the kind of recycling our corporate masters had in mind. Though it might be possible to eliminate while remaining seated at your work station, the slightly distracted, blissed-out look on your face would reveal to any onlookers that you were enjoying a discussion of shareholder proposals way too much.  

I wondered about using a thermos. Andy said that’d be too small for 48 hours’ worth and, besides, I don’t think you’d really want to keep it warm. How about if you wore a non-descript backpack throughout the day, and filled it with balloons? “I figured for Casual Friday, I’d dress like I used to look back in high school,” you could say. Or maybe doing something blatantly obvious would be counter-intuitive — like one of those “beer hats” with jars attached to a construction helmet and tubes running down into your groin. I guess you’d need a pump, though, to get the liquid uphill. I’d have to run that plan by a fluid dynamics engineer.  

In the end, we agreed that none of these options were likely practical, and finally gave up hope of getting a vaccine that would guarantee we’d never pee again.  

(Wait — how about using a Pringles can?!)  

The sign says "Color Paper Only," but surely a little urine won't hurt

Fake News: Stupidity at home and abroad

Style is the key to Mideast peace

TEL AVIV, Israel (March 24) — After decades of conflict in the Mideast, most recently characterized by disputes surrounding expanded Israeli settlements in the Occupied Territories, a solution may be surfacing from an unlikely source — Home and Garden TV.

The cable network’s resident architect and home design expert Miles van de Choate says it’s the drab, post-modern styling of new houses being constructed on the West Bank that’s at the heart of Palestinian protests. A renewed cycle of building in east Jerusalem has led to increasing tensions between Israel and the U.S., in addition to bringing the region to the brink of a third Intifada.

“They’re boxy, boxy, boxy,” said van de Choate of the newest settlements. “There wouldn’t be any of that hideous Arab-Israeli violence if both sides had a greater appreciation of fashionable design. I think with a little panache in these new communities, everyone could forgive a half-century of animosity and war.”

Van de Choate suggested that greater use of Southwestern architectural techniques would work well in the parched lands near the Dead Sea where much of the conflict has taken place. Mostly ultra-Orthodox and right-wing Jews have greatly complicated peace efforts in the region by moving onto land that would otherwise be part of a two-state solution, but van de Choate claims that “smart, elegant homes will trump deeply rooted cultural hatred any day of the week.”

The stylist, host of HGTV’s From My House to Yours and Making the Most of Your Refugee Camp, said the clean lines, natural materials and rustic furnishings seen in traditional adobe structures in the American Southwest would cause “even the most bitter rock-throwing anti-Zionist to abandon his objections to expansion of the Jewish homeland into areas clearly off-limits under the 1979 Camp David accords.”

“Just imagine the feel of cool tiles beneath your feet during winter evenings wrapped in Navaho blankets by the fire,” van de Choate said. “It’s a vision of paradise to rival even the wildest dreams of a suicide bomber.”

Bart and his thick skull

WASHINGTON (March 23) — Congressman Bart Stupid (D-Mich.), whose weekend demand for an anti-abortion statement to accompany the healthcare reform bill, is said to be pleased with President Obama’s plan to issue an executive order reaffirming what everybody else already knows.

Stupid led a small group of pro-life Democrats to call for additional language against abortion besides a clear ban already in the bill, long-standing regulations in the Department of Health and Human Services, the Hyde Amendment banning federal funding of the controversial procedure, numerous state regulations, and a severe shortage of abortion of doctors nationwide.

“We just wanted to make absolutely, positively, absolutely sure that there are no pro-choice provisions in this or any other bill,” Stupid said. “We had the same language inserted into the bill bailing out Detroit automakers and in the funding of the troop surge in Afghanistan, so we thought it was needed here too.”

Despite decades-long support of women’s rights by the Supreme Court and widespread backing for choice in every opinion poll, Stupid said he’d continue his campaign to overturn any chance that abortion will finally be accepted by die-hard zealots. He’s sponsoring a bill currently making its way through committee that would outlaw all abortions for men “in case that Asian guy I saw on The Today Show who keeps getting pregnant ever decides against going to full-term delivery, however the hell that’s supposed to work.”

Stupid said he’d continue his fight to include anti-abortion language in every form of communication imaginable, including phone bills, automobile owners’ manuals, internal company e-mails, and Bazooka Joe bubble gum jokes.

“I wrote one of those last ones myself,” Stupid said. “Check it out: ‘Why did the little moron tiptoe past the medicine cabinet? Because he didn’t want to wake the sleeping pills. Just say no to RU-486!’”

Website Review: Exterminators.com

They call it “pest control,” as if managing vermin populations was somehow within man’s power. If only their influence were restrained, we could reason with and civilize the insects and rodents. Maybe if we just allow the roaches to have a legislature, they can become a more responsible segment of our society. Let’s have a town-hall meeting for the ants. How about allowing referendum initiatives to be introduced by silverfish?

I used to work in my company’s quality control department, so I know a little about “control” in this context. As a manager of inspections, I had to make sure we kept our quality under control, so that not too much of it got out there and spoiled the customers. We needed to use it up in small pieces at a time, so we didn’t run out. To control was to restrict, to limit, to preserve.

Pest control companies aren’t really interested in containing or manipulating pests. They’re in business to wipe them out, killing them in the worst possible way, with chemical weapons of mass destruction. These exterminators arrive at a home or business with singular intent. No bug or rat (nor possibly even infant or cat) will remain standing when their ethnic cleansing is through. At best, the victims will be lying on their backs, legs flailing against the sky, white bootie paws twitching spastically.

Maybe if they had proper representation, they could at least lobby for a more merciful way to die. I’m imagining row after tiny row of cross-shaped gurneys, where invertebrates are administered lethal injections only after all judicial appeals have been exhausted.

As you can tell, I don’t know much about the pest control business. I aimed to learn more in research for this week’s Website Review, at a domain called thebiggreenk.com, internet home of Killingsworth Pest Control. (Killingsworth.com was already taken by an online murder-for-hire operation).

The home page displays basic introductory information, including a picture and audio clip from owners Mike and Debbie. They both smile broadly into the camera, Mike’s arm around Debbie’s shoulders, looking much friendlier than any of the Hitler photos I recall from history, except maybe that one where he’s playing with his dog.

The copy talks about how loathsomely infected your home probably is, how their customer service is second to none, how they train their employees “not only in the science of pest control but also on the science of people.” Sort of like Josef Mengele and his heinous medical experiments on living subjects, I’m guessing. They’re also expanding into lawn care service (Mike and Debbie, not the Nazis).

The first pull-down subject addresses the core of Killingsworth’s business, termite control. We learn that over half a million American homes will suffer major damage from wood-eating pests this year alone, and that repairs will cost $1.5 billion. The K-Men will come to your home and do a ”FREE INSPECTION,” which will doubtless uncover frightening issues requiring immediate payments to the all-knowing exterminator. They realize you’re not going to know enough about the bowels of your home’s foundation to offer any resistance — they could tell you that Danny Bonaduce was living down there, partying up a storm with his termite friends, and you’d have to believe them. Fortunately, annual contracts costing only $30 a month are available

Problems with other types of pests are described in a separate section. Here we see the laundry list of creatures who could be gnawing away on your family at this very moment: millipedes, clovermites, earwigs, springtails, fleas, bed bugs. In the South, these can be active not only in the spring and summer months but also during warm days in the winter, so you might want to consider one of Killingsworth’s year-round packages. Be especially careful to watch for these beasts in obvious places like the kitchen, where they feast on your crumbs, but also in your bathroom, where plentiful moisture and odors can trigger spontaneous generation, creating creepy-crawlies that could emerge from your toilet at inopportune times.

There’s a section on mold remediation, another subject you didn’t even know existed that merits sleepless nights of anxiety once you think about it. They want to “make sure your crawlspace is as healthy as the rest of your house” using expensive installations like the E-Z Breathe Ventilation System, their new Dry-Ice Blasting technology and their “Premier Crawlspace program that offers a guaranty against future fungal growth.” I wonder if I can get a contract on my toenails.

Included under “Lawn Care” are a couple of package offers on mosquito control or, as they cutely label it, “mosKuito” control. (This recurring “K” motif reminds one of a certain organization of hate that also patrolled the South for many years). Another $30 a month gets you a nine-month deal to have your shrubs fogged and larvacide applied to standing water and gutters, so that unborn mosquitoes are also eliminated. Baby Killers!

The company has a special section on its web page devoted to mascot “Mr. K,” a Jack Russell terrier mix who has been trained to detect the scent of termites and bed bugs. Mr. K spent over 400 hours at the Florida Canine Academy which trains dogs to sniff out bombs, drugs, money and weapons as well as termites and mold. He is the founding president of the Canine Accelerant Detection Association as well as the International Termite Detector Dog Association. No, wait, that’s his trainer, Bill. Bill has appeared on several televised segments on Animal Planet and the Discovery Channel, and travels on promotional tours to community events around the country, putting on demonstrations for children and sniffing their crotches. No, wait, that’s Mr. K. (I think the fumes are starting to get to me).

A pulldown called the “Learning Center” helps educate consumers on how to identify common pests they may encounter in the middle of a dark, dark night as they stumble about their filth-encrusted homes. We find out about the three types of cockroaches – their size, shape and identifying markings, their ability to fly (yes) and presence of antennae (yes), and how many kinds of bacteria, parasitic worms and human pathogens they’re capable of spreading (33, six and seven, respectively). There are also portraits of flies, beetles, moths and pillbugs with brief profiles of each. We learn that the powderpost beetle “enjoys flying” among its hobbies, and that the merchant grain beetle “likes to attack cereal, cake mixes and macaroni.” There are some supposedly reassuring facts as well, including a debunking of the myth that earwigs will “crawl into sleeping people’s ears and eat their brains at night.” For some reason, knowing that doesn’t put me at any particular ease.

Finally, I’ll cite some of the customer testimonials under the “Why Choose Killingsworth” section. Lois writes “I had a problem under my house with mice nests all under the insulation which they had pushed it all to where it was hanging down, a lot was pushed out on the ground.” Killingsworth workers were able to decipher what she was talking about and fix the problem. Vince praises the two specialists who came to his home: “I learned a great deal about insects and other varmints … (technician) Matt was in motion the entire time spraying.” Sounds like Matt may have been experiencing some side-effects from the chemicals. Darlene notes that her inspector, Phil, took time out during his visit to carry a water jug to her goats and, on perhaps the most peculiar rating scale ever, gives Phil “on a scale of one to six, he’s an 8!” She liked him at least until her goats started drinking the water.

All things considered, thebiggreenk.com is a very informative and helpful website, quick to respond and containing very few bugs (not surprisingly). I learned much about the pitfalls of home ownership and maintenance, and how my biggest investment could be gradually eaten away by unseen forces whose existence I was barely even aware of. But thanks to the Internet, I’ve learned more about how exterminators prey on our ignorance, and will soon be studying how I can get a contract to keep them away from my house.

Let me look again at that Killingsworth.com site.

Revisited: 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.”

Revisited: Guantanamo air disaster

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.

How intriguingly unfortunate. So theoretically sad.

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.

Thoughts for a springtime Monday

We recently completed a three-month long “waist reduction challenge” at my work, designed to encourage employees to lose weight and get healthy for the new year. I didn’t participate, but I’m hearing some good results reported by several of my coworkers: one of them lost a pound while another gained only two.    

I declined to be involved, primarily because I don’t care to have my weight reported on a bi-weekly basis to my supervisor. My upcoming performance review is going to be bad enough as it is without me having to hear “You’re not quite the team player we’d like you to be and, in addition, you’re a tubby.”    

The whole office celebrated the end of the challenge period on Friday with Peppermint Patty brownies and big boxes of donuts.     

+++    

I posted a piece a few months back about the variety of periodicals available on top of the commode tank in the men’s room at my office. (See http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/11/23/people-who-need-people/ if you give a crap). These are generally a mix of popular culture magazines with a few higher-brow offerings like National Geographic and Mental Floss thrown in, fairly reflective of what you might expect in the white-collar workplace.    

A week or so back, this bathroom was closed for cleaning, so I had to venture into the warehouse and use the blue-collar facilities. They’re equally clean, differing little from my usual haunt except for the curious framed sign next to the mirror warning associates not to put their feet on the wall. (Such a move would never even occur to me, so of course I had to try it. Wanted to get the full working-class experience during my visit).    

The magazine I found in this part of the building was something called Dirt Sports. At first, I thought it was about Extreme Gardening, but then read the subhead describing it as “the voice of off-road motorsports.” Apparently, driving car-like vehicles through the woods and swamps can be an intentional thing, and it’s been picked up by rural folk after the high-society crowd failed to show interest in Ted Kennedy’s seminal rally at Chappaquiddick in 1969.    

This holiday edition of the magazine featured a section on finding the “perfect holiday gift for your favorite member of the dirt sports nation.” I don’t have a favorite member of this group, unless you count the earthworm I declined to run over with my lawn mower last week, but I was still curious about some of the suggestions.    

At the top of the line was the Dunkel Ultimate Luxury Hauler, a modified Ford F750 truck with a 300 HP diesel engine and a remote-controlled tilting flatbed that can haul 8,000 pounds of “off-road exotica.” It sleeps six, seats 10, and could probably crush dozens. 

For the more economy-minded shopper, there was the Miller Arcstation, a blue metal worktable described as perfect for home welders. 

This last offering actually holds some appeal to me. I’m not exactly handy around the house, so when I have to fix a loose hinge or replace a hard-to-reach light bulb, I’d like the work to stay done for a while, and welding just might be the option for me. Maybe it’d also work on this lose crown I’ve been meaning to see the dentist about.    

Thank you, Dirt Sports magazine.    

+++    

Ever since coming off the Ambien a few weeks back, I’m able to remember my dreams again. I had a curious one the other night I thought was worth recounting.    

My mother and I were taking her car to a car wash, and planned to wait at a coffee shop while the work was done. We couldn’t find the cafe, so decided instead to go to Winn-Dixie, a now-bankrupt grocery store that used to be popular in the South. When we went for the car, the place had burned down, destroying our vehicle in the process. I don’t know how she planned to get home, but suddenly there was my father, atop a motorcycle and offering me a ride.    

“But I don’t have a helmet,” I said. He pointed out that equally effective for safety purposes was wearing a plain, old-fashioned hand-saw on your head. You simply bend the metallic part to the curvature of your skull and tape it to your cheeks.    

I wasn’t too sure about this but, since he was my father, I trusted him. We roared off down a beachfront road with me hanging on for dear life, the saw attached to my head.    

A few nights later, I also had a dream about boils.    

+++    

Someone in the lunchroom the other day said they’d finally learned how to get “screaming video” onto their desktop computer. Arrghh!    

I can't believe they meant STREAMING video

+++    

The temps I trained a few months ago are still working on third shift. However, there seems to be a topic I forgot to cover: I neglected to tell them they aren’t supposed to sleep at their desks.    

I shudder to think of the other things I didn’t cover that they shouldn’t be doing — plotting insurrection against foreign governments, developing weapons of mass destruction (WMD), painting their nails, using distributed denial-of-service attacks to bring down Pentagon computers, etc.    

I’ve gone back through all the training material I covered, as approved by our central office, and nowhere in the various processes and procedures so otherwise thoroughly documented could I find anything about staying awake while you’re collecting your paycheck. So since it wasn’t covered, the ladies are making up their own rules. One has even brought along a blanket and pillow, and seems thoroughly comfortable sprawled in the office chair in front of her terminal for several hours a night.    

I think, though, we’re going to draw the line when she pulls out the sleep mask.    

+++    

As I write this on a dreary Sunday afternoon, I’m starting to believe that the ancient Christians who made this day the weekly sabbath chose Sunday so they could fervently pray that the next day wouldn’t be Monday.    

They’d spent their one day of rest celebrating the glory of God, praising his righteous Kingdom to come here on earth, and thanking Him for sending His only son Jesus Christ to be our Savior and Lord. And they probably threw in occasional requests that, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could tomorrow possibly dawn as Saturday or even Friday? “We’d even take Judgment Day rather than going back to the fields and the mines on a Monday,” I imagine some of them implored. And yet it never happened.    

But these were people of supreme faith, so they’d try again every week, and now we have Sunday as our traditional day of prayer and worship.

Christ, I can’t believe it’s Monday already.

Fake International News, from Afghanistan, Iraq and the Vatican

Obama touches down in Kabul

KABUL, Afghanistan (March 28) — President Obama’s visit Sunday to this war-torn nation was as brief as it was surprising, with Air Force One flying in just low enough for the commander-in-chief to get in a few moments with U.S. troops and Afghan officials.

During a quick meeting with Army forces at Bagram air base, the president was dangled out an open cargo door by Secret Service agents as his 747 flew low over the runway. His hand momentarily swiped the tarmac as he hung from his ankles, declaring “it’s good to be here on the ground at the front lines of America’s fight against terrorism” before being pulled back to safety. His plane then made a second similar pass, this time allowing the chief executive to “high-five” a squad of honor guards as he roared past at 250 m.p.h., injuring 12.

Then it was on to the presidential palace in downtown Kabul where the low-flying leader of the Free World toyed playfully with the scarf of President Hamid Karzai, yanking it from his neck and spinning him like a top as Obama jetted just above the rooftops. Karzai said he appreciated the vote of confidence from the American people, even though he thought he may have hurt his neck a little.

The presidential party then returned again for a final pass over the strife-torn nation, with Air Force One lowering its air-to-air refueling line and dousing the countryside with Gatorade, celebrating the civilized world’s imminent victory over the Taliban insurgents.

Church reveals punishment

THE VATICAN (March 29) — The Catholic Church continued to insist Monday that its leadership had acted appropriately in punishing priests who were accused of sexual misconduct with children while the Pope Benedict XVI was still a proto-pope.

Despite documents that seemed to indicate the accused offenders were merely re-assigned to new parishes, a spokesman for the pontiff insisted severe penalties were handed out by then-Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger.

“‘No TV For a Week’ read the subject line of one of the memos,” said Bishop Carlo Menotti. “That should tell you right there how seriously these charges were taken.”

Menotti said other punishments included restricting the priests to an all-host diet, removing their rights to sell confessional videotapes to TMZ, making them hold hot censers in their hands instead of swinging the ceremonial incense burners from a chain, and forcing them to “pray harder.” (That last mandate may have actually backfired as several of the rogue clergymen are known to have “preyed harder” on young boys following their hearings.)

The future pope was also reported to have warned the straying priests that instead of going to heaven in their next life that they’d only make it about halfway, to the asteroid known as “944 Hidalgo” just beyond Jupiter. Cardinal Ratzinger told them the distant body still contained celestial choirs and eternal bliss, but they’d also have to share the rocky planetoid with “icky girls.”

Democracy? Only kidding

BAGHDAD, Iraq (March 29) — Prime Minister Nuri al-Malaki, responding to results that showed his party slightly behind in a nationwide race for parliamentary seats, said yesterday he’s “beginning to think this whole democracy thing is a bit overrated.”

“Sure, it sounded good to the rest of the world that we were letting people vote,” Malaki said. “And all those peasants showing off their ink-stained fingers, they were really cute. But if free and fair elections are going to remove me from power — well, we just can’t have that.”

Malaki’s State of Law party had won only 89 seats in preliminary results while opponent Ayad Allawi’s Iraqiya party had 91. Malaki immediately took to the airwaves saying he would fight to hang onto his post.

“It’s often said that democratic institutions and sausage-making are very similar enterprises, but you have to remember we’re talking about Iraqi sausage here,” Malaki told a group of visiting diplomats. “It’s called ‘basturma’ and it consists of wind-dried camel, goat and water buffalo compressed under the saddle of a Turkic horseman riding through the steppes of Central Asia. These aren’t your polite caucus meetings in Iowa; this stuff is hard-core.”

Malaki was reminded by one envoy that the U.S. had expended billions of dollars and thousand of American lives to re-build his nation, but he countered “oh, I suppose you’re going to hold that over my head for the next five years. You people need to get over yourselves. You have to remember, we’re crazy over here.”

There’s a party goin’ on around here

It’s been a long time since I enjoyed myself at a party. The last one was probably decades ago, when I was dressed in little more than a diaper, propped in front of a few candles, drooling and babbling incoherently while my friends crawled on the floor and tried to lick the cat.

That was in college. Since then, I’ve never really been a big fan of the party scene, mainly because I’ve never been a big fan of socializing with people, and people always seem to be injecting themselves into parties, except the ones you see advertised on late-night TV that occur on the other end of a $1.95-a-minute telephone line. I hear they use GPS ladies for those (“Turn left in 500 feet. Ooh, that feels so good”).

The college parties really were the best, because they were back in the seventies, when free drugs and free love were all over the place, except in whatever room I happened to be inhabiting. In the dorm, a party was just a bunch of guys and a Friday night, and the success of the bash could only be judged the next day, as we recounted to each other what was the last thing we remembered. (After one event featuring the notorious MD 20/20, a fortified wine also known as “Mad Dog,” the last thing I remembered was a second-grade spelling bee). I wasn’t much for fraternity parties, though I did crash one undercover as “Ed Mims,” son of an astronaut training for his flight to Jupiter.

Once I left Tallahassee and moved to the Carolinas, most of the diminishing number of parties I was invited to involved co-workers, either mine or those of my wife. Both were awkward, though it actually turned out to be an advantage not knowing any of the people from Beth’s office. At least I could commiserate with the other spouses as we discussed what a great sound engineer Phil Tristam was on Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run” and admired the cover art over and over again.

It was at one of these events that a winsome young lady approached me and asked if wanted to “shag.” She was talking about a beach-music step that is the official State Dance of South Carolina. (We barely have a functioning State Education System but we do have a State Dance.) I thought she wanted me to accompany her to a nearby driving range to chase down golf balls.

Now, it’s 2010, I’m 56 years old, and the only people who want me to show up at their social engagement are either staging a reunion or recently passed away. I usually manage to avoid the funerals with the excuse that my suit is at the cleaners and my only other black clothing has a decal of Ozzy Osbourne on it. The reunions have been coming fast and furious lately, though since most require a flight out of town I can simply curse the unfairness of the terrorist watch list in my regrets RSVP. But one was staged within driving distance this past Sunday, and I found myself reluctantly going.

Again, it was a group of old friends from my wife’s newspaper days. These were people I had known for almost 30 years, even if that acquaintance had only comprised maybe four total hours together, unless you count the occasional random encounter at the grocery store where you slip behind the dairy case because you can’t remember their names. We were to gather at the townhouse home of the hostess, and the theme of the evening was to be soup. She’d stir up several pots of minestrone, chili and some kind of creamy green stuff, provide the wine and the salads, and we’d each bring our own soup spoons and bowls. How kicky! What fun!

We arrived a few minutes late and as I climbed the front steps, it occurred to me that I hadn’t thought through what my policy was to be on hugging. It was definitely inappropriate for the men I knew would be involved, but for the ladies, I sensed it was going to be required. Fortunately, we first met our hostess for the evening in her slightly cramped kitchen, and she was positioned on the other side of an island from me. It may not have been as large as Hispaniola, but it was big enough to keep us physically separated.

We chatted briefly in the kitchen while we collected our wine, complimented her on the fine uptown neighborhood, then admired the hardwood flooring of her living room and how many vaguely familiar people were standing on it. Gradually, we worked our way into this small group of maybe 15 people, exchanging squeals and cries of “how long has it been?” and reminders of who we are. Familiar old stories were recounted, and the laughter became more and more effortless as the alcohol took effect. We had to rein in the giggles a bit when talk inevitably turned to who had cancer and who had strokes, but otherwise I was soon so at ease that I almost fell down some stairs.

When another round of soup was introduced (“Woo-hoo! It’s chowder!”), the original groupings broke up and I found myself trapped on a couch next to a man I’ll call “Joe,” since that was his name. I knew Joe was a smoker and would soon have to excuse himself to the balcony, so I summoned my patience and listened intently as Joe told how he had just returned from a cruise in the Caribbean, and it was one of those unfortunate outings where the entire ship came down with a stomach norovirus. Joe told a lively story, right down to the watery sea spray he simulated with his sputum. I actually felt the same nausea he was describing by the time he was finished and back out on the deck, smoking like a smokestack.

During a lull in the soup, one of the basketball fans asked if anyone knew the outcome of that evening’s Duke-Baylor game. A younger crowd would’ve been able to track every dribble via their wireless devices and, though most everyone in this aging group had cell phones, most sadly used them as cell phones. So did I, as I called up my 18-year-old son and asked him to check for the score online. Within moments, I was proudly able to announce that Duke had won, according to Daniel’s internet connections, and everyone marveled at the technology that allowed a barren shell like me to have a son.

We had been advised in the invitation to ask the hostess about her ballroom dancing, and it was rapidly approaching the point in the evening (almost 8:30) where we’d soon be dozing off, so we were led downstairs to watch a video performance of Rhonda shaking her elderly thang. She had enrolled in one of those courses where fawning young male instructors taught you a few stiff steps, then gyrated madly about while you marched around smiling, occasionally raising your arms into the air and eventually being hoisted skyward by the bare-chested threesome. It was very entertaining for all the wrong reasons but the small audience that had gathered around the screen put on a good show and offered Rhonda enthusiastic congratulations.

By now, the soup was spent, the video was watched and the stories had all been told, so somebody yawned and virtually the entire room took the cue and started making their exits. I think everyone, including me, genuinely had a good time, though our definition of such had certainly changed since those days in the early eighties when we once gathered out by the dam to share several bottles of bourbon under the open sky.

Both times had earnest fellowship — something not easily come by these days — and both had alcohol, so they each qualified as parties in the technical sense. So what if this time, the dancing was all pre-recorded?

Fake News: Obama messes with Republican heads

WASHINGTON (March 31) — President Obama’s surprise announcement yesterday that he endorses oil and natural gas drilling off parts of the U.S. coast drew stiff opposition from leading Republicans, who said the potential negative environmental impact outweighed any benefits.

Say what?

Obama said his plan would produce more domestic energy by opening up vast new fields in the Atlantic Ocean, the Gulf of Mexico and off the coast of Alaska.

“So … that would make us in favor of preserving marine life, beaches and coastal tourist economies who might be negatively impacted,” said House Republican leader John Boehner. “We have to vigorously oppose exploiting these resources just so the oil industry can make a short-term profit. Do I have that right?”

Boehner was assured by fellow GOP leaders that, yep, it appears they have to be on the correct side of an issue in order to continue their obstruction of all things Obamic.

“The rape of our seas by Big Oil and other multinational corporate interests must not be allowed,” said Senate minority leader Mitch McConnell. “I can’t believe I just said that, but apparently I did.”

The president indicated that he would continue to support a ban on development off the Northeast and Pacific coasts, since these were areas of the country more likely to vote for him. Only areas from Virginia south to Florida, into the Gulf as far as Alabama and Mississippi, and sites off Alaska would be placed at risk of environmental ruin.

“Face it, I’m not going to win any of those states in 2012 anyway,” the president said. “I don’t even care if they use derricks at these sites. We’ll just blow holes in the ocean floor and as the oil washes onto the shore it will soak into the feathers of sea birds, then we’ll put the birds in a giant blender to harvest the oil.”

“What is this, some kind of early April Fool’s joke?” asked GOP chairman Michael Steele. “Just in case it isn’t, I want to go on record as saying the Republican Party opposes oil spills and the unnecessary slaughter of wildlife. Also, let me point out that I think I’m going to throw up.”

Obama said he was reaching out to those who had opposed his previous energy and environmental policies, especially the so-called “Drill, Baby, Drill” element of the far right.

“In fact, let us take that philosophy to its logical conclusion,” Obama said in his proclamation. “We will draft babies to work in these new oil fields.”

Even conservative media pundits were forced to weigh in against the president’s announcement.

“I know I said that progressivism is a cancer on America, what with its child labor laws and such,” Fox News commentator Glenn Beck said. “But we can’t stand by while America’s infant population is virtually wiped out in what is obviously a very dangerous occupation. I guess we can’t, right? I’m so confused.”

UPDATE: Obama gives in to drilling critics

The White House announced late yesterday that it would listen to those who have come out so strongly against his proposals to allow new oil exploration, and would now support a total ban on any new drilling off the U.S. mainland.

“My head — it hurts,” said former Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin. “I think I need to lie down for a while.”

Holy Saturday: How will Jesus spend His day off?

During Holy Week, much is made of the days leading up to Easter. Yesterday was Maundy Thursday, the day when Jesus celebrated the Last Supper, then was ratted out by Judas at the after-party. Today is Good Friday, though Christ Himself would probably choose a different adjective than “good,” since it marks the day He was crucified (for example, Bad Friday or Painful Friday both seem more accurate). Sunday is Easter itself, the day Jesus rose from the dead and was presented with a beautiful ham.  

But tomorrow, sometimes referred to as “Holy Saturday” or “Silent Saturday” on the liturgical calendar, plays a much smaller role in Resurrection Weekend. There are no special church services, no ceremonial waving of palms or schlepping of crosses. It’s just a plain old Saturday, plenty good enough for the rest of us to spend in relaxation, and not that big a deal to those who celebrate the life, death and rebirth of our Lord and Savior.  

Little is known of how Jesus Himself spent that solemn day almost two millennia ago. It’s generally thought that He mostly just lay around, recovering from one of the worst weeks anyone ever suffered, including that one you had in February where not one, not two, but three PowerPoint presentations were due on the boss’s desk by close of business Friday. Traditionally, it’s believed that Christ’s actual reanimation took place Sunday morning shortly before the angels rolled the stone away from the grave. It’s entirely possible, however, that it occurred much earlier, and that Jesus had a whole day to kill on Saturday while waiting for the dramatic Easter morning reveal.  

Think about it: if you just moved into a new place, you’d be using your first day off to spruce it up bit, do some cleaning and some chores, and find a little time to absorb the ambience of what has become your home. Maybe the tomb had a little-used back door that allowed Jesus to freely come and go for a day before inviting his friends over to the house-warming bash on Sunday.  

Some historians are now ready to speculate how the founder of the world’s one true religion spent his Holy Saturday:  

9 a.m. — Wakes up late, hoping that a good night’s sleep will ease the pain of one of the worst methods of execution known to mankind.  

9:15 a.m. — Slips out to nearby Panera for coffee and a cinnamon crunch bagel. Hasn’t unpacked His laptop yet so He has to get His news the old-fashioned way, by picking up a newspaper (lead story: “Son of God Executed”; second lead: “Idol Castoff is Gay”). Spends a leisurely hour sipping free refills of the dark roast blend, and wondering why they gave Him a fork with His bagel.  

10:15 a.m. — Swings by Home Depot to pick up some grass seed and fertilizer for a little lawn work He wants to do later in the afternoon.  

10:30 a.m. — After returning to the crypt, Christ starts tackling the “honey-do” list of chores around the house. Since He’s not married, the existence of the list is itself something of a miracle, and the scrap of paper is now enshrined at St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. It’s believed the hand of the Lord Himself crossed off “fix hinge on sunroom door,” “replace porch light” and “heal dishwasher.” One chore is sadly left unmarked: “Make sure followers don’t kill others in My name.”  

12:15 p.m. — Grabs a quick lunch at Arby’s drive-thru and says “hi” to Dad who’s working there at His part-time retirement job. Orders the junior roast beef sandwich from dollar-menu but has to get the barbecue sauce because He gets embarrassed asking for His real favorite, the “horsey sauce.”  

1 p.m. — Back at home, which He now thinks of by the nickname “The Sepulcher” or maybe “The Sep,” it’s time to pay a few bills. Jesus has refrained from using online banking and still writes checks and drops them in the mail. Just as He wanted to mingle with the lepers and the prostitutes, He also likes to keep a personal touch in dealing with the bankers and the utility company.  

1:30 p.m. — Lies down for a quick nap but wakes up after only half an hour when His cat tries to sleep on His chest.  

2 p.m. — Walks over to the Golgotha Driving Range to hit a bucket of balls. Considers trying to get in a quick nine but remembers He’s got to get that grass seed down before it germinates in His shed.  

2:45 p.m. — Begins yard work but finds it tough going in the sandy soil of the Negev Desert. Manages to scrape clear a small patch and get it sufficiently watered to possibly grow a little fescue, though He’s concerned the spot He’s picked won’t get enough sun in the shade of an olive tree. After sweating away for almost two hours, finally gives in and waves His mighty hand across the land, miraculously creating a lush garden complete with perennials, which shouldn’t take as much work as those damn annuals He had back in Nazareth.  

5 p.m. — Time to fire up the grill for some hamburgers and corn on the cob. He’s dying for a Yeungling but knows, according to the laws of the scripture, that He must drink wine instead, though even the prophets would have to admit that it’s not as refreshing as a cold beer.  

6:30 p.m. — Resists the “great temptation of Christ” — to turn in early — and decides instead to catch a movie over in the Gethsemane Mall. Though He’s already seen it four times, Jesus again chooses to watch “Avatar,” because James Cameron reminds Him so much of Himself, and because He thinks He looks cool in 3-D glasses.  

9:15 p.m. — Makes a quick stop at the grocery store to pick up some Peeps for the nephews He suspects will be dropping by tomorrow. Ends up filling a whole shopping cart full of chocolate rabbits, robin’s eggs, jelly beans and other junk, most of which He proceeds to eat while watching Lawrence Welk reruns on PBS.  

10:45 p.m. — Falls asleep on couch even though sugar rush haunts His dreams all night, and gives him the wacky idea of ascending into Heaven before a gathering of believers. Thinks He might just be able to pull it off if He can spend the next 40 days being nice to that friend who owns a jet-pack.  

I pray it doesn't rain before I can get that grass seed down

Revisited: 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.

Revisited: Michael Steele apologizes

WASHINGTON (March 5, 2009) — 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.”

Working from home can be hard

For the first Sunday in a month, I’m not composing my Monday blog at work. They gave us Easter off, so instead I’m writing at home.

It’s a little disconcerting not having the usual distractions of the office. Strangely, I miss being interrupted by meaningless outbursts from my fellow workers (like requests to do work). Their spontaneity in saying just about anything that pops into their heads is a great inspiration to my own creativity. Here at home, there’s only silence.

To simulate that ambient noise I’ve almost come to rely on, I’ll be interspersing this piece with actual recent quotes from the particularly verbal woman several cubicles over. If you can’t figure out what in the world she’s reciting, I’ll reveal the answer at the end of this post. As for why she’s reciting it, that I can’t answer.

+++

Bone cancer … white. Spina bifida … yellow.

+++

I’m thinking of doing a Website Review on a pet cremation service I came across. I don’t want to make too much fun, though, because I can sympathize closely with those who have lost a beloved animal companion, since we have three cats of our own who are an integral part of our family. We even had one of our early cats, I think it was Marie, cremated. Her ashes are around here somewhere, unless our cleaning lady got to them.

What the immature teenager inside me wants to do is call them up and ask if they work with all kinds of pets. If so, I want to request a quote on what it will take to cremate my pet chicken Alice, and whether deep-frying is an option. And if it would cost more to make her extra-crispy. And if I can get hush puppies instead of french fries with that.

+++

The local Chick-fil-A now has peach milkshakes, but doesn’t have enough “A’s” to advertise them properly on their sign out front. One of the workers was charged with trying to mutilate an “R” enough to make it look like an “A”. He failed miserably, and the result is “PERCH MILKSHAKES”.

+++

Tuberous sclerosis … blue. Alzheimer’s disease … purple.

+++

Have you ever read the fine print at the end of the famous E-Trade ads featuring the talking babies? One line says “Clients must be at least 18 years of age to open an account.” I assume this is to discourage those hard-charging toddler viewers who, after watching the commercials, think that they too can become shrewd market investors.

+++

The next time an Olive Garden waiter tells me he’s going to be “taking care of me,” I’m hopping up on the table, removing my shirt and asking him to diagnose several troublesome moles I have on my back. And I’ll be encouraging others in my party to take advantage of the “care” offer as well.

It’s good to see the insurance reform package making it so quickly into the marketplace.

+++

Stomach cancer … periwinkle. Infertility … pink.

+++

I mowed my lawn for the first time of the season this weekend. The battery-powered electric mower I bought last year cranked immediately on the first try after a long, cold winter.

I look at my neighbors using their old-fashioned gas mowers, and feel sorry for the way they have to struggle with a yank-cord to make their machines work. I also can’t help but feel slightly smug in my obvious concern for the well-being of our environment. While they’re using petroleum, my power comes from electricity derived from coal, a marginally better source. When you buy petroleum, you support terrorists, send American dollars overseas and pollute the air of your neighborhood. When you tap into coal, you encourage destructive mining techniques, contribute to an industry that endangers workers’ lives, and cause even greater pollution, though somewhere far from your neighborhood.

I hope someday to be the first on my block to have a nuclear-powered mower.

+++

I see the new movie by actress/singer Miley Cyrus is called “The Last Song.” If her next album is entitled “The Last Movie,” let’s hope that means she’ll be out of show business entirely.

+++

Kidney cancer … orange. Vasculitis … red.

+++

I love coffee as much as the next person, but you have to wonder how it ever became so popular considering the arduous and arbitrary production process.

One day long ago in ancient Arabia, two men stood at the edge of an oasis. “I’m thirsty,” said one. “Let’s see what we can find in there.”

Rummaging through the underbrush, they soon came across a plant full of berries. “Maybe we can press these and make some juice,” said the other man.

“No, that would be too easy,” said his comrade, now wide-eyed and speaking with obvious agitation. “Let’s tear open the berries, remove the beans, dry the beans, roast the beans, grind the beans, then percolate water over them.”

“You need to cut back on your caffeine, my friend,” said the other man.

+++

Gray … asthma. Green … lyme disease.

+++

When I read of President Obama’s visit to my hometown of Charlotte last week, I realized his arrival on Air Force One would happen right over the building that houses my office. We are directly beneath the flight path for jets landing at Charlotte International Airport.

I suggested we stage a greeting for the commander in chief. “We could lie in the street out front, and form our bodies into shapes that would spell out our company name — AAI. Then we could wave up at the plane as it flies overhead.”

I sketched out a plan showing that it would only take 13 of us to create the letters. Then someone from the art department got a look at it.

“That doesn’t look like an ‘A’, it looks like an ‘R’,” she said. “And we really should be using a serif font if we want to make it look professional. Perhaps a few people could wear hats.”

Then a representative from the safety committee spoke up, and noted that lying in the road could prove to be a hazard to the huge 16-wheelers coming in and out of our office park.

Finally, a group of Republicans said they wanted to stage their own display, and began trying to figure how many bodies it would take to spell out “you suck.”

This is the kind of bureaucracy that is choking innovation in American industry these days.

+++

Silver … brain disorders. Cloudy … congenital diaphragmatic hernia.

+++

The customer at the Wendy’s drive-thru had pulled up too far from the building. Plus the power window on his car didn’t work, so he had to open the door to pay. The cashier was a little on the short side. Both of them stretched as far as they could to pass money and food back and forth.

I’d seen this image somewhere before.

+++

Apparently, there is a whole directory of what color ribbon goes with supporters of what kind of disease. I’d heard of pink for breast cancer, and now I was hearing — in tedious detail that stretched over a full five minutes — all the other pairings that existed.

Thank you, loose-lipped coworker, for spurring us all on to greater creativity.

Fake News: iPad rocks the world

NEW YORK (April 5) — Fans of Apple Computers really bit it big time over the weekend as they surged into stores to purchase over 300,000 iPads in the first two days the new device was released.

Skeptics had wondered what niche the slate-shaped computer would fill in a market already saturated with the slightly smaller iPhone and the slightly larger MacBook laptop. Turns out, the skeptics were idiots.

“The iPhone is for busy professionals on the go who need to keep in touch with their work while remaining mobile,” said industry analyst Richard Lotte with a straight face. “And the MacBook is for use when they’re actually in the office — like when they stop by for their weekly drug test.”

Lotte said the iPad is intended more as an entertainment device than its cousins, and is best used while slouching in an easy chair, lying flat on the couch, or passed out in a grassy field somewhere.

“The iPad is more for browsing the web, watching video or listening to music,” Lotte said. “By contrast, the iPhone is primarily being employed to listen to music, watch video and browse the web, while the MacBook’s strength is in watching video, listening to music and browsing the web.”

Even as crowds streamed into Apple retail outlets around the country, program developers were hard at work creating new applications that would capitalize on the elegance and power of the new machine.

“In the end, it’s the apps that will make or break the long-term success of this release,” Lotte said. “Hard-core Apple fans are already buzzing about several of these that are causing a lot of excitement.”

One of the programs, the MiniMe, features a shrink ray that will miniaturize users, import them onto the hard drive, and allow them to live out their lives as one with the computer. Another app makes it possible to download physical objects from the internet so that everything from shoes to fresh fish to small automobiles can materialize next to the user.

“We also see the so-called ‘killer apps’ being very popular,” Lotte said. “These allow iPad owners to ‘lend’ their machines to a hated associate, who will then be murdered by electrocution, gas, poison, or any number of methods available through the AppStore.”

“Especially cute is the one my daughter got,” he added. “There’s an animated Snow White character and if you double-pinch her, she turns into the Wicked Queen and produces a poison apple that will kill you right there.”

Also popular on the first weekend were a variety of peripheral devices, including a hinged screen cover that snaps onto the iPad and allows images to be projected onto its second angled surface while the user types on a keyboard displayed on the original screen.

“It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” Lotte said. “Except it’s sort of like a traditional laptop.”

Another auxiliary not yet available but pre-ordered by many is the “iEniac,” a room-sized attachment featuring vacuum tubes, reel-to-reel tapes and retro analog dials and switches. Some of these packages even come with the “iWinnebago” motor home so they don’t hinder users’ mobility.

Yet another apparent success from Apple has rival project managers at Microsoft working to create a competitor. Early reports indicate they’re looking at a device — tentatively called the “WeBad” — which will tell time, do simple math calculations and make whirring sounds.

“The genius with this development is that, instead of going with the rectangular slate design, Microsoft is supposedly creating more of a disk,” Lotte said. “This will allow two users to ‘network’ together on various applications. One will push the ‘on’ button, then will ‘frisbee’ the machine across the room. When the other person catches it, he throws it back to the original user and, by that time, it should be working.”

When silence is the best policy

The preparations I made for my annual performance review at work were simple. I was going to say as little as possible while my boss sat in judgment of me. I would allow my mutism to serve as a silent protest against corporate culture, rampant capitalism, globalization and the same measly raise I heard everyone was getting, regardless of how well they did their job.

We actually have a pretty enlightened system in our company, even though it seems to change every year. A manager will look at objective data on your job skills and work habits, then assemble a smattering of buzzwords like “teamwork” and “communication” and “doesn’t mind being touched” onto a template. These phrases are read aloud as you follow along in your copy, much like the Lutheran church services of my youth, except you don’t have to stand and be seated at random points. (Also, worshipping the almighty leader is optional). At the end, you’re given a piece of paper with the only information you really care about, your new hourly rate.

Your active contribution to the process doesn’t have to amount to much at all. In one of the previous systems we had, the employee was required to evaluate themselves in about two dozen categories, including skills that seemed irrelevant to financial document analysis, like hopscotch and clay modeling. You had to come up with several sentences on each topic, then pick a number between one and six to rate yourself (one being “peak performer,” but secretly also the percentage of your increase). Objectivity was encouraged, so you had people admitting they let their sister’s boyfriend borrow the company helicopter, just to lend a ring of truth so that the rest of their self-promoting answers sounded plausible.

They also tried this thing one year called the “360 review,” wherein they’d solicit feedback on your accomplishments from your peers as well as your underlings. It was good to hear that Nancy in the next cubicle admired my organizational skills, but I could’ve done without knowing that Rick the janitor thought I discarded too much facial tissue.

In the end, whatever song-and-dance you prepared didn’t really matter, so now it’s all a one-way meeting. You can speak if you like, coming to your own defense in the matter of unexcused absences or admiring the splendid cut of your manager’s suit. I imagine you could bring an attorney if you want, though on balance I’d imagine that’s not a good idea. Or you can just sit there and take it like a man, and get out that much sooner.

My advanced planning consisted of visualizing how I would restrain myself from saying anything that might harm their impression of me as a quiet, conscientious worker. I’m generally not the talkative sort, but for some reason I can get oddly impassionate about the most minor issues, and then there goes my carefully constructed facade. One minute, I’m the consummate professional and the next, I’m ranting wildly about how stupid it is that we condone 2-em paragraph indents. Then they think I care, and I end up with some unwanted assignment.

This year, I would remain largely silent. I had practiced diligently at home the night before. I asked my son to throw rocks at me while I stood quietly and took it. I said not a word for virtually the entire evening, though admittedly I was unconscious for much of the period. I even refrained from sleep-talking during a dream in which dogs had invaded the Vatican, and it was my job to get them out.

The next morning, when the person who alphabetically precedes me was called into the office, I made a final review of my strategy. I’d decided that the bowed head and raised fist, as exhibited in the 1968 Olympics black power salute, would be too overt. I couldn’t remain completely silent during the 30-minute session without appearing suspicious, so I’d offer up a few well-placed grunts and moans if it seemed I needed to comment. I’d tell myself I only had 25 words to expend, and that if I went over the limit then Glenn Beck would become our next president.

When my name was called, I passed the desk of a co-worker who’d had her review the previous day.

“You might want to take along some snacks,” she advised. “Maybe some pretzels.”

Our manager was a notoriously long-winded individual who typically got his way in any argument by wearing down his opponent until they had to abandon their position to attend their infant’s college graduation. In previous years, I might’ve at least packed an overnight bag so I could make the point that our vacation scheduling process was too cumbersome. But I had learned my lesson and was determined to remain taciturn.

The session started benignly as I was given an overview of the new salary structure. There was a range and a mid-point and something about skill sets, which prompted me to give a knowing nod. Next he moved on to a new data collection model he was obviously proud of, which showed how many pages I had processed in the previous year. “Hmm,” I observed, which I count as — at most — half a word. Then I heard there’d be some vaguely defined departmental reorganization in the coming months, which I hoped included cleaning out the refrigerator. “Uh-huh,” I said. Hyphenated perhaps, but one word, tops.

Now we were moving on to the piece that had the potential to get heated. Did I realize that my tardiness rate had increased this year? “Hunh,” I said. And I didn’t seem to have the drive to pursue certain projects that I used to. “Ha,” I chuckled. My initiative to seek out pages to read was noticeably sagging. “Well,” I offered, “you know how it is …”.

He returned to positive territory, noting that I was still a much-respected employee and extremely valuable to the company. He hoped that some upcoming corporate initiatives would challenge me, and that I’d rise to those challenges like I’ve always risen in the past, and I thought “I bet you do hope that” but said only “OK.” He looked forward to another productive year working with me, and I again noted “OK”.

We were just about finished, and it looked promising that I wouldn’t have to fake a urinary emergency to get out of there before dinner. He said that our location had been recognized by headquarters as a key component to the company’s success, and that my pay increase was commensurate with my contribution to that success. I thought about how bad our economy had become if my 23-cent-an-hour raise was an accurate reflection of how the company was embracing twenty-first century technology while becoming a leader in markets it chose to dominate.

That’s what I thought. But I said only “thanks, Jim,” and returned to my desk, confident that a Beck administration had been averted, and that I could continue flying under the radar for yet another year.

Fake News: Nuclear posture is sagging

WASHINGTON (April 7) — President Obama released a Nuclear Posture Review Tuesday outlining conditions under which the U.S. might use atomic weapons, and it pointedly omits a central tenet of his predecessor’s policy. No longer would America consider unleashing its nuclear arsenal “just because we felt like it.”

The plan under former president George W. Bush stated that weapons might be employed in response to a conventional attack by a non-nuclear nation or simply, according to one Defense Department official in the previous administration, “if we’re having a bad day and need a little pyrotechnic pick-me-up.”

“What’s the point of having thousands of warheads if you can’t ever use them?” retired general Robert Calvin said. “It’d be like loading up on fireworks for the Fourth of July, and then just sitting around watching the Boston Pops concert on PBS.”

Obama’s new policy says the weapons stockpile represents a “fundamental role” in deterring a nuclear attack on the U.S., as opposed to the Bush strategy in which the bombs played a “critical role”.

“I don’t care if it’s a fundamental role, a critical role or a cinnamon roll, this policy simply represents weakness on our part,” said Republican Congresswoman Michele Bachmann. “We need to threaten potential adversaries to make sure we get our way on a whole range of issues.”

Bachmann cited currently stalled negotiations on new import treaties with Australia, and tariff issues with India’s software and entertainment industries as two examples where “a little nuclear saber-rattling could go a long way toward making foreign nations see things our way.”

“You don’t want to ship us more kangaroos? Fine. Expect to see a cruise missile headed for the Sydney Opera House by this time tomorrow,” Bachmann said. “Refuse to take those shrieking, high-pitched violin interludes out of Bollywood movie soundtracks, and the Gandhi Center for International Peace in Mumbai is rubble.”

The new Obama posture, which is noticeably more stooped than when he took office a year ago, would not apply to nations that aren’t parties to nonproliferation treaties, such as Iran and North Korea. They can still be blown off the face of the planet at a moment’s notice. But attacks from other countries on the U.S. or its allies, even those that used chemical or biological weapons, would not face an atomic response.

“I’d say it’ll be more of a tit-for-tat scenario,” said Obama’s Undersecretary for Military Weakness and Hesitation Thomas Stern. “If we’re chemically attacked, we might respond with bug spray or a really cheap perfume, like the Faith Hill Eau du Parfum now on sale at Walmart for only $14 a six-pack. If it’s a biological assault, we send in American Idol finalist Andrew Garcia.”

The announcement Tuesday is part of a broader effort by the president to pursue further arms reductions with Russia. Instead of the current scenario in which each side has an estimated 2,200 strategic warheads, Obama has proposed the so-called “one-for-you, one-for-me, two-for-you, two-for-me” principle in which both nations would pool all their weapons, then take turns picking their favorite few.

Observers also believe another option in the president’s pocket would be a game of Scrabble between himself and Russian president Dmitri Medvedev. The winner would then set the terms for all future negotiations. And no fair using those Russian Cyrillic characters like ζ and ∫ and ¶.

“Of course he would reserve the right to use proper names, but only as a final recourse,” Stern said of the president.

Website Review: MasseyCoal.com

    

When the above photograph is the most appealing artwork you can come up with for the home page of your website, you’re either in a really dirty business, or your designer is a little too deep into steampunk.             

While the rest of the nation enjoyed emergent spring this week, it was bleak as usual in the back-country hollows of West Virginia. In fact, it was more horror-filled than usual, as 25 coal miners perished in an explosion at the Upper Big Branch mine, owned by Massey Energy Company.             

I was curious to see how a large corporation such as Massey would handle such a tragedy on its website. Could they forsake the usual self-congratulatory blurbs, the smiling families who benefit from their product, and the thumbnail corporate snapshot (diluted earnings per share — $1.22!) long enough to confront the realities of a disaster? They got around to it, eventually.             

On Wednesday, the day after the disaster, large swaths of the home page were blank, including a section featuring recent commercials. Inexplicably, however, what did remain was a smiling vice president for safety quoted as saying “we are proud of our tradition of developing safety innovations, which we freely share with … the entire industry.” (The entire industry’s response? Thanks, but no thanks). By Thursday, however, the artwork and commercials had returned, along with a click-through about “Careers at Massey” (again, no thanks) and a small box offering deepest condolences to the families who lost loved ones.              

More information on the accident was available in the Newsroom, though you couldn’t help but question the sincerity when CEO Don Blankenship’s mournful regrets were followed with the standard news release boilerplate: “Massey Energy is the largest coal producer in Central Appalachia and is included in the S&P 500 Index.” Another news release from a week earlier reflected happier times at Massey, when stock from a previously announced registered public offering was priced at $49.75 per share, with the underwriters granted an option to purchase up to 1,275,000 shares on the same terms and conditions to cover over-allotments, if any. Those were the days.               

In the “About Us” section, there’s a timeline tracing company history back to its founding in 1920 by A.T. Massey, through the reign of Evan Massey in the 1940s and ’50s, W.E. Massey in the ’60s and E. Morgan Massey in the ’70s. Current chairman and first-ever non-Massey president Blankenship took over in the go-go ’90s, engineering reverse spin-offs, joint ventures and strategic alliances while — oh, yeah — trying to remember to occasionally extract coal from the ground. We also learn a little about mining methods in this space. For example, surface mining (known colloquially as “strip mining” or “raping Mother Earth”) accounts for almost half of the company’s coal production, and all that bothersome junk covering up the coal — soil and trees and flora — is called “overburden.”               

Under the “Investors” pulldown, we learn that Massey is the fourth-largest coal company in the U.S. and sold nearly 40 million tons of coal in 2007. That’s the equivalent in weight of nearly half a billion John Denver’s singing “Take Me Home, Country Roads” if he were still alive instead of busy making future coal. The next annual shareholder meeting is tentatively set for May 18 at the Jefferson Hotel in Richmond, Va., though organizers probably reserve the right to move it a mile under the hotel if press coverage is still intense. There are details of the corporate Mission and Values, as well as a Vision, inspired no doubt by leaking methane. There’s a member of the board of directors named Lady Judge. And for those keeping score at home, Massey’s CUSIP number is 576206-10.        

As part of this section, there’s also a downloadable PDF of Massey’s 2009 Corporate Social Responsibility Report. These documents have recently replaced the glossy annual reports that companies used to produce, and go much farther to project the image of the concerned but heartless conglomerate than raw numbers can ever show.        

The cover claims Massey is “Doing the Right Thing with Energy” and is strewn with pictures of guys with helmets squatting in streams, studying emergency medical techniques and smiling at the camera from deep inside a mountain, happy to be alive (for now). Safety is again a key theme, and it’s noted that Massey had its safest year in 2008, as measured by something called “non-fatal days lost, or NFDL”. A graph shows coal mining’s 4.7 incident rate per 100 full-time workers ranks the industry as slightly better than retail trade. I guess NFDLs make as good a measuring tool as anything, even if numbers could be slightly skewed when killed employees show up for their regular shifts as scheduled (more common than one might think, especially as Sears).       

We also read about the company’s commitment to the community, as displayed at the annual Christmas party where gifts were given to over 3,000 children. There are senior citizen appreciation dinners staged by something called “spousal groups,” which were probably called wives clubs until Massey got politically correct. When a flood struck southern West Virginia in early 2009, Massey was kind enough to recall 20 employees it had recently furloughed and put them to work shoveling mud. And for the Fourth of July last year, none other than the socially responsible Motor City Madman Ted Nugent was brought to coal country as the featured performer at the company picnic.

Within the “Safety” pulldown, we learn that “safety is job one,” that safety is “first,” and that Massey has a culture of safety with reduction of risk through safety innovation and recognition of safety excellence. “This focus on safety gives Massey a competitive advantage, because a safely operated mine is a productive mine.” Safety, safety, safety. The word is used so often that you know it has to be happening. Right? Innovations to safety are noted in a timeline: 1994 — they wear seat belts; 1995 — they design flapper pads (23-skidoo); 1996 — they require strobe lights (groovy); 2002 — they add a submarine safety package, perhaps in anticipation of making coal mining even more dangerous by doing it under the sea. Something called the “Raymond Safety Program” awards points to workers who do safe things. Points can be redeemed for tools, toys, electronics and other items. Wonder how many points you get for simply calling in sick and not showing up at your highly dangerous job.     

Of course these days the “Environment” has to qualify for its own pulldown, and it’s here we read that the company has achieved a 36 percent reduction in citations from state regulatory agencies. One site in particular led the company with a 70 percent reduction in violations from the West Virginia Department of Environmental Protection. At this rate, Massey may actually be complying with laws on a widespread basis by the end of the decade. They’re also spearheading a project to clean up the Little Coal River. It used to be called the Lot of Coal River but the water now has improved from black to a refreshing dark gray.     

I’ve already mentioned some of the Community Events, so I’ll skip this section and go lastly to the Careers area. No actual openings are posted, although I hear there may be a few forthcoming. The benefits actually seem pretty good, and I read elsewhere that an average annual salary of $60,000 for miners far outstrips what other work pays in this depressed area of the country. They have both a pension plan and a 401(k), as well as complete medical, prescription, dental and vision coverage with no monthly premium charged to the workers. That’s a better deal than even I have in my cushy office job. I’d be tempted to head for the hills myself if it weren’t for all those entrapment concerns I so foolishly hold onto.

The Massey website is generally well organized and easy to navigate, containing few of the dead-ends, ratholes or collapsing tunnels you might encounter elsewhere in their organization. I half-expected to click on some link that would take me deep into the bowels of the domain where I’d be ensnared in a dark space from which I was unable to extricate myself. But I was pleased to find I had survived the exploration and emerged much more knowledgeable about the coal industry, and largely in tact.   

Unlike some poor unfortunate souls we’ve read about in the last few days.

Revisited: 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.

Revisited: 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 Tweeting 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.

Can’t believe it’s Monday again

Watching coverage of the Masters golf tournament yesterday was greatly enhanced by the minimal number of commercials. The brevity of the interruptions was a nice contrast to the excruciating tedium of watching Ian Poulter stand over his putt for stretches of an hour or more.  

CBS explained at one point that sponsors, recognizing the magnitude of the event, had agreed to keep their advertising announcements down to a mere five minutes per hour. Similar corporate restraint has been shown for equally epic occasions in the past. I still remember our high school history teacher explaining how Ipana toothpaste’s exclusive sponsorship of World War II was handled with the utmost sensitivity and limited commercial interruption.  

In place of the standard 30-second spots, it appears advertisers were told they could have their company name and – at most, six or seven words – pronounced reverently and in a slight English accent while their logo was briefly superimposed over a fairway scene. So we heard the likes of “AT&T … Rethink Possible” and “IBM … Building a Smarter Planet” and “Exxon/Mobil … Taking on the World’s Energy Challenges”.  

If asked to boil down their corporate catchphrase to a select few words, I theorized how other companies might respond:  

Verizon … The Place For (dialtone)  

Blockbuster … Hey, Bob! We’ve Got a Customer!  

Blue Cross Blue Shield … Find Someone Who Cares  

McDonald’s … Would You Like Life With That?  

Microsoft … Whatever  

Consider Citibank … You Just Incurred a Service Charge  

Starbucks … Chances are Very Good We Got Your Order Right  

Seven Eleven … No Teeth Required  

General Motors … We Build ‘Em, You Ignore ‘Em  

Kroger … Clean-up on Aisle Eleven  

Walgreen’s … Purveyor of Fine Snuggies Since 2009  

Time Warner … Come Back — We Got Rid of AOL  

Dow Chemical … What’s That Smell?  

Lockheed Martin … C’mon. Let’s Have Another War.  

Motorola … Somehow, Not Yet Bankrupt  

Comcast … How Much for Showtime?   

+++  

We had a little dust-up at work recently that could only happen at a communications company.  

A display board that lists employee birthdays offered best wishes to “Alice W.” While workers are normally honored to be recognized by an inanimate slate of black felt and white lettering, Alice W. had an objection. As the only full-time Alice in the department, she didn’t appreciate the “W.” as a way to distinguish her from temporary Alice, who is only here for a few months.  

The One True Alice didn’t feel she should have to have a modifier. “I should be simply ‘Alice’ and temp Alice should be ‘Alice J.,” she complained.  

A meeting of top management quickly ensued, and a new policy was issued that, from now on, full first and last names would be displayed for everyone, and that “temp” would be added parenthetically to those who weren’t permanent workers.  

What wasn’t specified was how the lettering on the birthday cake should read, and whether we had to include full last names when singing the “Happy Birthday” song. Hopefully, clarification of the new policy on these points will be forthcoming.  

+++  

The first time I saw the term CHATROULETTE, it was all capitalized, and I couldn’t make it out as two merged words. It sounded to me like some kind of French cat sausage.  

+++  

You can always tell on TV or radio news that a public figure has died before they get to the “has died” part. There’s a certain respectful, slightly high-pitched tone to the newsperson’s voice during the initial part of the story where the recently deceased’s mini-biography is read.  

“Anatoly Dobrynin, Soviet ambassador to the United States for 24 years, and a tough yet affable diplomat who helped ease tensions during the Cold War era …”  

And then comes the verb that you know is inevitable.  

“… died yesterday.”  

Just once, I’d like to hear a happier ending to follow the obituary-style build-up:  

“John Forsythe, the debonair actor whose matinee-idol looks, confident charm and mellifluous voice helped make him the star of three hit television series, including ABC’s glamour soap ‘Dynasty,’ ate a half a dozen donuts yesterday at his home in Los Angeles.”  

“Malcolm McLaren, an impresario, recording artist and fashion designer who as manager of the Sex Pistols played a decisive role in creating the British punk movement, felt slightly ill for a while Saturday but, after lying down for a few minutes, was good as new and went to a movie.”  

+++  

Amateur sign-makers are notorious for mis-using quotemarks as a way to emphasize a certain word or phrase.  

Please put your name on bag or container or “everything” will be thrown away, reads the sign on the employee refrigerator at work. Of course they don’t really mean “everything” — which would include the shelving, the interior light, perhaps the entire appliance itself — and I guess that’s why it’s in quotes.  

All Easter candy is now “on sale“, they claim at the drug store. If you can consider stale Peeps an item that might be a good value at any price.  

I recently saw another set of inappropriate punctuation marks on the motorized shopping cart at the grocer. Out of order!! screamed the piece of cardboard, with a sense of urgency likely to upset sensitive handicapped customers.  

And don’t even think of asking us when it’s going to be fixed!!!  

+++  

Japanese carmakers have gotten really sensitive about potential flaws in their automobiles.  

My wife owns a Honda Fit that she’s crazy about and has never given her the least bit of trouble in five years of heavy use. She received a recall notice all the way from Japan the other day, notifying her of a defect in her power windows.  

Under the right (or wrong) circumstances, rainwater could possibly seep down through a rubber seal and could short out a motor which could cause her window to catch on fire.  

I’m not exactly sure how glass can be set ablaze, but I’d count a nation that survived two atomic bomb blasts to know what can and can’t catch on fire.  

+++  

“Coco” the Colossal Colon, a 40-foot-long, 4-foot-tall wrinkled pink large intestine, was on display at a local hospital this weekend.  

Designed to raise awareness of digestive health issues, the colon has openings at several points along its length, allowing viewers to see examples of colitis, colon cancer and hemorrhoids. To encourage youngsters to get an early start on taking care of their gastrointestinal tract, they can remove their shoes and crawl through the excretory piping.  

In the photo below, two moms stroke the colon — which never belonged to a particular human abdomen but is instead a replica — and admire its healthful hue.  

“This is one great looking colon, isn’t it?” said Allyson Garland, left.  

“I wish mine could give the kids as much enjoyment as they’re having here today,” said Karen Rickard, right.  

Moments after this photo was taken, several toddlers emerged from the rectum, squealing with delight.  

“The stuff of dreams,” sighed a family-centered gay friend of mine.  

Why does this end have to be "exit only"?

Fake News: He can’t write that

Funny Blog Man was having trouble coming up with a tasteful topic for his Tuesday post.

He had prided himself for quite some time on not resorting to profanity or bad taste in his efforts to bring a smile to his readers. But last Wednesday he mentioned using a urinary emergency to get out of his performance review, and on Monday he had written about a giant colon. He was slipping fast as he considered Fake News stories for today’s edition.

He couldn’t write about his skewered take on American Idol:

HOLLYWOOD — “This,” said the spikey-haired goofball, pausing with mock dramatics to raiser viewers’ anticipation and/or allow them time to retrieve a soda from the refrigerator, “is American Idol.”

“I’m gathered here with this week’s bottom three, as determined by you the voting audience. Gov. John Connally of Texas, why do you think you should survive another week?”

“I thought my rendition of Shania Twain’s ‘Feel Like a Woman’ had a lot of heart.”

“And Vice President Lyndon Johnson, you think you should be allowed to live on into the next round?”

“I know my vocals were a bit off this week, but I think I can help carry the South for the Democrats in 1964.”

“President John F. Kennedy, you’ve been in the bottom three for two weeks in a row. Simon wasn’t crazy about your arrangement, but Ellen complimented you for taking on such a big bold song. Randy and Kara indicated pretty strongly in their comments that they thought you should be assassinated. What would you say in response?”

“I tried my best. Whatever happens, this has been a great experience for me, and I really appreciate the wonderful welcome I received from the people of Dallas.”

“Vice President Johnson, after the nationwide vote … you are safe. President John F. Kennedy, you are eliminated. Now, you have to sing for your life and hope that the Judges’ Save will keep you alive as a potential American Idol. What are you going to sing? Wait a minute, wait a minute … Guest judge Lee Harvey Oswald wants to make a comment here. Lee Harvey?”

He couldn’t write about the tragic air disaster in Russia:

MOSCOW — The cargo jet carrying the remains of Poland’s political and military elite, who were killed in a plane crash Saturday, flew into a cloud-shrouded mountain on its return to Warsaw yesterday. All aboard were killed or re-killed.

As recovery teams worked at the site to recover victims’ bodies, a helicopter carrying supplies to the location also crashed, as did two ambulances and a fire truck.

And he surely couldn’t sully the heart-warming, values-validating finish at this weekend’s Masters golf tournament:

AUGUSTA, Ga. — God Himself lifted family man Phil Mickelson to a three-shot victory in the Masters Sunday, leaving skirt-chaser Tiger Woods to whine about his putting game while Mickelson hugged his cancer-surviving wife and his two daughters looked on with tears in their eyes.

“Now does everyone believe that I’m all for the conservative, traditional white guys of the world?” God asked CBS Sports’ Jim Nance.

God said his earlier efforts to show the world who His favorites were have been overlooked by the majority of observers.

“Republicans like Mark Sanford, Sen. John Ensign and Sen. Larry Craig get into sex scandals, yet I deliver them unimpeached to serve out their terms and retire with dignity,” God told Nance. “But Democrats like John Edwards and Eliot Spitzer — I smite these guys, for their domestic policies are not worthy in My sight.”

“What did you think about those double eagles by Phil Saturday on 14 and 15?” Nance asked.

“And did you ever notice that good conservatives like Ronald Reagan, George Wallace and the Pope are shot and yet they survive,” said God, ignoring Nance’s question. “While men like Martin Luther King Jr., Robert F. Kennedy and John Lennon are killed. Do I have to spell it out for your people?”

No, he couldn’t write about any of those topics. Maybe he’d finally just have to skip a day.

A bug’s life, transformed

Spring has arrived and so have the bugs. Though I’ll be the first to acknowledge that all creatures in God’s wondrous creation are worthy of respect and the right to live, I think I stepped on a caterpillar when I went out to check the mail Monday afternoon.

I swear, it wasn’t on purpose. It’s just that we have a lot of trees on our property, and these furry things have suddenly appeared everywhere over the last few days. I realized at the last moment what was about to happen, and I lurched sideways in an attempt to save him, or her, or it. It was too late.

I wiped my shoe in the grass after the unfortunate incident, which hardly seemed like a fitting ceremony to honor this bug’s brief life, but I wasn’t about to dig my high school bugle out of storage because I think it’s covered in spider webs. I didn’t want this insecticidal spree to spiral any further out of control.

It did make me pause to think, however, how we immense humans swagger through the natural world with so little thought for the beasts beneath us. We swat flies, squash roaches and eat Wendy’s hamburgers, all with complete disregard for the welfare for the lower life forms we are destroying in the process. To me, it seems about time we do a little something special for the entomological kingdom to show that we care.

There are literally trillions of these guys and gals scurrying amongst us, so it’s impossible to show my gratitude to each and every individual for whatever purpose it is they serve in the grand scheme of life. All one man can do is bring one pest into his home, give that bug a special day he will always remember, and hope that the karma and the word of mouth when he returns to the wild will allow me to live a slightly less guilty life.

“There is at least one good, honorable man among the humans,” he can report to his colleagues. “Don’t sting the chunky guy with the glasses.”

Below are some highlights from the day I tried to balance the scales in my little corner of the world.

Keeping up online

Humanity has developed some awesome technological devices to entertain and educate us, so I thought I’d share one of these with the Giant Peruvian Dinosaur Ant I brought into my house. Here, the ant gets a chance to check his email and catch up with a few friends on Facebook. You may recognize the home page from AOL on the screen behind him, but we can’t fault a creature who has barely emerged from the Mesozoic era for visiting such a primitive swebite. Besides, where else could he catch a quick update on whether or not Kate Gosselin was going to be leaving “Dancing With the Stars”?

Exercise is a great stress-buster

Too often, insects encounter us via the soles of our shoes, and that rarely makes a good first impression. I thought I’d turn the tables a bit by offering to bring my new ant friend along with me on my mid-day jog, allowing him to ride along on the top of my Nikes. We had a great run in the warm air heavily scented with azaleas and dogwoods. I think he struggled to hold on at a few points in the route, but that simply meant he got a good workout as well. We smiled as we passed the playground at the daycare center, where children laughed and squealed with innocence we can barely recall. We chuckled at the passing SmartCar that would barely hold the two of us. We recoiled in horror as I accidentally inhaled a gnat. We were tired at the end of the two-mile jaunt, but it was a good kind of tired.

A well-earned supper with the family

By dinnertime, the giant ant had virtually become a full-fledged member of the household, and joined my other animal companions for their evening meal. Taylor (left) and Harriett didn’t mind at all sharing their food with their new brother. There was enough for everyone in the bountiful indoor world, where predators and prey are merely movements on the other side of a thick, protective sliding glass door. When Taylor was finished with his bowl, the ant leapt off his back, directly into the remaining Cat Chow, frolicking in the plenty that was unknown out in the yard, where he had to fight thousands of rivals for the smallest scrap of potato chip. Soon, both his abdomen and thorax were full, and a contented evening of relaxation could begin with his new family.

Bath time

As the day drew to a close, it was time to scrub away the accumulation of grime that comes with a busy schedule of fun. I wasn’t about to allow this disease-carrying vessel of filth and bacteria in my bathtub or shower so we arranged a quick dip in the toilet. He splashed merrily in the water as I tried to work a loofa into the crevices of his exoskeleton. He wanted some tub toys to play with, so I wadded up a ball of toilet paper and tossed it in. Tragically, the wad knocked him into the deep end of the bowl. His drowning was quick and mostly painless for him, and quite convenient for me, as I simply had to flush him away.

Somewhere, in a sanitary sewer deep beneath the city, he’ll whisk past millions of his insect friends, who will offer a touching final tribute to one who was briefly able to bridge two worlds.

ending text

Fake News: Smaller nations to help with nonproliferation

WASHINGTON (April 14) — Representatives from 47 nations came to the U.S. capital this week to stay in a nice hotel, maybe enjoy a movie and a walk among the cherry blossoms, and agree to secure their nuclear materials from potential terrorists.

President Obama hosted a two-day summit of leaders from countries large and small, all of whom agreed to say whatever the president asked them to say, as long as the minibar was covered and they got a picture of themselves with the president.

“We must undertake a bold and pragmatic program to avoid drifting towards a catastrophe beyond comparison,” Obama told the conference.

“It made me glad I saved that watch with the glowing dial that my grandfather gave me,” said Hungary’s Jan Watislav. “I’m told it contained radium, so I got to come to the conference. I hereby vow that the watch will be put safely beneath my underwear in the bottom drawer of my dresser, guarded around the clock by my dog, Mr. Ruff-Ruff.”

Obama said he opened a “big tent” at the conference so that smaller nations and their stockpiles could be part of a worldwide effort to keep weapons out of the hands of rogue states, jihadists and criminal gangs. Even countries barely aware of the periodic table of elements were invited if they held any quantities of fissile material at all.

“We appreciated the cultural sensitivity of the big tent, but we actually preferred the Four Seasons,” said Egyptian foreign minister Abdul Gammal.

Though the effort was aimed primarily at reducing access to the two key materials required to make a bomb — plutonium and highly enriched uranium — other potentially dangerous components were also targeted.

Ukranian president Vasily Shalikashvili said a friend of his son’s had some Silly Putty that was starting to smell bad, and could possibly be converted into a weapon of mass destruction. Mexican foreign minister Hernando Suarez said he was on Nickelodeon’s “You Can’t Do That On Television” when he was a kid, and thought he still had the slime-encrusted shirt he wore. Another Central American representative admitted off the record that he thought his country had an old car battery out back that could be trouble.

Delegates who couldn’t confirm what their nations’ stockpiles might include still speculated they “might have some plutonium around here somewhere,” and committed to checking the pockets on their other pants when they got home.

Several innovative approaches to secure the materials were offered by members of the developing world. Colombia’s representative said his nation would remove the large flashing “FISSILE MATERIALS — DO NOT STEAL AND SELL TO AL-QAIDA” sign from their uranium cache and replace it with a more subtle “Cheerios” label. Ghana’s minister said he’d put weapons-grade radioactive materials in his locker at school, stressing it would be “placed behind the math book.” Canada’s senior officials said their stockpile would be given its own evening talk show on CNN, where no one would see it.

A few of those in attendance admitted they misunderstood the invitation. Macedonia’s prime minister said he read the part about “dangerous heavy metals” in the pre-conference materials and thought he’d be previewing the upcoming Megadeath tour, which ironically turned out to be sort of true. Belgium’s leading general said he thought geraniums were being discussed, not uranium.

Still, outside experts were optimistic about the conference outcome. Sam Nunn, the former senator who tutors Obama on proliferation issues, said he thought “we are now closer to cooperation than catastrophe.”

“As long as I’m closer to the elevator than I am to the ice machine, I’m fine with whatever,” said Tajikistan’s Oreck Muballah.

Rewritten songs reflect reality

It’s that time of year when we roll down the ragtop, crank up the radio, and give full voice to our inner Bowersox. Nothing is more American than hitting the open road with a song in your heart that bursts unchecked onto your lips, causing the guy in the next car over to wonder if you’re spastically seizing or merely rocking out.

Singing along with our favorite popular tunes is a great warm-weather pastime in this country, ranking right up there with foreign invasions. Though both often involve a brutal assault, the sing-along’s casualty counts are far more contained, with only your fellow passengers suffering. If only innocent Iraqi and Afghan civilians could simply wait for the next stop light to hop out of harm’s way.

I try to limit collateral damage by taking the advice of American Idol judges and “making the song my own.” I’m not content to regurgitate well-worn lyrics verbatim; I like to modify the words to fit my personality. This allows me to still feel the original songwriter’s spirit while accommodating my own peculiar pecadilloes.

For example, I like to try to clean up the grammar and syntax. As a former copy editor, it bugs me no end to hear supergroups like the Supremes, the Rolling Stones and the Who mangle our language. So I take a few liberties, knowing I’m probably beyond the long reach of ASCAP as I tool down Interstate 77 in my Honda Civic. So “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” becomes “There Isn’t Any Mountain The Elevation of Which is Higher.” The classic interlude of “Satisfaction” is changed from the huffing “Can’t get no…/Can’t get no…” into “I can’t get any…/I can’t get any…”. “Summertime Blues” is transformed from a passionate working-class teenage lament into a well-reasoned labor complaint:

Well, I’m going to raise a fuss and I’m going to raise a holler
About working all summer just trying to earn a dollar
I went to the bossman and I tried to get a break
But the boss said “No dice, son, you have to work late”
Sometimes I wonder what I’m going to do
Because there isn’t any cure for the summertime blues.

Note the absence of abominations like “gonna” and “ain’t” and “gotta”. Think about how much more likely I would be to have a Schedule Variance Form approved by my supervisor than a whiner like Roger Daltry.

I’m also not comfortable singing certain songs in the first person. I’m not one to wear my emotions on my sleeve, and prefer instead to croon about hypothetical feelings. I might’ve wanted very much to hold her hand, or became extremely agitated when I saw her standing there, but I don’t like to admit it. It works better for my own personal style to comment on the angst of others:

Oh, yeah, he’ll tell you something
He thinks you’ll understand
When he says that something
He wants to hold her hand

Or perhaps:

Well his heart went boom
When he crossed that room
And he held her hand
In his …
Well, they danced through the night
And they held each other tight
And before too long they fell in love with each other

I don’t have to actually become the Alan Parsons Project:

He was the eye in the sky
Looking at her, he could read her mind.

…and I don’t have to spend hours in makeup and wardrobe becoming Lady Gaga:

Her her her her her her her her pokerface

And I can belt out one of the most clever song lyrics in the history of rock without feeling gay:

He walked into the party like he was walking onto a yacht
His hat strategically dipped below one eye
His scarf it was apricot
He had one eye on the mirror as he watched himself cavort
And all the girls dreamed that they’d be his partner, they’d be his partner

He’s so vain, he probably thinks this song is about him
He’s so vain, I bet he thinks this song is about him
Doesn’t he? Doesn’t he?

Finally, I try to put certain songs in a more realistic perspective. When these classics were current hits some 40 or more years ago, they reflected our youthful yearnings. Now that we’re older and more concerned with losing our hair than losing our baby, it only makes sense that we adapt those charmingly naive lyrics to reflect lives that are well lived but mostly over. So a favorite Beach Boys oldie requires a few changes:

Wouldn’t it have been nice if we had been older?
Then we wouldn’t have had to wait so long
And wouldn’t it have been nice to have lived together
In the kind of world where we would’ve belonged?
You know if would’ve made it that much better
When we could’ve said goodnight and stayed together
Wouldn’t it have been nice?

Maybe if we would’ve thought and wished and hoped and prayed it might’ve come true
Baby then, there wouldn’t have been a single thing we couldn’t have done
We could’ve been married, and then we would’ve been happy
Oh, wouldn’t it have been nice?

I can still be an inveterate romantic and a huge fan of Lennon and McCartney’s timeless songbook, yet still retain my respect for Strunk and White’s Elements of Style.

Revisited: Rock Hill’s Come See Me Festival

Starting last Thursday and continuing until April 25, my little Southern hometown is celebrating its spring festival. Much like the SpringFests and SpringAlives and FestiFuns commemorating the arrival of warm weather you’ll find in other locations, the Come See Me Festival sponsors a variety of events to get people outdoors to experience the fresh air and sunshine of spring.   

When I first moved here, I admit I was a little taken aback by the odd name. At the time, Rock Hill’s primary industry was an acetone processing plant that gave off a constant chemical smell, and it seemed to me that “Come Smell Me” might be a more appropriate label. As I got to know a few locals, they explained the name originated from the common expression of goodwill that Southerners would offer as they emerged from their winter hibernation. “Y’all come see me,” they’d say, warmly reflecting an earlier era of friendliness and civility when people kept constantly clean homes and there was no cable TV. Nowadays, you’d have to add, “but be sure to call first so I can vacuum the couch and set up the DVR to record ‘CSI’.”   

Since then, the name has become second-nature to me, and the phrase “when is Come See Me?” no longer sounds like a recent immigrant trying to schedule a urologist to make a house call. My family doesn’t attend as many of the events as we used to; the large percentage devoted to children’s activities no longer appeal to my 17-year-old (who’s probably done his last “jumpy house” until he’s an inebriated collegian), and the number of marginally interesting activities has exploded as organizers try to fill the calendar from sunrise to sunset.   

One event we do try to make is the so-called “Gourmet Gardens.” What began years ago as an opportunity for local restaurants to sell small samples of their specialties in the lovely venue of a flower-filled garden has gradually devolved into what we experienced Saturday – mostly out-of-town purveyors selling mostly barbecue and gyros at mostly ridiculous prices. One vendor sold his “gyro only” for $6 and his “gyro plate” for whatever amount it is when you handwrite an “9” on top of a “8,” or perhaps vice versa. Whether it’s $17 or $72, that’s one damn fine shaved-lamb sandwich.   

My wife and I milled around the gardens, which is now actually the concrete-paved slab separating a collection of softball fields, trying to find something both palatable and affordable. After several loops around the circle, she settled on fried mushrooms and an ear of cheese-covered corn (the “fried” and “cheese-covered” modifiers would normally be implied, but I add them here for any readers overseas.) Looking for something a little different, I decided to experiment with the “Louisiana Boudoin Balls.” The guy selling them joked he wouldn’t sell me any till I attempted to pronounce the product, so I gave him my best French-inflected “boo-dawn.” He laughed, then handed over the fried, breaded and balled sausage-and-spice concoction. There were (disconcertingly) two of them, hot and peppery, rattling around the bottom of a cone cup, looking thoroughly not worth $3.50 per ball. I tried to convince myself the flavor was exotic, until halfway through the final ball I decided “bad” was a better description.   

I’m pretty sure we won’t be attending many more Come See Me events this week, but I thought I’d describe a few of the other highlights still to come in case anybody out there wants to jet in for next weekend’s finale (rooms are still available at the Super 8, Rodeway and Microtel motels).   

There’s both a Mayor’s Frog Jump and a Mayor’s Prayer Breakfast (the frog, in the person of a “Glen the Frog” costumed character, is the festival’s mascot). In the frog jump, kids can either bring their own frogs — remember, we are in the South — or purchase one on-site. The youngsters then encourage the slippery hoppers to make the biggest jump in the competition by pounding on the ground behind them, blowing air up their hind end, or slipping them a little of Uncle Sonny’s crystal meth. The Prayer Breakfast is basically the same thing, except with city councilmen instead of frogs and pancakes instead of meth. You may be fortunate enough to attend one of these events in a year when organizers get a little confused, and you’ll see either a prayer jump or a frog breakfast.   

There’s a Tuba Choir Concert, one of many musical presentations staged by the local college in the vain hope their musical performance students can get some experience in front of an audience. (Can you imagine a graduate trying to find a job in this economy with a tuba degree?)   

There’s a community theatre performance of “Father Knows Best” running for several nights. I’m not sure if this production distills the entire story arc of the eight-season 1950s TV series down to a single night, or whether a selected episode is recreated (maybe the one where Latin dancer Rita Moreno plays an exchange student from India). But I don’t intend to find out.   

There’s a highly regulated Tailgate Party in a grassy field near Winthrop Lake where no vehicles are allowed, no tailgating is allowed in the lot where you can leave your vehicle, and glass containers, beer kegs, pets, household furniture, wheeled toys, golf carts and tiki torches are prohibited. They don’t specifically disallow improvised explosive devices, kangaroos or investment bankers, so maybe those are permitted.   

There’s a Be Seen Green Parade in which participants where green clothes to show off their environmental awareness and get one more use out of those St. Patrick’s Day ensembles. “We’re going to have some hybrid cars going through the parade this year,” said one organizer, though with any luck their weak acceleration will be such that anyone who’s struck won’t be hurt.   

There are a number of other frog-themed events giving Glen a chance to show his humongous felt mug around town. There’s something called Frog Hoppin’ Fun that showcases amphibian-related games and crafts for the 2-to-6-year-old set while their parents can take advantage of free dental screenings. There’s a Frog Float where sponsored rubber frogs race toward a finish line with the winner getting a $1000 gift certificate (deceased participants from the Mayor’s Frog Jump are ineligible to join, as their bloating gives them unfair buoyancy). And, there’s a Frog Coloring Contest that’s totally fixed, as last year’s winner didn’t even stay inside the lines.   

Rounding out the other highlights, there’s a barbecue competition featuring chefs and their smokers from throughout the Southeast (samples can be purchased, though pork is off the menu); there’s a mass kazoo march in which participants are asked to donate a bottle of lotion to a local children’s home; there’s a sheep-shearing, presumably because you can’t shear frogs; and there’s something called Everything Trucks!, where everything is a truck.   

The festival finale takes place on the last evening this coming Saturday. In what I earnestly pray is a carefully scheduled climax, a team of airborne acrobats from the Carolina Skydiving Team will give a parachute-jumping exhibition, while a Fireworks Extravaganza will fill the sky with brilliant pyrotechnic displays. I can’t believe the organizers of these two separate events wouldn’t vigilantly coordinate their efforts to ensure the jumpers aren’t blown out of the evening sky by rocket-propelled mortars, though maybe the risk of that prospect is meant to draw even bigger crowds to the final night.   

Only a dissection of the beloved Glen would be a more horrible way to end this year’s Come See Me.

Revisited: 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 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.

Looking for a new hobby (perhaps in the lobby)

I like to think there’s a deeper meaning to life, that there’s a rhyme and a reason for why natural calamities wipe out whole nations and why that guy cut me on in traffic just now and had the nerve to give me the finger. There has to be some unifying force that holds the universe together and makes order prevail over chaos.

I think it’s in the rhyme. I believe there’s a relationship between words which sound alike that goes far beyond any other connection they might have. When I’m preparing to make life-altering decisions, I consider what activities are already a key part of my existence, then take on new enterprises that rhyme with these.

When I bought my current house, a major selling point was that it was located at the corner of Shadowbrook and India Hook. When I was looking to buy a reliable car, I remembered how touched I was by the Oscar-winning performance of Henry Fonda in “On Golden Pond,” and chose to purchase a Honda. Since my favorite processed dairy products are all cheeses, I selected Jesus to be my preferred Living God.

Now I’m looking for a new hobby that aligns with what are currently my two predominant pastimes, jogging and blogging. Both of these diversions have given me enormous pleasure in recent years but they need a supplement. I’ve been a casual runner for over 30 years, and I’m rapidly approaching the age where I need to take on an exercise that’s physically less taxing. I’ve tried walking but I’m afraid it will lead to caulking or stalking, and I’ve never been very good at home repair or serving 30-month prison terms. Blogging holds no significant health hazards, if you don’t count neglecting to take your cholesterol medicine because it would make a good post topic, and I look forward to continuing it.

Perhaps I’ll also take up clogging. This traditional European dance has migrated to the Appalachian Mountains and become popular with country folk in my part of the South. Once danced with wooden shoes, more sensible footwear now predominates, though the emphasis on stomping out a downbeat with enthusiastic footwork lives on. While creating audible percussive rhythms has its appeal, I’m not sure I can do it with my feet. I’ve never been a coordinated hoofer, and I’m afraid my fellow dancers would look unkindly on audible percussion I made with my face.

How about logging? Though typically considered more of a vocation than an avocation, I’m sure there are elements of commercial forestry that could be amusing. Have you ever seen those lumberjacking competitions on TV where guys balance on floating logs or race the clock to chainsaw a redwood into submission? I suppose it’s dangerous, yet I could probably stand to have a little more peril in my life. I wonder how you get started in such an enterprise. Is there an association I should contact, or do I just show up in the nearest woods and start hacking away? This may take more research.

I also understand there’s an activity called mud bogging. The popular off-road motorsport involves driving a vehicle through a pit of mud, with the winner determined by whoever goes the farthest before sinking into the underworld. Typically, vehicles competing are four-wheel drives, but I’m not sure that’s anywhere in the rules. I wonder if they’d let me use my old ten-speed bicycle. I can’t imagine I’d get very far at first, though I’m willing to practice diligently until the ooze declines to absorb me.

I’m also intrigued by fogging, as it’s practiced in movies and the theatre. There’s nothing like a looming haze hovering just above the floor to create an atmosphere of menace. Until recently, it took expensive equipment and huge quantities of dry ice to create roiling banks of smoke, but cheaper fog machines have now become available to the public. I’m thinking of employing such a set-up to increase the drama that accompanies my entrance into an office at work. My proposal to re-price inventory on a weekly rather than quarterly basis stands a much better chance of being accepted by management if the ominous threat of supernatural intervention is implied. And the PowerPoint presentation would look a lot cooler, too, especially if I supplemented it with lasers.

I don’t know that there are many opportunities in modern American society for flogging. I’m sure there are those who deserve a ritual whipping for a variety of offenses, yet our so-called “civilized” structure of law typically forbids it. Singapore was in the news a few years back for planning to flog a young American caught chewing gum or passing notes and letting his shirt tail out or some such crime. Maybe I could practice my new hobby there. On my next business trip to India, I can arrange for a connection through Changi Airport, and the authorities could have a collection of miscreants lined up for me near the baggage claim. As long as I don’t have to go through security twice.

Other than these options, I’m running a bit short on ideas. I went to a rhyming dictionary online and found a few other possibilities.

Hogging has several meanings, though most don’t lend themselves to leisure pursuits: one involves shredding waste wood, one is cutting a horse’s mane as short as possible (what fun!), one refers to the stress put on a ship as it passes over a wave, and one is the practice at some fraternities of rounding up the rotund for a party. Hardly the stuff of hobbies.

Nogging refers to brick masonry built up between wooden uprights or studs. I’ve started an interest group on Facebook for this topic, but don’t hold much hope of a response.

Pogging, according to the Urban Dictionary, is the act of talking on a cell phone while driving, causing horrible annoyance to those nearby or, alternatively, the act of performing sex with a female with the use of a … whoa, hold on there. How can the same word have one meaning so innocuous and the other so provocative? The UD offers an imaginary conversation among the hipsters who speak this lingo, but it’s not much help in clarifying the difference: “Hey, do you want to go pogging?” “Sure, we can pog all night. I hope there is a good turnout.” “Oh, there will be. I’ve called grandma, and she’s got all her book club coming.” My grandmother just recently became comfortable using a cell phone, and I don’t want to be part of anything that further confuses the meaning of “wireless device” for her.

I’m not sure this rhyming strategy is going to work. I suppose there’s Always Alliteration. Let’s see what the Urban Dictionary might suggest: There’s Jelly Bracelet, Jingle Bowels, Joe Jonas, Jewfro, Juggalo …

Fake News: Volcano has hidden benefits

LONDON (April 19) — Sources at the major airlines report that executives are secretly delighted with delays in Europe caused by the Icelandic volcano, since it gives them a new excuse in their arsenal of reasons why flights are so often late or cancelled.

“This represents a true breakthrough in crafting explanations that passengers can’t question,” said an official who identified himself only as Capt. Rolf. “Who’s going to argue with a volcano? This allows us to yank people off the plane and condemn them to the cot village on Concourse C with even more impunity than we showed before.”

In the past, airlines have relied on two primary strategies to head off passenger complaints to the FAA about their shoddy treatment. Either carriers would offer travelers a justification that was simply too crazy to be subjected to logical reasoning, or the story would be so frightening that flyers would gladly accept the delay.

“To be able to add ‘volcanic eruption’ to this list gives us much more flexibility to operate our network profitably,” Rolf said. “Some people were starting to see through what used to be our favorite excuse, that we were attaching a new wing to the fuselage and would be ready to take off as soon as the glue dried.”

Rolf revealed some of the other most popular pretexts in current use:

• The pilot has a stomach ache
• We’re still trying to extricate a fat guy from coach
• The special “Mile High Club” sanitation unit is required in several of the restrooms
• We’re waiting on the Yemeni vice president for terrorism to make his connection
• Someone on the previous flight forgot to return their tray table to an upright and locked position, throwing air traffic control computers into chaos
• There are bats in the overhead storage bins
• We’re still loading up the baby diapers, so fussing will be at an acceptable level during the flight
• Crossword puzzles in the in-flight magazines are all filled in, and we’re waiting for press availability to print new issues
• Teens are clogging up the SkyMall, hanging out with their friends
• The starboard engine became unbuttoned, so we’re flying in a safety pin from St. Louis
• The coffee is too warm and we can’t let you board until it’s tepid
• The autopilot is drunk
• We forgot how to fly one of these things (it’s more complicated than you think)

Meanwhile, airport officials suffering through a fourth day of disruptions Monday demanded that the volcano stop its seismic activity immediately, since emissions are in blatant defiance of no-smoking regulations at most locations.

“There’s a small glassed-in area where smoking is allowed, and the volcano is clearly violating the rules by letting second-hand smoke drift not only throughout the airport, but over the entire continent,” said Amsterdam’s port authority chairman Hans Wender. “These rules are for the safety and comfort of all passengers, and just because you’re a volcano doesn’t exempt you from health and safety regulations.”

The volcano could not be reached for comment, but a spokesperson close to the 5,500-foot mountain said “Arrhh! The lava! It’s burning my skin! And the pyroclastic flow! It hurts! Arrhh!”

Finally, the makers of Volkswagen — perhaps looking at an increase in auto travel for the duration of the eruption — announced a new model in their fleet will be named after the volcano.

“In the honorable tradition of the Touareg, the Tiguan, the Routan and the Eos, we are proud to unveil the ‘Eyjafjallajokull’,” said design vice president Werner Horst. “Like our other models, it rolls off the tongue as easily as it drives.”

Horst said the Eyjafjallajokull had been in development for several years before the Iceland disaster unfolded, but the original name for the new sedan, the “Hitlermobile,” could easily be set aside.

“Like the ash cloud now settling over most of Europe, our new car will spew noxious emissions, result in tremendous costs to the economy, and yet will strangely remain popular throughout the continent,” Horst said. “Test drive one today.”

Feeling a little pained today

Today, I got nothing.    

More accurately, I got a head full of Vicodin, courtesy of my personal physician, to treat my ailing spine. I’ve had another flare-up of lower back muscle spasming, just like I seem to have every six months or so. I recited the same symptoms I experienced from last October to Dr. Jackson as he helped me onto his exquisitely tissued examining table. He moved my legs up and down and pronounced the diagnosis. I could’ve done this myself (the pronouncing, not the leg-moving) but I don’t own a prescription pad with all the fancy DEA numbers he has. He threw in a side order of diclofenac sodium just to make sure I’d be sufficiently immobilized. A few days of rest, he predicts, and I’ll be back on my feet again.    

Here’s a link to the post I wrote last time this happened, if you’re really that interested in the details: http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/10/07/back-to-the-future/    

In the meantime, I’m having trouble focusing, which doesn’t hinder blog production in most people, but is giving me some trouble. Still, I haven’t failed for over a year now to produce an original piece each and every weekday, and I’m not about to allow a little blinding agony stop me. It’s just that I may be a little scattered. Just like that Rolling Stones song: “I’ve been scattered … What does it matter? … Scattered.”    

I also like that song by Paul Young, from the eighties, I think it was: “Every time you go away/You take a piece of meat with you.”    

Some day soon I’m going to write a piece about how much I enjoy typing. I’m pretty fast, pretty accurate, and have always gotten a thrill all out of proportion to the routine act as I bang away at keys on a computer keyboard. My favorite word to type is “management.” Something about how you have to use fingers from alternate hands for just about each letter. Management. Management. The last half I do really fast. You should see me. I need to learn how to embed video into a blog post some day. Management.    

Several observations about my trip to the doctor’s office. They’ve installed one of those palm-reading devices at the reception desk, not the scarf-bedecked dark-haired lady with the mole on her cheek, but a high-tech machine to prove you are who you say you are. They don’t want just anyone walking in off the street and picking up their diclofenac sodium. This isn’t a Burger King, you know. That’s next door.    

Anyway, I noticed that they now ask patients if they mind having their privacy invaded by letting a scanner look at their hand whorls. This being South Carolina, I imagine a few of the older folks are afraid that Obama wants the information so he can send the black helicopter to pick you up and take you to the internment camp as soon as you’re done dropping off your stool sample. Once, the guy in front of me expressed concern the mechanism would mess with his pacemaker. Me, I’ll show my hand to anybody who’s interested. It looks sort of like this (Ψ) but I have five fingers instead of three.    

Why does every medical office I’ve been to lately have the Home and Garden Channel showing on the television? “DO NOT CHANGE THE CHANNEL” warns the sign, so we all comply meekly and admire the two-story fixer-upper a young couple much healthier than any of us is considering in the San Fernando Valley. I guess it’s the most innocuous network offering out there. News channels might provoke fistfights and heated debates, soap operas on the major networks at this time of day are too depressing (people sicker than us yet inexplicably much better looking) and animated kids’ programs might provoke fistfights and heated debates.    

When you approach the front desk to sign in, they always asks “how are you?” and everybody automatically responds “fine,” even though you know they’re not or why else would they be at the doctor? I too say I’m fine, but I mean it in the sense that I’m extremely physically attractive. “He’s so fine,” say my friends. They’re right.    

At the checkout, there’s a “WOW!” card, which allows you to officially recognize employees of the Carolinas Health System for caring, commitment, integrity, teamwork, communication, safety or service recovery. I think I officially recognize one of the physician assistants from the YMCA, though there’s no box for that. A nice lady said words in my direction as I was being weighed. I’d count that as an attempt at communication if I knew her name.    

My son asked me to stop at the Sonic drive-in restaurant on the way home to get him french toast sticks. Sonic is one of those old-timey franchises where roller-skate-wearing carhops bring your meal on a tray and attach it to your car window. As I pulled into a parking space, one of the workers had her back to me, standing halfway in the parking space and engaged in earnest conversation with what look liked a manager. She was near tears as I edged closer and closer, trying to keep my rear-end out of traffic. I think I almost touched her as I finally settled tightly into the space. Would a mere nudge from my bumper constitute hitting her with my car? They are called carhops, you know.    

Maybe this is the day I finally turn to the Bible to find solace and direction for my life. I lift the heavy volume from the shelf in our library — forsaken too long in my search for earthly delights — and turn to a random passage. “For then the king of Babylon’s army besieged Jerusalem, and Jeremiah was shut up in the court of the prison, which was in the king of Judah’s house.” Sorry, can’t relate to that one. Let’s try another. “Mephibosheth had a young son whose name was Mica. And all who dwelt in the house of Ziba were servants of Mephibosheth.” (Lots of housing references here. Wonder if they had the Home and Garden Channel back then.)    

Okay, one more try, then it’s back to agnosticism: “And after they had passed through Pisidia, they came to Pamphylia.” Now we’re getting somewhere.    

I’ll finish up today’s post with a few photographs from my family collection, and apologize again for the questionable unity of this post.    

Some relatives on my wife's side, I think

  

My niece, and a house.

  

Me, standing next to some kind of pagoda thing, in Sri Lanka

Fake News: al-Qaida suspected in neighborhood rampage

ROCK HILL, S.C. (April 21) — Terrorism is suspected in a series of incidents in the small neighborhood of Shadowbrook Park after a night of horror that residents haven’t witnessed since the sewer backed up down by the creek.

At least twelve mailboxes were destroyed by baseball bats, three car windshields were damaged and the trees at one house were laced with toilet paper following a rampage that experts say has all the hallmarks of al-Qaida.

“It’s chilling to see the hand of bin Laden at work so close to home,” said the guy who always walks his dog right at 5 p.m. every day. “But we steadfastly refuse to let terrorism and fear rule our lives. The scheduled barbecue this Sunday in the cul-du-sac will proceed as planned.”

The guy said that security will be extra tight for the long-planned event. Weeds will removed from the base of the “Neighborhood Watch” sign, and the posting of a bright orange sign near the development’s entrance will stress that participants should bring a covered dish to the cookout, but to uncover it on arrival so it can be inspected.

Police believe the vandalism spree took place early Wednesday morning, some time after the newspaper delivery person makes his run through the 50-home neighborhood. Speculation was rampant among a group of mid-morning strollers that a cell of six to eight individuals entered the area through an overgrown culvert not far from the lighted “Welcome to Shadowbrook” sign.

“And we had such a good turnout two Saturdays ago to spruce up the median there with fresh pine straw,” lamented the pudgy woman with the big sunglasses. “Now the straw is overflowing into the street, probably from that windstorm last Thursday though possibly because foreign jihadists are trying to disrupt our way of life.”

“Islamo-fascist hate groups are well known to be stridently opposed to tidy landscaping,” added the taller woman who probably used to be hot but now wears mom jeans.

“There was a man with a beard in line at the Earth Fare the other day,” said the retired music professor who always has a visor on. “He was buying the Mediterranean salad, with olives and hummus and feta cheese. I wouldn’t put mailbox destruction past him for one minute.”

No one was hurt during the bender of senseless destruction, though the postal worker who stays dressed in his uniform to cut his grass every Friday said his wife felt her heart race briefly when she came upon their shattered mailbox.

“Does anybody know anyone who will sink a new post by our curb if I can find a woodworker to carve our street number into our new box?” cried the postman. “Anybody? Please, I beg you for help.”

The guy with the giant forehead and grey sweatpants suffered the worst loss in the attack. The remnants of at least six rolls of toilet paper still could be plainly seen throughout his oaks and elms, despite an afternoon-long work session by rescue workers.

“You can tell this was a highly-trained cadre looking to cause maximum destruction,” the man wrote in an email exchange with neighbors. “They used that Seventh Generation brand of recycled paper. It just turns to mush in a heavy dew.”

The only apparent witnesses to the attack were three high-school seniors who were smoking under a streetlight with some of their friends.

“I saw about four or five dudes with head scarves and backpacks. I’m pretty sure one of them was rockin’ an Ayman al-Zawahiri t-shirt,” said the kid with the backwards baseball cap who sold magazine subscriptions for his club that one summer. “I think another one was wearing a cherry bomb vest but it failed to detonate so he just smashed another windshield.”

Police said they would ask federal authorities to increase security in the area following the blitz. FBI spokesman Arnold Shumer from the regional office in Atlanta told reporters from CNN that “no, we’re not going to do that.”

Obama thinks litmus test may be good after all

Reversing a decision announced only Tuesday, President Obama said he will require a litmus test of potential Supreme Court nominees, as well as other analyses of their chemical composition.    

“Upon further reflection, I think it is important that we know whether the nation’s next justice is acidic, alkaline or neutral,” Obama told reporters at the White House. “There must be both a proper pH balance as well as an ideological balance on our highest court.”    

Each of the leading candidates will be required to lick a purple piece of litmus paper to see if it turns blue, indicating they are primarily base, or red, indicating an acid tendency. In the interest of health, a separate strip of paper will be used for each potential nominee, though Administration officials were quick to stress that none of the nine were suspected of having any saliva-borne diseases.    

The current makeup of the Court includes four justices who are alkali and four who are acidic, so the new appointee could hold a swing vote in any future cases that rely on acid-base chemistry. One such case currently under review — Acid Washing vs. Eighties Jeans — could be immediately impacted by the appointment to fill the seat of retiring justice John Paul Stevens.    

The screening process, parts of which are already under way, was last used during Senate consideration of the nomination of Judge Clarence Thomas. Despite controversial claims that Thomas had sexually harassed members of his staff, he was ultimately confirmed when his litmus result came back green, a rare outcome indicating his body is composed primarily of the element chlorine. Senators who had opposed his appointment gave up the fight when they realized he could be in charge of maintaining the Supreme Court’s swimming pool.    

Most of the typical human body is made up of oxygen, which comprises roughly two-thirds of our mass. Carbon is second at 18%, followed by hydrogen at 10%, nitrogen at 3%, calcium at 2% and phosphorus at 1%. Since most Obama nominees are far superior to typical humans, it’s expected that results will show several with significant amounts of precious metals. Those who aren’t vetted to the next stage in the consideration process can at least be commercially mined for their elements.    

A report already leaked to the New York Times showed that Diane Wood, a federal judge for the U.S. Court of Appeals’ Seventh Circuit, contained significant amounts of strontium and molybdenum. Sidney Thomas of the Ninth Circuit is packed with manganese, cobalt and bromine, while Michigan Gov. Jennifer Granholm contains more zinc and fluorine than the average American.    

Janet Napolitano, who many considered an early favorite for the appointment, has reportedly already been eliminated because she contains not only iodine and selenium but also significant amounts of garlic and meat sauce, which could place her in a potentially divisive  bloc with conservative Antonin Scalia in any decisions where the Court might order in late-night pizzas.    

Besides the litmus test, the judges will be given a clinistrips test, to gauge sugar in their urine, the Van Slyke determination test for specific amino acids, and the bicinchoninic acid assay test to check their protein levels.    

“It is a little invasive, but I understand that the President and the Senate want to know everything about our backgrounds,” said candidate Leah Ward Sears, who is chief justice of the Georgia State Supreme Court and also rich in iron. “I’ve been meaning to get the iodoform reaction test that indicates the presence of methyl ketones, or compounds which can be oxidized into methyl ketones, but I’ve just been so busy lately. My chemical makeup is an open book.”    

It was reported, however, that at least one potential nominee, solicitor general Elena Kagan, objected to the destructive nature of several of the tests. She told associates she preferred not to have a finger removed so it could be tested for borax, halides and esters. She later relented when White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel pointed out that she would still have nine other fingers left.    

Martha Minow, current dean of the Harvard Law School, said she was confident she would pass the litmus test because of her background in academia. Told it was not that kind of test, Minow said, “Oh.”    

Administration spokesperson Robert Gibbs emphasized that, regardless of where each candidate fell on the acid/base scale, what was most important was that a nominee’s views be consistent with those of the president on how the Constitution should be interpreted.    

“We won’t automatically rule out anybody who is mostly acidic,” Gibbs said. “But we do need to remember that a nominee must be acceptable to the president’s base.”    

“His ‘base’ — get it?” Gibbs continued. “It’s a joke.”

Federal judge Diane Wood is chock full of strontium and molybdenum, and her smile shows it

Doubling down on the Double Down

KFC has come out with a new version of its fried chicken, cheese and bacon “Double Down” sandwich that’s made specially for police departments. It’s called the “Officer Down.” — A Joke

*  *  *

The latest belly-busting outrage perpetrated by the fast-food industry on the American public is KFC’s Double Down. Critics have called it “too much,” a “heart-stopping, artery-clogging mix,” and “even worse than if an asteroid hit the Earth at the same time that volcanoes erupted everywhere, in the midst of a smallpox epidemic and a worldwide economic meltdown.” KFC counters that it’s simply “meaty.”

Yeah, it’s meaty, alright. In fact, it’s the only item currently on the market that combines the essence of three different animals in one sandwich. Cows, chickens and pigs all gave of themselves in providing ingredients for this meal, making it sort of the turducken for all seasons. Logging in at 32 grams of fat and an entirely reasonable three times the minimum daily requirement for sodium, this Frankenstein with cheese is hardly the least-healthy thing available at drive-throughs these days. Not when Wendy’s offers a “salad” with 540 calories and McDonald’s employees are more than willing to crawl through the window and punch you in the eye.

Besides, we don’t care if it’s going to kill us and our entire family. We just want to know how it tastes.

My teenage son was the first in our clan to take on the challenge. “It’s not really that different from a cordon bleu,” he noted hopefully, before pronouncing it “delicious — can I get another one?” (No).

Mindful that things are not always what they seem — I’m thinking of the friend currently on a “no-carb” diet that allows him to eat just the toppings off of pizzas — I thought I’d give the Double Down a try for myself.

We went to the KFC outlet about a mile from my house, over by the hospital (a coincidence). I forget now when “Kentucky Fried Chicken” officially changed its name to “KFC,” but I’m pretty sure it was about the same time that “Oil of Olay” became simply “Olay,” and “Poisonous Appetizers” became “Applebee’s”. It definitely convinced me there was no unhealthy deep-frying going on inside the KFC. I figured the “KF” now stood for either “Killed Fresh” or “Kinda Funky.”

We pulled into the parking lot and I insisted on going into the restaurant, instead of using the drive-through, so I could get the full Double Down experience in person. A sign on the door warned “Livers Cooked Upon Request,” but I figured they’d leave mine alone unless they were asked to do otherwise. Another sign advertised KFC’s efforts to promote “Susan G. Komen for the Cure” through their website bucketsforthecure.com. It apparently struck no one at the corporate marketing level as ironic that the company would encourage the cooking of some creatures’ breasts, while trying to heal others.

A large group of red-shirted workers clamored about behind the counter. Either it was shift change, or else the quantity of personnel required to assemble all the components of the Double Down was making a serious dent in the nation’s unemployment rate. An eager young cashier named Ricky approached and asked to take my order. I’d have three “Downs” to go: one fried, one grilled, and one fried without “Colonel sauce”. He faithfully repeated the order using completely different words, so I stated it again. Finally, he was clear on what I wanted, though he wasn’t too sure it could be communicated accurately down the long production line, so he went around back to oversee operations. (In retrospect, I was glad I decided not to goof on him and ask if I could get a “Triple Down” if I supplied my own mortar).

I looked up at the big promotional sign behind the counter as I waited. “The new KFC Double Down sandwich is real!” it exclaimed. “This one-of-a-kind sandwich features two thick and juicy boneless white meat chicken filets, two pieces of bacon, two melted slices of Monterey Jack and pepper jack cheese” and the aforementioned “Colonel sauce,” which my son feared had been exhumed from the Harlan Sanders gravesite in Louisville, Kentucky. “This product is so meaty, there’s no room for a bun!”

Soon Ricky returned to reluctantly inform me that they had run out of fried breasts, and would it be okay to make the no-sauce order with one piece grilled and one fried. I was not about to abide such an abomination of nature for my son, and asked if they couldn’t hybridize my sauced item instead. No, unfortunately, that one had already been assembled, and couldn’t be deconstructed without surgical tools not currently in stock at that location. It would take a full five minutes to have a fresh batch of the fried breasts ready, so Ricky offered me a complementary Pepsi while I waited. It tasted nothing like fried chicken, which was probably for the best.

We finally got the order, paying out a hefty $16.17 for the late lunch. My son dove into his sandwich as soon as we were back in the car, but I decided to wait until we got home where I could thoroughly concentrate on the taste experience and also be closer to emergency services if they became necessary.

I’d describe the sandwich as fairly predictable, tasty but on the dry side, which made sense considering that last fried piece had probably been sitting under a warming lamp since earlier in the day. The separate cheeses had melted together into a single blend by now, rendering it unclear which was Monterey Jack, which was pepper jack, and which was Jack Kevorkian. The bacon was distinguishable from the chicken only because it was harder and stringier, not because it tasted anything like bacon. The sauce was there, fulfilling its minimum requirement.

After I finished off the meal, I waited for the after-effects I had been led to expect. The Los Angeles Times had warned of unspecified “physical distress” while other accounts led me to anticipate a six-foot-long hole being blasted into my colon. I loitered near the bathroom while waiting for the inevitable, as the Down moved down my duodenum, down my jejunum, down my cecum. Soon, I heard a dog barking in the distance, and the rustle of a spring windstorm in the trees. Somewhere, a baby cried and an old man breathed his last breath. In Switzerland, particles inside the Large Hadron Collider smashed together at tremendous speeds, releasing untold amounts of energy. My bowels, however, remain unmoved. Only a mild heartburn inhabited the space that had recently cleared KFC’s latest taste sensation. I had survived.

The next day, I delivered the grilled version to a friend at work. He asked if it were a breakfast food or a lunch food, and I speculated that perhaps it wasn’t a food at all but instead a sort of interstellar plasma. A short while later, I asked if he had downed the Down.

“I’m down with the Down, but it’s not much on taste, is it?” he asked. “I’d say more of a ‘cordon blah’ than a cordon bleu.”

Getting down with the Double Down

Revisited: A word or two against Earth Day

If I may, I’d like to raise a contrary word during this year’s celebration of Earth Day.

Surely there’s nothing more universally accepted across the political spectrum than the premise that our Earth is a good place, worthy of our devoted stewardship. Whether you’re on the religious right and believe it was created by God in six days, or on the scientific left and believe it’s a remnant of the Big Bang, or somewhere in the middle and believe it was coughed up by the Great Turtle, you still respect and honor the big blue orb. It is beloved by us all as our nurturing mother, our protecting father, the annoying little brother we can pick on with impudence.

Is this love we have for our home planet grounded in a verifiable reality? We feel affection for our families, our hometown and our country primarily because they are ours; they must be the best available because they’re associated with us. There’s no objective comparison involved, since few of us with all our teeth can claim to have lived on another planet.

While I too like the Earth, I’m not quite so terra-centric as to believe it’s necessarily the best of all possible worlds. In the spirit of skeptical curiosity that prompts us to demand the best of those we love (with the exception of spouses), I’d like to honor our globe today by pointing out a few flaws it could stand to work on.

For example, there’s the whole concept of plate tectonics. Exactly whose idea was it to have our land masses floating on a worldwide sea of searing magma? And even worse, these plates aren’t even moving in the same direction, so they periodically collide into each other causing catastrophic earthquakes. Or the lava erupts through a volcano and obliterates helpless villagers and camera crews. It’s not a requirement of habitable planets that they follow this model. I probably wouldn’t rather live on a gas giant like Jupiter, where it’d be hard to get your footing, but a simple solid rock with no fancy innards would suffice.

Then there’s the related issue of topography. Mountains and valleys certainly make for some nice scenery, but they become terribly inconvenient if you’re trying to traverse them, especially in a four-cylinder Honda Civic like mine. And they’re strewn about so randomly. You’re headed cross country on the wide open Great Plains, then all of a sudden there’s the Rocky Mountains, showing up out of nowhere (at least according to MapQuest). If we need a little variety, might I suggest something like the dimples of a golf ball, so you could easily negotiate your way around the variations if you wanted.

I’m also not thrilled about the whole concept of air. I know that we theoretically need it to breathe, but having it be invisible doesn’t give me a lot of confidence in its availability. You walk into a room and you can’t tell immediately whether it has any air in it or not. And on the occasions when it is visible (smog alert days, windstorms, anywhere in urban China), you really don’t want to be inhaling it into your body. My ideal would be to have this life-sustaining vapor instead manifest itself in a solid state. It would condense in the space around us, then become weighty enough to fall to the ground, and we could eat it for our oxygen requirements. A nice raspberry flavor would be pleasant.

The prevalence of water collecting into various depressions around the globe is another notion worth challenging. I know that stuff about it being the basic building block of life and all, and yet I don’t understand why it so often has to be muddy or salty. There are also fish, amphibians and reptiles living there that are bound to give it a less than flavorful taste. I’d propose removing all the bothersome creatures, put down a nice sealant to prevent soil and other organic matter from seeping in, and replacing the water with a more popular beverage, either Fanta Orange or Pepsi.

I think we could also demand a lot more of our non-human animal life. Too much of it is either microscopic or threatening or, in the case of viruses and bacteria, both. I’d like to see a lot more of it be of the cute variety (like kittens, baby bears, Sarah Palin) or the docile yet delicious variety (beef cattle, decapitated chickens, etc.). I understand that there does need to be some class of creature that can rival man for his dominance at the top of the food chain, yet I don’t think lions and wolves and rhinos are doing their job. We need something about 50 feet tall, with fangs of steel and fire-breathing capabilities. Let’s see the weekend hunters tackle that.

Speaking of the great outdoors, I’d like to weigh in on our plant life too. I know “going green” is the theme of the day, in honor of leaves and grass and various shrubberies. If you think about it, though, that’s not really the predominant color we see in nature. Go outside right now and hug a tree and tell me what you find in your face: that’s right, it’s scabby, resinous tree bark. Now try to get that stickiness out of your eyebrows – good luck.

I’d be remiss if I also didn’t mention one of my least-favorite forces of nature, gravity (the most-hated is centrifugal force, which always knocks my groceries all over the back seat of my car whenever I make a hard left). We tend to take it for granted that we’re attached to the surface of the Earth without ever considering whether that’s really necessary. It doesn’t just have to be in science fiction or on the space shuttle that we can float about freely. I know they’re called the “laws of gravity,” but it’s worth acknowledging that there exists a judicial appeal process in modern liberal democracies. Perhaps if President Obama gets a couple of Supreme Court appointments in the next few years, we’ll have the votes needed to challenge such an arbitrary and archaic statute.

Finally I’m going to mention a particular peeve of mine that I think we’d all be better off without. The Van Allen Belt is a band of charged particles about 75 miles above the Earth, held in place by our magnetic field. While it may not technically be considered an everyday part of our world, it still hovers menacingly above us, compressed by the solar wind into the ominous-sounding Chapman Ferraro Cavity. Theorized about for decades, its existence was finally confirmed in 1958 by Dr. James Van Allen. (Coincidence? I think not). As our planet grows larger and larger with obese humans, discarded trash and greenhouse gases, the belt will gradually tighten around our waist until it no longer fits our enlarged form. My idea: let’s switch to Van Allen suspenders while we can still claim it’s a fashion statement rather than a requirement of our girth.

Oh, and one more thing: the name, Earth, itself. Or, more formally, the Earth. Any geographic location preceded by “the” is almost always a loser-land: the Sudan, the Ukraine, the Bronx, even the Moon. Seems like only the Discovery Channel and well-educated guys with English accents drop the “the,” and they’re usually mispronouncing it as “uth” anyway. All the other planets in our solar system have cool Roman names, so I’d propose something similar for us. We should consider Terra, Lasagna or Urethra.

So as we all do our individual parts to celebrate Earth Day (for example, I just ate my Styrofoam coffee cup rather than throw it in the trash), let’s also remember that our home is far from perfect and let’s continue to look for ways to improve it.

Revisited: Corporate risk factors revealed

In their annual report filed with the Securities and Exchange Commission this time last year, General Motors’ auditors said the company’s survival was in “substantial doubt,” and that even if it received all $30 billion it hoped to borrow from the government, the automaker still might have to liquidate its operations. The company was perilously close to bankruptcy and faced 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), today’s post will 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, 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.

Fake News: Bank reform takes to the streets

WASHINGTON (April 26) — As part of the financial system reform proposal now before Congress, President Obama announced yesterday that local police will be empowered to stop and arrest anyone they suspect of being a banker.

Despite objections from civil libertarians that such profiling of possible bankers is unconstitutional, the president said that the porous walls of financial institutions were allowing too many illegal executives out into the countryside.

“Bankers are everywhere today,” Obama told reporters at a Rose Garden press conference. “Just look around at the landscapers working right here in this garden. You can tell by their clothing, their music, their food and their ghostly pale skin that they are not legal Americans. We must empower our law enforcement officials to confront these intruders and take them into custody.”

With that, about two dozen middle-aged men dressed in conservative grey business suits dropped their leaf blowers and edgers, and scampered over the wrought-iron fence of the White House grounds and out onto the streets of Washington.

“Get them!” shouted the president. “They’re running away!”

Obama’s announcement represented a sharp reversal of the Administration’s previous stance that the men and women whose irresponsible risk-taking nearly toppled the economy should be granted amnesty, as well as large bonuses. When Arizona began rounding up bankers at routine traffic stops following enactment of that state’s tough new law, the president at first had called the move “a dangerous precedent.” But within days, the president saw the national outcry against employees of depository institutions reaching a fever pitch, and he changed his position.

His speech Monday echoed many of the themes in an address given by Arizona Gov. Jan Brewer, who granted authority to state and local police to “round up the bankers and send them back to Bangkok.”

Civil rights groups like the American Banking Association said they understood the public’s impatience with enacting new regulations, but still opposed the wholesale round-up of all conservatively dressed citizens.

“We’re seeing our members arrested and being forced by police to make a statement well before they’re prepared,” said Harold Penderson, president of the ABA. “Our systems are set up to generate a statement only at the end of the month, and now our customers can help us save money by receiving these statements online instead of through the mail.”

Penderson listed a number of reforms that his member institutions had already established to address the most grievous shortcomings of financial services firms. Among these, he cited new fonts being used on the screens of ATMs, allowing cash to be dispensed in ten-dollar increments instead of the previous twenty-dollar amount, and confirming the end of each electronic transaction with “are you really sure?” instead of the previous “are you sure?”

He also said that large investment banks on Wall Street would now be referred to with derogatory nicknames. For example, Goldman Sachs will be called “Goldman Sucks,” and Citibank will be called “Shittibank.”

Meanwhile, as the national debate rages on about the preferential treatment of Wall Street versus Main Street, another faction has stepped into the fray. Singer Eddy Grant said the residents of another thoroughfare — Electric Avenue — are being overlooked as neighborhood institutions vie for their piece of the pie against the titans of New York’s financial district.

“Down in the street there is violence, and lots of work to be done,” Grant said. “No place to hang out our washing, and I can’t blame all on the sun.”

He added, “Oh … no … We gonna rock down to Electric Avenue, and then we’ll take it higher.”

Grant denied that taking it ”higher,” or “workin’ so hard like a soldier,” meant his neighborhood would look to a higher power for authority to violently wrest control of the nation’s assets from the hands of the few.

“Oh, no,” he reiterated when confronted with the charge. “Oh, no.”

Standing up for the Constitution

Some people enjoy a daily “constitutional,” following up their evening meal with a vigorous walk. Some get themselves all worked out at the mere mention of the Constitution itself. These are typically right-wing anti-Obamites who think the founding charter of America includes a clause preventing the election of a president they personally disagree with.

Whether carried around with them in their shirt pocket or tattooed on their lower back, these folks claim to know the U.S. Constitution inside and out, and assert that it’s being violated at every turn by the current Administration. “A mandate to purchase health insurance is unconstitutional,” they shout at their Tea Party rallies. “He was born in Kenya, bows down to foreign royalty, and enjoys the company of young boys,” claim others. “It says so right there in Article 13, Section 4.”

I hadn’t read the Constitution myself since being forced to do so back in high school by Mr. Arena, the same guy who confused a generation of Miami-area history students by writing “the world is your oyster” in their yearbooks. So my vague memory of the document was that it had something to do with shellfish. Now, I wanted to learn more about the foundation and source of the legal authority underlying the existence of the federal government, and I’m asking you to join me in this journey of re-discovery. C’mon along — I promise it won’t hurt nearly as much as a tattoo.

The Constitution was adopted in 1787 in Philadelphia by the constitutional convention. It was hand-written by Jacob Shallus and placed in a nice frame after being signed by all the delegates. Hence, we often refer to the Founding Fathers as the “framers” of the Constitution.

The word itself is comprised of four syllables, which clearly state its meaning: “con” means “with”; “sti” is shortened from “still”; “tu” refers to the ballet garment known as the “tu tu”; and “tion” is a variation of the word “shun”. So those who follow the Constitution come together to this day to spurn those who clothe themselves in dancewear, in other words, those who are different from us. It was designed as a cudgel, or weapon, to beat political opponents into submission.

Following a rambling preamble that’s both a spoiler of what’s to follow and a poorly-spelled, arbitrarily-capitalized run-on sentence, there are 12 articles describing the three branches of government, and enumerating that government’s power over its citizens and its states. As articles go, these are not nearly as interesting as what you might see on the front page of the America Online news pages (like this morning’s leads: “Why You Should Consider a Pole Pruner” and “Stefani Caught Without her Makeup”). But they’re probably more important.

The writers of the Constitution lived in a time before dictionaries and spell-check, so it contains all kinds of editorial gaffes. Among these is an annoying tendency to capitalize certain letters for no apparent reason.

 

See if you can tell which of the two quotes that follow is from the Constitution, and which is an example of juvenile “intercapping” as often is used by pre-teens:

 

“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States.”

 

“wuZup evErYOne Heres A lIttLle abOUt Me fiRSt oF All I aM 19 aboUt 5’0 i cAnT sAy ThAT i LoOk gOOd ThAs YOuR pEoPlES OpInIoN BUt i Can SAy I hAvE A Fly PeRsoNaLiTy i Get AloNg WiTh EvEryBodY THat Treat me With ResPect Yall FeeL mE!. I m hISpaNiC w/DArk bRoWN HaIr And dArk brOwn eyEs Im ORiganiAlly FRom ThE EAst Side of SaN jo.”

Article I spells out the role of the legislative branch of government and the rules for belonging to Congress (must be at least 25, you have to live in the state you’re representing, no fatties, etc.). Members of the House and Senate are empowered to “chuse” their leaders, which explains why letting the Democrats “choose” Nancy Pelosi to be Speaker of the House was unconstitutional. Section 6 says congresspeople will be paid for their services, and are exempt from arrest during their attendance, except for “Treason, Felony and Breach of the Peace”. For example, former Sen. Larry Craig could still be arrested in a Minneapolis airport men’s room for lowering his “breaches” and offering strangers of “peace” of himself. Section 8 allows Congress to borrow money on the credit of the U.S. (a rarely used power), promote the “Progress of Science and useful Arts” (no taxpayer funds for scrapbooking, for example), and grant “Letters of Marque and Reprisal” (permission to cross an international border to exact revenge, like the just-completed Billy Joel European tour).

Article II — note that article titles use roman numerals to simulate the gravitas of Super Bowls — spells out the powers of the executive branch, or president and vice-president. This is where the archaic Electoral College is defined as the method for electing a president. If written today, this part would probably allow us to simply text our favorite candidate’s name to a toll-free number for at least two hours following the final presidential debate, but in its time, convening electors a month after the election was about as high-tech as it got. This is also the article that names the president commander in chief over the armed forces, requires him to make a yearly State of the Union speech, and mandates that the Yankees visit the White House to celebrate last year’s World Series victory.

Article III defines the Supreme Court and the various “inferior courts” that make up the judicial division of government. This branch is given the power to hear cases regarding disputes between states, and the power to grow extremely old without having to retire. Nothing in this article states that women, or liberals, or women liberals, can legally be appointed to the high court, so Obama better watch himself on this next nomination or he’s going to have a constitutional crisis on his hands.

Article IV spells out the powers of individual states. Sections 1 and 2 say that states have to recognize each others’ laws, but we’re going to pretend we didn’t notice this part because of what it might do to promote widespread gay marrying. This article forbids new states from being formed out of parts of other states so we can avoid the prospect of a Jerseyssippi. It also guarantees that every state will have a “Republican Form of Government,” clearly indicating that all elected Democrats are unconstitutional.

The remaining three articles are far less consequential than articles one through four. They seem like something of an afterthought, not unlike the final few tracks of the last Lady GaGa album, except not quite as danceable. Article V lays out the provisions for offering amendments to the Constitution. Basically, the Founders say here that “if we forgot to cover anything, you can add it later on, we won’t mind.” This has been done 27 times in the 200-plus years since, including the ten in the Bill of Rights that came up, like, two days after the original document was ratified. (Imagine if your company had this provision in place for the report you submitted last month that caused all that flak; you could continue revising until the year 2233.) Article VI says any debts the nation had before the Constitution would still be acknowledged after the fact, that the new country would not change its name to the “United States of Smith” and move to Sacramento without telling anybody. Article VII said that ratification by nine states would be sufficient to mark passage of the measure.

The U.S. Constitution is the shortest and oldest written constitution still in use by any nation in the world today, which for some reason is considered a good thing. It has a central place in American law and political culture, and that place is the National Archives in Washington. Thousands of tourists flock to see the historic artifact every day and gaze respectfully upon its withered glory. A few may even take the time to read it, though that’s not recommended.

Thanks for revealing our weaknesses: An editorial

Thank you, Dr. Stephen Hawking, for opening your big goddam mouth. Or at least the parts of it you can control.

For those who missed the news brief earlier this week (which would include any extraterrestrial life that doesn’t have an internet connection), the famed British physicist and general know-it-all said he thought that aliens who choose to visit Earth would most likely destroy us.

“Such advanced aliens would perhaps become nomads, looking to conquer and colonize whatever planets they could reach,” Hawking said. “If so, it makes sense for them to exploit each new planet for material to build more spaceships so they could move on. Who knows what the limits would be?”

Well, obviously, the aliens know. Now that you’ve shot off your fat lip.

Up until the time Mr. Renowned Theoretical Physicist told them otherwise, it was entirely possible that space monsters would think they’d have to be afraid of us. Even a cursory reconnaissance would reveal that we have thousands of nuclear warheads, chemical and biological poisons, and a virtually endless supply of real housewives of various cities waiting to shriek in their ears, if they have any. Just to be on the safe side, they’d likely cool their extraterrestrial heels on a nearby moon or asteroid and be content to snatch only passing astronauts and space junk.

But now — now that the foremost expert on astrophysics has clued them in on our weaknesses — we are ripe for an interplanetary attack. “C’mon down,” he might as well have said. “The weather’s fine and our brains are primed for sucking.”

Captain Autotune deserves all due respect for overcoming a debilitating neurological disorder to devote his life to studying the stars and theorizing about the origins of the universe. He is an inspiration to the abled and the differently abled alike, and beloved by the worlds of true science and pop science.

But unless he plans to climb out of that wheelchair and personally join in the apocalyptic battle to save humanity from invading mutants who didn’t even know we were scared of them until he made his Discovery Channel show (Sunday at 9 p.m., 8 Central), he needs to keep his great thoughts to himself.

If you can blow on that device that allows you to interact with your computer, and cause it to fire volley after volley of automatic weapons fire at waves on oncoming aliens, please prepare to do so. Otherwise, please keep your mouth shut.

Website Review: Chiropractic.com

 

“IN PAIN CALL TODAY” reads the unpunctuated sign outside Access Chiropractic Center, a small practice in my hometown of Rock Hill.

I’ve been in a few “pain calls” myself.

I remember the conference calls I used to have to join on a weekly basis as part of my membership in a company-wide “task force.” A group of us from several cities across the country were forced to tackle a variety of tasks in supposed betterment of corporate quality. One of these tasks was participation in an hour-long call each Wednesday. Most of the session I’d sit there with the speakerphone on and a crossword puzzle in front of me, as the team leader prattled through an agenda of hare-brained but fortunately never-to-be-completed schemes. In some ways, it was not unlike working the night shift at a convenience store — long stretches of boredom relieved occasionally by the terror of being robbed or, in my case, having my name called for a response.

“Opera?” I’d reply, which was correct as a five-letter word for “musical play,” though not usually the answer the facilitator was looking for.

At best, I’d be able to transform the drudgery into a bit of amusement by turning the phone onto “mute” mode and making sarcastic remarks about the proceedings with a co-worker in the same room with me. That worked okay until one afternoon when we misread the “mute” indicator.

“So Davis, can you tell us all how me being a ‘raving lunatic’ will impact our project deadline?” Lana asked from her office in California.

Quickly I fixed the mute button and responded, “Maybe we’d finish faster if you were distracted by a shiny object?”

Or there was the time I was leading a call myself, with the object being to train a room full of Sri Lankans, listening from the other side of the world to my discourse on how to markup a financial document. They were a quiet, respectful group of students who rarely interrupted my monologue with any questions. Though it would’ve been nice if one of them had called back when the line went dead 15 minutes into my hour-long spiel.

I’m distracted into misreading Access Chiropractic’s sign as a way to pad this week’s Website Review of Dr. Jeffrey M. Muschik’s internet presence. It’s a site with only a few pages of pulldowns, which I’ll begin mocking in just a moment. I chose to include the sign in front of their Celanese Road storefront as part of their new-media promotional push just to flesh things out a little.

The home page for accesschiropracticcenter.com includes a nice picture of Dr. Muschik, a generic photo of him or somebody yanking on a small child’s hand under the heading “Affordable Family Care”, and some attractive credit card logos. (It’s not clear whether the hand-holding picture is meant to convey a general sense of caring, or represents an actual chiropractic manipulation). The introductory copy says the doctor provides Rock Hill residents with “safe, gentle and effective” chiropractic care, a revision of his earlier business plan for dangerous, rough and permanently paralyzing treatment that didn’t attract too many patients.

There’s a bulleted list of the services available from this office: neck pain, headaches, back pain, auto accidents, etc. Why anyone would want to contract for the acquisition of any of these afflictions is beyond me, but I’ve never been much of a believer in chiropractics anyway. In addition to decompression treatments, you can also obtain “pregnant patients, sports injuries and children” from this menu of products and services.

The backbone of the website is a page dedicated to details of the office operation. In addition to chiropractic treatment, the doctor also offers rehabilitation and massage. He keeps office hours Monday through Friday, which include a prolonged lunch break from noon to 3:30 p.m. during which I imagine Dr. Muschik goes home and lies down. Next to a photograph of the doctor rubbing the lower back of a prone but fully clothed man is the practice’s 11-point “no wait policy”. This has little to do with how long you’ll be leafing through Adjustments Today magazines in the waiting room. It’s more about automobile injuries, attorney referrals, car accidents and how close to the hospital the office is located (almost within walking distance – good for patients but not so great for the collision-obsessed doctor).

A biography of Dr. Muschik indicates that he’s a nice enough guy. He’s board-certified and licensed in South Carolina, a reassuring thing except for the South Carolina part. He was trained at the National University of Health Sciences in Illinois in the treatment and rehabilitation of physical injuries and advanced neurological diseases, as well as back and neck pain. He’s certified in CPR (in other words, he can press down on the front of your chest as well as on the back), he teaches youth coaches tactics in sports injury prevention, and is the official chiropractor for the Winthrop University soccer team. He is “consistently active within the community,” perhaps more than you can say about his hobbled patients whose activity levels are more subdued.

There’s a section about what to expect at your first appointment. After filling out some paperwork, your consultation with the doctor will begin. “In order to determine what your actual problem is, the doctor will ask you various questions related to your condition,” reads the page. I’m not sure if Dr. Muschik has shared this ground-breaking diagnostic innovation with others in the medical community, but I hope he can write a paper on the topic, perhaps during his extended lunch break. You may be given x-rays and you may receive same-day treatment, if the doctor can figure out which parts of your body to pummel, knead and squeeze. Prior to leaving, you’ll be given home-care instructions that may include ice or heat application and avoidance of certain activities.

Activities to be avoided do not include, not surprisingly, a follow-up appointment for another session. “Generally speaking, patients are seen again within 1-2 days” and, as I understand is the general pattern for chiropractic care, for every one to two weeks after that until the second coming of Christ. It’s easy to schedule another meeting with the doctor: “the fastest way is to contact our office,” advises the copywriter. I’m guessing he gave up doing this telepathically when the fortune teller that shared his duplex finally got that job with the census that she was angling for.

The only other feature worth noting on the website is a “limited time” coupon good for a free consultation. First-time patients can print this online offer to receive an evaluation “that’s a $50 value”. In our bargain-obsessed culture, I can understand showing up at the Bi-Lo grocery store with a “buy-one-get-one-free” offer on watermelons, or perhaps a dollar off the number 8 combo on Tuesdays only at Chick-fil-A (if your car has an cow-head antenna topper). But coming to the office of a medical professional with a coupon in hand just doesn’t seem quite right to me.

Lastly, I want to make an additional smart remark about the office sign in the photo at the top of this post. If you look closely in the upper left-hand corner, you’ll see the Access logo — a family of four that’s either very close to each other or else congenitally conjoined. I thought such a rare condition as the latter could only be repaired by 20-hour-long separation surgery, but if it’s something that chiropractics can take care of, I’m all in favor of the less-traumatic course of treatment.

Wonder if there’s a coupon for that. Buy one get three free, perhaps?

Revisited: Don’t shoot til you see the whites of my eyes

Just when I thought I was starting to get over this brutal bronchial cold that I’ve had for the last week, I awoke Friday morning with the feeling that my left eye was stuck shut. It didn’t seem that alarming at first, in part because by “Friday morning” I mean 1:10 a.m. Friday morning when I was called in early to work. At that hour of the day, I’m usually not that surprised by an orifice that won’t open.

When I arrived at work I realized that proofreading was something you needed well-functioning eyes to perform. I faked my way through most of the day by answering “looks good to me,” a pretty non-committal judgment of whether something is right or not. I didn’t want to speculate too openly about my affliction because I feared it was a highly contagious condition, which wouldn’t go over too well after I’ve been coughing so loudly into the office coffeemaker all week.

After work I went online to WebMD to research “pink eye.” It’s also called conjunctivitis, which I would’ve guessed was a grammatical malfunction rather than something affecting your vision. Pink eye is a redness and swelling of the mucous membrane that lines the eyelid and eye surface. The membrane is normally clear but will become red if irritation or infection occurs. Though relatively common and minor, it is so highly contagious that it’s been known to sweep through an entire kindergarten class in just a dozen or so hours.

There are several kinds of conjunctivitis, the most fearsome being viral and bacterial. WebMD was thorough enough to run some really gross photographs of both conditions, and the main difference seemed to be in the amount of yellowish “matter” that was seeping out from the edges of your eye holes. I had rather minimal matter compared to the poor sick bastards shown in the slide presentation, though it was still enough that I probably needed to return to the same doctor I had just visited only two days before. So I called his office and left a message asking his nurse to give me a call.

When Anna called, I briefly spelled out my situation and she proceeded to ask how my heart was. I was confused and more than a little concerned, as WebMD had not mentioned any potential cardiac involvement with pink eye. It sounded unlikely that a little eye inflammation would work its way halfway down your body to your heart muscle, but ever since I heard that cavities can cause arterial clogging, I’m ready to believe almost anything.

“I think you probably ought to come in right away, Frank.”

“This isn’t Frank,” I answered. “This is Davis.”

“Hang on. I think I have the wrong chart. Let me call you right back.”

Once we had our patients and their conditions straight (Frank is to heart transplant as Davis is to minor bronchitis), she still wanted to see me – what doctor is going to sneeze at a $109 office visit in this economy? – so I went in the next afternoon.

Dr. Johnson was able to see me quickly on a quiet Saturday. He remembered my Wednesday visit and that I had just started a week-long regimen of antibiotics, and had me jump up on the examining table to get a good close look at my eye. He agreed that the parts that should be white instead had become pink, but was a little evasive as to whether I had a pink eye rather than the pink eye, which seemed like an important distinction to me. And more importantly, would I have to use eyedrops? (Because I really hate eyedrops.) Are you sure I have to use eyedrops?

The antibiotics I was already taking were going to help, but a prescription for eyedrops was still necessary. It wasn’t that I’d had a particularly bad experience in the past with drops; it’s just that I had no experience with them at all. The logistics of the application didn’t seem that difficult if you could just will yourself to keep your eye open while an unknown and possibly caustic fluid was dripped directly onto your eyeball. It shouldn’t be that hard to miss getting them in the right spot, since you had to be looking directly at the nozzle of the small bottle anyway. But what if there had been a pharmacist error? What if, instead of Gentamicin Sulfate Ophthalmic Solution USP 0.3% (sterile), he had accidentally given me Mountain Dew?

I carefully read the label to make sure I could be ready to experience any of the rare side effects that were observed in test subjects. I took particular note of the warning that these drops were “not for injection into the eyeball,” as if that were something I would consider allowing even in my wildest nightmares. Then I steeled myself, and went to ask my wife if she would do it for me.

Beth, a veteran of years of contact lens use, was kind enough to help. I figured anybody who could slide tiny slivers of razor-sharp glass under their eyelids on a regular basis would be able to handle a few drops and, sure enough, she did an excellent job. I had two applications four hours apart on Saturday evening, then got an overnight break (“do NOT administer drops while sleeping,” the package had warned), then got another dose early Sunday before heading off to work. The problem now: how would I get the dose I’d need in the middle of my eight-hour workday?

“Is there anyone in the office today you know well enough to ask for help?” Beth wondered.

I’m thinking you’d have to know someone pretty damn well to ask them to put drops in your eye, but maybe I’m just old-fashioned. I certainly wasn’t going to ask any of my female coworkers, even though they’d be far more likely to know what they were doing. Besides, it seems like you’d need to dismiss yourself to the closest thing a modern office has to a surgical suite, which in our case would be the men’s room. I did know that Bob was going to be working with me today, and I knew that he was a grandfather and, as such, had probably done some pretty invasive things to relative strangers.

Still, I didn’t relish wondering what everybody else would be thinking as Bob and I headed off to the bathroom together, non-descript plastic bag in hand. Once inside, we’d have the privacy we needed, though I knew it was possible to hear conversations from the hallway. What if someone overheard us make the following innocent remarks?

“Look up at the ceiling so I can make sure it goes in the right way.”

“Are you sure you can’t open any wider?”

“Sorry, I think I dripped a little onto your cheek.”

In the end, Beth was kind enough to stop by my office during one of her mid-morning chores and give me the dose I needed. Two drippings later it’s Monday morning, and I think I see the whites of my eyes returning.

I definitely prefer having white eye to pink eye.

Revisited: Adventures in the Y locker room

I just came from the YMCA and boy am I steamed. Actually, I’m not because the steam room is broken again.

It’s a bright Saturday afternoon outside and most people with any sense are slavishly mowing their lawns in the 90-degree heat. I chose instead to catch up on my treadmill work, spending 25 minutes running in place and trying to avoid looking at the idiots hovering above me on Fox News, who also seem to be running in place (“Obama bad; something else good”). I finish a pretty decent workout and head to the locker room.

This is my least favorite part of the whole Y experience. You’d think it would be the best, since the exercise is now finished and all that’s left is a refreshing shower and the satisfaction of 1.84 miles well-run. Instead I have to worry about the denizens of the locker room and the potential interactions they might try to initiate.

Even at my best (i.e., when I’m clothed), I’m not the friendliest guy around. When I’m naked, I’m even less interested in you and your life. My motto – nude or otherwise – is “don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, don’t sense my presence or respond to it in any way.” I know it’s pretty long as personal creeds go, so I’m thinking of having it tattooed on my pale white chest. Perhaps then, I can navigate my way around the benches and mildew stains without feeling obliged to chat with the folks around me.

When I enter the locker room it seems like no one’s there. That can be a good thing, if it’s true, or a bad thing, if there’s only one other guy in there, because then it seems the temptation to initiate contact becomes overwhelming. As I round the corner to where I’ve stored my stuff, I catch a glimpse of a guy’s head lying prone on a bench in the next row over. Fortunately his body is attached just out of view, but that makes me feel only slightly less awkward. I don’t know what he’s doing lying out naked like that, and I certainly don’t want to know. I’m able to quickly hustle to my locker before he engages me.

My locker is just outside the sauna room, and I strip out of my sweaty running gear without incident. I can never tell if there’s anybody in the sauna – unless they’re loudly discussing their latest medical procedure – so I always have this feeling that I’m being watched from those dark recesses. Occasionally someone will emerge, usually wrapped in the tiniest of hand towels because the rules say you can’t be naked in there, and seek a cooling break on the bench in front of my locker. If I rattle around and sigh loudly enough while squeezing past, they’ll usually clear out, but not before leaving an unfortunate vapor impression on the varnished wood where they’ve sat. This leaves me appalled for days.

As I turn toward the shower, my towel draped strategically in front of me, another guy steps into view and we nearly collide. It’s one of the regulars, an elderly cheerful man with more sags than I’d care to be aware of. He’s almost always here at this time of day during the week, but I thought he took weekends off. I remember him from the time I pulled open the curtain after my shower and there he stood, barely able to wait his turn to climb in.

“Hah,” he drawls. “How’r you?”

“Fine,” I reply, trying to summon as much of a don’t-bother-me tone as I can. If the conversation takes that pivotal next step to something like “have a good workout?” or “nice day, isn’t it?”, there could be a public discussion breaking out between two graying, naked men, and that never turns out well for anyone.

I’m able to maneuver past him to the shower room to find that my favorite stall is already occupied. Only one of the four has the kind of ledges that let me put my shampoo up high where I can reach it and has a step down low to prop my legs while drying them. It also has an easily managed faucet handle, unlike the other three which can be bumped while drying your hair, turning the water back on. There’s the open-floor design of a shower room available as well as this aging club’s excuse for a Jacuzzi (a bathtub), although those are out of the question for reasons that should be obvious to all.

I use one of the faulty showers without too much difficulty, careful to stay inside the three-wall enclosure to dry as much of myself as I can still reach before emerging. When I do, I can overhear a conversation taking place in the corner of the room. It sounds like Sagging Man has managed to ensnare Head Man into a discussion.

“Is your mother still alive?” the older man asks, mindful I guess of yesterday’s holiday.

“No,” says the other guy quietly. “She passed just last year.”

See, this is why you should avoid banter with strangers. You never know when an innocent remark is going to trigger a flood of emotions that you don’t have the psychiatric training to deal with. But that doesn’t stop Sagging Guy; he plunges ahead.

“Mah mother died 60 years ago,” he notes not too surprisingly, considering she’d be well into her 140s if she’d survived to today.

“I’m so sorry,” Head Man says. He sounds like he’s shuffling away as I hear his slippers flapping through the room. To continue the talk with an additional response – something like “life is fleeting” or “was she executed?” – seems obviously fruitless to both parties. I finally see Head Man in all his glory arriving at the sink; lathering up his scalp for a quick shave makes him look even more bizarre than he did earlier. The skimpy black briefs that kept him compliant with Y rules in the sauna are pitifully inadequate in the light of day, and I look away.

I hustle back to my locker to get dressed and get the hell out of there. I watch carefully to make sure the maintenance guy isn’t working somewhere nearby. There’s a fire exit door just down a short hallway from where I’m dressing, and the janitor has been known to open that door for a breath of fresh air. He doesn’t consider that the Y’s daycare playground is just outside, and the potential there is to turn innocent but exposed men like me into accidental sex offenders. Trust me, there’s nothing quite as startling to someone just out of the shower as the curious faces of several six-year-olds gazing down from the top of a slide.

I dress like a quick-change artist, gather my damp things and make for the door. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve burned more calories worrying through this awkward postlude than I ever burn on the treadmill.

Monday snippets

Once again, I’ve come up short in demonstrating the simplest expression of basic humanity.  

We had another coworker whose relative died. I don’t know what’s going around right now, but this is like the third time in a month that a sympathy card is being passed around the office. All these loved ones dying, it’s starting to get on my nerves.  

By the time the card made it to me, just about everyone else had composed touching if mostly illegible sentiments for the assistant manager whose cousin had passed. Rather than come up with a genuine emotion on my own, I thus had the opportunity to summarize and synthesize the feelings that everyone else had about the sudden loss of this man (or woman) we had never met.  

Unfortunately, I preferred a message that didn’t bring poor God into it, as I’m sure He’s sick of everyone turning to Him only in times of need. Others had written things like “may God shed His love” and “let the Lord strengthen you” and “He will see you through,” and there were multiple references to keeping the grieving family “in our prayers.” I wanted to go the secular route instead, so I wrote “all our thoughts are with you,” since thoughts are kind of like prayers except you don’t have to close your eyes to think them and you don’t have to say “please” so much.  

It seemed such an inadequate response, in addition to being poorly worded. The “all” was meant to refer to all employees, not all their thoughts. Some thoughts had to be held in reserve in case work appeared that required intellectual effort instead of following the instructions on a checklist.  

I hope the bereaved will be comforted by my note, if he even happens to notice it.  

+++  

While researching my post on the Constitution earlier this week, I came across the effort by some anti-government advocates to have the tax code rewritten so that it would be no longer than the length of our founding charter.  

I understand the desire for more simplicity in such complex regulations, but the Constitution is a pretty extensive document, and always subject to amendments that could make it up to 25 or 30 words longer. If we really want to be concise, might I suggest these reformers look to the 31-word Pledge of Allegiance instead.  

I’ll put this first draft out there as a suggestion, just so they have something to work with:  

Don’t take my money unless it’s going to be used for something I need. If we need cash for a war, have a yard sale. I’ll contribute some old Beanie Babies.  

This is the kind of innovative thinking we need to reinvent the federal government into something we can all relate to better.  

+++  

The creation myth that’s most widely followed in the Western World is the story of Adam and Eve. In this tale, God creates the world and the plants and the animals, then decides there’s something missing. He wants something in His own image, something completely different from the birds and rabbits that frolicked in the Garden of Eden.  

The originators of this story lived in the ancient Middle East, where wildlife was rather limited. It was an easy leap of faith for them to see how different most animals were from humans, and assume that upright-walking, tool-using primates with opposing thumbs were unique among the Almighty’s creations.  

Imagine what they’d say if they’d gone to all the trouble of creating this elaborate story — with the dramatics of “Let there by light!” and the impressive six-day production schedule — then happened to come across a monkey.  

+++  

When the PGA golf tour stopped in Charlotte this weekend for the Quail Hollow tournament, one of the sponsors created a service project that would allow it to “give back to the community.” Wells Fargo’s “Reading Above Par” program brought pros Jason Bohn and J.J. Henry to an inner-city school, where the golfers read a book to first- and second-graders.  

To put it mildly, the youngsters were underwhelmed with the star power of the event. Unimpressed by Bohn’s come-from-behind two-stroke victory in the Zurich Classic only a week ago, the kids wiggled and squirmed throughout his reading of “Wolf!” Henry, much farther down on the FedEx points list, did even worse.  

The program continued later in the week with appearances by Miss America and a former pro football player. Hopefully no one involved will realize that reading  above par will be reading below a preferred level.  

+++  

There’s a process in my office that goes by the acronym NOK. No one remembers what it stands for anymore, only that to “NOK’ something is to count the product as finished and ready for delivery to the customer.  

Not everybody is trained on how to NOK, so there comes to be occasions when managers have to find someone to do it. “Do we have any NOK-ers available?” they ask and, incredibly, nobody giggles.  

But last week, even the most hardened of us had to chuckle when a supervisor wanted to know if every piece that was finished had been released.  

“Are we all NOK-ed up?” he asked.  

+++  

That young mother who’s a victim of throat cancer after only three years of smoking and now talks through an artificial larynx in the popular anti-smoking TV ad.  

She’s a lot less frightening ever since autotune became such a big part of popular music.  

+++ 

The newest ad campaign from Canada Dry informs viewers with much fanfare that their ginger ale contains ginger. 

We’ve reached a sad state of affairs when the suppliers of our food have to brag that their products contain the components they’re named for. 

What’s next? Walmart touting the fact that their stores are enclosed within walls? Starbucks proudly proclaiming that their coffee has been coughed into? 

+++  

Believe it or not, this is a photograph of a food. Lying on a cream cheese-slathered tortilla, it's a cheeseburger molded into the shape of a hotdog as an ill-conceived marketing ploy by a company that has a lot to learn about the impact that shape and color have on our buying decisions.

Fake News: BP blames babies in spill

NEW ORLEANS, La. (May 3) — BP executives announced yesterday that children as young as 6 months old were manning posts aboard the Deepwater Horizon offshore drilling rig that exploded April 20, resulting in the massive oil spill now fouling the Gulf coastline.

“We thought that’s what you meant by ‘drill, baby, drill,’” said Doug Suttles, chief operating officer of BP. “We thought you wanted infants to be handling the bulk of our energy exploration efforts. We were just trying to make everybody happy.”

Suttles said that almost 100 of the 126 individuals on board at the time of the explosion were under a year of age, with the rest of the work force being made up primarily of toddlers, tots and assorted pre-schoolers. Only the highest level of site management on board the rig were of school age, with the general manager being the most senior roughneck at age 12.

Speaking before a House committee investigating the unfolding disaster, Suttles said that most of the company’s veteran workers were put on leave earlier this year when calls to increase offshore drilling in the U.S. reached a fever pitch. He said that the manpower required to double production over the next ten years, as was demanded by the most fervent proponents of the drill-everywhere approach, would be beyond what the company could afford in labor costs. Since most children were willing to work for candy and cheap toys, they were hired and rapidly trained to replace the veterans.

“We were going to tell everybody really soon, I swear,” Suttles said. “We had a whole marketing campaign ready — ‘BP now stands for Baby Petroleum’. It’s just a tragic shame we won’t be able to go forward, because most of the ads were already shot.”

Scotty Hines, the highest-ranking official on the oil rig at the time of the blast, told representatives he at first thought the explosion was awesome, but later realized the magnitude of the disaster and followed all of the company’s written procedures for responding to such a catastrophic event.

“I went exactly by the book, primarily because I know how to read,” Hines said. “Those little ones just did whatever they felt like doing, rather than follow procedures. That’s why we had such a high loss of life and why the oil continues to stream into the Gulf.”

“What a bunch of babies,” he added.

Several of the surviving workers who were plucked from the sea following the blast met with reporters following Suttles’ testimony. While all of them said they supported the efforts of the company to contain the spill and compensate both the affected families and fishermen whose livelihood was endangered, many of them exhibited a fussiness that indicated frustration with the process.

“They’ve taken good care of us since the rescue boats brought us to shore,” said Jacob Littleton, age 18 months. “We had blankets to keep us warm and the Red Cross brought in a truckload of binkies, so that was a comfort. We’re just getting tired and hungry now, and want to see our mommies.”

“We’re just lucky that most of us avoided burns from the explosion,” said Ethan Farris, 2. “I’ve got a little boo-boo on my arm but I think it’ll be okay.”

Reporters said the tots looked absolutely darling in their little yellow slickers, tiny miner’s helmets and the cutest little boots you’ve ever seen.

“Are you a big boy going to work just like your daddy?” asked one reporter. “Are you? Are you?”

Joshua Anderson, age 9 months, simply shook his head at the question, then bawled uncontrollably.

"Production casing had just been run and we had cemented the Macondo well, but never set a plug to cap the bore," said little Aaron James, 9 months. "Abnormal pressure undoubtedly accumulated inside the marine riser, leading to a blowout, or 'big boom-boom', as we call it out on the rigs."

A walk through the warehouse, interrupted

I had to cut through the warehouse at work yesterday to use their men’s room while the white-collar facilities were being cleaned. I don’t mind this occasional mingling with the pickers and packers; in fact, it’s a good reminder of where I easily could be if not for a little education and a lot of luck. And if I run out of the luck sooner than later, as this economic downturn turns ever downer, I could find myself working in a similar facility as I tread water toward retirement.

It’s an unpleasant job better suited to younger and stronger backs than mine. Our warehouse workforce may spend as much as 12 hours a day on their feet selecting papers, packets and boxes from shelves and shoving them into things (mostly envelopes though occasionally into each other when a fight breaks out). I’ve spent some warehouse time sorting good materials from bad earlier in my career when I worked in the “quality” department, and I can tell you it’s exhausting work.

My comfortable air-conditioned and internet-equipped office is right next door … 

WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG POST TO BRING YOU A SPECIAL REPORT

THIS JUST IN

ROCK HILL, SC — A suspicious parcel has been found next to a major state highway near here, oozing what emergency management personnel on the scene described as a dark red fluid and smelling of a possible biological agent.

The package was at first believed to be a discarded half-eaten combo meal from a fast-food restaurant. The exterior appeared to be a paper bag with a cryptic, possibly terrorist communication written on it. “Wake up to breakfast and the great taste of scratch-made biscuits,” read the inscription. Analysts at the Department of Homeland Security speculated the message was a warning of an early-morning attack yet to be staged.

Local police were called to the scene when the odor, thought to be either anthrax or McDonald’s new Big ‘N Tasty burger, overpowered a passing pedestrian. An explosives disposal unit was said to be en route to the location to remove the package before it could be run over by another car.

WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR PREVIOUS READING

… Even if we claimed to have lost the shoes, they have these steel-toed booties on a large hanging shoerack for the occasional guests in the warehouse. There’s even a nice park bench where you can sit while you put on your booties.

That bench is probably the homiest thing in the entire 50,000-square-foot expanse of industrially decorated interior space. Amidst the towering shelves, speeding forklifts and belly-high tables there winds a parallel set of yellow lines that represent the safety zone for those whose feet aren’t steel-encased. This is the path I was taking to the men’s room. Part of the pathway includes now-faded yellow block lettering that represented an earlier manager’s attempt to recognize exceptional work with a “walk of fame”. Each entry included the person’s name and the date that name was memorialized into the floor. We stopped doing this about six years ago, as someone finally realized there were few opportunities for excellence when it came to envelope-stuffing.

I stay mostly between the lines … 

AGAIN, WE INTERRUPT THIS POST TO BRING YOU A SPECIAL REPORT

BREAKING NEWS

NEW YORK — Mayor Michael Bloomberg, praising the t-shirt salesmen who first noticed the smoking car bomb in Times Square over the weekend, proposed yesterday having street vendors and city policemen switch jobs.

“We need to have our forces closer to the people, where they can feel their pain and see their problems,” Bloomberg said. “Someone who has sold you an overpriced Yankees cap or a non-functioning Rolex knock-off knows your suffering, and can relate to your security needs.”

Bloomberg said one division of the newly deputized force would be devoted solely to crowd control, using frozen Sabrett hotdogs as nightsticks and mustard squeeze bottles as tear-gas dispensers. Vendors who lay their goods on a rug on the sidewalk would be part of a unit that yanked the carpet from beneath fleeing felons, toppling them to the pavement. Hawkers who stand outside businesses trying to convince passers-by to enter would become part of the white-collar crime investigations team, taking their badgering skills into Wall Street firms and haranging traders to obey securities laws.

The mayor said that policemen, who were at first slow to respond to the failed attack, needed to “spend some time in retail” to realize that the citizens of the city are their customers.

“The old police saying ‘If you see something, shaddup’ has to be changed if we are to confront the threats of the modern world,” Bloomberg said.

AND NOW BACK TO YOUR PREVIOUS READING

… I pass a small caged area that allows delivery men to enter the building and page for assistance without compromising security. I’m always afraid someone will be caged there as I’m walking by and will call out to me for freedom. I’m not authorized to do anything to help, except maybe throw peanuts at them and watch their antics. I keep my head down and hustle by the cage as quickly as possible.

When I finally get to the facilities, I find that it’s every bit as hygienic as the one I usually patronize. The main difference in the warehouse men’s room is that there’s a framed notice on the wall with bullet-pointed rules of use. Most are the usual stuff you might expect – notify your supervisor if the toilet paper runs out, don’t let the sink area get too splattered with water, etc. – but one point instructs users “don’t put your feet on the wall”. Is that really a problem? … 

STOP WHATEVER YOU’RE DOING!

DEVELOPING STORY

ROCK HILL, SC — Yet another dubious discovery by the road of this small Southern town has put officials from the state office of emergency management on high alert.

What is being tentatively described as a “miniature pipe bomb” was found within a hundred feet of the package discovered earlier this morning. The plastic vessel, about eight inches in length and painted with orange and yellow vertical stripes, had a still-unlit fuse dangling out of one end, and contained remnants of a syrupy dark solution believed to be battery acid.

“We’re getting it into the lab as quickly as possible so we can tell what type of terrorist group we might be dealing with,” said Sheriff Ben Wooten. “We expect to get a lot of information out of the blasting cap.”

Wooten speculated that the ignition device was either of chickpea composition, compressed and hardened into a stick, or else was a french fry. If it turns out to be hummus, it will point in the direction of al-Qaida; if it’s a fry, then right-wing domestic militias could be suspect.

“Only those with a keen knowledge of explosives know that starch is both an incendiary material as well as an accelerant,” Wooten said. “Either way, this device is potentially very dangerous.”

Wooten said that if detonated, the small pipe bomb could maim a squirrel or small robin.

WE NOW REJOIN YOUR PREVIOUS READING, ALREADY IN PROGRESS

… “There are paper towels on the floor,” someone will say. “The flower vase on the sink was turned over,” notes another. Animals!

I think it’s just a knee-jerk resentment that represents a minor class struggle between the white collars and the blues. We don’t like it when they dare come onto our middle-class turf to pee into our commodes and put popcorn into our microwaves (or the other way around, to hear one person describe it). … 

TIME FOR ANOTHER INTERRUPTION

WORDPRESS EXCLUSIVE

HOLLYWOOD — Two veteran folk singers of the 1960s, only recently recovered from the loss of the third member of their famous trio, announced today that they’re adding two new members to the group and beginning a North American tour.

Peter Yarrow and Paul Stookey, two-thirds of the famous Peter, Paul and Mary who released hits like “Puff the Magic Dragon” and “Lemon Tree,” are adding terror suspects Faisal Shahzad and Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab to their band and embarking on a 45-city tour of the U.S. and Canada.

“We’ve agreed to keep an eye on them and keep them occupied in gainful work that will help with their rehabilitation,” said Yarrow, who served as spokesman for the America-hating musicians. “We both share the desire to conspire and destroy this great nation, though we come at that stand from different perspectives. I think our body of work will inspire them, just as their smoking Pathfinder and exploding underpants will motivate us.”

The combo will be called Peter, Paul, Umar and Faisal. The band’s first collaboration, set for release next month, was performed in a brief concert for assembled reporters. The music was indescribable, but the words had a familiar ring:

[Faisal, singing lead]

Oh, my Nissan’s packed
I’m ready to scare
I’m leaving it here
Right in Times Square
Hate to blow you up and say goodbye
I put down my bag
Take off my shirt
Now this town’s in for
A world of hurt
Already I’m so lonesome I could cry

Take it, Umar…

I’m blowing up a jet plane
Don’t know if I’ll be back again
Oh babe, I hate to go

AND NOW, BACK TO WHAT YOU WERE READING BEFORE YOU WERE SO RUDELY INTERRUPTED

… Once a year, we have to read through these improbably hilarious scenarios that spell out how to work safely, then take a multiple-choice exam at the end. (One favorite question is “Who should you notify before you enter an electrified or enclosed space? A. Your supervisor; B. the CEO; or C. your family”). If the exercise weren’t so laughable, you’d be tempted to haul out those steely boots and kick your computer monitor.

But I know where they’d send me if I tried that, so I’m staying out of the warehouse as much as I can.

An Editorial: More good things are needed

There are too many bad things in the world and not enough good things. This needs to change.

Even the most casual observer of current events will notice the huge preponderance of bad things. There’s an oil spill off the coast of Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama. And even before the accident, there was still a Louisiana, a Mississippi and an Alabama. Wars dot the globe. Poverty stalks the land. And famine — don’t even get me started about what famine is up to.

Dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of people are dying worldwide every day. Sure, they’re being replaced by births, and sure, that’s usually a happy event, unless my slutty niece is involved with that loser boyfriend of hers again. Dying, however, is so much more of a bad thing than being born is a good thing. I know lots of people who are going to be dying in the next ten years, and virtually nobody who’s going to be born.

Even when a good thing happens, it’s more likely that it was just a bad thing that didn’t quite work out. Like the attempted bombing in Times Square, for example. Yes, we’re happy that dozens of tourists weren’t maimed by a car bomb (pretty happy, anyway), and yet I think it’s safe to say that it would’ve been better if Nissan had never manufactured the Pathfinder in the first place.

And how about that miraculous emergency landing in the Hudson by a hobbled USAir flight a year or so back? Just this week, an official board of review released its findings on the incident, declaring the fact that 150 passengers and a crew of five didn’t plunge to their death while strewing fiery wreckage all over midtown Manhattan was a “good thing.” Yet overlooked was the reality that deplaning in the middle of an icy river is only marginally better than completing your flight and landing in Charlotte. And in either case, you’re luggage is going to be pretty messed up.

So who is responsible for so many bad things and so few good things? There are several schools of thought.

Some believe that the events of life are random bits of destiny. Fate decides who will get a good parking space and who won’t, and there’s little that Man can do to manage such events, at least without cutting off Another Man. I call these people “fatalists” and I don’t like them.

Some look at the overarching sweep of history as a context that can explain and perhaps even predict events. All civilizations eventually decline, they will note, and so too will the American Empire. Understanding that as a backdrop can help make sense of the fact that the CBS comedy “Big Bang Theory” continues its broadcast run. Similar shows will debut next fall, and before long we’ll be overrun by Mongol hordes. And their idea of what makes a good sitcom will likely be even worse than ours.

Finally, there are those like me who believe that events of this world are choreographed by a supernatural force from the great beyond. These gods go by many names — “Allah,” “Buddha,” “Yahweh”, “President Thomas S. Monson, prophet and revelator of the Mormon Church” — and their followers believe that even the most minor of daily annoyances are part of a divine plan. You were hoping to get a five back in change at the coffee shop but instead they gave you all quarters? Someday, it will be revealed unto you that without this hassle, there was no way that an eternal paradise could ever be attained. All you can do is hope that the cute barista will somehow be involved.

Well, this is an age of accountability, folks, and I think it’s high time we make these big shots explain to the rest of us why there can’t be more good things. I propose we convene a summit of the various Lords and Masters, and require that They come up with a concrete plan that will result in more good things, or else we’re going to stop believing in Them. Reserve a conference room at a nice hotel — maybe a Hilton Garden Inn or that new Hyatt out by the interstate — and keep them locked in until they can brainstorm a list of really good things that can be implemented as soon as they check out. Also, have them promise to implement at least a 50% reduction in bad things.

Only when we attack this problem head on in a spirit of cooperation and compromise can we ever hope to return good things to their rightful place of happening a lot.

Now I lay me down to accessorize

I’ve been off the Ambien for a couple of months now and what sleep I get does feel a little less artificial. With the help of a prescription sleeping aid, it did seem as though the nights were restful, or at least those parts that I remembered the next morning. The problem with Ambien is that it’s more of a memory eraser than it is a good crack on the skull, so your unconsciousness might come with the unanticipated side effect of a drive to Maryland.

I’ve watched my cats slip into slumber as effortlessly as they steal my food when I’m not looking, and they make wonderful role models for people trying to get some shut-eye. Taylor in particular can drop on a moment’s notice. He doesn’t have to put on his pajamas, or turn on his sound machine, or have the room temperature and the pillow and the covers just so. He’s rocketing off the walls with a case of the “rips” one minute, and curled into a spherical, comatose mass the next.

Scientists claim to know very little about what makes us sleep, and it’s good to hear a little humility out of those guys for a change. I’ve thought it through myself during many a restless night, and I’ve come up with my own theory. The harder you consciously try to make it happen, the harder it is to achieve. Giving up on the attempt completely can be a very effective strategy in getting to sleep.

It was during a jet-lagged trip to Asia that this revelation first came to me. It’s 3 o’clock in the morning some 35,000 feet above Iran, and as I look around the plane at my fellow passengers, I feel more like a dentist than proofreading trainer headed to South Asia. Mouths are hanging open everywhere as people lose themselves in dreamland. Meanwhile, I’m watching half the remaining subcontinent dance furiously on the tiny TV screen in front of me, stirring futilely as Akshay sings of his undying love for Devi and for frantic, high-pitched violins.

A few days later, I’ve arrived at my destination and am still struggling to get into a pattern that gives me a nightly rest. I call up room service on my third night in Sri Lanka and order a piece of cake to soothe my frustration. If I can’t get to sleep, I figure I may as well have dessert. I lie in bed with the dish on my chest, and the next thing I know it’s about ten hours later and I’m coming out of the best slumber I’ve had in a long time. Sure, I’m covered in frosting, and will have to suffer the suspicious glances of my maid for the next three weeks for what I’ve done to the sheets. But I finally got a good night’s sleep, all because I gave up trying.

Either that, or the Tamil Tigers had poisoned me.

Once back in the U.S., I was ready to try out my new strategy. If I didn’t make such an effort out of the nightly routine, if instead I prepared for bed by preparing to do something else entirely, perhaps I could trick my subconscious into letting me surrender to Morpheus.

The first night of the experiment, I simply left my socks on. Normally, I prefer to sleep barefoot so as to enjoy the sensation of cool sheets wrapped around my ankles (this is what passes for “pleasure” as we sail through middle age). If I tricked my mind into thinking that clothed feet meant no rest was expected, maybe the reverse psychology would kick in and I’d doze off.

It worked pretty well although, not unlike prescription medicines, it required increased doses on subsequent nights for its efficacy to continue. When the effect of the socks wore off after several evenings, I graduated next to placing the TV remote on my belly. Again, I fell quickly asleep, though my wife complained about how I changed the channel every time I rolled over, usually just as she was becoming interested in the merits of buying cubic zirconia for only $49.95 plus shipping and handling, but only if she ordered within the next 15 minutes.

For the next attempt, I put on a pair of heavy-duty work gloves as I climbed into bed. There’d be no snuggling for me this night, of that I was certain. My brain, however, thought I was planning to install a new water heater instead of catching 40 winks, so it quickly shut me down for seven hours of nearly lifeless bliss.

When the gloves wore off, I next tried sunglasses. When the sunglasses wore off, I donned a wool cap. When the hat stopped working, I put on my favorite tie. That was almost too effective, as I awoke gasping desperately for air when the neckwear became tangled in my sheets and I nearly strangled.

Now I was riding a downward spiral that seemed destined to end badly. I pulled out the dark blue suit I got married in some 28 years ago and wore it for several nights. It was a little tight around the waist, and the shoes left some scuff marks on Beth, which she justifiably objected to. This is about the time I gave up on the wardrobe strategy, and graduated to the hard stuff.

I tried carrying a toaster with me. One night I brought a 1996 copy of Hoover’s Handbook of American Companies with me. I dug around in my son’s closet and found an old Darth Vader bank that played the Star Wars theme every time you put in a coin, though now I was concerned I’d be accused of sleeping with a dolly.

When props started failing, I turned to activities. I brought my 401k and IRA statements with me and planned to diversify my investment portfolio, which knocked me out like a left hook from Manny Pacquiao. When that wore off, I started updating my resume, including fictitious stints as a rodeo clown, mayor of Hallandale, Fla., and a former member of the Lovin’ Spoonful (the one who played autoharp). Finally, I plotted an armed insurrection against the state of South Carolina, rallying my armies in a pincer movement just south of Columbia before descending on the Five Points area and kidnapping Gov. Mark Sanford while he dined on the Big Mo platter at Maurice’s Barbecue.

At this point, I realized I had become seriously unhinged and needed professional help, and that’s when I reported to the doctor and picked up my Ambien prescription. I think that eventually I would’ve arrived at a more natural solution to my insomnia, though I feared that would involve imprisonment and mostly feigned sleep to keep my cellmate at bay.

Now I’m off the Ambien and back to the nightly struggle for rest that millions of Americans pursue. I may be dragging my haggard self through the work day, nodding off during meetings and losing focus on assorted tasks at hand. But at least I’m saving a few dollars by not having to accessorize so much.

Revisited: Time for the annual physical

Last week, I underwent that periodic humiliation known as the annual physical. Like the cautious, prudent 50-something guy I am, I trooped off to my doctor’s office with the proper forms filled out in advance, my insurance preauthorization in place, and my stomach growling like an angry beast. “No food on the day of the physical,” I had been warned, but hadn’t been smart enough to think through exactly what that meant for a 2:30 appointment.

What it meant was that I was in one foul mood by the time arrived at Shiland Hills Medical Center (village motto: “just a ‘t’ short of what it’s really like to live there.”) If the purpose of the NPO order had been to test my grumpiness quotient, I was fully prepared to be off the chart. I knew from previous experience it was actually for the blood tests I’d need to undergo following the physical part of the exam, and it didn’t make me any happier when the nurse noted cheerfully “you know, you could’ve done the exam today and the blood tests on a Saturday.” Yes, and you could be doing a better job of living up to the “care” part of healthcare.

I arrived fifteen minutes early in a waiting room filled with elderly folks in wheelchairs and well-dressed young professionals. It wasn’t hard to tell the patients from the cheerleaders-turned-pharmaceutical reps — the reps had a desperately unwell look in advance of what was sure to be yet another no-sale. I signed in at the front desk, then took a seat between the only non-coughing old guy and a Newsweek magazine.

As soon as I got comfortable reading the latest news on hunger in Africa (growl), the receptionist called me forward. I sheepishly passed those who had obviously been waiting longer and more desperately needed to see a doctor and approached the desk.

“Has your insurance coverage changed since your last visit?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” I replied. “It’s much worse now.”

She took my card, made a copy and buzzed me through to the hallowed inner sanctum. A nurse greeted me just inside, asked how I was (still hungry) and escorted me to the scales. I weighed in at a trim two-oh-migod and was then taken to examining room number eleven, my personal favorite because of a particularly well-rendered watercolor landscape therein. She took my temperature, then affixed the blood pressure cuff to my upper arm and puffed away until she heard something important in her stethoscope. She read out some numbers – I think it was like 400 over 12 – but didn’t tell me if this was good, bad or indifferent. I assumed it meant I was alive.

She left me alone on the finely tissued examining table for just a few minutes before the doctor arrived. Dr. Jackson has been my personal physician (gee, that makes me sound important) for as long as I can remember, and has always treated me well. We exchange handshakes, which I wish were our only physical contact, as well as brief small talk before the prodding begins.

The actual mechanics of the exam always seems a little too cursory to me. He pulls out his little keychain penlight and peers into my throat, my eyes, my ears, every head-based orifice except the nostrils of my nose. I’m not real sure what he expects to find in these recesses, but I’d love to surprise him some time with perhaps a coin or an insect. He thumps my chest, listening to my deep breathing with a nicely feigned interest. After a quick caress of my neck to see if I have glands and lymph nodes, it’s time to drop the trousers and pry into the nether fissures (mine, not his). I won’t belabor these details here; suffice it to say we talked sports the entire time.

We occasionally encounter each other at the Y, so he told how he had changed his exercise routine lately, moving his running indoors to a treadmill because of the effect outdoor concrete was having on his knees. He said he was trying to reduce his speed a little and go more for endurance, as he had recently realized the drive and determination that had gotten him through medical school 30 years ago was wearing him out now that he was in his fifties. He was also trying to eat a little better, no more fast foods on the way home from being on-call at the hospital. I noted that I too exercised, and he thought that was nice.

We talked about the drugs I’m currently taking, whether or not I needed to continue them and if I needed any refills. He sat there dutifully writing out prescriptions for cholesterol and insomnia medicine, almost like a waiter taking my order for a chicken finger appetizer (hold the honey mustard sauce; I’m trying to lose a few pounds). I had the feeling that if I mentioned problems I was having with stress and reality, he would’ve gladly scribbled out a script for heroin. I almost regret not having given it a shot.

Finally we were done and he walked me down the hall to the laboratory, where I’d have various sera drawn and examined. With the lack of food for the previous 18 hours starting to affect my judgment, I was momentarily tempted to have fun with the lab workers. I could either squeeze a little extra blood from my still-dripping vein into the urine sample I was providing, or sneak a little pee into my blood vial. Or maybe I’d cross them up entirely and leave a five-dollar bill in the urine collection jar; that’d be funny.

Now it was time for checkout. There were at least a dozen nurses back there (I think of them all as nurses but I’m sure they were really just insurance specialists, collection agents and people in charge of not getting crushed by the rolling vertical files) yet still I had to wait in a short line. The signs warned me to stand back, so I wouldn’t infringe on the privacy of people like the lady in front of me, who unfortunately had something called watermelon stomach, no insurance and a detectable stench. When my turn arrived, I reminded the cashier I had no co-pay, which sounds like a good thing but just means I have to pay later.

At last I was freed from the medical establishment, judged relatively healthy and able to eat. There’s a Burger King conveniently right next door to Shiland Medical, and I must admit I had the chicken fingers.

Revisited: Those three magic words

We had just come back from a pleasant Mother’s Day afternoon spent at an Indian restaurant and a matinee showing of “Star Trek.” My wife and son and I were settling in for a relaxing Sunday evening of domestic tranquility, lounging in the living room, sipping soft drinks and enjoying each other’s company. Suddenly, from across the room I hear that phrase I’ve heard so many times in the past.

“I told you…”

Oh, I should also mention that I had put my Pepsi on the bookshelf right above our expensive loveseat, and one of the cats knocked it over onto me and the upholstery.

Sure enough, I had been told for the thousandth time that this was a bad place to put a carbonated beverage. But I had not listened to past warnings from my beloved spouse – or if I was listening, I wasn’t paying attention – and once again I was correctly being chastised like so many husbands deserve every day.

Those three little words form more of a foundation for many modern marriages than the more endearing combination that substitutes “love” for “told.” I do indeed love my wife and can show you the Mother’s Day card that says so. If I hadn’t met her over 30 years ago and somehow convinced her to spend her life with me, I hesitate to think what I would’ve become. I suspect I’d be pursuing a social pathology that would eventually land me on television, and not the good kind like the evening news but the bad kind like a reality show. She’s made me a happy man.

However, I don’t make things easy for her with my poor listening. I’m not sure why me and so many of my fellow men have such a difficult time with this most critical of marital skills. (Well, one of the most critical anyway.) Husbands and wives seem to have evolved in slightly different directions from the ancestors who relied on their acute sense of hearing to survive predators and hunt our own food. Men apparently think listening became unnecessary as civilization advanced, sort of like the vestigial tail or Duane “The Rock” Johnson.

Recorded history never would’ve been recorded if our ancient spouses hadn’t encouraged us to write things down if we were going to be so damn forgetful. The annals of time would not be documented so that later generations could learn from previous ones. All the science and mathematics and philosophy of our forbearers, the predecessors to today’s grocery lists and appointment calendars, would be lost. And then we can’t even remember to put orange juice and toaster strudel on there.

I’ve tried several defenses of my thick-headedness yet they always seem so inadequate. Still, I thought I’d pass these on to other husbands who might be out there looking to somehow justify their inexcusable thoughtlessness.

Let me start with one that you’d think might work but actually tends to backfire disastrously. I’ve tried contending that it’s because I’m so relaxed and comfortable in my wife’s presence that I tend to “veg out” and allow entire sentences to float in one ear and out the other. Everywhere else I have to be on constant guard to make sure my surroundings aren’t trying to harm me – be they oncoming 18-wheelers or supervisors looking for a volunteer for the safety committee. In my home, however, I can rest at ease.

Unfortunately, I’ve found that this can also be called taking someone for granted. And this is not somewhere you want to take anybody you care for.

I’ve also tried citing a technique I learned in my days as a corporate trainer that’s known as “just-in-time.” Under this manufacturing philosophy, materials and other inputs are not brought forward to the production line until they’re needed. Applied to verbal interactions, this means that information necessary to do something – remembering to pick up your child after school or changing the air conditioner filter – is not tapped into until the action is ready to be performed. So if “I told you” to stop leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor, this instruction has to be conveyed while you’re still dripping, not at dozens of other times since at least 1980.

This one also doesn’t work very well.

Two other arguments related to each other can have some effectiveness as you approach your senior years. These are the hearing-loss justification and the Alzheimer’s cover. Blaming your poor listening on the deterioration of your cochlea is a risky maneuver, considering a quick exam by a medical professional can cost you not only what seems like a good excuse but a $35 co-pay as well. Alzheimer’s is much harder to prove, and all but the most insistent spouses will stop short of demanding a post-mortem brain autopsy to prove your inattention is disease-related. Raising the specter of potentially debilitating conditions is a pretty cynical card to play just to maintain your reputation, so I’d use it sparingly.

Finally, I’ll mention the Dave Bedingfield rationalization. Dave was a close friend of mine back in college and we spent many long hours together alternating between coma and watching Atlanta Braves baseball (not really all that different when you think about it). He is now a respected legal scholar and barrister in England, but in the seventies even he would describe himself as a worthless, no-good, irresponsible excuse for humanity. If he missed an appointment, lost the mix tape he borrowed or otherwise failed to act in good faith on agreements you had made with him earlier, it was understandable because it was widely known he couldn’t be counted on. “I know,” he’d say before you could make the suggestion yourself. “I’m an idiot.”

Unfortunately, most women recognize passive-aggressiveness on this grand scale and simply won’t stand for it. If you make too strong an argument about what a jerk you are, there’s the risk that you’ll call into doubt her judgment in choosing you for a lifemate, or that she’ll simply agree about your depravity and start separation proceedings.

In the end, I’d have to say that the best way to parry the “I told you” accusation is, unfortunately, to actually start listening. Watch her lips and hear her words. Write notes on your forearm. Carry a PDA. Repeat the message over and over to yourself until the mumbling resonates in your brain like the euro-beat classic “Come On Eileen”. Realize that you’re always going to be the insensitive oaf and your wife is going to be the patient but stern adult.

(Thanks, Dave, and if you’re out there somewhere, send me an email. I might need some advice.)

Just another manic Monday

You may have seen the story out of Boston over the weekend where a man who went by the legal name of “Lord Jesus Christ” was struck and hurt by a motorist.            

Police said his injuries weren’t life-threatening, not because the accident wasn’t serious but because — c’mon — he’s the indestructible Savior of Man! He survived crucifixion; you think a little a little tap from the bumper of a 2005 Chevrolet sedan is going to slow Him down? For Christ’s sake, it was a Chevrolet.            

Christ, a 50-year-old resident of suburban Belchertown (also a real name), was hit in a crosswalk in the downtown area of Northampton. He was transported to Cooley Dickinson Hospital where he was treated for injuries to his face, mouth and legs, and was released. (The beard and halo were, fortunately, unscathed.) The driver, Brittany Cantarella, 20, of Pittsfield, was issued one citation for a crosswalk violation and another for almost wiping out Christendom’s hope for eternal salvation.            

The Boston Globe tried to obtain an interview with the man, “but the hospital said no one named Christ was a patient there today. Efforts to find a home phone number for Christ were unsuccessful.”            

+++            

I had to do sexual harassment training at work last week. Technically, I guess it was training on how to avoid sexual harassment.            

Our company requires all employees to do this on-line education once a year, primarily so we know there’s a line which we must not cross in our relationships with co-workers, but also so the lawyers are satisfied. If an individual is ever accused of misconduct, the corporation then has documentation that we were specifically told not to grope or fondle each other. “Not only was he told,” they can say, “but he also scored an 89% on an assessment of his understanding of the rules. That’s a high ‘B’, you know.”            

You’re supposed to read some material, then take a test on what you just read, as you progress through the hour-long course. However, most of the answers are so obvious that people skip right to the exam. Here’s one example:            

“John tells his employee Sue: ‘I will protect your job and not select you to be in the next workforce reduction if you sleep with me.’”            

“Is this sexually harassing behavior? Yes or no?”            

You’d have to be a U.S. senator to be dimwitted enough to get this stuff wrong.            

+++            

Burger King is introducing its new “Whiplash Burger” as a promotional tie-in with the movie “Iron Man 2″. “Whiplash” is the evil nemesis of Robert Downey Jr.’s ferrous super-hero, and is played by the carelessly groomed Mickey Rourke.            

I’m not sure what’s officially on the burger, but the poster outside the restaurant near my house shows some brown, tangled tendrils between the burger and the lettuce that I’m guessing are onion rings.            

I have to admit they are reminiscent of Rourke’s straggled hair, though I don’t necessarily consider that an appetizing feature.            

Better as an evil villain than a hamburger topping

+++         

Does it seem to anyone else watching American Idol this season that the contestants are being used in such a way that you’d be tempted to call the Humane Society if they were dogs?          

The singing hopefuls are treated like dress-up dolls by producers with the maturity of a 12-year-old girl. One week, they’re slathered with vampire makeup, made to wear fangs, and told to romp in the woods and hiss at each other. The next, they’re dressed like Frank Sinatra, if he had dreadlocks, piercings and a beard. Then they’re told to dance frantically around a Ford Focus, which no ones does in real life unless it’s headed directly toward you.         

Can’t they just let the poor kids sing? My younger sister used to put clothes on our poodle Muffin and make him dance around to Monkees songs. She gave this up, however, when she got a job as a banker. Will the Fox execs ever mature in a similar fashion, without the banking?         

+++         

Cavalia has come to Charlotte! I’m told by the advertising campaign that I’m supposed to be excited by this development, which hopefully explains the exclamation points!         

Cavalia is a troupe that presents large-scale equestrian productions involving trick riding and Cirque du Soleil-like performances. The tour uses 62 horses and 20 acrobats, all performing under the largest tent in North America.       

The horses are only asked to practice one hour each day, and get two hours each day for play. They only perform for 5–10 minutes per show, 7-8 times each week, and the horses are trained to understudy for each other so different horses can be given the day off. The humans are also treated well, though you don’t see the horses cleaning up their droppings.      

I’d consider attending the show in person, but my concern is this: Like other Cirque du Soleil shows, are the horses latched into harnesses, suspended from wires, and then swung wildly over the audience? Because, if they are, I can foresee a problem.     

+++  

 I had the honor and privilege of attending my niece’s college graduation on Saturday. I came away with several observations:  

• The invocation, with all the head bowing and eye closing, is a great time to check your text messages.  

• Endowed professorships have gone the way of college bowl games during these hard economic times, in that the naming privileges aren’t always given to the most respected outfits. This commencement honored the “Pee Dee Federal Savings Bank Professor of English.”  

• Switching the tassel from one side of the cap to the other to signify official graduation seems like an odd academic custom. Since when are clothing adjustments infused with such deep meaning? I hesitated to adjust my shorts during the proceedings, lest I inadvertently fund a scholarship in my name. (Or in the name of my shorts).

• Shouting cheers at individual graduates as the troop across the stage was not forbidden in this commencement. The high schools in my hometown have been known to order the arrest of over-enthusiastic family members in their quest for decorum. I didn’t think the uproar was that bad, except for that time the lady behind me YELLED RIGHT IN MY EAR!  

• During the boring parts of the ceremony, you can always make fun of some of the student names listed in the program. Among my favorites at this event were Phillip Austin Mozingo, Jonathan Al Poon, Yeolonda Snipes, Brent Alan Gooch, Whitney Sarah Obsession Fraser, Kevin Edidiong Inyagetor, Nadiyah Khadijah Batiste and Furnisha Lashelle Davis.  

+++  

I’m proud to say my household is prepared for the apocalypse. My wife and I are pack-rats by nature, not yet good enough to qualify as clinically obsessed but well beyond the common collector.  

Among our proudest display is a collection of disposable cutlery. Virtually every plastic knife, fork and spoon we’ve been given by take-out restaurants over the last 15 years is standing ready and willing help us transport food to our mouths should silverware become irretrivably irradiated by a nuclear attack.  

The enemies of America will NEVER turn us into uncivilized animals forced to paw through contaminated garbage looking for survival-level sustenance. While everyone else is face down and chomping through the ooze and muck, we’ll be the ones using carefully wrapped plastic cutlery, thank you very much.  

You can have my spork when you pry it from my cold, dead hands

Fake News: It’s getting a little sticky in the Gulf

NEW ORLEANS (May 10) — Efforts to contain the Gulf of Mexico oil spill sputtered over the weekend when a four-story-tall casing failed to halt the emission of fluids from the bottom of the sea.  

“I told you that sheath wouldn’t work,” said the leaking seabed. “Why can’t we just do it naturally, and let my essence flow freely? I promise, you’re not going to get in trouble.”  

Ice-like crystals clogged the tip of the containment vessel, keeping the oil from being safely collected in a reservoir. Now, the sticky mess is continuing to foul much of the coastline near here.  

“My boys, they don’t like to be bottled up like that,” said the Gulf floor of the blockage that frustrated the effort. “They’re big and strong and they know what they want. They’re not stopping until they’re deep inside your ecosystem.”  

A spokeswoman for BP said the company had promised the site, referred to as the Macondo Prospect, that the satisfaction of deep-sea drilling would not be sacrificed with the installation of the 80-ton repository. Betty Emerson, Vice President for Emissions, Eruptions and Upsurges, said the containment vessel had been constructed with an especially thin type of concrete so that the gusher would hardly notice it. The surface was even ribbed, for her pleasure as well as for his.  

“We put it on lovingly, slowly, seductively,” Emerson said of the failed attempt Saturday night. “I could definitely tell that he liked what we were doing, but then things got all frigid and the box fell off, spilling stuff everywhere.”  

The seabed countered that BP was simply “teasing” it, and failed to demonstrate that the petroleum conglomerate was “truly in love” with the upwelling located some 50 miles off the coast.  

“Why don’t they trust me when I say I’m committed to a long-term relationship?” the Macondo Prospect asked. “I appreciate the attention she gave me while the vessel was being maneuvered into place, but it wouldn’t have hurt to do a little more. The mouth of the Mississippi is so close … “  

“That’s gross and disgusting. I’m not doing that,” Emerson said in response. “We’re not that kind of company.”  

“So why did you use the cherry-flavored brand then?” countered the seabed.  

“Because it’s the only one that glowed in the dark,” Emerson said. “I don’t mind feeling around down there to find the right tools, but when the action picks up, I need to know what’s going where.”  

“Get out of my sight, you slut,” the prospect replied.  

The spent box had taken two weeks to build and three days to cart offshore to the site. Now it lies in a gutter about 400 feet from the well.  

Engineers are wondering what they might try next to stem the surge of gummy goo. They were wrestling with a shopping list of ways to plug the well or siphon off the spewing crude, including a smaller containment box, dubbed a “top hat.”  

“Did you say smaller?” the seabed asked, chuckling. “I really don’t think that’s going to work at all, if you catch my drift.”  

Another technique would use a remote-controlled robot to shoot mud and concrete directly into the well’s blown-out nozzle, while a method called the “junk shot” would inject debris including shredded rubber into the tube as a stopper.  

“Say what?” said the Macondo Prospect. “Let’s not get carried away here. I think we can be reasonable about this. Why don’t you just take your submarines and your steel claws and your ideas about ‘cutting pipe’ and leave me alone with a cheap laptop and a good Internet connection. Really, I can take care of myself.”  

Oh, baby...

Warning: Post contains (typo)graphic violence

Last Thursday, a near-panic on Wall Street dropped the Dow almost a thousand points in just a few minutes. It was later discovered the plunge might be attributable to a trader who meant to sell a million shares of stock but instead typed the word “billion.”

Then on Sunday, I published a post on this blog titled “Thre Magic Words.” Some 159 people viewed the defective headline, though probably only about half of those skimmed the article while roughly a quarter gave up after a few paragraphs and perhaps as many as three noticed that “thre” was misspelled.

Two events — one bringing the world to the brink of financial catastrophe and the other bothering the heck out of me till I corrected it about an hour later — with one thing in common: both involved that bane of written communications, the typo.

Typographical errors go back as far as written history itself. When cultures were passed from one generation to the next through the oral tradition, it was instead the “speak-o” that confounded perfectionists and resulted in some nasty misunderstandings, most notably the ritual sacrifice of humans when all the village elders actually wanted to burn was “cumin.” The advent of cave paintings and hieroglyphs and ultimately movable type allowed such mistakes to be recorded for centuries. (Today we can reprint or “update post” if necessary, but the Neanderthal had to blow up his whole cave if he drew a bear but meant to draw an antelope.)

I’ve been an aficionado of proper spelling my entire life. At Miami Norland Elementary School, I won the fifth-grade spelling bee, advancing to the school-wide finals against a taller, stronger and more athletic sixth-grader who “posterized” me when I stumbled on accrued while he monster-dunked inchoate to take the championship. My two best subjects throughout grade school were spelling and geography, and I was crestfallen to learn from the vocational counselor in high school that you couldn’t enter either subject as a career.

With my dreams dashed of opening a specialty boutique where customers could ask how to spell the capital of North Dakota, I instead went to college to study journalism. It was the early seventies and Florida State was gripped with the revolutionary zeal of the times. However, as much as we questioned the establishment and cultural mores and business-as-usual and why Mary Bess wouldn’t allow me to touch her chest, we never challenged the time-tested rules of written communication. Our manifestos demanding the resignation of the president and ROTC OFF CAMPUS NOW! were carefully edited and exquisitely punctuated.

Only once during my tenure as an editor of the school paper did we dare to question The Man (Noah Webster) on the subject of proper spelling, and that was at the prompting of The Woman. Amy Rogers was head of the local feminist coalition, and came to my office one day demanding that as good liberals we abandon the misogynistic term “woman” in our reporting of campus news.

“We repudiate the word, because it comes from the origin ‘womb-man,’” she told me. “We prefer ‘womyn’ instead, and strongly urge you to prefer it too.”

We convened an editorial meeting and debated for several hours the merits of the request. Ultimately, I moved that the proposal was stupid and got a slim majority (all the guys) to agree with me. Then we closed down the paper and had a sit-in, just for the fun of it.

After leaving college, I took numerous part-time jobs in the closest thing I could find to professional spelling, which was typesetting and proofreading. I was a fast and accurate typist, and to this day can churn out 100 words-per-minute with 98% accuracy (just ask “Typer-Shark”). What I didn’t get right while typing I would correct while checking my work. In 1980 I consolidated the part-time work into one full-time job in financial printing, where I continue to make my career today.

Though my first love is typing – as you can probably tell from this and many other examples of sentences in my posts that run on and on and on – where the company needed me most was in proofreading. That can be a difficult and stressful job, primarily because your entire reason for being is to find and point out the mistakes of others. After identifying the minute deficiencies of other people’s performance all day long, proofreaders typically go home to a lonely existence watching for mistakes in movie credits. Family members fled a long time ago, sick of having every move critiqued. (“Are you sure you meant to say you’re going to the bathroom, dear? Isn’t it really the toilet you intend to use?”).

We’re left to form our own little cult of petty purists, laughing amongst ourselves at how incompetent everyone else is with the language. Remember that time Sue typed an alteration as “bored of directors”? Or when Jackie misread “code of ethics” as “code of ethnics,” and when Bob wrote about the “Antirust Division” in the Justice Department instead of “Antitrust”? And who can ever forget the time we almost printed “annual report” as “anal retort”?

And since our company specializes in helping publically held corporations with their legally required public disclosure documents, it’s that little word “public” that becomes the most problematic of all. We’ve had to catch and fix everything from “pubic announcement” to “certified pubic auditors” to “pubic defender.”

For a long time, such a life was all very satisfying for me. Lately, however, it’s grown a little strained. Sure, we can be justly proud of our high quality standards, helping guarantee the accuracy of information that American shareholders use to help them make wise investment decisions (sort of). But all we’re really responsible for is converting files the client has supplied us and making sure our draft reads exactly like theirs, right or wrong. If we happen to notice that they’ve written “;likjio&%@nehw”, well maybe that’s just the British spelling.

When we split into opposing factions on the subject of which punctuation mark was proper to show a range of numbers, I knew we had gone too far. Those who favored the hyphen with no space on either side (the “Hyphenates”) were pitted against those who felt strongly that an en-dash surrounded by thin spaces (the “Dashers”) was proper. Armed clashes in the parking lot between the two forces were breaking out more frequently now, with at least two proofreaders already injured by sharpened pica sticks. Management has yet to broker a peace.

I think those who care about proper spelling and word usage are being overtaken by larger events anyway. Between emoticons and Twitterese and texting, I think we’ll soon see radical changes to the language in all its forms. Even financial documents, with their stiff, legalistic prose, will soon be created in a new way. For example, the “risk factors” section, which lists in detail potential reasons why a stock may not perform up to its potential, will soon read something like this: “The company operates in a sector in which significant price variations may subject revenue streams to extreme instability (OMG).” Or, “Our acquisition of XYZ Corporation may result in a dilution of our stock price and a reduced market capitalization “.

At least it’s pretty hard to typo a frowny face.

An Editorial: Shhhhh!

People of America, hear me: You need to be quiet.

There’s entirely too much idle chatter going on here. You have to simmer down and get back to work. You’re never going to make anything of yourself if you spend all day yacking with your friends.

What was good advice from our third-grade teacher is good advice today. People blather on incessantly about the most pointless topics, diverting much-needed attention from the advancement of Western Civilization. It’s no wonder we’re falling behind the rest of the world in so many areas. Being number one in telling stories about our dogs is not going to cut it when it comes to global competitiveness.

“How are you?”/”I’m fine, how are you?”

“How’s it going?”/”Oh, it’s going.”

“What’s happening?”/”Same ol’ same ol’.”

“How’s it hangin’?”/”Oh, it’s quite comfortably packaged in a cotton-blend brief.”

Will you please shut the hell up?

The editorial board here at DavisW’s Blog is anticipating a summer-long extravaganza of incessant yammering, and goes on record with this editorial as saying it doesn’t like the prospect one bit. We will not stand for endless stories about the cute blouse you almost bought, that back-handed catch in last night’s Mariners’ game, and those allergies that are going around right now. Anything short of you being hit by a meteor, spare us the details.

We’re proposing alternate forms of communication for some of the big events likely to be the most irritating in the months ahead.

At the Senate confirmation hearings for new Supreme Court nominee Elena Kagan, we’d like to see all parties agree to use exaggerated facial expressions rather than words to debate the merits of her qualifications. Supporters will be limited to broad smiles and wide-eyed nods. Those still on the fence can furrow their brows, narrow their eyes and peer over the rims of their glasses. Republicans can do like they always do, shake their heads no.

Nominee Kagan can make her case by the clothes she wears, the jewelry she rocks and the makeup she carefully applies. Regardless of what she does, she’ll still not compare to the woman we’d like to have appointed (see yesterday’s editorial, “Our Pick for High Court: Lost‘s Hottie Evangeline Lilly”). If Kagan wants to jump up and down or wave her arms wildly in the air to prove to the Judiciary Committee that she’ll be a strict constructionist, that’s fine.

In the entertainment world, let’s have a half-baked limited-run TV reality series in which contestants are locked in a house and not allowed to talk to each other. Only menacing stares, threatening glances, heavy sighs and chimp-like grunts are permitted. In the season finale, all participants will be allowed to file restraining orders against each other and lawsuits against the producers. Ensuing trials will be conducted using semaphore flags.

Sports analysts will not be allowed to discuss what’s the latest news on Tiger Woods. Instead, they can only employ the pantomime conventions of the parlor game “Charades.” Viewers will tweet in their guesses until the entire commentary is revealed. “Bulging something, right? Bulging dick. Bulging disc. BULGING DISC!”

And of course, it goes without saying that our neighbors, our coworkers, our friends and our associates will keep their heads down, mind their own business, and clam up, for Christ’s sake. Use your mouth for eating hot dogs and catching fireflies on your tongue, just as our ancestors did in summers gone by. Otherwise, keep your yap shut.

This is our decree. Heed our word.

Website Review: Jetpack.com

Yesterday was Ascension Day, the occasion on which the world’s Christians note the ascent of  a back-from-the-dead Jesus Christ into Heaven. I thought it might be a good opportunity to look into the state of the modern jetpack, and where you might be able to get one.  

Though the Gospel according to Mark makes little mention of a mechanically aided lift (other than a vague reference to “a mighty whooshing sound and the blessed fragrance of diesel”), it only stands to reason that He may have needed some powered assistance. It wasn’t until the Nazis strapped the Fieseler Fi 103 flying bomb to the back of an unfortunate “himmelsturmer” during World War II that modern technology made use of escaping gases that allowed a single user to fly.  

Ever the practical race, the Germans weren’t really looking for a short-cut to the afterlife. They simply wanted a way their engineering units could cross minefields or barbed wire obstacles that didn’t involve training for the long jump. After the war, the technology fell into the hands of the U.S., where test pilots offered a gracious “thanks but no thanks” to the prospect of developing the concept further.  

Although we’ve since seen jetpack demonstrations at spectacles like the Olympics and the 2005 confirmation hearings of chief justice John Roberts, most sources say the only current practical use of the machine is for astronauts doing extravehicular activity in space. A Mexican company reportedly offers a tested rocket belt package, though most who’ve seen the equipment call it more of a “backpack helicopter” (wonder how you say DUCK! in Spanish).  

Jetpack deniers and their can’t-do attitude fortunately haven’t been heard in far-away New Zealand. There, a small firm called Martin Jetpack is currently taking orders for what it calls the world’s first practical personal aircraft. I’m visiting martinjetpack.com to learn more about this breakthrough for this week’s Website Review.  

The home page for this domain is as sleek and futuristic as the six-foot-by-five-foot 535-pound device it offers. In other words, it’s a bit clunky. Clicking on the “See It Fly” video doesn’t do a lot to counter that first impression, as the short film of a guy wearing what looks like the rooftop HVAC unit at your office confirms. He’s flying just above the ground around a warehouse until the whole website freezes up about 45 seconds in. I only hope the same thing didn’t happen to the jetpack, or the pilot might have skinned his knee in a 3-foot plummet to earth.  

The pulldowns across the top of the page focus more on the company itself than its product. We learn that this particular jetpack design was first developed in 1981 by company founder Glenn Martin, a pharmaceutical salesman who wanted to get even higher than his painkiller samples could take him. He and his family turned what was a garage-based obsession into their life’s work.  

“I was Glenn’s first test pilot,” says wife Vanessa. “I used to run out to the garage, get strapped into the jetpack, test it, then rush back into the house to feed our seven-week-old son.”  

That son is now 16-year-old Harrison, who also works with the family business. He tells how he was “never able to tell my friends what my father did,” supposedly because it was a secret project though more likely he was just embarrassed.  

“My friends work in McDonald’s during the school holidays,” Harrison says. “I have a slightly more interesting job as a jetpack test pilot.”  

What he probably neglects to note, however, is that instead of making $5.35 an hour, he’s paid in Band-Aids.  

You can tell the Martin firm has evolved from those early days into a real company, because it now boasts a chief executive officer and a chairman of the board and everything. It appears most of the top leadership comes from a venture capital firm that has invested heavily in Martin. These bankers can focus on guiding the company through its start-up phase and ultimately bankrupting themselves and all their investors, freeing managing director Glenn to devote his energy and creative force into crashing actual hardware.  

The company page also shows a number of consultants and advisors and designers who help with boring esoterica like avionics. Most of these men are bald, except for engineer Stuart Holdaway, whose missing photo hints that he may have been killed.  

It’s the section of the home page titled “How Do I Buy One?” that draws most of my interest. Martin is “currently accepting enquiries (New Zealandish for inquiries) from commercial customers” and these can be placed through the website. “It is expected that early orders for sales to private individuals will commence late 2010 … We will contact you when pre-orders are being taken.” In other words, don’t hold your breath, unless you plan on flying one of these things over water.  

A small “News and Press” page carries links to articles about test flights and demonstrations that have sort-of wowed the public. One reporter noted after his demo that it felt like “I was carrying a small sports car on my back,” perhaps not exactly the kind of press the firm might’ve hoped for but probably a realistic assessment.  

It’s through a list of pulldowns on the left side of the home page that we get most of our information about the machinery itself. There’s a defensive diatribe titled “What Is a Jetpack?” that aims to address those who contend that a jetpack should weigh less than a quarter-ton and contain actual jets. A carefully parsed analysis of the words “what,” “is,” “a” and “jetpack” claims that there’s a disconnect between science, engineering and common usage, and that if you have a “very narrow view of what is a true jetpack,” then basically that’s your problem.  

“In the end we found that 95% of people call it a jetpack when they see it, so why fight that?” they conclude.  

In “How Do I Learn to Fly?” we see that a required training program will be included with the cost of the machine. You don’t have to have an FAA-recognized pilot’s license, just a really big helmet and some assistants wearing industrial-strength hearing protection. The safety overview notes that all flying entails a degree of risk and that aviation users from airline passengers to parachute jumpers must decide on the degree of danger they find acceptable for themselves. In the end, Martin claims the jetpack is safer than light helicopters because it has a “minimal avoidance curve” which, if you have to have an avoidance curve, is the kind to have.  

Speaking of technical mumbo-jumbo, we see on a specifications page that the first model the company will sell has features like an engine, a fuel tank, a carbon fiber composite structure and, worrisomely, an energy-absorbing undercarriage. It has a range of just over 31 miles at a maximum speed of 63 m.p.h. You have to weigh less than 240 pounds to actually get off the ground, though the morbidly obese still might consider purchasing one to help them off the couch.  

Finally, there’s a Frequently Asked Questions section. Doubts about stability of the aircraft seem to dominate, hinting again at its lack of authentic jetpackiness. There’s the kind of small but observable wobble you might expect from what are basically two really, really, really powerful fans, though with practice pilots can correct this. Asked “is it safe?” the responder notes the presence on the machine of a parachute, not exactly adequate for what would basically be like falling off a ladder. “How easy is it to fly?” Well, you have to know that “yaw” is more than a Southern greeting. “How do I buy one?” You’ll need to make a 10% deposit. “How much will they cost?” Probably about the same as a high-end car. 

“Are we all going to be flying to work on these?” seems like the most obvious question. Martin officials say modestly “some people will use these for work” and I’m imagining how well they might perform for the landscapers at my office park who current use leafblowers and instead could be hovering above the ground. Martin admits that most people will still prefer “the comfort of a car” and that current air traffic control systems don’t lend themselves well to commuting. A “highways in the sky” GPS-based system of 3D roads is at least ten years away, more if scientists can’t figure out how to create potholes in them. 

It’s really not that bad of a website; it’s just that the product it sells seems highly questionable. Since the people of New Zealand are often nicknamed “kiwis” after the chicken-sized flightless bird native to the islands, you’d think a company based there would take the hint, both about flightlessness and about the chicken part. But I guess the entrepreneurial spirit and long-held dreams about human flight make up for the difference. 

Admittedly, it’s a major inconvenience to fly halfway around the world to train for and pick up your jetpack in early 2011, and I wouldn’t want to begin contemplating getting it through airport security and onto a plane for your return trip home. However, if you can find a string of atolls across the south Pacific that are less than 31 miles apart, and you don’t mind having the great whites and other large sharks of the region nipping at your heels as you fly just above the waves, perhaps you could just fly the Martin jetpack back to your home. 

Jetpack pioneer Glenn Martin, apparently hauling a couple of garbage cans

Revisited: Website Review of AssaultRifles.com

Sarah Palin was in the news again the other day when it was announced she’d be speaking at the National Rifle Association’s annual banquet later this month, and would be receiving a very special gift. A small firm called Templar Consulting has “crafted” a customized weapon that Palin will be able to take back to Alaska to encourage that pesky would-be son-in-law to do right by her daughter.

They don’t have shotgun weddings in the Great Wild North. They have AR-15 military-style assault rifles chambered in ought-fifty Beowulf weddings. And they have them now.

On May 14, the NRA Foundation will give Palin the “Alaskan Hunter,” a civilian version of the M-4 rifle carried by U.S. troops overseas. It’s engraved with Palin’s name and a map of her state on its collapsible stock, which was made legal only after the assault weapons ban expired in 2004 (the stock was made legal; not Palin, not Alaska, and certainly not her daughter). The Big Dipper from the state flag is etched onto the magazine. The gun – if that word does it justice – is the same caliber used by heavy machine guns which can take down big game or, in war zones, can disable both assailants with body armor and motor vehicles.

The rifle was assembled using custom components by Templar owner Bob Reynolds, and will come with 50 rounds of custom “solids,” which I guess are something like bullets but perhaps with a nougat center. “Gov. Palin stood up and announced that she was a supporter of the Second Amendment, and I was really excited about that,” said Reynolds. “I just wanted to do something to give back. And since the governor lives in Alaska, I thought .50 Beowulf was appropriate.”

Never mind that Alaska is the forty-ninth state, not the fiftieth. You don’t want to be arguing with this guy. I’m a little nervous joking about him, even from the safety of the blogosphere. I don’t want to go out to my driveway some morning and find out that he’s shot my car.

I was curious about this Templar Consulting firm though. I’ve dealt with some bad consultants in my day but none so awful that they could cut you in half with a one-second barrage of high-caliber ammo. So I thought I’d choose templarconsultingllc.com for my Website Review this week.

As you might imagine, it’s a fairly simple, all-business kind of website. Templar only offers a select variety of products, which include custom firearms, custom DuraCoat patterning and “personal defence training” (I’m pretty sure “defence” is a typo rather than the British spelling, considering they’re located in Apex, N.C.).

The home page features pictures of two very attractive armaments. There’s the Designated Marksman Rifle, a 28-inch barrel model that starts at $3100. It has a forged upper receiver, a billet lower with integrated trigger guard, a Magpul stock and a 9/16×24 flash hider. And there’s the Special Purpose Rifle, starting at $2100, which comes with a Danial defense rail, the ErgoAmbi soft grip, a tactical sling and a phosphate M16 bolt carrier. I can only assume that all these are features you’d want in high-quality killing machines, just like I assume that what they mean by “special purpose rifle” is “will blow your freaking head off.”

There’s also a pulldown for what are called precision rifle components. I think these might be the cute little tripods you see rifles propped up on, much like those used by the prone green army men I played with in my youth. Pictured is the 6.5 Grendel model, above the caption “if you can see it, you can hit it!” It comes with some very impressive ballistic coefficients, including the almost unbelievable 7.62mm M118LR 175gr:BC=0.496. No, I didn’t just whack the keyboard with my bagel; these are the actual specs.

The training section of the site doesn’t give many details, as I imagine classroom instruction pales in comparison to the prospect of buying these magnificent weapons. “We conduct training in armed and unarmed personal defense. We teach North Carolina concealed handgun carry classes,” it says without much enthusiasm. “Call for details.”

Probably the coolest thing I found was the section on custom gun coatings. The certified DuraCoat finish that Templar offers is a two-part coating that was created specifically for firearms. There are over 130 colors to choose from, and you can combine your color choice with a stencil pattern and finish that “will protect your firearm while it protects you.” What makes this part so interesting is the two photos: there’s an all-pink pistol engraved with a peace sign and the phrase “give my piece a chance,” and there’s a gun pointing straight at the viewer with a cheery sunburst design radiating out from the muzzle. If this fanciful graphic is the last thing you see in this life, it doesn’t seem like such a bad way to go.

There’s not much more to the website than a few predictable links. Of course, there’s a connection to NRA.org. Through this, you can fill out a form to join the group for as little as $35 a year, or you can pay $1,000 for a lifetime membership, which doesn’t seem like such a great bargain for people who spend their days playing with rifles. You can also sign up to become a recruiter, but the web filter at my work that keeps us safe from YouTube, eBay and Facebook gave me the big red “halt” hand and the message “access denied!” I suppose it does make sense to keep people on the constant brink of layoffs from such an obvious temptation to gun violence.

So if you’re interested in obtaining some high-powered weaponry, or perhaps already have a pretty good collection but want to spruce it up with splashes of color other than blood red, I would urge you to check out the offerings at templarconsultingllc.com. The all-white piece going to Governor Sarah – described by the New York Daily News as “fashionable until Labor Day” – is only available when a second version will be auctioned during the NRA banquet.

To hear the NRA site tell it, you better act now before President Obama starts revoking the Constitution.

Revisited: Checking out the gun store

Once again, my adopted home state of South Carolina is in the news and, once again, it’s not in a good way.

Our primary claim to fame on the national stage has been oafish politicians (Rep. Joe “You Lie” Wilson and Gov. Mark “I Lie” Sanford), brain-damaged beauty queens (such as Miss Teen South Carolina) and weird news briefs (armed robbers brandishing a banana, Waffle House waitresses shooting patrons, etc.). Oh yeah, and we also started the Civil War.

Now, we’re once again the laughing stock for offering a Christmas season tax holiday on the purchase of firearms. For two days this past weekend, gun buyers enjoyed a 9% tax break, a so-called “Second Amendment Weekend” voted into law by a state legislature that still can’t decide if Gov. Sanford should be impeached.

Originally part of a bill that offered similar breaks on energy-efficient appliances, that measure was vetoed by the governor. The veto was over-ridden by the legislature, then the law was struck down by the Supreme Court because it violated the “one subject” provision of the state constitution, which bars multiple issues in a single bill. So they got rid of the appliance part and kept the gun part (though I guess you could make the argument that firearms do reduce energy use, especially when they render previously vital creatures lifeless).

“The great state of South Carolina is putting its own sick twist on Black Friday” with the state-sponsored sales incentive, wrote the New York Daily News last week. “Not cars. Not clothes. Certainly not books. Just guns.”

I decided to check out the event for myself Saturday with a visit to my area’s largest purveyor of weapons, Nichols Gun Store. Located in a rural area just outside of town and serving primarily hunters, Nichols provides a number of offerings besides fiery fusillades of death.

Out back is a deer processing service, which I recognized by the strung-up, skinned carcass being displayed to the delight of several young children as I pulled into the parking lot. There’s a collection of 30-foot-tall hunting stands (or as those at the Daily News might characterize them, third-floor walk-ups), where outdoorsmen can lie in wait high above the forest floor for their victims to appear. There are Bad Boy buggies, all-terrain vehicles that minimize the chance someone might get some exercise while hunting.

Inside the front door, you see what looks like a typical convenience store off to the left, featuring snacks, sundries and a huge refrigerated case of beer, just waiting to cloud the judgment of armed bands. To the right is a small cooking grill to feed hungry hunters who choose not to eat their kills fresh off the ground for lunch. A gift shop sells bumper stickers (“If you can read this, I’m aiming at you”) and cute camouflage outfits for children (“Serious gear for serious babies,” reads one package). There’s also an area for incidentals like deer bait, backpacks, turkey calls and urine, the scent of which is supposed to lure or repel something.

Dead ahead is the core of the business, a showroom featuring literally thousands of handguns, shotguns, rifles, pistols, crossbows and assault weaponry. The store is filled with shoppers, almost all male, almost all eager to take advantage of this tax holiday, and almost all looking at the blogger who has never before set foot in such a death-dealing establishment. A large counter wraps around the edge of the store, backed by eager salesmen waiting on small clusters of customers.

Looking around at the inventory, I recognize a few product names, such as a Luger, Glock and Remington, and I can vaguely tell there’s a difference between them, though my exposure is limited mostly to what I’ve seen in television and movies. There are James Bond-style guns, cowboy-movie-style guns and Sopranos-style guns. There are even a few firearms you might imagine seeing on Charlie’s Angels. These have been painted pink, in a pathetic attempt to appeal to the extremely limited female market (I guess trimming a semi-automatic in lace just isn’t practical in the field).

Looking out of place at the gun shop

As the overhead intercom booms out strange-sounding announcements like “guns, line two” and “blood cleanup, aisle five,” I’m debating how I’ll respond if I’m offered service by one of the guys behind the counters. On the drive over, I was thinking how it might be funny to say I was looking for a flamethrower to give my aunt who’s checking into a nursing home known for its rough crowd, or a grenade launcher for the nephew headed to Harvard. Maybe I’d actually buy something, certainly not the high-priced weapons themselves, but maybe a box of bullets, or even a single cartridge if they were willing to break up a matched set.

“I don’t believe in private gun ownership so I don’t actually have one myself,” I might joke. “But if I’m ever faced with a home intruder, maybe I could throw a bullet and try to hit him in the eye.”

Somehow, though, this doesn’t strike me as the right atmosphere for such a put-on. I think back to the Daily News article, and the reporter’s attempt to get a quote from Chad Holman, owner of Woody’s Pawn and Jewelry in Orangeburg.

“I don’t care to comment to anyone from New York,” he said.

When I am finally offered help, I tell the counter clerk I’m still “just browsing” and comment awkwardly about how the inventory is “nice.” I can tell that he can tell I’m not a legitimate customer, so I motion toward the back of the store and suggest to my wife that we go “check out the arrows.” We head in that direction, but make a quick left at the decapitated razorback boar and make for the exit.

It feels like every eye in the place is watching me as we walk out the door and into the pickup-packed parking lot. I just hope that none of the eyes are attached to a telescopic sight.

Shopping for some new politics

The National Rifle Association held its annual convention in my hometown of Charlotte this weekend. The spirited affair attracted not only 70,000 gun enthusiasts, but also an array of all the hottest right-wing luminaries on the planet. These speakers repeatedly told attendees exactly what they wanted to hear about arch-conservative politics, which is what any sensible presenter would say when preaching at gunpoint.  

I was actually tempted to attend the big “Celebration of American Values Freedom Experience”. My long-held progressive political beliefs have started to feel a little stale in our current environment. It’s pretty lonely being the only white middle-aged male in the entire Metrolina region who doesn’t think prayin’ and shootin’ and lookin’ out for number one represent a coherent world view in modern America. Responsible concern for the welfare of all citizens is so passé; narrow-minded reactionary selfishness is sexy and it’s fashionable. And being white is the new black.  

Unfortunately, I wasn’t too eager to be shelling out $35 to pay for admission, even if the ever-squinting Charlie Daniels was providing the music. And I still retain the admittedly old-fashioned liberal bias against being shot at close range. Even though weapons-carrying was inexplicably banned from the event, some of those rednecks could shoot you a look that was every bit as fatal.  

Still, I wanted so much to bathe in the reflected patriotism of the star-studded celebrity line-up. Sarah Palin, of course, was going to be there, as were Glenn Beck, Newt Gingrich and several other wingnut gods. If I couldn’t rub elbows with the elite of the anti-elite in a packed downtown arena, maybe I’d be fortunate enough to run into them elsewhere during their stay in the area.  

Well, wouldn’t you know it, luck was on my side Saturday afternoon. My son and I had taken a ride out to Carolina Place Mall in south Charlotte, and just as we rounded the corner at Cinnabon’s, right near the Sunglass Hut, we peered through the crowd ahead of us and saw them: it was Palin herself, clutching a large Abercrombie & Fitch bag containing either some new outfits or her baby, accompanied by the former speaker of the House chomping on a big buttery pretzel. I inched closer to the pair, eager to eavesdrop on any political wisdom they might be sharing.  

“You know, Newt, Auntie Anne’s pretzels are way better than that junk from the Pretzel Twister,” Palin said in her characteristic twang. “Couldn’t you just wait till we got to the food court?”  

“I wanted to finish before we get to Sbarro’s,” the pudgy author of the landmark Contract With America shot back. “I’m getting some pizza too.”  

“I just want to make sure we have enough time to stop at Visionworks,” said a man to Gingrich’s right I hadn’t noticed previously. It was Glenn Beck!  

“I need to pick up some eyedrops. They have a special formula that allows me to weep on demand,” Beck said.  

“Just as long as I have time to hit Cacique, Forever 21, American Diva and Modeline,” Palin replied. “You all can hang out at the ball crawl while I’m trying on clothes if you want.”  

“Let’s go to GameFrog!” Beck said excitedly to Gingrich. “If I drink a couple of Ballz, I am totally unbeatable on Dance Dance Revolution.”  

Suddenly, from behind us, three other men came running up to join the Republican titans.  

“Guys, guys, wait up, wait up! You act like you’re trying to lose us.”  

I could hardly believe my eyes. It was retired Col. Oliver North, implicated in the Iran-Contra scandal and now a Fox News commentator; “Motor City Madman” Ted Nugent, formerly of the rock group the Amboy Dukes and now a gun rights activist; and actor Chuck Norris. North was out of breath as he chugged up next to Palin.  

“Oh, you’re back,” Palin said, cracking her gum as she thumbed a text message into her cellphone.  

“I told you I wanted to grab a job application from Icecream of the Future,” North said. “I know a guy who says they’re hiring.”  

“They’re not going to hire you,” Gingrich said. “You’re a convicted felon. They check things like that.”  

“So how is covertly selling weapons to Iran, then funneling the profits to the right-wing revolutionaries in Nicaragua going to hamper my ability to scoop frozen dairy into a cup?” North asked.  

“Don’t be such a douche,” Beck interrupted. “Only a jag-off would work a kiosk at the mall.”  

“Let’s go upstairs for a minute,” said Nugent as he joined the group. “I want to stop in the Kill-A-Bear store.”  

“It’s not Kill-a-Bear, you idiot, it’s Build-A-Bear,” said Palin.  

“Alright, so I’ll build it, then I’ll kill it,” Nugent replied.  

“I don’t know about you all, but I’m heading over to Foot Locker,” interjected action star Norris. “I’m going to let the guy try shoes on me, then when he least suspects it, POW!, I’m going to give him one of my patented judo kicks.”  

“There’s no kicking in judo,” former Marine North told Norris. “It’s all about getting your opponent off balance, then using their momentum against them.”  

“In my brand of judo, there’s kicking,” a disgusted Norris responded. “You want me to show you?”  

“Hey, knock it off, you two,” Gingrich interceded. “There’s a mall cop right over there. You want to get us thrown out?”  

“There are a couple places I still want to go,” Beck said. “I want to stop by Piercing Pagoda to get a stud put into my scrotum, then I’m going to Hot Topic for an Insane Clown Posse t-shirt.”  

“What is wrong with you?” Palin asked. “What kind of American values are those? And besides, you think they’re going to work on your scrotum right out in the mall?”  

“Hey, dudes, check it out!” yelled Gingrich excitedly. “It’s one of those photo booths. Let’s all squeeze in and get our pictures taken!”  

“Cool!” said Nugent. “I’ll climb up top and drape my long hair over everybody.

“Wait,” said Palin. “Let me take off my glasses and put on this hat so I can disguise myself. I don’t want any record that I’m chillin’ with you losers.” 

It went on and on like this for at least ten more minutes but, frankly, I started to lose interest. Any hope that I was going to harvest a few nuggets of wisdom on how to reinvent America once again as that shining city on the hill is melting as fast as Col. North’s Orange Julius. The group walked six-wide down the wrong side of the hall, sat in the vibrating chairs without paying to turn them on, and generally disrespected everyone around them. As they walked into the distance, I heard Chuck Norris suggest they go to Barnes and Noble: “Let’s take a symbolic dump in their bathroom to show our disdain for the intellectual elite.” 

I did, however, manage to land a souvenir of my encounter with our would-be next generation of national leadership. On the floor of the photo booth lay a single discarded strip – 

From left to right: Palin and son; Palin with Nugent in funny noses; Nugent and Palin's Trigg; Trigg alone, or maybe something from Build-A-Bear

Final “thoughts” from the NRA convention

Wrapping up my coverage of the weekend’s NRA convention in Charlotte, the following is a collection of quotes that may or may not have been made at the big gun confab. About half of these are real and the other half are invented by me. See if you can guess which is which. (Answers are at the end).

A. “I don’t think there’s another member of Congress who buys more ammunition in a year than I do.” — U.S. Rep. Heath Shuler (D-N.C.)

B. “The pen is mightier than the sword, it’s true. But your semiautomatic is mightier than my chalkboard, so I’m going to sit down now.” — Fox pundit Glenn Beck, after his 45-minute presentation

C. “You OK with special? You don’t always like to be called special.” — Actor Chuck Norris, speaking to a mentally handicapped fan

D. “The rocking community has always been supportive of a well-armed militia and private gun ownership. The Beatles sang ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun’. Pat Benatar sang ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’. And watch for my new album, titled ‘Shoot It In the Head (It’s Still Breathing)’”. — Musician and pro-gun activist Ted Nugent

E. “The Tea Party is here. The Tea Party is everywhere. Soon, we will TP the entire nation.” — Tea Party leader Mark Williams

F. “The Clinton White House was absolutely convinced that pushing gun control would help it politically. Then, in 1994, we cleaned their clocks. They didn’t even see it coming. Sort of like a Chuck Norris roundhouse kick.” — Chuck Norris

G. “My own father was shot with a handgun and yet I still support the Second Amendment. After all, it’s not like he died from it.” — Radio commentator Michael Reagan, son of former president Ronald Reagan

H. “I’d feel safer with two empty chambers in Congress than I’d feel with one empty chamber in a six-shooter against my temple. Throw the bums out!” — Arizona Sen. Jon Kyl

I. “I have bad news for those (anti-hunting) groups. Bambi’s mother is dinner.” — Former Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin

J. “Man is the most dangerous and elusive game and, quite properly, we don’t hunt him. But tracking a chimp can offer a similar thrill. Check out our new Monkey Hunt Club, and Bag Yourself a Bonzo.™” — Brochure for a new wildlife park in rural South Carolina

K. “We can hunt for anything you want to hunt for here. There’s some good hunting to be had. We’ve got fishing and hunting and NASCAR.” — North Carolina Gov. Bev Perdue

L. “You can have my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead hands. So this is probably a good time to go ahead and take it.” — Video produced by former NRA president Charlton Heston, shortly before his death in 2008

M. “Criminals are to blame for crime.” — Sarah Palin

Actual quotes: A, C, F, I, K, M. Not actual quotes: B, D, E, G, H, J, L.

Getting more than oil with your oil change

While I was heading to meet my carpool partner the other morning, a glowing red light appeared on my dashboard. It was in the shape of an old-fashioned Arabian Nights oil lamp, so I figured the genie who powers my car needed maintenance. That’s how much I know about automobile engines.          

I realized that ignoring the demands of the genie could lead to major damage, but it was 4:30 in the morning and I didn’t feel safe stopping by the side of the road and thumbing for a magic carpet ride. I limped the last few blocks to where I meet Lynn, accelerating slowly after each stop so the sloshing oil wouldn’t reactivate the warning. If I could just keep the light off, I figured there’d be no damage. (I think it flickered on a few more times, but I looked away so it didn’t count). I made it safely to the parking lot and hopped into Lynn’s car.          

I figured a day basking in the therapeutic power of a gentle spring sun might prove restorative to my Civic. I’d heard that Japanese automakers had made marvelous advancements in building self-healing cars, or maybe I’m thinking about those love robots they keep inventing. In any case, when I returned that afternoon and cranked the car, there was that pesky Aladdin’s lamp again. I guessed either my oil pressure was low, or I was to be granted three wishes. I wished the light would go away, then I wished I’d brought my other car, then I wished I had a trillion dollars. When none of these happened, I drove slowly across the street to the new lube shop that had opened only a few weeks before.          

The franchise was named “Take 5 Oil Change” and the sign out front claimed “we change your oil, not your schedule.” I didn’t know much about the chain, other than that when they began operations last month, there were festivities more befitting the end of a world war than the debut of yet another car care center. They’d had balloons and bunting and clowns, all to publicize their “different” way of servicing Rock Hill’s vehicles. They claimed to honestly, genuinely care, not just about collecting $60.97 for four quarts of Castrol GTX and a new air filter, but about your comfort and well-being as a child of God.           

I’m not a fan the hyper-service you often see in new business enterprises that are trying just a little too hard. I attempted to patronize an independent fast food outlet that opened across from the McDonald’s near my home until the manager annoyed me to the point of no return. “Can I get you some more ketchup?” he’d ask every five minutes. “How about some additional napkins? Would you like to try one of our desserts? How about if my wife comes over and cleans your bathrooms?” Finally I fled to the golden arches next door, secure in the knowledge that I’d be ignored by every employee who worked there.           

When I pulled up to the service bay at Take 5, I was immediately swarmed by a crew of almost half a dozen crisply uniformed workers. One guided me into position with a series of sharply executed hand signals that could successfully land an F-15 fighter on a heaving carrier. Another actually saluted me, while what seemed to be the team leader approached my car window. He welcomed me, told me to turn my ignition two clicks toward off, and leave the key in. I started to get out to head for what I presumed to be a waiting room of untold splendor before he gently stopped me.         

“At Take 5, we change your oil, not your schedule,” he recited. “You can wait right there and we’ll have you done in about five minutes.”         

I groaned inwardly at the prospect of having to make chit-chat with eager young mechanic types while I waited, but immediately learned that they planned instead to be all business. I popped the hood and they took on the appearance of a NASCAR pit crew, calling out the different thingies they were inspecting and answering each with an authoritative “check!” From a pit beneath me, Jeremiah drained what oil I had left in the crankcase, while above Chris G. handled things like the battery water, tire pressure and wiper blades. Joey was on “courtesy duty”, asking if I’d care for a drink, topping off not only the car’s fluids but mine as well. All the while, Chris K. stood with clipboard in hand, apparently in charge of safety.         

“What kind of oil would you like?” Joey asked me.         

It was the question I had feared. I’m aware of the existence of many kinds of oil — from fish oil to olive oil to that excess grease on my forehead in the morning — though I was pretty sure none of these were appropriate for my engine. I think I wanted 1040 EZ, or was that the name of an income tax form? Or maybe 401(k)? Formula 409?         

“I’d probably recommend an intermediate weight, considering the weather we’re having,” he finally suggested.         

“Yes, a medium weight sounds good,” I responded. “Give me about five or six pounds of oil, I guess.”         

He said their best value was currently on sale for $10.50 a quart, so I went with that. The group sang out a few more status reports (“Tamper seal? Applied! Chassis lube? Sealed! Wiper blades? OK!”) before Joey returned to ask if I wanted a new air filter. He showed me my current one, a bit dingy perhaps though nothing to be embarrassed about. Then he flashed the bright white of what a new one looked like, and had me sold on another $19.99 worth of purchases. Only later would I remember I was buying a filter and not a toothy new smile, and could’ve saved a few bucks.         

“We’re pretty much done with everything,” Joey reported. “We’re just going to do our standard double-check. Each man will inspect his teammate’s job, to guarantee your safety and satisfaction.”         

Yeah, whatever, check, check, check. It was now coming up on almost eight minutes that I’d been in the garage, and I was starting to get a little impatient with all the attention. Don’t they have any other patrons to wait on? Aren’t they about ready for a smoke? Those cell phones in your pockets aren’t going to text themselves, you know. It only took another thirty seconds or so of frenetic activity and finally, the job was done. I was handed a detailed invoice (number 4073, issued at 2:34 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time, May 3, in the year 2010 of the Common Era), paid my bill, thanked Joey and the boys, and started pulling out.   

As I turned toward the exit, I saw a sign that read “honk if you liked our work.” In the rearview mirror, I could see the crew watching me, eager for a toot of validation. I normally shun such hokey conventions, especially since that time I got violently ill after eating at Long John Silver’s even though I had rung their bell. Yet these guys were so happy to have a job, so pleased to do work that people actually needed (unlike, for example, the financial proofreading I do), that I couldn’t resist. I beeped the horn and saw a round of high-fives behind me as I drove away.   

Once again, the magic of modern motoring was safely happening beneath my hood, thanks not to the supernatural powers of an obedient, cross-armed apparition, but thanks instead to five mortals at Take 5.   

What the hell is that?

Fake News: Voters seek change … again

Impatient with incumbents, sick of the status quo and bummed by business-as-usual, American voters went to the polls Tuesday in primary elections across the nation to deliver a tired old message: they want change — again.

As in the last 14 elections, voters spoke with a single voice, saying that politicians in Washington are too entrenched and need to be replaced with fresh blood, which in another two years will also become clotted and stale, poured into a biohazard bag and packed off for proper disposal.

In races from Kentucky to Pennsylvania to Arkansas, the consistent message was that the electorate is ready for more conservative policies, or more progressive policies, or both, or neither, or at least no more guys named Arlen.

“We are tired of the same old politics,” said Arch Begal, president of the nonpartisan Forgetful and Distracted Voters for Something. “Congress must act decisively to cut taxes, no, raise them; expand government programs, no, reel them in; and remember the average guy on Main Street, no, cater to the needs of business.”

Tuesday’s results showed that the same voters who overwhelmingly installed a new generation of leaders in 2008 had now become weary of them, and was ready for a fresh crop of politicians to become disenchanted with. Exit polls in several states indicated Americans of every political stripe showed up to cast their ballots to transform the political landscape, then forgot where they parked their cars.

“You know what would really be a change?” asked defeated congressman Mark Burns. “For these people to make up their goddam minds.”

Dissatisfaction with the direction the country is headed was reflected not only by the mood against incumbents, but was also seen in a number of ballot initiatives. Propositions to change the very fabric of everyday life passed by wide margins in state after state.

In Wyoming, a proposal requiring citizens to hop on one foot instead walking on two passed by a 56% to 44% margin.

“Conventional methods of locomotion just won’t work any more,” said organizer Drew Crawford. “The failed model of the left-right two-step is plainly outdated.”

In Ohio, a measure to change the standard touch-typing method to one in which elbows would be used instead of fingers passed by 13 points. Oklahoma voters approved a law requiring that breakfast foods be eaten for dinner, and that the name for “lunch” be changed to “Tonto”. In Oregon, citizens okayed an initiative to sleep during the day and stay awake all night.

Such was the depth of a desire for change that even common sense was tossed out the window in some locations. In Montana, drivers will now use the left-turn signal on their cars to indicate they are making a right turn, and vice versa.

“Every now and then, you just have to mix things up to make sure people are still paying attention,” said change proponent Dirk Harrell. “It’s time to toss logic and conventional wisdom out the window, and have change just for the sake of — hey, look, a squirrel!”

Website Review: CompostingToilet.com

Sure, you recycle. Maybe you’re in a carpool or use public transportation. Perhaps you’re even part of that growing segment of the environmentally aware who have started skipping every other breath, thereby halving the amount of greenhouse gases coming out of your piehole.    

But what about that biggest of all contributors to your carbon footprint? (Hint: It’s not coming from your feet but about a third of your body length higher, and in the back).    

Unless you’re among the dedicated few who package their bodily wastes in sealable containers, patiently awaiting the opening of the Yucca Mountain Repository, you may not be doing enough to reduce your harmful impact on the planet. You could either die right now, and do us all a huge favor. Or you could invest in the green technology of a composting toilet.    

These modern miracles of sanitary convenience are now available through a company called Sun-Mar, subject of this week’s Website Review.    

Sun-Mar.com has a very busy home page, as one might expect of a firm dedicated to how you do your business. There are links and pulldowns out the ying-yang, far more than I can cover in a single post. I’ll try instead to focus on the product and the people standing behind it, who hopefully avert their eyes as we symbolically take their futuristic commodes for a whirl.    

There’s a great introductory video that explains how the water usage of conventional toilets has a tremendous negative impact on our oceans, streams and wetlands. We see scenes of Niagara Falls as we learn that up to 7 billion gallons of otherwise drinkable water is flushed down the crapper every day. This doesn’t have to be. With the waterless device patented exclusively by Sun-Mar, you can now rely on a three-step composting system to save our world’s precious lifeblood while enjoying the convenience of using the bathroom in almost any semi-private setting.    

“Install one anywhere plumbing is not available,” we’re told. “In your closet, your boat house, your country cabin, your barn, even in a guardbooth.”    

(So the next time you pull up to the turnpike toll-taker’s cubicle and it appears to be unattended, maybe you just need to wait a couple of minutes for the worker to rise up and appear.)    

The home page also contains a lengthy essay on the history of the composting toilet and the company that makes it. It was founded almost 40 years ago by Hardy Sundberg, an enterprising Canadian who gave the firm half its name. His first effort was a primitive device that used a large fan, a top-mounted heater and mechanical mixers to agitate and dry what is euphemistically called the “waste pile.” Presumably the size of an Oldsmobile, this beast used only a single compartment for the three required steps of composting, evaporation and finishing and had numerous shortcomings, not the least of which was an earth-shattering stench.    

A second generation introduced in 1977, breezily dubbed “The Tropic,” dried the waste matter with a heater sealed in a compartment in the base. This solved the challenge of keeping the “waste cake” moist, so it wouldn’t dry to the consistency of an “adobe brick.” (Somehow, the appeal of both baked birthday desserts and Southwestern-style architecture have suddenly become diminished). A third prototype a few years later saw the advent of the “Bio-drum,” which further isolated offending matter from the production process, and of the so-called “central composting toilet system” that allowed numerous seats to feed a single vat kept yards away from the bathroom. Even though odors were now completely controlled on site, this was the model for people who couldn’t bear the thought that decomposition was happening in the same room they were brushing their teeth.    

Under “The Company” pulldown, there are links to articles written in the popular press about the advantages of Sun-Mar’s toilet/composters. As you might expect, most have clever headlines hinting at the hilarity involved in passing solid matter from your digestive system. “This Toilet is On A Roll,” says The Globe and Mail newspaper. “When Nature Calls” is from CottageLink magazine, “Head of a Different Blend” is from DIY Boat Owner, and “People of the Loo” is a review in the Toronto Star. Perhaps most intriguing of all is “Introducing Audrey” from County Life, a 1991 article about “people who give their toilets affectionate names like Audrey or Puff the Magic Dragon. What will you call your Sun-Mar?” Personally, I’d go with “John”.    

In the “Products” section, you can read about all the variations possible in the 22 different models offered. A caption next to several photos encourages shoppers to “pick the category at right that best suits your needs,” even though the pictures are actually to the left. (Obviously, the layout artist didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground). There are low-flush models that use a small amount of water as well as completely dry systems. Some are electric, some are non-electric and a few are even solar-powered. There’s the luxurious ”family” model complete with a footstool, there’s the slightly smaller “compact,” and finally there’s the “spacesaver” for the tiniest butts and the tiniest rooms.    

All of them look pretty much like conventional toilets, though a little beefier around the base. In the “Technology” portion of the site, we learn more about what’s going on down there. Fresh waste, provided by the user, is combined with a peat-based bulking material, provided by Sun-Mar. These then begin an “aerobic breakdown” — which is a chemical process, not a hip-hop-inspired exercise routine – in the Bio-drum. This drum is periodically turned by a hand-crank to aerate the mixture. The 90-plus-percent of poop that is water recedes into an evaporating chamber while the solids gradually accumulate in a finishing drawer. Every three to four weeks, odor-free compost can be removed from this drawer and put into your garden, shared with your neighbors or, if you’re like me and can’t understand any of the previous paragraph, flushed down your regular toilet.   

This section also includes the Frequently Asked Questions, of which there are quite a few. Do I add any chemicals? No, you don’t. What happens in the winter? The compost freezes. Does the fiberglass used in the commode smell? You’re worried about how the fiberglass smells? Do animals harm the system? “Compost is not something that is attractive to animals,” though you might want to build an enclosure in case your local bears never heard that saying about what they do in the woods. Is the fan noisy? They’re not as bad as they used to be, “just another example of how we are always improving your composting toilet experience.” Should males still urinate outside? No. In fact, the liquid is beneficial to the composting process.   

Finally, we’ll look at a very impressive collection of satisfied customers in the “Testimonials” section. Jacquelyn Morgan, owner of an “Excel” model that I hope no one mistakes for a spreadsheet, writes that she thinks of the company “as friends.” Russ and Heather Bencharski have a Centrex 2000 that they claim works much better than the propane (!) toilet they used to own. James Mauger says of his Compact version that it costs a fraction of a well and septic system, and that “using the bathroom at night no longer involves shoes, a coat and a flashlight” (!!). 

Some people are so happy with their toilets that they’ve sent in pictures of them, though thankfully while they’re not in active use. Kathy Escott says her unit inspired her to write a “snappy poem” that informs guests how to use it. The “whole Ryan clan” gathered around their prized possession to offer toothy smiles and a thumbs-up on their model. Robert Gagnon of Quebec sent a simple photo with the inexplicable caption “Notre premiere testimoniaux en Francais!” I’ll pardon his French and assume the best, that he’s going to see a movie premier at Notre Dame. 

Sun-mar.com is a well-constructed if somewhat over-produced site that contains a lot of information on a subject that I always presumed the less we knew about, the better. I’m vaguely aware that what’s being flushed down the can today goes through a sewer to a treatment plant where it’s processed before eventually ending up in my morning coffee, but most of that happens out of sight. When that same process is occurring right there in my home, and instead of going into my coffee becomes part of a tomato sandwich I’ll eat later this summer, it’s somehow a bit more disconcerting. I definitely appreciate that there people who can stomach this concept and do it with a smile. However, I think I’ll choose to save myself costs starting at $1,400, and stay with my traditional dump. 

Proud owners Susan and Patrick Radtke stand next to their composting toilet, whom they call "Arthur"

Revisited: A great deal for the detainees

There’s been a lot of discussion on what to do about the Guantanamo detainees. We have a pretty good consensus that the prison housing hundreds of suspected jihadists needs to be closed, yet we’re not exactly sure what to do with these guys. A few have been formally charged in U.S. courts and appear ready to go through the judicial process. As for the rest, I think the government is pretty much open to suggestions.

Attempts to foist them off on other countries seem to be going nowhere. State governments and Congressional leaders are steadfast in their refusal to accept them into American prisons. The idea that I floated in a post last February – that the detainees be put on a plane that “accidentally” crashes (see http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/02/26/fake-news-bulletin-detainees-crash-into-ocean/) – seems to be gaining little traction.

Well, I’ve since had a similar brainstorm that I’d like to put forward. Rather than add yet another voice to the near-unison chorus of “not in my back yard,” I’d like to propose moving the 240 prisoners to my back yard.  Literally.

Actually, what I’m offering is a great deal on a rental house my wife and I own that we’ve been having trouble finding tenants for. This nicely landscaped brick ranch-style home is situated on an acre and a half in a quiet northeast Rock Hill neighborhood, with quick access to Interstate 77 leading north to Charlotte. It has three bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths, central air and heat, a large shed in the back yard and a covered carport. There’s a refrigerator and a water heater; no washing machine or dryer is included, but hook-ups do exist in a utility room off the carport. We’re asking $885 a month, and are willing to include two weeks free rent if they move in by the first of the month.

I understand that this 1,140-square-foot residence may be seen by some as rather tight quarters for 240 people, but it can’t be much worse than the conditions they’re enduring now. I mentioned the big shed, right? There’s also an attic, a crawlspace under the house and a covered patio.

I don’t know the neighbors all that well. Most of them are also tenants rather than owners, so I don’t think they’d care that much about so-called “undesirables.” The Guatemalan family down the street already has at least a dozen people living in a similar-sized house, so they can’t complain. And the people next door have had police called at least twice in the last six months for domestic disturbances; if my tenants start causing trouble (loud music, unauthorized yard sales, international hijacking plots, etc.), the authorities already know the area.

The suspected terrorists would be expected to keep the lawn in reasonably good shape. I doubt that any of them have a mower, but I imagine the Defense Department would offer a small release package similar to what freed convicts get when they’re furloughed from prison. Instead of a fresh suit of clothes and $50, might I suggest each man be allocated a government-issued goat that could provide milk, wool, meat and the ability to keep the grass at a city-mandated maximum two-inch height.

I know a lot of these criminals come from agrarian societies, so I’ll point out that the very large back yard has only a few trees on the edge of the property and plenty of room for a substantial garden. Most people in this part of the South plant primarily tomatoes, squash and watermelons, though I have no reason to doubt that opium poppies might also thrive in our summer heat. I would think that locally grown narcotics would be quite an attractive product in the organic farmer’s market held every other Saturday in the next town over from ours.

We don’t really have a viable public transportation system in Rock Hill, and I acknowledge that getting around could be a bit difficult for the Islamist fanatics. There are, however, several reasonably priced private cab companies and, for any individuals who suffered injuries during their stay at the naval base (I remember hearing something about torture), the county provides special-needs buses that go to the hospital area and to state benefits offices. Or maybe the several hundred men could pool their funds and buy a junker car that they could share. There’s a used-car lot within walking distance of the house, and their sign claims that not only do they “habla Espanol” but they also offer on-the-lot financing. And if the whole car-bombing image presents a credit problem, many similarly restricted drivers with DWI convictions find a moped to be quite adequate.

Speaking of businesses in the neighborhood, there’s a major highway (state road 161) only two blocks away — just close enough to be convenient but not bother any of the renters with road noise. Within walking distance is the Mayflower seafood restaurant (a “fish camp”-style eatery that offers both sit-down service as well as a great takeout menu), a Sonic drive-in complete with roller-skating waitresses, and a Subway. I’m not sure if any of these places are familiar with Halal, the Muslim dietary restrictions similar to kosher laws, but check with Chrissy at the Mayflower – she’s always so friendly to everyone. There’s also a new Food Lion grocery store under construction a half-mile down the road, due to open in August.

So, if anybody is interested in helping make the dream of living in a suburban home into a reality for these unfortunate individuals, please contact my property manager, Hartline Realty, at 803-367-6828. (The management services they offer are well worth the 10% cut they take, since I’m not especially handy at dealing with middle-of-the-night plumbing or dirty-bomb accidents). We can have these ruthless killers moved in by this time next week.

Revisited: Hot enough for you? It is for me

The heat is on

The heat is on

The heat is on

Oh, it’s on the street

The heat is…

On

– Either Glenn Frey or Don Henley, I forget which, and seriously doubt there’s really all that much difference anyway

Today’s forecast in my area of the country calls for a high temperature around 85 degrees. Tomorrow is projected to be 88, with the following day topping out in the low 90s. For me, it’s too damn hot already, and it’s only the end of May.

I’m not a big fan of warm weather, probably because I was born and raised in Florida. When I was a child growing up in Miami, we’d have very little variety between wonderful weather and fabulous weather (except for the occasional cataclysmic hurricane) and it got to be very boring. To this day, I remember the excitement one morning during my 17 years there when we awoke to find a clog of ice in the garden hose and a thin frost on the lawn. It was as close to a snow day as we’d ever get.

While people in northern climes were yearning for retirement to the Sunshine State, we had to endure a boring sameness throughout our environment. With no real autumn, we never knew what it meant to see the leaves changing. My grandmother had to mail me an oak leaf from Pennsylvania so I would get some basic idea. We had no mountains and no hills, just an unending flatness. Stairs were exciting. When Dick and Jane cavorted in the fictional snow of our first-grade readers, we thought they were dead and in heaven, frolicking among the clouds.

All heat and no cold made Christmas especially problematic. How would Santa ever be able to come visit us? Sleighs don’t lend themselves well to travel on the high-speed Florida Turnpike. Reindeer will end up run off the road and flailing in the canals, a tasty holiday treat for the alligators. Santa’s going to get a god-awful chafe wearing that wool suit in our heat. How will his swollen legs fit in our chimney, even if we had a chimney or knew what one was? My parents reassured us that he’d make a special trip to south Florida in a helicopter and that he’d wear seersucker golf pants for his trip down through our air conditioning ducts and into our living room. Not quite the picture painted in TV’s Christmas specials.

When I moved to Tallahassee in the northern corner of the state to attend college, it didn’t get much better. I did finally see my very first snow flurry but still had to endure my entire freshman year on the top floor of an un-air-conditioned dorm. Fortunately, we were all so cool that it didn’t matter. My only outdoor camping experience to this day came during a worse-than-normal heat wave when we hauled our mattress out on the grass to sleep. The washer women who handled our bed linens loved us for that one.

Now, of course, I’m a mature adult, living far enough north to at least experience some seasonal changes, and I still say I hate the heat – I hate it, I hate it, I hate it! It’s stupid and it’s gross. You get all sweaty and stinky and, worst of all, extremely irritable.

Fortunately, just about all of the interior world is air-conditioned these days, so I do have the option of adopting a hermit-like existence for the next four months. Right now, for example, I have a wonderful view of this balmy late spring day by looking out the floor-to-ceiling window from my icy perch inside a frigid cafe, complete with working fireplace. It looks beautiful out there – the trees are green and swaying in the breeze, the clouds are wispy, the sun is bright – but I know it’s really a hellish inferno.

The cold comfort of conditioned air serves me well in most spots, though not in my workplace. My business operates in a converted warehouse that wasn’t really designed for a cubicle-farm office. I’ve had my desk positioned in several different locations throughout this large room, yet no matter where I sit I’m always too warm. When I arrive in the morning, the two women from the night shift who sit on either side of me are huddled in their sweaters, portable heaters glowing at their feet. I turn on a small fan aimed at my legs under the desk and a large one that I aim just over my head. (I’d have it blowing right on me if I could figure out how to proofread financial documents while they’re flying through a whirlwind.) The loud roar of the two announces that a man has arrived, and he’s not comfortable.

My coworkers are about 75% female, and I think this is part of the dilemma. We once called a repairman to the office to fix what seemed to be chronic AC problems. He fiddled away with the thermostat for some time before scanning the room and reporting that he had discovered our problem. “Most of your people are women,” he told my boss. “They give off more heat than men.” This seemed to me to be one of the lamest excuses for not doing your job I had ever heard, though it’s something the U.S. Senate might want to keep in mind as they consider the confirmation of Supreme Court nominee Elena Kagan. (Those judicial robes make the Snuggie look well-ventilated.)

In the years since, I’ve occasionally battled with the women in my office on this subject. One argument I thought should be convincing was that we should keep it cooler because, while they can always put more clothes on, I can’t be taking more clothes off. Well, I can, but I’m sure it would mean a rather unpleasant visit with the human resources guy. One lady showed up on a July morning last year wearing a sleeveless sundress to work, and immediately began complaining how cold the air-conditioning was. “Have you considered wearing something that covered the upper half of your torso?” I countered.

Maybe I’m noticing the heat more in recent years because I’m getting older. My wife tells me that men don’t get hot flashes associated “the change,” and she knows about such things (I’m just saying she’s a very knowledgeable person, not implying anything more.) I’ve thought about buying one of those “cooler collars” I’ve seen in the SkyMall catalog, though I suspect that would work about as well as would lugging around an icepack in my pants. Or I could contract one of those tropical diseases that give you the chills.

Maybe I’ll suggest another training trip for myself to India. Their heat makes ours feel bush league by comparison. And there’s a good chance I could come down with Dengue Fever.

A Lost Monday

Feeling lost in the office

Busy season is winding down at work, and people are naturally feeling burned out, demoralized, and somewhat lost. So you can imagine our relief the other day when three motivational posters were mounted on the wall.

You’ve probably seen these around, though I think they were much more popular a few years ago before the entire American work force basically gave up. They feature a colorful photograph of some inspirational scene (towering mountains, scenic seashores, kittens hanging in there, etc.), with one word across the top and a pithy quote across the bottom. Even the most casual glimpse of the composition encourages workers to pause reflectively for a moment, then shrug, the wonder how management can afford these if they can’t afford to buy us coffee. (Perhaps because they don’t sell coffee in the bargain bin at Staples).

The first poster reads “Teamwork” and shows a group kayaking down a raging river, something I’ll admit we do too rarely in financial document processing. The quote is “People seldom improve when they have no other model but themselves to copy after” and is attributed to an individual named “Gold Smith,” though a quick check on-line reveals it’s actually 18th-century Irish poet Oliver Goldsmith. I think the message here is that they’re getting ready to reorganize our department into teams.

The second poster is titled “Imagination” and features a stunning image of Yosemite’s El Capitan granite cliff at dawn. Quoted is Robert F. Kennedy, who said “There are those who look at things the way they are, and ask why … I dream of things that never were, and ask why not?” I think this is meant to convey the message that you can request vacation days around the July Fourth holiday weekend if you want, but you have as much chance of getting them approved as you do of scaling a 4,800-foot rock face.

The third wall hanging is called “Vision” and portrays Utah’s Monument Valley, with a saying from Eleanor Roosevelt that “The future belongs to those who behold the beauty of their dreams.” The theme here is that it’s a good thing to be able to see well if you’re going to be a proofreader.

I’ve contemplated these passages for several days now (they’re located right beneath the timeclock) and find myself inspired, renewed and refreshed. Of course, a good stiff cup of coffee might accomplish the same thing but, as I said, I believe it’s more expensive than discount posters.

Loser on the racetrack

Auto racing’s favorite loser is Dale Earnhardt Jr. Following last weekend’s National Rifle Association convention here in Charlotte, this week we’re hosting the NASCAR Sprint All-Star Race, with the big Coca-Cola 600 car race next weekend. (I think the week after that, we’re set for some kind of Hitler Youth reunion.) “Junior,” as he’s affectionately known, finished twelfth in the Sprint Race.

Earnhardt’s fame is derived less from any great skill as a driver and more from the fact that his father, Dale Sr., was one of the sport’s most successful drivers ever, except maybe for those few seconds in 2001 when he fatally crashed into a wall. The father’s huge fan base gravitated to the son, who has proceeded to spend the last ten years finishing among the also-rans in just about every event he enters.

But the fans remain intensely loyal, and he can still be accurately promoted as a “five-time winner,” even though the competition is for NASCAR’s most popular driver. In recognition of that honor, the Bradford Exchange — makers of quality doo-dads and gee-gaws since Way Back When — ran a large ad in the Charlotte Observer Saturday for the official Dale Earnhardt, Jr. Cuckoo Clock.

“Now you can show your loyalty to this hard-charging NASCAR driver with an officially licensed, custom-designed cuckoo clock,” reads the half-page promo. “A stylized image of Dale’s ride is the centerpiece of this timekeeping treasure crafted with a real wood case and richly accented with gleaming chrome and asphalt. A swinging pendulum embossed with Dale’s number 88 add to the winning style. And here’s the best part: Every hour, Junior’s car comes out the door on top to race around the track accompanied by the sounds of the speedway.”

No word on whether or not the clock runs chronically slow.

Not just lost dogs …

I often see “lost dog” signs while jogging through my neighborhood. They’re both amateurish and touching, and never removed once the dog is found. They’re left to fade in the sun and eventually crumble to dust.

Also decomposing in a similar fashion by the highway last week was a dead raccoon. Within a day, however, some enterprising would-be comedy writer had erected a sign next to the body which read “Free Coonskin Cap — some assembly required.”

That’s some pretty clever stuff as far as roadside literary efforts go. It gives me hope that one day, when this whole internet/blogging/digital revolution thing has faded into history, there will still be at least one medium available for me to publish my humor columns.

I can write them in longhand and nail them to a telephone pole. My style might have to become a little more concise, so as to convey my point to readers whizzing by at 45 m.p.h., but I’ve always felt I’m a little long-winded anyway.

Not sure how I might tally the number of views without the help of WordPress’s stats feature, though.

Lost on an island

With last night’s shocking revelation in the finale of “Lost” that TV’s favorite castaways could’ve gotten off the island any time they wanted if they’d used Gilligan’s fillings as a radio transmitter, we’ve seen the end of the most challenging drama of the new century. The one thing I always missed about “Lost,” though, was its lack of a theme song.

So allow me to propose one, even though I know it’s a little late.

Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale

A tale of a fateful flight

That started down Australia way

And ended just last night

 

The star was the mighty doctor Jack

The female lead was Kate

They flew into a fearsome storm

It looked like it was fate

You knew those two would mate

 

The plotline it was getting rough

The logic it was tossed

If not for the recaps and the highlights shows

The viewers would be lost

For they were watching “Lost”

 

The show took place on the shore of this uncharted desert isle

With Benjamin

And Sawyer too
The Korean guy and his wife

There’s Locke, Sayid,

Hurley and the Smoke Monster

On Mysterious Isle

 

So this is the tale of an unknown cast

They’ve been here six long years

(Except for occasional trips through time)

At least they have careers

 

The Dharmas and the Others too

They did their best to seek

New ways to kill main characters

And bring them back next week

 

No theme, no laughs, no spin-off shows,

Not a single luxury

Like Richard on “Survivor”

They’re sweaty as they can be

 

You joined them every week, you fools

It took you quite a while

To see that there was nothing here

On Mysterious Isle

Fake News: South Carolina considers immigration

COLUMBIA, S.C. (May 24) — A legislature that can’t figure how out to impeach a governor who used state funding to philander with an Argentinean babe appears ready to take on an issue that even the federal government can’t solve — illegal immigration.

It probably doesn’t help matters that the South Carolina Senate has gutted school funding for years, cementing that state’s position near the bottom of the national rankings for education. Now, those poorly instructed citizens are running a legislative body that is considering a bill similar to one recently passed in Arizona, requiring police to demand citizenship papers from its beige and taupe residents.

What the representatives lack in smarts is more than made up for with cojones.

“With that BP spill in the Gulf of Mexico making everybody brown, it’s going to be harder than ever to figure who is merely an oil-soaked-but-naturalized American citizen and who is an illegal immigrant trying to swim across the gulf,” said Sen. Harvey Peeler of Cherokee. “Just look at the governor of Louisiana, that Bobby Jindal. He looks Mexican but that can’t be, because he’s a Republican.”

“To tell who’s Hispanic and who isn’t, we should require everyone to take the TB test,” said Sen. Mick Mulvaney, Lancaster. “It’s the Taco Bell test. Law enforcement officials would be required to carry a seven-layer burrito with them, and anyone who’s stopped will be asked to take a bite. If they eat it, we’ll know they’re true Americans; if they refuse, we’ll know they’re Mexicans.”

“I’d like to see the same technology used in those breathalyzer ignition locks that keeps drunks from driving,” said Sen. Lee Bright, Spartanburg. “Make one that tests for Hispanic breath, and attach it to all gas-powered leaf blowers. Landscape workers who are illegals won’t be able to work here.”

State representatives tried to use the Arizona law as a model for the new legislation they’re crafting, but appeared to be misinterpreting key provisions.

“I don’t see what good it’s going to do to demand papers,” said Sen. Raymond Cleary, Georgetown. “You can pick up a USA Today or just about any other paper for less than a dollar at a newsstand. What does that prove?”

“You ask somebody if they have any papers, and it turns out they’re a marijuana user,” said Sen. Michael Fair, Greenville. “I want to see a green card and here they’re whipping out a pack of Zig Zags.”

“The whole notion of ‘papers’ and written documentation is offensive to the many South Carolinians who can’t read,” said Sen. Jake Knotts, Lexington. “It’s an elitist form of communication. I think we should just tattoo checkmarks on the foreheads of legal citizens and X’s on non-citizens.”

Sen. Danny Verdin of Laurens defended the proposal against critics who said the measure would lead to racial profiling.

“Police aren’t going to be asking anybody to look sideways so they can see the profile of their face,” Verdin said. “We need to look ‘em straight in the eye to tell if they’re Mexican.”

Sen. Phillip Shoopman of Greer said a simple identification by name could make it easier to distinguish who is legally in this country and who is not.

“If they got a ‘z’ in their name, they’re probably not supposed to be here,” he said. “Lopez, Hernandez, Sanchez, Zorro. It’s as simple as that.”

Some legislators also liked Arizona’s abolition of ethnic studies in its state-supported schools.

“Ethnic studies are just plain un-American,” said Sen. Larry Martin, Pickens. “The only proper instruction of this type would be how to make decent Chinese food. And you don’t need to know Mandarin to understand ‘number 47′.”

“Our citizens should be learning their moral codes, their principles and their ethnics at home, from their parents,” said Sen. Greg Rybert, Aiken. “Not from the state.”

Bringing the neighborhood to account

Today’s post is dedicated to some recent commenters who are under the mistaken impression that this blog contains factual accounts.

While in Dunkin Donuts the other day, I encountered an official U.S. census worker. She had the complementary tote bag and everything. I didn’t realize commercial establishments like Dunkin were included in the once-a-decade tally of the American populace, but I guess it does make sense. It’s the only way to guarantee that crullers and long johns and reduced-fat blueberry muffins get their proper representation in Congress.

I’d probably make a good census worker. I’m really good at counting stuff. When I was a kid back in the 1960s, it was one of my major hobbies, right up there with being lonely and having pimples. I’d count oncoming cars during the annual vacation drive from Florida to Pennsylvania. I’d spend entire afternoons rolling dice with alternate hands, tabulating which one could come up with the highest cumulative numbers (one memorable match from August of 1966 saw the right hand edge the left by a score of 3,468 to 3,462 in a legendary contest the old-timers still recall today).

I guess it’s too late now to make myself available to the federal government, as I understand the census will be complete within a few weeks. Maybe, however, I could make some kind of free-lance contribution. Everyone’s bitching these days about the budget deficit and out-of-control spending, and people are rightly asking whatever happened to volunteerism. I don’t need remuneration for my enumeration; I’m curious about the private lives of my neighbors anyway, and if I don’t take any federal funding, I can ask whatever questions I want.

I imagine there’s probably some copyright infringement reason that I can’t call myself a “census worker.” Actually, I’m more interested in the subjective aspects of people’s lives anyway. While counting is admittedly a thrill, there’s not much room for variation from the standard whole numbers unless the home you’re visiting contains residents with sizeable fractions of their bodies amputated. I want to know more about what people think, how they feel, how they view and interpret their world.

I’ve got it! I’ll call myself a “senses worker” and quiz the folks on my block with unconventional questions. Most of them aren’t good at spelling anyway, if the person who recently held a “garaje sale” is any indication.

First I visit the elderly retired couple next door. The husband, a former anthropology professor, answers the door, and it’s obvious from his stooped posture and confused expression that he’s had more lucid days. I tell him I’m here to check his senses.

“I’ve only got a couple left,” he says slowly. “I can hear a little, and I can see enough of your outline to recognize you as a primate. My taste went years ago. Nowadays, it’s all like bread to me. What else is there?”

“Can you feel?” I ask. “Can you smell?”

“Remember that old song from the Who? ‘See Me, Feel Me, Touch Me’ was it?” he asks. “That was a good song.”

“Right,” I say, trying to get the interview back on track. “Can I get you to feel these new slacks I bought? The label said they’re only 55% polyester but they feel pretty stiff. I washed them once hoping it was just the sizing and they’d soften up a little. They’re just not as comfortable as I’d like.”

The old man reaches down to stroke my hip. (See — this is something you could never get away with if this were official government business).

“I’d give ‘em another wash or two,” he says at last. “You should be fine.”

“Thanks,” I say brightly, and head off to the next house. It’s the home of a young family with two or three children. Even though they’re right across the cul-du-sac from my house, all I know is that they had a dog that barked a lot so they let it run away, and their last name starts with a “B”. It’s the wife/mom who answers the door.

“What did you hear about that teenager down the street they called the police on?” I ask her. “You know, the other night.”

“Wasn’t that just awful?” she whispers. “I heard he was smoking marijuana by the streetlight.”

“What is this neighborhood coming to?” I ask, lifting my clipboard. “Would you say ‘A – Kids today,’ ‘B – He got caught up in the wrong crowd,’ ‘C – You just never know,’ or ‘D – What’re you gonna do?’”

“I think I’ll go with ‘D’,” she says.

“Thanks for your time, and keep that ear to the ground,” I say, turning toward the next residence on the street. It’s the home of a guy about my age, maybe a mailman or a UPS driver, or maybe just a pressed shorts enthusiast. In case he’s a “fed,” I’m careful how I present myself, lest he think I’m on the same gravy train he is and invites me to spend the afternoon sipping tea on his deck.

“Just wonder if I could ask you a quick question or two,” I begin. “Have you seen those hawks circling the neighborhood? What kind do you think they are?”

“Hawks?” he asks, a bit hesitant to answer. He’s definitely with the government.

“Yeah, I think that’s what they are. Have you seen ‘em? I’m trying to tell what kind they are. I went online to allaboutbirds.com. They had a sound clip of how they chirped and I played it, but it just freaked out my cat. You should’ve seen him, it was so funny — Tom was pawing at the speaker on my laptop, trying to get at the bird.”

“I’ve seen no hawks,” came the curt reply. “Are you selling something?”

“Nothing but that idea that an average citizen can give Washington a little help in its time of need,” I say. “Thanks for your time.”

Next up is a twenty-something guy I’m guessing is house-sitting for friends of his parents.

“Did you notice that dead squirrel at the end of your driveway?” I ask. “The smell is getting pretty bad. You know, it’s your responsibility to dispose of that kind of thing if it’s in front of your house.”

“What?” he asks, obviously unfamiliar with Brookshadow Hills’ carcass covenant.

“Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll deputize you right here to be authorized to scoop up that poor bastard and take him to the dump.”

“What?” he asks again, but I’m already off to my final stop of the day.

My enthusiasm is waning a bit as I approach the home of someone I actually know, a friend of my wife’s from college. She invites me in, something you’re not supposed to do, by the way, with an actual census worker because they might have a second job as a sex offender. Being as inoffensive as I am, she offers me a cup of coffee and a seat in the foyer.

“This tastes great,” I say. “It feels good to take a load off.”

We chat a bit: her daughter is doing great in college, her son is still looking for a job, do I know anyone who’s hiring? The weather’s been nice, we hope someone fixes the sign at the subdivision entrance, her son is starting to get on her nerves, am I sure I don’t know anyone who is hiring? Finally, it’s down to business.

“I’m so sorry we forgot to send in that form,” she says. “So aren’t you going to count me?”

“Oh, OK,” I answer. “One. There.”

Having done my part to maintain our great democracy the way our founding fathers envisioned over two centuries ago (I added the part about dead squirrels myself; hope that doesn’t hurt my cred as a strict constructionist), I’m headed out the door as Sue has one final question for me.

“Can I get you something to eat?” she asks. ”I’ve got some fresh donuts.”

“Count me in,” I say. “Can I have a cruller?”

An embarrassment of Sarahs

To paraphrase the Doris Day hit song from the 1950s, “Que Sarah Sarah.”

Whatever will be, will be … as long as that destiny includes a trio of lovely ladies with that most lovely of first names.

This week’s entertainment news saw three Sarah-licious figures hopping from coast to coast to coast, offering up their sassy take on why the world owes them its attention.

First off, it was Britain’s roly-poly royal, Lady Sarah Ferguson, further cementing her position as Tea Party icon with a rambling defense of a fellow babe running for governor of South Carolina. Ferguson, former Alaska honcho and GOP vice-presidential nominee in 2008, used her Facebook page to condemn allegations that the Palmetto State’s Nikki Haley had an extra-marital relationship in apparent contradiction of her strong pro-family values.

“Well, whaddya know? South Carolina’s conservative candidate recently zipped to the front in her state’s race for governor and, lo and behold, now accusations of an affair surface,” Ferguson wrote in her folksy style. “Unfortunately, that’s the nature of the beast in politics today — especially for conservative underdog candidates who threaten to shake things up so government can be put back on the side of the people. I’ve been there. Any lies told about you will strengthen your resolve to clean up lamestream media corruption.”

Then, a few days later, Lady Sarah was back on the front pages again, this time calling out a writer who moved in next door to her Wasilla home. Joe McGinnis, author of “The Selling of the President,” a classic of political journalism, is working on a book about the princess governor. He recently took up residence nearby to keep a look-out on the hot neighbor lady.

Ferguson wrote: “I finally got the chance to tackle my garden and lawn this evening! So, puttin’ on the shorts and tank top to catch that too-brief northern summer sun and placing Trig in his toddler backpack for a lawn-mowing adventure, I looked up in surprise to see a ‘new neighbor’. Todd went to introduce himself to the stranger who was peering in. He moved up from Massachusetts to write a book about me. We’re sure to have a doozey to look forward to with this treasure. Wonder what kind of material he’ll gather while overlooking Piper’s bedroom.”

Not to be outdone in the “no such thing as bad publicity” department, next up was actress Sarah Jessica Parker caught on hidden camera taking a bribe to gain access to her husband and to offer certain other favors.

Parker was captured on videotape receiving a suitcase packed with $40,000 by an undercover reporter conducting a sting operation. The film has since been released to the media.

“I hope this is enough to get me access to Matthew,” said the reporter’s voice, referring to Parker’s husband, Broadway actor Matthew Broderick.

“It should be plenty,” Parker is heard to say. “You probably could’a just walked right up to him on the street — he’s not as big a star as I am, ya know. But this’ll make things smoother.”

“Well, there’s more where that came from, if you care to play along,” says the reporter. “I’m authorized to offer another $700,000 if you’ll agree to have a bagoplasty and grant us exclusive coverage.”

“Bagoplasty?” asks an uncertain Parker.

“Yes, it’s the surgical implantation of a paper sack onto your neck and upper shoulders, completing encasing your hideous head,” the reporter continues.

“Gee, I don’t know,” says a tentative Parker. “I do need the money …”

Finally, the end of the week saw the debut of Sarah Louise Palin in her big-budget follow-up to last year’s monster movie hit. “Sex and the City 2,” which shows America’s favorite cougars prowling the deserts of the Middle East, may not have been a favorite of critics given an early preview –

“Some of these people make my skin crawl,” wrote film reviewer Roger Ebert. “The characters are flyweight bubbleheads living in a world which rarely requires three sentences in a row.”

“One wrong-headed jaw-dropper follows the next,” said another critic. “The climax has the ladies escaping an angry male mob by wearing hijabs given to them by like-minded Muslim women. An affront to Islam.”

“By the time they ride camels, it’s ‘Ishtar’ in designer gowns,” wrote a third.

But it’s sure to resonate with that segment of the audience that loves shopping, glamour, designer duds and poofy hair.

Palin, making the rounds of late-night talk shows in a high-energy promotion blitz, defended the movie, which opens this weekend.

“Those gotcha guys never have anything positive to say about strong women in strong roles,” Palin told Jay Leno.

Leno then pressed Palin to name other films that drew a similar prejudice.

“Well, let’s see. There’s — of course in the great history of America there have been movies that there’s never going to be absolute consensus by every American,” Palin said. “And there are those issues, again, like ‘Monsters vs. Aliens’, which I believe are best held on a state level and addressed there. So, you know, going through the history of America, there would be others but –”

Meanwhile, actress Sarah Michelle Gellar, singer Sarah McLachlan and comedian Sarah Silverman, held a joint press conference to say “hey, don’t forget about us.”

Sorry, gals, but you can’t compete with the holy trinity of Sarahs making us joyfully hum another ancient ditty — Hall and Oates’ classic “Sarah Smile” — all this week.

Fake News: BP facing crisis in nomenclature

NEW ORLEANS (May 28) — With nearly 8,000 ideas collected from the public on how to stop the ongoing oil spill, BP announced yesterday that it will also be accepting suggestions on ways to deal with other aspects of the disaster.

Early signs yesterday that the so-called “top kill” attempt is working to halt the release of crude from a broken pipe a mile below the surface of the gulf encouraged company officials to solicit more input from observers.

“One of the earliest suggestions we received was to ‘shove it’ or ‘stick it’, and that’s exactly what we’re trying now,” said BP’s vice president for public relations Alfred Jones. “Non-experts are often the source of some very creative solutions.”

A key priority for the company at this stage in the 37-day-long catastrophe is describing how much oil has erupted into the waters off Louisiana so far. If they can’t stop the flow, at least they can put its impact in more colorful terms. Initial estimates that the spill totaled 5,000 barrels a day were revised to upwards of 19,000 barrels, but this still left many wondering how the hell much is barrel.

“We need a more descriptive unit of measure,” Jones said. “The public thinks of a barrel as something worn by a naked cartoon character, and that doesn’t accurately portray the volumes we’re talking about. If we say ‘gallon,’ people get hungry for ice cream.”

Attempts by the government to describe the slick as “containing as much oil as 2,000 gymnasiums” or “as if we filled 40,000 swimming pools and laid them end to end all the way to the sun” did little to clear the air, much less the water.

“How are we supposed to get that many pools into space?” asked Coast Guard Lt. Linda Raimer. “Remember that we’re ending the shuttle program.”

Some of the ideas received so far are putting the disaster in more personal terms. One writer, Robert Evans of Oakbrook, Ill., suggested using the unit of “cubic Bobs”.

“It’s the amount of liquid there’d be if my body were melted down,” Evans said. “That’s something we can all relate to, especially my wife whose been encouraging me to get more exercise, even though it’s too hot out.”

The public is also offering names for the various procedures BP is trying to stem the leak. Terms like “top kill,” “top hat” and “junk shot” sound cool enough, but if they’re not working, they rapidly lose their appeal.

Among the new phrases submitted so far are “tube lube,” “glug plug,” “punk rock,” “hand job,” “blast shot” and “kill boss.”

“Many of these are very good,” said BP chief executive Tony Hayward, “except maybe for that last one.”

Hayward is also hopeful someone will offer assistance in describing how much his company regrets the accident that left 11 dead and miles of fragile beaches and wetlands in danger of becoming extremely yucky.

“How many times can you say you’re sorry?” Hayward asked. “After about the fifth or sixth time, it just sounds like we’re going through the motions. It’s fine if we do that in the repair process, but we can do better when something really important happens like having a camera and microphone stuck in our face.”

Early front-runners for innovative apologies include “my bad,” “oops,” “oh crap,” “we’re so very very very to infinity regretful” and “jeez al-freaking-mighty of course we’re sorry, this thing is costing us millions of dollars a day.”

Revisited: 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 as a tickle at the back of my throat, then progressed into listlessness, then a sore throat so bad I had to clench my teeth to swallow, then a cough and the beginning of nasal drainage today. At this pace, I’ll be minus a lung by the Monday.

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 summer vacation. 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 of leaving it in the kitchen.

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.

Revisited: World’s smallest economies meet

TRENTON, New Jersey – Representatives of nations in the B-20 met this weekend in Conference Room Number 2 of the East Brunswick Township Fairmont Suites to talk about the challenges they face as the smallest countries in the world.

The summit of the world’s tiniest states comes in the wake of the recent meeting of the G-20 in London, where President Obama joined other leaders of the largest economies to discuss global financial matters, the banking crisis, and environmental and security issues. The B-20 group, on the other hand, met to address concerns that they alone share, including where everybody in the country was supposed to sit, and what to do about citizens who can’t seem to keep their hands to themselves.

The B-20 (the “B” stands for “bottom”) group finished their three-day conference late Saturday, and issued a joint communiqué on the results of their discussions.

“We come away from this meeting with many mutual understandings,” said Uday Maranathan, prime minister of the Seychelles (area: 107 sq. mi.; pop.: 69,000; you probably thought it was: French for “seashells”). “We have a fresh resolve to work together to solve our many unique problems.”

Conferees addressed a number of concerns that they face back home, including the issue of rising sea levels among the island nations, the need for a more diverse economic base, and the lack of awareness among much of the world that they even exist.

“I think just the publicity we got from having this meeting will go a long way toward helping us,” said Nelson Johnson, premier of Turks and Caicos (area: 166 sq. mi.; pop.: 30,000; you probably thought it was: a sandwich). “If we can just get more tourism dollars into our economies, that would make a big difference in our gross domestic product.”

The leaders were also looking for ideas on how to improve agricultural techniques among their native farmers so that the nations could move closer to self-sustenance, rather than relying on their larger neighbors for take-out.

“Most of the member states have a severe shortage of dirt,” said Heinrich Schwess, foreign minister of Liechtenstein (area: 62 sq. mi.; pop.: 29,000; you probably thought it was: a Hebrew sausage). “That makes it very hard to grow things. We’re going to be working together as a group to see where we might find some common ground. I hear they might have some at Lowe’s so I’ll be stopping by their lawn and garden center before heading back to my country to pick up several bags.”

Countries that have found a way to maintain at least a small agricultural base are hoping to move away from traditional cultivation of bonsai trees, baby corn and frosted mini-wheats to the kind of plants that can more easily be converted into other products. This would not only aid farmers but also allow a food-processing industry to emerge that could employ those who are unable to work in the fields.

“Tourism and agriculture seem like natural fits for relatively underdeveloped states such as ours,” said Dominic Arazanno, prime minister of San Marino (area: 24 sq. mi.; pop.: 25,000; you probably thought it was: former quarterback of the Miami Dolphins). “But I also think there’s a chance we can support at least a small amount of manufacturing or perhaps even some high-tech research facilities.”

Though most of the B-20 members have populations that are uneducated, there are a few that have a relatively large percentage of their people with a college-level education.

“We’re very proud of the skills that exist in our work force,” said cultural affairs attaché Philippe Ponduro of Malta (area: 122 sq. mi.; pop.: 362,000; you probably thought it was: a kind of milkshake). “Those two kids can really ramp up the production when they have the right incentives.”

Peaceful cooperation among the member states could continue to be a challenge if the league wants to work together to solve all the problems they share. Though they lack any kind of standing army, that didn’t prevent two governments from engaging in a recent skirmish in the south Pacific. Palau (area: 191 sq. mi.; pop.: 16,000; you probably thought it was: rice) and Tuvalu (area: 9 sq. mi.; pop.: 9,700; you probably thought it was: 2007 Ultimate Fighting Champion) fought a bitter battle over rights to large stone located halfway between them. Palau’s rowboat eventually defeated Tuvalu’s three guys in life preservers but not before both sides spent large portions of their national treasuries on the campaign.

“We must make peaceful coexistence our number-one priority,” said B-20 chairman Manaloa Huvanaram, a parliamentarian from Tonga (area: 289 sq. mi.; pop.: 112,000; you probably thought it was: a toy truck). “We shouldn’t even pick on someone our own size.”

One option raised in the communiqué was the possibility that several of the tiny lands could merge to form larger entities. A few that have already tried this option – Antigua and Barbuda (area: 171 sq. mi.; pop.: 83,000; you probably thought it was: two separate countries), and St. Vincent and the Grenadines (area: 150 sq. mi.; pop.: 109,000; you probably thought it was: a doo-wop group from the fifties) – held a convocation Saturday to give tips to the other members. One leader said he’s already made a tentative agreement along these lines to increase the profile of his minuscule nation.

“We had a very promising discussion with (Canadian rock icon) Neil Young, and I think we laid out enough economic incentives for him to consider joining us,” said president Herman Lodgeworth of St. Kitts and Nevis. “If we can rebrand ourselves as ‘St. Kitts, Nevis and Young,’ I think a lot of business leaders will sit up and take notice.”

A Memorial Day labor day

It was going to be a natural tie-in. A photo essay of the typical chores I tackle on a Sunday, even a Sunday that’s part of the Labor Day holiday weekend.

It wasn’t till I was just about finished that I realized — oops, this isn’t Labor Day, it’s Memorial Day.

I always get these two mixed up. I know one is the unofficial start of summer, one is the unofficial end of summer, and they both have something to do with the propriety of wearing white shoes. I thought they fell in alphabetical order, which would make sense in a truly logical universe. (My proposal: Arbor Day replaces New Year’s Day on Jan. 1, Christmas comes in February, Halloween around May, and Zeus’ Birthday ushers in the end-of-year holiday season).

Memorial Day is the day we honor the nation’s war dead by racing the Indianapolis 500 and staging Jack Nicklaus’ Memorial golf tournament on the beautiful Muirfield Village Golf Course, where Tiger Woods will face a stiff field of challengers including up-and-comers like Jason Bohn and Matt Kuchar. Labor Day is when we pay tribute to America’s mothers who endured hours of unimaginable pain birthing this nation’s grateful work force. Why can’t I keep that straight?

Regardless of my error, you’re getting the photo essay.

Sunday has always felt right to me as the proper day to undertake household chores. Maybe it has something to do with my Lutheran guilt that I no longer attend church. If I can’t sit through another interminable sermon about how Zachariah slew Obidiah after Jebediah stole his Uriah Heep album, perhaps I should endure the equivalent anguish of running the vacuum cleaner. Though I didn’t quite get to the carpet on this particular Sunday (unless you count the part where I fell down while dusting the fireplace), I did accomplish the following:

The Laundry

Yes, I am the rare enlightened married man who does his own washing and drying. I keep trying to tell my wife what a "catch" she has here though, even after almost 29 years of marriage, she's yet to be convinced that's quite the right word for it. I also make my own breakfast, pack my own lunch, wash my own face and brush my own teeth, because I'm a big boy. Note the care with which I have balanced the shirts around the bin, indicating an expertise far beyond my years.

The Billing

I'm the unofficial accountant for my wife's free-lance proofreading business, and every week or so I'm in charge of invoicing her clients. It's a tedious, afternoon-long chore still inexplicably done on paper instead of electronically. Occasionally, just for fun, I'll mistakenly write "thousand" instead of "hundred" on one of the bills, in the hope that her clients' inability to find errors extends beyond their proofs and into their accounts payable department.

The Catbox

With three cats under our roof, this is more than a weekly chore, or at least that's how Harriet, Taylor and Tom explain it to me. Strange how my role as lord and master over their dominion includes me cleaning up their waste products. I doubt that's how ancient Egyptian pharoahs interacted with their slaves. Though I actually can imagine King Tutankhamun having to take a few minutes away from ruling virtually the entire known world to comb through the sandbox of his royal felines Boots, Hosni and Mr. Hatshepsut.

The Mowing

I would absolutely LOVE to trade my stuffy office job for a position as a professional grass-cutter. I find the fresh air, the physical labor, the thrill of possibly losing an eye to be positively exhilarating. And the sense of accomplishment after seeing your hard work transform a weedy mess into a manicured landscape can't compare with the successful downloading of a spreadsheet, even though the spreadsheet (usually) leaves me less dehydrated.

Fake News: Greece looks overseas for help

ATHENS, Greece (May 31) — Facing a debt crisis that is threatening its viability as a second-rate nation, Greece is turning to its diaspora for financial assistance in an attempt to pay off its bills and get the Acropolis back from the pawn shop.

Americans in particular have stepped up to lend their assistance, especially the Fake Greek community that makes up the fraternity and sorority system at many U.S. universities. Hundreds of college-age men are reportedly flying to Europe after classes let out this month, though many became lost en route when their backwards caps confused airline personnel who inadvertently gave directions to the backs of their heads.

“We wanted to lend our expertise in fund-raising,” said one who did manage to find his way. “The partying and hazing that are an essential part of Greek life in the U.S. present some unique opportunities for generating cash.”

Members from the fraternity Alpha Kappa Phi will be physically abusing and humiliating a group of volunteers, charging admission to the event and using the proceeds to pay off a series of bond obligations coming due from German banks next month. Participants will dress in diapers, be kept awake for six days, forced to drink a cocktail of beer and urine, have rotting animal carcasses smeared on their chests, beaten senseless, then required to sing a medley of John Mayer tunes backwards.

Another prank will see the fraternity Sigma Rho Epsilon invite ugly countries to a conference on technological cooperation in the region, then vote on which attendee is the most physically unattractive.

“We’ve already heard back from Moldova, Kosovo, Herzegovina and Slovenia, and they’re definitely coming,” said a giggling Alan Reed. “I’m not sure how this will raise any money, but you can’t really put a price on how those ladies will look when they realize they’ve been punked.”

In another initiative, the makers of Grecian Formula are shipping in 800 barrels of their hair-dying solution, to be put to use on the battered accounting books of the Greek treasury.

“This stuff will turn anything black,” said company spokesperson Bill Peterson. “Normally we use it on grey beards, sideburns and mustaches, but there’s no reason it can’t also work on numbers that are in the red.”

The entertainment world is also planning to do its part to help in the economic recovery of the birthplace of democracy. The touring company of the musical “Grease” will be donating ten percent of its proceeds from its two-night stop in Athens, Georgia. A group of Las Vegas comedians will conduct a “gag-a-thon” in which the joke “What’s a Grecian urn?” will be asked repeatedly during a 48-hour charity event at the fabulous Parthenon casino and nightclub. Actor John Stamos has agreed to hold-up a number of liquor and convenience stores near his home in Los Angeles, and donate cigarettes and lottery tickets to the effort.

Meanwhile, even small-town America will be getting into the act. Working-class diners owned predominantly by Greek immigrants will be shipping their blue-plate lunch special of a meat, three vegetables and a piece of pie to select finance ministers in the European Union. It is hoped that the heavy mid-day meal will put most of the officials to sleep, rendering them incapable of remembering how much exactly they are owed by the Greeks.

A safari to the discount grocery store

Craving a little adventure in your daily routine? Want to break out of the normal patterns of life to do something exciting and different? Care to be confronted by a wild animal?  

If you’re tired of your role as an apex predator at the top of the food chain, then might I suggest a shopping expedition to Discount Grocery Safari. “The Deege,” as it’s affectionately known, is a market located about a mile from my home, specializing in the sale of scratched, dented, mangled, damaged, injured and mutilated grocery items.

Some of the packages are only slightly imperfect, while others look like they’ve been trampled by a rhino. The contents inside are supposed to be safe and effective, which is good if effectiveness is something you’re looking for in tonight’s dinner. Any parts oozing down the outside of the can or box cannot be similarly guaranteed.  

A few of the items may also be slightly past their expiration date, though perishability isn’t generally a factor in items like toiletries and paper products. Except perhaps for the bathroom tissue that seems to be made of papyrus.  

I was a little perplexed about the “safari” allusion until I visited the humble establishment over the weekend. As I stalked up and down the four short aisles inside the prefab corrugated building, the dim lighting suggested a venture into the jungle of deepest, darkest upstate South Carolina. It felt like danger lurked around every corner, or maybe that was a hulking cart full of single A&W diet root beer cans. Like a safari, it seemed the expedition could result in three possible outcomes: I’d bring down a trophy of a bargain, I’d at least get a memory of something exotic and dangerous, or it would be me who became the kill, brought low by the underestimated ferocity of StarKist’s “Lunch To-Go” tuna pouch.  

The parking lot outside the Deege has room for no more than eight cars on its gravel and broken concrete surface. What would otherwise be a ninth spot is taken up by a rack for a ragtag collection of grocery carts that seem to have wandered off from higher-end grocery stores in search of a better life, only to be ultimately discarded after their porn career failed. There’s no automatic door opener to sense your presence and invite you in. Like the savannahs of Africa, the Deege is not easy to access. You have to wrestle your cart over a two-inch rise while trying to hold the door open and avoid the family of Bodines headed for their truck with a month’s supply of potato chips.  

It takes a few seconds for your eyes to adjust to the light, though your nose is given no similar reprieve. Since the inventory is subject to the whims of gravity and centrifugal force on the truck that it fell from, the featured produce varies from day to day. On Saturday, it was bananas, ripe as can be if not exactly yellow. There were also zucchini, cabbage and what looked like potatoes though they could’ve been elephant droppings. We’ll need to be vigilant for the rogue male apparently in the area.  

In an alcove to the right are several large chest freezers. There are no signs advertising what’s inside. You have to lift the lid and examine the interior yourself, and even then it’s not certain whether the large resealable bag contains shrimp or a buffed-up species of krill. Not being a baleen whale, I’d hope that it’s shrimp. It’s offered at $9.99 a pound, which is a little high for plankton.  

I turn back to the left and head for the aisle against the far wall. Here you have a collection of off-brand sodas with near-brand names — Dr. Peppy, Seven Heaven and Cola (Diet) — as well as what passes for the health/beauty/cosmetics section. There are spray deodorants with just a thin reed poking up out of the can instead of a nozzle, several bent boxes of Kleenex containing facial tissue that features a tire-track pattern, and there’s this …  

   

… the First Response home ovulation test kit, apparently ripped to shreds right there in the store by a shopper desperately looking for the eggs.  

I round the corner and start down the second aisle. At about half the width of the first row, you can barely maneuver the shopping cart between the racks of flour and oils, much less accommodate a passing shopper of more than two dimensions. Here we also have bags of “jet-puffed marshmallows” (USAir’s newest profit center?), Sadaf brand falafel mix and a jar of gefilte fish labeled as “sweet”. The “best if used by” date on the fish is quite a bit in the past, although those ten days lost when Pope Gregory introduced his new calendar in 1582 can be discounted.  

As I turn down the next-to-last aisle, I see more evidence of the “safari” nature of the enterprise …  

  

… where the green paint has been worn from the concrete floor by the spring migration of wildebeest. This section is a bit of a hodgepodge with no discernible theme. One rack features the book “Victory Club” by Robin Lee Hatcher, and it’s flanked on the left by Skippy brand dog food and on the right by Rite-Aid’s unscented panty liners. I’m not sure of the book’s plot, though a logical observer is led to believe it involves a pack of canines with feminine hygiene issues.  

Finally, I’m coming down the last lap. On this aisle, there are ice cream cones and taco shells which, being particularly susceptible to breakage, seem a long shot for a satisfactory customer experience, unless you like sprinkles. Snack foods near the cash register include some pretty decent candies and a bag of the failed Burger King venture into retail, the “ketchup and fries chips”. I’m tempted to fork over a dollar for the chips, just for laughs, then decide the King should not be rewarded for his lack of marketing acumen.  

The cashier is a smiling woman whose sense of pride indicates she might also be an owner or manager. The checkout equipment is surprisingly modern, complete with scanner and touch screen that are as out-of-place as a bagboy on the veldt. For my total bill of $14.92 — “hah, hah,” she observes, “Christopher Columbus” — I got a bag of ground coffee, some cookies and candy, a tube of the tasty-but-discontinued Mexican Layer Dip Pringles, two mousse cup selections and a generic can of salmon cat food. I shudder to imagine how unspeakably offensive the expired fish byproducts must be, which means my cats loved it.  

I’m handed a receipt and my safari is complete. It was quite the adventure for an otherwise boring afternoon. I picked up some nice used food and tasted what excitement might be like halfway around the globe on the world’s most mysterious continent.  

And here’s something you don’t get as you rumble your Jeep back into camp at the base of mighty Kilimanjaro. At the bottom of my receipt is a saying from the locals at the Deege, an expression of goodwill that will remind me how satisfying this challenging hunt was: “Thank You! Come Again Soon!” it reads. “No Refunds! No Exchanges!”  

The exterior of "The Deege"

Fake News: A gleeful solution to oil spill

NEW ORLEANS (June 2) — Faced with increasing public despair after a failed attempt to halt the gulf oil spill by hacking at the wellhead with a saw, BP officials announced an initiative yesterday to “turn America’s frown upside down”.

Company executives are bringing the cast of the hit Fox TV show “Glee” to the scene of the unfolding catastrophe, both to lift the spirits of cleanup workers as well as offer ideas on how to stem the eruption of over 50 thousand barrels a day of petroleum into one of the world’s most delicate ecosystems.

“We’re all so discouraged by failure after failure that we thought it was time to get a little pick-me-up from these fresh-faced young people who are taking the nation by storm,” said chairman Tony Hayward. “They’re going to put the ‘sass’ back in ‘disaster’.”

Most of the actors from the series made their first appearance at what is now history’s worst environmental calamity late yesterday. Seven members of the fictional “New Directions” high school choral group put on a performance on the beach in nearby Biloxi, Mississippi. They sang several 1970s classics — including the Doobie Brothers’ “Black Water,” the Rolling Stones’ “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” and Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water” — before the show was cut short because they kept slipping on the oil during dance interludes.

“We’re doing one last song before we call it a night,” said a crude-soaked Lea Michele, who plays Rachel Berry, the talented star of the McKinley High glee club. “We hope you enjoy our rendition of ‘Bad Company,’ which we dedicate to our hosts from BP.”

Michele and co-star Cory Monteith, who plays quarterback and singer Finn Hudson on the program, gamely belted out several lines of the duet before stumbling over a mound of stricken pelicans, commenting “son of a bitch,” and returning to their tour bus.

On Thursday, the entire cast of 12 will be jammed into a miniature submersible to visit the site of the spill 70 miles off the coast and more than 5,000 feet underwater. The vehicle, which normally holds a crew of two, “should be a bit of a tight squeeze, but these kids have such a can-do spirit that I don’t think they’ll mind, as long as we can figure out a way to get them enough oxygen,” said Hayward.

After observing the spewing gusher up close, actor Matthew Morrison, who plays choir director Will Schuester, will lead the group in a delicate maneuver.

“We’re going to take control of the robotic arms and put on a mechanized ’jazz hands’ production number,” said Morrison, who previously appeared on Broadway in such musical hits as Hairspray and The Light in the Piazza. “We’ll all be studying hard tonight to learn how to manipulate those giant steel claws. Let’s hit the books, kids!”

If the troupe doesn’t accidentally bang against something that miraculously stops the leak, BP officials said their next idea for a permanent fix would be a so-called “hunk shot,” in which bits of golf balls, rubber and chunks of Mark Salling, who plays the handsome, pouting “Puck” Puckerman in the series, will be injected into the seeping deposit.

“I’m just honored that someone thought we could make a difference here,” said paraplegic guitarist “Artie Adams,” who is played by Kevin McHale, star center of the 1984 NBA champion Boston Celtics. “It just breaks my heart to think what I’m going to have to pay for the seafood platter at Captain D’s.”

The cast will wrap up their visit to the gulf Friday night with a benefit concert at the Louisiana Superdome, where “Glee” creator Ryan Murphy promises some special compositions for the thousands of fans expected to attend.

“We’ll be doing a take-off on the Blue Oyster Cult hit, calling it ‘(Don’t Fear) the Oil Spill’, as well as some adapted lyrics to Bob Marley’s ‘I Shot the Sheriff’. It goes ‘I shot the chairman/But I didn’t shoot the CEO’,” Murphy said. “And we hope to have clearance from Paul Simon so we can do ‘Fifty Ways to Cap an Oil Leak’. So my advice to everyone working so hard down here to figure out how to stop this calamity is ‘Make a new plan, Stan/Don’t need to be coy, Roy.’”

Website Review: NikkiHaley.com

It’s a little unsettling to watch the arch-conservative Republican governor of Louisiana railing against the federal government one moment and pleading for massive help with the oil spill the next. If the insincerity seems familiar, I don’t want to think it’s because Gov. “Bobby” Jindall (real first name: Piyush) reminds me of conversations I’ve had with call center workers in his ancestral homeland of India.

“I hope you are well today,” will say the self-described “Eric” in a studied American accent during a pause in the call. “How about those …” he hesitates as he consults a reference to my hometown near Charlotte ” … local sporting team Carolina Panthers?”

We have another Indian-American of questionable sincerity running for governor of South Carolina. You may have heard of “Nikki” “Haley” (real name: Nimrata Randwaha). She’s the Sarah Palin-endorsed candidate in Tuesday’s Republican primary who twice now has been accused of marital infidelity. While it might be reassuring on some level to hear of a female politician who reportedly can’t keep it in her pants (or out of her pants, I guess), it simply doesn’t sound genuine when she mouths right-wing platitudes to her base.

“I hold a concealed weapons permit myself,” she tells the gun-rights advocates from her website. “We need to make the rules that govern carrying far more simple.”

I’ve been to south Asia a half-dozen times, and that sure doesn’t sound like anybody I met.

I wanted to learn more about Nikki Haley and her effort to unseat Gov. Mark Sanford as the leader of tawdry South Carolina politicians, so I’m visiting nikkihaley.com for this week’s Website Review.

The home page features a rotating array of the prominent Republicans — Palin, Mitt Romney, Jenny Sanford (spurned wife of the disgraced governor) — whose endorsements have rocketed Haley to the top of the polls. There’s also a graphic of a crescent moon, seemingly confirming her status as what a rival Republican called a “raghead”, though further consideration reveals that it’s part of the state flag. Like the Muslim world, South Carolina recognizes there are phases of the moon. Interesting.

The “Meet Nikki” pulldown offers a brief biography of this improbable daughter of the South. She was born in Bamberg, S.C., her parents are Indian immigrants who ran a clothing store, she studied accounting at Clemson, married an Army National Guard husband, had two children, and was elected to the state legislature in 2004. And, as we’ll see later that she can’t stress this enough, she’s a Christian.

In the “Issues” section, she’s predictably in favor of things like economic development, good government and education, which to her means “taking advantage of our tech schools and skilling the workers our employers need.” She likes the concept of healthcare, not the “unconstitutional takeover” by Barack Obama and Nancy Pelosi. She’s grossed out by illegal immigrants and abortion — “my husband was adopted” — and thinks the Second Amendment is cool.

The “News” portion of the site confronts the allegations of infidelity made by a former Sanford speechwriter who claimed to have had an “inappropriate physical relationship” with Haley, and by a Republican lobbyist who claimed a one-night stand with the admittedly MILF-errific Haley. “I have been 100% faithful to my husband throughout our 13 years of marriage,” she writes in a press release. “It is sad,” not that she’s married to a full-time federal government employee, but that “this disgraceful smear has taken form less than a week removed from a poll showing our campaign with a significant lead.”

Something called the “Action Center” (not what you think) is the place for campaign volunteers to sign up and help Haley reclaim possibly the most Republican state in the union for her particular fringe. There’s a handy checklist of actions you can enlist for, though sadly they include only things like assembling yard signs, hosting a house party and “sign waving,” not quickies at a Utah school choice conference as the lobbyist alleged. However, there is a box for “whatever’s needed.” Interesting.

The “Endorsements” section lists others less prominent than Palin and Romney who are supporting Haley’s run. Along with no-names like Nathan Ballentine, Ted Pitts and Joey Millwood, there’s the Myrtle Beach Tea Party, one of the least fun beach parties on earth. In a link to a newspaper article about that group’s announcement, tea party president Luke Towery said that he didn’t believe the infidelity charges, calling them “fallacious.” I can’t imagine an upstanding, raven-haired, obviously well-toned, Republican woman performing fallacious, at least as long as she’s wearing that royal blue business suit.

Finally, I’m going to cite a part at the bottom of the home page titled “Truth in Facts.” This is where Haley addresses some of the other rumors and charges that have dogged her campaign so far.

Did she support South Carolina taking stimulus dollars?

No. She voted against forcing Sanford to take federal money to save teaching jobs and other social services.

Does she support mandatory HPV vaccines for middle-school girls?

No. Well, yes. Well, maybe, but probably not. “I was a cosponsor of the Cervical Cancer Prevention Act,” she writes, until she realized it would strip parents of the right to choose an increased likelihood of fatal disease for their daughters.

What is the real story about Nikki’s trip to China?

Asked by a reporter what class she flew in on the excursion to the World Economic Forum in 2007, she wasn’t sure whether it was business or first class, so she declined to answer. When it turned out to be that East-Coast-liberal-elitist business class, she blamed the state commerce department for the shameful upgrade from coach. She also notes that ”what the media chose not to report” was that, when offered a private hotel room for the entire trip, she insisted on instead sharing a room with a female member of the governor’s staff. Very interesting.

Is Nikki a Christian?

Though her parents were Sikhs and she reportedly has been seen occasionally attending whatever kind of patently heretical services those weirdos conduct, “my faith in Christ has a profound impact on my daily life and I look to Him for guidance with every decision I make. My faith in the Lord gives me great strength on a daily basis. Being a Christian is not about words, but about living for Christ every day.”

I came out of my study of this website actually hoping that Haley is elected our next governor. It might be stereotyping, but every Indian-American I’ve ever encountered was conscientious, competent, intelligent, and made a palak paneer that you’d absolutely die for. Plus, she’ll be extremely entertaining as she tries to navigate the path between right-wing lunacy and more conventionally reactionary Republican politics, all while looking pretty hot for a 37-year-old. There’s even talk already that she could become a force in national politics, as sort of a cross between Bobby Jindall and Sarah Palin.

Rest assured, however, that rumors of such an encounter are entirely fallacious, and that you can’t get pregnant from fallacious.

"Nicky" "Haley"

Revisited: Life in the fast (food) lane

I do most of my blogging away from my home. Not only can I escape the lure of attractive nuisances like breaking up cat fights, but I can also watch the comings and goings of the general public while drawing inspiration from their activity. Just as J.K. Rowling wrote the Harry Potter series in an Edinburgh coffeehouse and Mark Twain penned his masterpiece Mark Twain from the Super Bi-Lo near his Missouri birthplace, I’m currently visiting a nearby commercial establishment.

Today’s location is different from my usual hangout because of the topic I’ve chosen. I can normally be found writing in the local Panera – where they’ve mysteriously stopped the free samples since I wrote about how generous they were – or in the Earth Fare organic grocery store, watching Rock Hill’s alternative community (all three of them) buying their whole-grain biomass. Instead, this afternoon I’ve got my laptop sitting precipitously on a greasy plastic tabletop in the local Burger King.

I’ve chosen this spot to do on-site research for today’s topic, the purchase of fast food. To witness the experience up close, I should actually be typing away out in the parking lot near the drive-through, because that’s the part of the transaction I find most fascinating. But the smell of run-over Whopper Juniors baked flat in the mid-May sun is a little more inspiration than I wanted.

Drive-through restaurants in America date back to the 1948 opening in California of the first In-n-Out Burger. McDonald’s surprisingly didn’t open its first drive-through until 1975, and all the other fast-food restaurants quickly followed in line behind them. Today, more food is sold at these outlets through the window than is sold over the counter inside.

The typical experience for most diners begins several blocks away when they find themselves stuck behind a slow car with only three hubcaps and half a dozen of what we politely call “country folk.” Inevitably, you can’t pass these bumpkins until you’re at the entrance to the drive-through, and then they pull in ahead of you and up to the menu board. You’re now fully engaged in the fast-food experience, also known as “waiting.”

When you’re finally at the speaker box, you’re likely to be faced with one of two possibilities: you’re given no time to consider the options before someone asks for your order, or you’re met with an eerie silence. If it’s the latter, you should lean in as close to the mike as possible and shout “IS ANYBODY IN THERE?” If it’s the former, you begin considering a perplexing array of three or four different foods prepared in a huge variety of styles and combinations. It doesn’t help when the pre-recorded professional announcer asks “would you like to try our new Badger Bits?”, and you’re regretting how sad is it that Ed McMahon has been reduced to working at a burger joint to pay for his mortgage and neck brace.

Soon enough, the announcer is followed by the actual employee, who sounds like one of those throat cancer victims with the artificial larynx, only with more static and less gusto. Even if you know the item you want, you still have to negotiate whether or not it should be part of a combo, and how many of the items in question you want.

I recently was at the drive-through of the disturbingly named Jack-In-The-Box and for some reason found myself wanting to order hash browns. The following is the actual exchange that took place:

“I’d like to order the hash browns, please.”

“How many do you want?”

“How many do you have?” I responded.

I wasn’t trying to be sarcastic nor was I trying to take inventory of their entire supply room. I wanted to know how many items came in the $1.29 order shown on the menu.

“What I mean is, how many in an order?”

“Three,” I was told.

“OK, then I want three,” I said.

“Three orders?”

“No, three individual, separate and distinct browns. One order, three hash browns.”

“OK, that’s one order plus three hash browns,” came the response. I had to admire the attempt to upsell, then thought of abandoning the entire hash brown experience in favor of French fries. Surely they wouldn’t ask you how many fries you want.

Once your order is complete, you’re told to pull ahead to the window even though you’re impossibly grid-locked in your current position by cars to the front and cars to the back. Those folks just ahead of you are now randomly passing cash and food bags amongst themselves, while an indecipherable conversation takes place between the driver and the clerk. As the pitch and tempo of the talk rises, you sense things are not going well. When food is no longer being passed from window to car and instead the flow has reversed, you can be certain you’re in for a long wait. Finally, the brake lights go off and the car creeps away. Now it’s your turn.

First, a word of warning. Do not, under any circumstances, pay an amount different from the figure shown on the display screen. If you are asked to pay a different amount, call the corporate headquarters immediately. This sign first appeared a few years ago as a way of letting customers know how much the restaurateur trusts that its employees won’t be skimming dimes and quarters from the take. It doesn’t do a whole lot for your confidence that the people who hired these workers have so little faith in their integrity. Just to be on the safe side, I check not only the price on the screen, but also for signs of spittle on my grilled chicken sandwich.

On the window are a number of stickers advising me of the restaurant hours, the credit cards accepted and other information that barely allows you to see inside the facility (I guess that’s the idea.) One of these signs warns that pedestrians are not allowed at the drive-through. I checked this out on Wikipedia and sure enough, under a heading that read “Non-car Usage,” it says “pedestrians sometimes attempt to walk through the drive-through to order food.” Is this really something that sober people do?

Finally, the order is ready and it’s time to pay. You begin a tentative exchange of cash for food – first you hand over the coins, then she gives you the drink, then you give her the bills, then she gives you the bag. You half expect her to continue clutching the grease-soaked sack until all the money is accounted for. The surrender of a quantity of ketchups is agreed upon, and the transaction is officially complete.

Watching all this transpire from my position inside the Burger King gives me a very different perspective. Employees scurry about in their headsets like so many flight controllers, hard-working and honest. There’s little traffic at the indoor counter, with all the focus on getting cars through the queue outside. The yahoos on the other side of speaker system sound almost comical as they stagger through their list of demands, sounding about as organized as the Republican Party.

“Uhhhh… I’ll have the Sarah Palin … no, wait … make that the Rush Limbaugh … what? Wait a minute … uhhh … Are you still serving breakfast? Then I’ll have a pizza … what, no pizza at Chick-fil-A? Uhhh…”

So now I have some sympathy for both the workers who toil at these establishments as well as their customers. And yes, I would like fries with that.

Revisited: Taking measured steps toward better health

It’s probably a good sign of corporate health and a reviving economy when you’re company stops trimming headcounts and instead starts a campaign to trim the figures of actual employees.

That’s what we’re seeing at the firm where I work: a three-month company-wide effort to get workers to walk their way to better health – and, not insignificantly, lower health-insurance overhead – through the Green Paces Initiative. Employees sign up to join five-person teams that will count the number of steps taken between June 1 and September 1 at offices throughout the country. (I don’t know if our sites overseas are also participating, but it seems like instituting long treks and reduced caloric intake among our Indian and Sri Lankan staffs would be redundant.) The team that treads the farthest wins a cash prize determined by some complicated raffle system I’ll describe later. Hopefully, this initiative will end better than 2006’s Weightloss Reduction Challenge where, by the final week, people were lopping off limbs to make their goals.

I first became aware of this corporate initiative during a visit to the men’s room several weeks ago. While the economy was in free fall the preceding six months, all non-essential expenses – travel, employee meals, retirement contributions, quality – were banned by headquarters as too costly. The “green shoot” I saw that morning was a small poster placed at seated eye level on the stall wall. “Get Up Off Your Seat,” encouraged a cartoon frog, somewhat hastily in my particular case. “Join the Green Paces Initiative and Get Healthy.” The frog squatting on a branch didn’t fully appreciate the equal importance of a well-functioning gastro-intestinal system, so I vandalized his protruding butt with several poop drops. (I later had to white these out when a co-worker recognized my work.)

Soon we received an email with more details about the effort. Everyone would be issued pedometers, numbers would be recorded every day and reported to a central office every week, you could pick your own teammates, and a good personal goal each day was put at 10,000 paces. “That’s about 50,000 miles per person per month,” shrieked one of my math-challenged associates. Actually, it’s more like five miles a day. Each quintet would have a Team Captain, and a so-called “Super Captain” would coordinate activities of each site and defend us against evil masterminds out to conquer the world.

Immediately, we had questions, and it soon became apparent why I had made another trip to the men’s room while volunteers were recruited for the captaincy positions. Do other forms of exercise count for anything? Yes, every 15 minutes of yoga, cycling, yard work, mountain-climbing, house-to-house combat, etc., would count as 2,000 steps. What if I forget to wear my pedometer for a day? Enter your average for the preceding week, and don’t let it happen again. What’s with the sign-up waiver? Though the company is interested in your health, they’re not so interested that they’ll assume any legal liability if you die from walking.

The email also contained this disturbing display of distrust by our corporate masters, as well as the germ of an intriguing idea: “Step-count reporting will be on the honor system. Shaking the pedometer is strictly prohibited.” Actually, I wasn’t thinking so much of shaking the thing myself (too much exertion) as I was taking it to Home Depot and strapping it to one of those paint-mixing machines. “If your Super Captain finds out any team member is participating in this behavior, they will be removed from their team immediately.” Yeah, but I’d still have the free paint-stirring sticks.

I decided I truly did want to participate, since I’m already doing daily treadmill work at the Y, and the free pedometers were imprinted with a cool logo. Me and the only other four men on day shift decided we would be a team, as long as we didn’t have to have a nickname, uniforms, team spirit or an official cheer. I had one additional concern. As a “team,” would we actually be required to do our walking together, locked arm-in-arm five abreast, strolling through the office park looking like we were marking casual Friday in the Land of Oz? No, I was assured, we could record our exercise as we went about our separate daily routines. We were a team in name only, kind of like a Tour de France bike-racing squad or the Democratic Party.

The five of us, all paunchy forty- or fifty-something family men, did have a brief, informal team-building session, where we joked about how we didn’t really take such corporate nonsense seriously. One speculated whether we could start right at 12:01 a.m. on June 1, so our half-dozen middle-of-the-night trips to the bathroom could be counted. Another wanted to wear his pedometer on his pajamas, to see if his insomniac tossing and turning would register. Someone asked, can you count your steps to and from the shower and, if so, where do you hang the pedometer? I broke off for a quick walk around the perimeter of the room, counted the 95-step circuit, and wondered if downtime would soon lead to employees orbiting the office like obsolete spy satellites.

Last Friday, the final workday before the official start, we were going to have a pep rally to get the entire plant in the proper rah-rah spirit, but then we remembered that the warehouse people in the next room were hourly wage slaves who couldn’t be freed from their picking-and-packing routine for such non-value-added nonsense. They’re probably going to defeat us all anyway, since their entire day is spent pacing from pallet to pallet, like caged zoo creatures.

As I write this piece, we’re now in Day Two of the Green Paces Initiative. I recorded an impressive 12,434 steps on the first day and am just over 9,300 for today. The Restless Leg Syndrome that causes uncontrollable twitching in my calf muscles is racking up additional steps as I sit here and type. Everyone at work is getting in the spirit, except for one unfortunate team that’s been decimated by two weddings (wonder if the brides wore their pedometers on their gowns walking down the aisle), a six-week temporary layoff for one member and a car accident for another.

We’re all striving to keep our eyes on the prize, trying to comprehend the so-called raffle that could result in a prize of $200. According to the published rules, “three separate raffles will occur at the end of each of the three four-week periods based on totals of weekly averages. Teams will receive a raffle ticket based on cumulative miles walked. Fifty percent of those teams will receive raffle tickets and at the end of each period will have their names drawn for a prize.”

I wonder how many steps we can count for the mental effort that’s going to be required to figure that one out.

Citizen journalist covers one too many

It had been since my days working at the college newspaper that I had covered an event as a reporter, then went back to my office to make up quotes and fabricate an account of what had happened. On Friday, there I was, back in the media, a journalist covering a political rally in the race for the office of South Carolina governor.

It was all a little intimidating at first. The candidate I was covering — tea party favorite Nikki Haley — had little trust and considerable antagonism for what she and her compatriots referred to as the “lamestream press.” So it was perhaps understandable that when I spied a pizza joint near the site of the early-evening appearance, I decided to kill a few minutes waiting for the candidate by having a slice and a beer.

Haley, the Palin-esque Republican who’s been in the news for alleged dalliances with conservative bloggers and lobbyists, was making a whirlwind tour of the upstate prior to Tuesday’s primary, and was running a little late. I grabbed a spot in the small outdoor seating area, nursing my Yuengling and listening to white, middle-aged women yearn for low-carb Italian food and the ability to take their country back.

"I heard that Obama just doesn't like any of us," said the woman behind the pole.

I tried to blend into the group without looking like one of them, not an easy task considering my whiteness. One Palin operative was handing out “Haley” lapel stickers; I accepted one rather than raise suspicion about my progressive Democrat loyalties. Another supporter, Republican state legislator Ralph Norman, was working the crowd before Haley’s arrival, shaking hands and chatting up his own fortunes. I gently wiped the surface of the pizza with my hand, so that if he did try the grip-and-grin with me, I could make a subtle-but-greasy protest that I don’t endorse his brand of right-wing populism.

Soon Nikki arrived, bounding across the plaza as much as someone can bound in 3-inch heels. She was met enthusiastically by onlookers before beginning her 15-minute speech.

Careful, Nikki -- don't trip on those wires

She read them the usual laundry list of offenses that the political establishment had committed against the people of South Carolina, conveniently overlooking the fact that there’s only one non-Republican currently serving in statewide office. She was against big government, taxing and spending, and in favor of small business and the forgotten everyman. She endorsed “real American values” in what at first I thought was a plug for the nearby sale at Ross Dress for Less, but turned out instead to be a call to guns and God. And she promised there’d be a “tea party everyday” if she were elected governor.

After the address, she greeted supporters by posing for pictures and thanking them repeatedly for coming out. I grabbed a few close-up photos …

 

 

Look out! There's a black guy!

… before heading back to the perimeter. I had a reporter’s notebook in my pocket and thought briefly about gathering a few quotes. But the same pocket also held about three dollars and change from my earlier purchase, so I figured I’d get another beer instead. Haley masterfully worked her way through the remaining throng. I quickly downed the second drink so I could be ready to approach the candidate when she took a few questions from the media. Unfortunately, I hadn’t eaten much for lunch that day and the two beers were rapidly going to my head.

I tried to think of a good question that wouldn’t betray my lack of sympathy for her narrow-minded agenda. “Where do you stand on off-shore drilling?” would be a good one; “Are you still auditioning for illicit lovers?” was maybe not quite as on-point. I imagined there was some kind of security detail nearby that would react to any inquiry deemed too hostile, and weighed that against her demonstrated affinity for South Carolina bloggers, of which I was one.

Then I fell down, and the whole internal debate I was having became moot. I snapped one last photo while climbing up off the ground …

 

 

Hugging a lucky supporter, I think

… and soon the candidate was boarding a bus for her next stop in Greenville. She wouldn’t be able to talk to this reporter, until later that night in my inebriated dreams when she noted that I was “cute” and asked “what’s a strong fiscal conservative girl gotta do to get a new-media star like you to buy her a beer?”

At least, that’s the quote I’m making up.

Fake News: President finally goes nuts

WASHINGTON (June 7) — Faced with increasing criticism that he’s a “President Spock” who’s showing no emotion in response to the gulf oil spill, President Obama told a White House press conference yesterday that executives at BP are “shit-faced assholes.”

“Goddamn those motherfuckers to hell,” a red-faced Obama shouted during an hour-long session with reporters in the Rose Garden. “They are cocksuckers of the first order, and I’ll say the same thing to their face. Let me at that cretin (BP’s chief executive officer) Tony Hayward! I’ll kill the bastard!”

As recently as last week, Obama had been disparaged by many observers for showing no visceral reaction to the disaster that has unfolded off the coast of Louisiana. Asked if he had “really seen rage from the president,” press secretary Robert Gibbs noted only a clenched jaw. Pressed further on the observation, Gibbs conceded there was also some twitching on the presidential cheek near his ear.

“Don’t discount the clenched jaw,” Gibb had commented later. “The president actually had to see his dentist later that day.”

The eruption at the White House yesterday was just the latest manifestation of the Obama’s increasing frustration with clean-up efforts in the gulf. Unnamed administration officials who traveled with the president on Air Force One over the weekend said he had to be tranquilized at one point when he trashed the communications center aboard the jet and threatened to throw a pool reporter out the window at 37,000 feet.

“He was ripping open his shirt, bearing his teeth and roaring his frustration in a very convincing matter,” said the source. “He made quite a Credible Hulk.”

In the motorcade from Andrews Air Force Base to the presidential residence, Obama garroted his driver with a steel wire, commandeered the car and slammed the armored Lincoln into a bank of gas pumps at a BP station. When confronted by the station owner, the president pulled a knife and delivered several off-the-cuff remarks that included “don’t make me cut you” and “get the fuck out of my face.”

The commander-in-chief had calmed down only slightly by the time he returned to Washington for the session with the media. When asked if BP had reimbursed the government for expenses so far, the president knocked the podium aside with one swipe of his powerful paw, and rushed several cabinet officials who were standing nearby. He grabbed interior secretary Ken Salazar and wreched his trademark cowboy hat down over his face, and took a fist-sized bite out of the shoulder of EPA administrator Lisa Jackson. It took three members of the Marine honor guard to subdue the nation’s forty-fourth president with a combination of tear gas and tasers.

Somewhat more composed following the fracas, Obama appeared eager to capitalize on the opportunity to step outside of his usually unflappable temperament, calling Afghan President Hamid Karzai a “prick,” newly installed British prime minister David Cameron a “major prick,” and German chancellor Angela Merkel a “psycho bitch Nazi slut.”

Then the president gathered his wits, looked squarely at the television camera, and slowly muttered what will likely be the catchphrase for this key point in his presidency: “I’ve had it with those mother-fucking leaks in this mother-fucking Gulf.”

Big Brother comes to Chick-fil-A

F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote extensively of the Jazz Age, its dandies and its flappers, how tender was its night and how great was its Gatsby. Ernest Hemingway routinely chose themes of man facing a challenge, be it against the wild, the evil of his own nature, the guy at the next barstool who stole his gin, or living in a house overrun with six-toed cats. Jack Kerouac’s novels looked at the gritty side of life on the road, and that part off to the side of the road with all the dead animals.

Looking back on my body of work over the last year and a half, it seems I too have a recurring theme: fast-food drive-throughs. As the twenty-first century’s preeminent chronicler of fried foods on the go, I’ve become something of an expert on how to eat even when your immense thighs are stuck beneath the steering wheel. I’ve described the desperate battle between two vehicles trying to outmaneuver each other for the next opening at the pay window. I’ve confessed to mistaking a garbage can for a speaker box, and ordering my combo from a colony of flies. I’ve argued that “two hash browns” doesn’t mean four hash browns, despite the fact that they come two to an order. I’ve been humiliated by having to say words like “biggie” and “horsey sauce.”

Now it’s time to tell another tale in the series. This is about my latest visit to Chick-fil-A, a franchise perhaps best known for employing semi-literate cows to communicate the corporate imperative to “eat mor chikin”. I had to avoid their excellent meals for an extended period recently, following a nasty incident in which I tried to procure a free order of chicken strips by claiming I had a cow-head antenna topper between 3 and 5 p.m. on a Tuesday when in fact I didn’t. (Who knew they’d check?)

Six months later, I assume they’ve had a complete turnover in staff and no one will remember my attempted fraud. I drive up to the remote ordering station behind the restaurant with the intent of making a fairly straightforward purchase. Where there used to be a metal box punched full of tiny holes there was now a full-sized hi-def terminal. A recent technology upgrade had resulted in a two-way video communication system, allowing the order-taker inside to look and smile at me while I gazed back at him in horror.

One of the benefits of using a drive-through is that it minimizes your contact with the faces of the workers, and now here’s one of those mugs staring down at me from two feet above eye level. “Otto” is hovering over me, like that giant-faced character in the famous 1980s Apple ad who’s preaching conformity to the bald mind-slaves until Steve Jobs, wearing only his black turtleneck and high-waisted gym shorts, runs down the aisle and heaves a 40-pound iPhone prototype into the screen, destroying it and liberating the world to consume more poultry.

This attempt at the personal touch unsettles me. As Otto and I discuss the relative merits of different-numbered combos, I’m not sure whether to look at his image on the screen, or at the glass box just above where the camera is housed. I knew clearly what I wanted to order just a few minutes ago, but now that I’ve been transported millennia into the future, I’m completely flummoxed. Do I want two orders of medium waffle fries, or a peace conference with the Borg?

I collect my wits with the help of the motorist behind me offering encouraging toots of their horn. Yes, it’s the waffle fries and a five-piece nuggets.

“You can get a drink with that if you order it as a combo,” Otto suggests. But I don’t need a drink.

“It costs about the same,” he presses. “We’d be practically giving away the drink.”

Maybe I could donate the medium Coke to Haiti. No, I’m sticking with just what I want.

“Also,” I say, ”I completed an online survey for another Chick-fil-A recently, and I have this coupon for a free sandwich I’d like to get.”

As I hold up the thin slip of paper to the camera, I realize the image I’m seeing is reversed. Although Otto’s palindromic name is unaffected, the logo just over his shoulder is backwards. For him to be able to read the authorization code on my receipt, I hold it up to the side-view mirror of my car, redoubling the reflection so it’ll be readable to him. He doesn’t seem to appreciate this inventive effort, and instead simply trusts me. (Where was this guy during the antenna-topper scam?)

My order is complete, and then I hear this:

“I look forward to serving you at the pickup window.”

He looks forward to serving me? This is going to be one of the highlights of his day? I’ve gotten pretty stoic about the hackneyed greetings you typically get while interacting with the mercantile class. They may say “thank you” but what they really mean is “move along.” They may say “have a nice day” but what they really mean is “I thought I told you to get out.” They may ask how many ketchups you want, but what they’re really saying is “thanks for sucking the blood from my lifeless husk.”

As I shifted my car into gear to creep forward to the pickup window, I thought I caught a quick glimpse of how eager Otto and his crew really were.

“He’s coming around to the side now!” I think I hear him excitedly tell his coworkers. “It’s the 2001 grey Honda Civic! Check him out, everybody — he’s absolutely dreamy.”

Whoops of excitement can be heard through the transmitter. Young girls are shrieking with delight, while the guys are high-fiving and chest-bumping. The anticipation is palpable.

“Is it really him? Can it be? Yet another customer in the endless parade of spendthrift losers willing to pay close to five dollars for a simple chicken sandwich? I can’t wait to see him!”

Or maybe the video connection somehow became crossed and I’m watching an episode of “The Price is Right.”

Regardless, I’ll be thinking twice before I return to this particular Chick-fil-A/Chatroulette outlet. I’ll give ‘em credit for wanting to use a high-tech approach to offer a high-touch experience in their customer relations. I know they’re already touching my food, though, and I think that’s quite enough for me.

Sorry about that whole Tuesday thing

I’d like to formally apologize for my post from Tuesday of this week. In a vulgarity-laced send-up of an Obama gone wild with anger over the Gulf oil spill, I used more profanity in one day than I had previously used in one year. I employed no less than six “f-bombs” (three of which were modified by your ”mother”), several “a-holes,” and a shitload of “shit’s”.

I’d like to apologize, but actually the blue language sent my readership up 35% over the previous day.

Seriously, though, I am sorry for my failed judgment. I know that dirty words make for easy laughs. I like to think that my attempts at humor are a little more cerebral than that, at least the parts that don’t discuss road kill (Wednesday’s post), the hotness of our state’s next governor (Monday), or a misunderstanding of the word “fallacious” (Friday). I generally keep my work studiously clean, unlike the back seat of my car and my thoughts about a certain assistant grocery store manager.

It was my faithful readers who were helpful enough to point out the error of my ways. Paul Dixon, the college roommate who helped me first discover the lure of the forbidden in the works of classical composer Dieterich Buxtehude, commented simply “Dern, Davis, lay that satire on with a trowel, why don’tcha?”, then added “well, it’s your blog, not mine. Better days ahead.” Another reader, Tom1950, said the Obama piece was “just a touch over the top. The language doesn’t bother me at all, but the association … with our head of state is pretty raw. More shocking that funny in my opinion.”

I also got a kind note from BiggerFaster recommending a male extension product, but frankly I’m fairly satisfied with my current postal service.

I knew the Tuesday post (read it here, if you dare: http://davisw.wordpress.com/2010/06/08/fake-news-president-finally-goes-nuts/) was pushing the limits of good taste. I told myself, however, that it was not gratuitous blasphemy I was using, but rather it was critical to the point I attempted to make. Using the real naughty words was key to mocking the criticism President Obama was getting for not showing more passion about the oil spill. It’s the same valid explanation made all the time by Hollywood actors and actresses who normally eschew on-screen proctological exams unless they’re essential to character development and the director’s artistic vision.

I’m also sorry I’m making this apology in the same week that veteran White House correspondent Helen Thomas was making her mea culpa for wondering why all the Israelis don’t move back to Germany. Humility can be quite the sexy thing when done by the likes of an Eliot Spitzer or a Serena Williams, and I’d prefer to be sharing the humble pie with a couple of firecrackers like those two. This person …

 …is “sorry” on so many levels that it’s easy to lose count.

Next time I feel the need to launch a string of expletives in this space, I’ll follow the advice of Tom1950. We had a nice little correspondence on the subject of my indiscretion, and he suggested that fonts with dingbats like those that depict “cussing shown in comic strips” can make thoroughly adequate substitutes. I’m not a fan of the traditional @#%$&! you’ll so often see there, because these days it looks more like a Twitter account than a swear word. But the WordPress editing program does offer an exhaustive suite of special characters that might suit my purposes perfectly.

So to those of you impatient with the president’s cool and reasoned approach to dealing with this environmental catastrophe off the Gulf coast, I say “ξδΩΦζβΣ”. I just hope I didn’t call you an “bastard” in Greek.

Website Review: no!no! hair removal

No no no no no no no no no no,
no no no no no no no no no no no no no no
Nobody can do the shake like I do
Nobody can do the boogaloo like I do
–”Nobody But Me” by The Human Beinz (1968)

We’re at an awkward moment in the long history of humankind. We’ve mastered the land, inventing agriculture to free us from all that tedious hunting and gathering. We safely harvest critical resources from the sea (sort of). We fly through the air with the greatest of ease, the rocketpacks and balloons and zeppelins and superheroes nearly blotting out the sun at times.

And yet we still face this issue of unwanted hair. Fashion magazines have made it abundantly clear that hair is to exist only in a luxuriant and lustrous state flowing out of the top of our heads, and in smaller strips in and around the eye, on the brow and lash. Our ancestors from millennia past needed all kinds of body hair for protection from the elements, but now that we have condos and ballcaps and the cutest tops from TJ Maxx, the remaining fur is vestigial and has almost left our bodies entirely. Except for some embarrassing patches that we hope evolution will eventually get to, though frankly we have a date at 7 tonight and can’t wait much longer.

For these people, commerce has developed a number of caustic solutions and tiny gouging devices that will remove unwanted hair, if you don’t mind unbearable pain and a moderate fee. They work pretty well, as do most torture regimens eventually. However, the modern consumer longs for a more high-tech approach, i.e., one they can order over the internet.

So in today’s Website Review, I’m going to tell you about a product called the “no!no!’. Deliberately lower-cased to distinguish it from the industrial strength “NO!NO!” being used at secret CIA rendition centers, the no!no! is a small machine offering “professional hair removal at home … finally, a pain-free long-term solution for hair removal!” Offering no hair and no pain, it virtually named itself.

Using the Thermicon™, a thermodynamic wire to transmit heat to each individual hair, the shaft becomes superheated, basically crystallizing the follicle. This both pulverizes the part of the hair that shows above the surface and cripples the cell communication below the skin that grew the hair in the first place. A buff, which comes “free” with your $284.40 purchase, then turns your skin from a bombed-out Dresden to a soft, barren desert. Self-tasering has never been so easy.

The home page of trynono.com is packed with moving graphics, pink backgrounds and a spray of bullet points that would make an armed and disgruntled former employee proud. The “smart skin solutions” people at parent company Radiancy tout the no!no! as “•cordless and convenient,” “•cord-free operation,”  ”•removes embarrassing facial hair too!” and  ”•great for men and women.” It’s InStyle magazine’s 2008 beauty product of the year, and has also been seen in Vogue, Shape and Self magazines, because that’s what happens when you pay them money to run your ads. There’s also a tease of some of the other heartfelt testimonials to follow elsewhere in the site:

“As someone who struggled with unwanted hair, it is so wonderful to sit here proud and hairless,” writes one satisfied customer. “Thanks you no!no! for coming into my life!”

Under the “How It Works” section, there are more details about the three distinct processes involved in permanently mutating your pores. During “First Contact” (not to be confused with the 1996 Star Trek movie), a super-heated wire separates the hair shaft at the point of contact. At the “Crystallization” stage, the uppermost part of the hair becomes coarse and prickly, and you can stop at this point if you’re into that. Most, though, want to proceed to the “Disruption” phase, where the actual “miscommunication between bulge and root” takes place, slowing future hair growth. A phase four, as-yet undiscovered but certain to be announced in the next year or so, gives you fatal melanoma.

The overly punctuated “Why no!no!?” pulldown uses an easy-to-read spreadsheet to dissect the problem women everywhere face about what methods to use on their face. Current techniques all have their shortcomings. Short-term solutions like razors, depilatory creams and electric shavers get a “no” in the pain column but a “daily” in the frequency column and all kinds of nasty stuff in the “side effects” column including razor burn, cuts, odor and allergic reactions. For mid-term remedies like “epilation (rotary)” and the tasty-sounding “wax-sugaring,” you can trade painlessness for bi-monthly convenience, though now you’re also looking at burn potential, a mess, and a lot of time and money. The long-term effects of the laser include pain, skin inflammation, odor and a costly, long-term commitment, but on the plus side you’ll be recognized by most grocery store bar-code scanners.

The no!no! option is not a miracle cure and does require commitment. For your effort, you’ll “make the dream of less unwanted hair a reality.” The simple and pain-free technique involves “no pulling, tearing or scraping, just a slow, smooth slide”. There is something called the “hot blade” involved but it’s encased in a cate little handheld device (comes in pink or silver) that you can take with you almost anywhere. And, that convenience means you can no!no! “at home or wherever,” sitting on the side of your bed, after a workout at the gym, or while running for statewide office in California.

There are some Testimonials included in one section. Frankly, they’re rather lackluster. “I will definitely recommend this to girlfriends with thick, stubborn hair,” says one woman, about to find herself seriously defriended on Facebook. “I first saw no!no! in a magazine, then heard rave reviews from a friend,” says Kennedy of Omaha. “I thought what the heck, I’ll give it a whirl. The no!no! did not disappoint. I love my no!no!” (Imagine this woman’s poor dog, trying to be a good boy but constantly hearing “no!no!”)

The best testimonial of all comes in a video format from “celebrity” Kassie DePaiva, a daytime TV star who loves her no!no! She prattles through about a dozen different 30-second clips showing her compensated enthusiasm for the product. “I’ve got a great body, it’s just the hair I don’t like,” she says. “I might’ve shaved in the morning but by 5 o’clock I’m doing a love scene and the actor says ‘gee, Kassie, do you ever shave your legs?’ I was mortified,” she confides. “It’s taken care of a huge issue in my life, a universal problem that people don’t want to talk about,” she adds. “The pain (before no!no!) stopped me from living,” she says. “I was tired of being the hairy girl I’ve been all my life.”

Finally, Kassie DePaiva has been liberated to pursue a Hollywood career that has her IMBD STARmeter rating up 22% in just the last week. After a long career on “One Life to Live,” she got her own show called “Knit & Crochet Today,” thanks in no small measure to her reduced bushiness. After being universally panned by critics — “she asks silly questions and makes comments I would expect from a ditsy teenager,” wrote one — she was canned, but not because wool-knit scarves and afghans didn’t glide smoothly across her skin.

The last piece I’ll cover is the standard “Frequently Asked Questions” section. “Does it really work?” is answered “Yes, it really works.” The question “Is the no!no! treatment safe?” brings the confusing but definitive response “Yes, no!no! is safe.” Someone asks “Can I use it with other hair removal products at the same time?” It seems you can throw the whole inventory of procedures at your upper lip if you want to — lasers, tweezers, waxes, acids, a make-out session with Zach Galifianakis — but these could interfere with no!no! benefits, so don’t come asking for your money back.

There’s a handy online order form for a deal that’s only available through June, so try to claw your way out of your hirsute prison and type on a computer if you can. They accept all major credit cards and you can make three easy payments. Obviously, certain billing information is also required but they’re polite enough to exclude a pulldown requiring you to categorize your hairiness on a scale that ranges from Alec Baldwin to Robin Williams to the Wolfman.

One final important point about the no!no! that’s contained in the fine print at the bottom of the website. “The no!no! is not recommended for use on the genitals.” I myself can’t imagine that possibility even entering my mind, though I understand that desperate people may consider desperate measures. My response to the thought, however, is much like those timeless words from the Human Beinz — “No no no no no no no no no no!”

Revisited: Greetings from Saudi Arabia

President Obama faced some difficult choices upon his arrival in Saudi Arabia yesterday for a five-day goodwill tour of the Middle East. During his first meeting with a head of state, he’d be greeted by King Abdullah, the same man he was accused of bowing to when they first met at the G-20 summit in London two months ago. Though White House aides insisted at the time that the president was only stooping to admire the socks of the diminutive autocrat, Obama drew flak from the right for having the nerve to respect a foreign leader.

Now he was going to have to greet the guy again at the Riyadh airport, witnessed by the international press corps, and on National Fist Bump Day no less. (It’s true; look it up if you want. Organizers are calling for all global citizens to put aside their differences on June 3 and show their respect by “knocking knuckles.”)

What should he do? Offer a good ol’ American handshake? Possibly okay if they were in the U.S., but here he is in the nation that safeguards the most sacred sites in Islam. Follow the lead of former President George W. Bush, who strolled hand-in-hand with the monarch when he visited Bush’s Texas ranch? Too Bushian. Go all the way to third base as President Reagan famously did with Abdullah’s predecessor? (In local parlance, this diplomatic miscue became the legendary “full camel toe.”)

The world watched anxiously as the president stepped off Air Force One and there stood the king, resplendent in his blinding white robes. The two leaders shared a light embrace and a cheek-to-cheek touch on both sides, called a “friendly but formal greeting” by The New York Times. They stood for several minutes beneath a gazebo in the scorching desert heat, then shared a cup of tea before heading to the king’s place for dinner.

“This time,” the Times reported, “reporters on hand did not see a bow.”

Looks like the coolest president since James K. Polk once again did the right thing, even though he had a world of choices in how to communicate his greeting. He could’ve done like I do every day when passing an associate at work in the hall, look down and pretend to be checking my cell phone messages and walk right past or, if I’m feeling especially friendly, offer a tight-lipped nod. Or he could’ve selected from the large number of greeting gestures described in Wikipedia.

In addition to bowing and cheek kissing, they also list Eskimo kissing (generally thought to be rubbing noses but actually the smelling of another person’s face), the high-five, hand-kissing, hat-raising or hat-tipping (especially difficult with a crown), hugging, kowtowing (it has a bad reputation but it’s really just kneeling and touching the ground with your forehead, in order to show awe or submission), the Indian-style “namaste,” the standard military salute, waving (probably a tad informal) or the Hitler salute. That last one would probably be going too far to appease the anti-Zionist crowd in the Muslim world.

Hey, how’s it goin’? 

Also rejected by the president’s creative staff were body-sniffing, wiping-hands-on-shirt (symbolic of our nation’s desire to rid itself of our love-hate affair with oiliness), brow-wiping and saying “whew” (appropriate for the 120-degree heat), foot-wiping (to get the sand out of your shoes), the bro-hug, the babe-hug (a sideways clutch designed to keep the breasts out of play) and the fake-shake-with-thumb-away (pulling back your outstretched hand at the last moment and giving the “yer out” sign over your shoulder).

After the president’s brief visit in Saudi Arabia, he heads off to Egypt for a major address at Cairo University that will be seen by many as an attempt to reach out and show respect for the Muslim world. Sources said he plans to be as non-controversial as possible, since these are the folks who so freaked out over a lame cartoon. Advance copies of the speech leaked to the press indicate the president will characterize Islam as “a monotheistic religion founded by Mohammad in the seventh century with approximately 1.5 billion current-day adherents worldwide, generally divided into Sunni and Shia factions, who follow the Koran and the Five Pillars of Islam for spiritual guidance.”

Revisited: Using your cell phone as a defensive weapon

Now that I’m trying to maximize my up-and-down hip movement as part of the corporate stepping competition I wrote about last week (http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/06/03/taking-measured-steps-to-better-health/), I’ve started tacking an evening walk onto the end of each day’s physical activity. The pedometer I wear on my belt is somehow recording only about 11,000 paces per day, and I want to report more without cheating.

We have a neighborhood that’s theoretically nice for walking, with little vehicular traffic, huge canopy trees and a nice flat terrain. The animal life that might otherwise be tempted to bother us is fairly well-controlled. Most of the neighbors with dogs have installed “invisible fences” to shock their animals into civility. There is some wildlife – mostly squirrels, rabbits and the occasional field mouse – and I haven’t lost enough weight yet to worry about being carried off by hawks.

The reason that reality differs from theory in this walking wonderland has to do with the other people who are out on the street. Many of them are more interested in using the stroll as a pretext for socializing than as a get-healthy regimen. I don’t mind nodding my head and offering a friendly grunt as we pass other groups in the street, but too often we slow to a stop and begin a trivial conversation that’s burning virtually zero calories.

When my wife asked me to join her on a post-dinner stroll the other night, it was exactly the time of day when almost everyone else was out and about. I feared there’d be very little walking and way too much talking.

“Just keep going if someone tries to stop us,” my wife suggested. “I like to talk. I’ll just catch up to you later.”

It sounded like a workable idea, until I thought it through and realized how strange it would be if we encountered another husband-and-wife duo. The standard procedure seems to be that all four begin the chat session together, then one wife will bring up a subject (fallopian tubes, for example) that the men won’t care to discuss, so the two husbands pair off and talk about lawn-mowing, sports or lawn-edging. How could I walk away from such a scenario without looking like a complete jerk?

Then I had an idea. There’s still one fully acceptable reason to behave like an ass in polite society, and it involves the use of the cell phone. What if I carried the phone with me during the walk, then flipped it open to accept an incoming call at the exact moment an oncoming group is spotted? If I acted early enough, it wouldn’t be seen as rude. Instead, I could be viewed by the neighbors as one of those terribly important individuals who can never be off the grid without widespread societal collapse. You know, like every twenty-something motorist you see.

The secret to success, I figured, would be to have a number of different scripts prepared that could be used on the variety of audiences I would encounter. I would be like the well-prepared telemarketer who alters his selling approach to address any arguments of resistance in his marks (Call recipient: “Can’t talk now; I have to go to the bathroom.” Telemarketer: “Just go in your pants; this wireless offer is too good to miss.”). First, though, I had to figure out which lines would work best on each demographic. I wanted to project an air of importance while at the same time instilling a certain fear, and I knew the same communication would not work on everyone.

For the elderly retirees from the neighboring assisted-living center, I could say: “Yes, Health and Human Services Secretary Sebelius, I agree we should support that amendment to allow those over age 65 to eat at cafeterias for free before 5 p.m. Just make sure that clause about cat food is carefully worded.”

For the numerous dog-walkers leading their pets through the greenway adjacent to the road, I could say: “Commissioner Goodell, we have to face the reality of the situation. Michael Vick will have every legal right to return to the NFL as a quarterback, but that doesn’t mean we have to use the hides of his dogs to make footballs.”

For the kids riding their bikes and scooters down the street, I could say: “Miley, Miley, Miley, I know you’re eager to take on more adult roles, but your public just isn’t ready to see you yet as Paul Giamatti’s promiscuous Aunt Hildie in the next Spiderman movie.”

And for the middle-aged couples, I could say: “Listen closely and carefully to what I have to say, Mr. President. If we don’t launch that preemptive strike on Paraguay, we’ll all be crispy tostadas by this time tomorrow.”

We started our walk, and as I practiced these lines quietly to myself, I noticed my wife walking farther and farther ahead of me. That’s fine, I thought, this will allow me to scope out the lay of the land for potential ambushes ahead. My biggest fear was the local drama professor from the nearby condos. He was known to improvisationally explode from behind a hedge with stories of his upcoming vacation and questions about when his son could come play with mine. (They’re 17 years old, for crying out loud). I fingered my trusty Razr as we passed the location where he was reportedly seen only yesterday.

The street remained clear for almost a quarter-mile until an oncoming SUV wheeled into a driveway about fifty feet in front of us. Cars and such aren’t usually an issue for the walkers but because this one had come to a stop so abruptly, I flipped open the phone and mentally rehearsed the scene I’d trained so thoroughly for the past ten minutes. A woman about our age erupted from the passenger side of the vehicle and ran straight toward us.

“Beth!” she yelled, which I suspected was a local war cry and, also, my wife’s name.

This turned out to be Michelle, an old college friend we had occasionally spoken to during our 15 years in the subdivision. She was on us in an instant, remarking how nice an evening it was, asking my wife questions about her freelance editing business, and asking how her son who wants to work at home now that he and his new wife had their first baby, and her daughter-in-law was going back to work because she had the good insurance but Bobby wondered if he couldn’t make some income online.

Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Following behind Michelle was her husband and their college-age daughter, both smiling menacingly. We stood there like the Dave Clark Five, but even more awkward.

Fortunately Beth and Michelle did most of the talking while I smiled and shifted my weight back and forth, hoping that it would register on the pedometer. I heard none of the telltale clicking I had noted earlier; only the friendly conversation and the pounding of my heart.

I momentarily considered hurling my cell phone to the ground, because I’m pretty sure that Motorola diversified to a hand grenade division a few years back and maybe this model offers fragmentation features as well as email access and high-resolution video (I never did read the manual). At least it would be enough to distract our accosters long enough to make our escape.

In the end, though, we found ourselves having a very nice conversation with the Roths, who may be joining us for a picnic when the weather gets warm for good in a few weeks. Al gave me a few tips on how he keeps his yard so nice, the daughter is already looking forward to her junior year at Duke, and Michelle’s ovaries never came up. They’re a very pleasant family, and I regret having wanted to slay them.

Tidbits for a steaming Monday

Ever see that Temper-Pedic mattress commercial that demonstrates how you can have all kinds of action on one side of the bed while on the other side your partner sleeps soundly and unmoved?    

There’s a thirty-something couple, both wearing long-sleeved silk pajamas. While the man sits cross-legged on the left side of the bed, his wife is on the right, vigorously jumping up and down like a ten-year-old who just checked into a motel. Between them sits a glass of wine, standing rigid despite the woman’s spirited leaping.    

I’ve heard of some kinky peccadilloes before but this one is pretty unusual. What exactly is the climax? She eventually knocks the glass over? Somebody drinks the wine? He too joins in the jumping and they eventually chest-bump? They call the 800 number shown on the screen and ORDER NOW, taking advantage of the 30-day money-back guarantee and 50%-off shipping charges?    

That would be really weird.    

+++    

I was accused Saturday of being “anti-bag” and it had nothing to do with Helen Thomas.    

The occasion was our weekly trip to the organic grocery store. We were running low on some socially conscious foods, and I was particularly interested in a piece of ecologically sustainable chocolate cake I had spied the day before.    

In the interest of environmental responsibility, this chain encourages customers to bring their own grocery bags. They’ll sell you a reasonably priced reusable “Envirobag” that looks like it’s made of plastic but can’t be because it has “enviro” in its name. They also keep a stash of boxes near the checkout to put your purchases in. They’ll provide you a paper grocery bag as a last option but you’ll be charged five cents for it, which is collected for a neglected children’s home. All good stuff.    

My wife and I have several of the Envirobags. She keeps hers in her car and I somehow always leave mine at home. I was driving this particular afternoon and as we walked across the parking lot, Beth asked the question that deep down inside she already knew the answer to. “Did you bring the bag?”    

No, I had to admit, I didn’t bring the bag.    

“Why are you so anti-bag?” she asked.    

“I’m not anti-bag,” I protested, trying to spin my position into a more positive context. “I’m pro-not-buying-more-than-I-can-carry-in-two-hands.”    

+++    

When we finished shopping, we stopped at the bloodmobile to make our regular donation of the gift of life.    

Beth has been donating blood ever since college, and was recently recognized by the Red Cross for giving enough to fill an oil tanker. She got me in the habit several years ago when I was discovered it was relatively painless, that I got to brag to a stranger about all the overseas destinations I’ve visited, and that there were free cookies involved.    

We were first in line this particular day, and were escorted off to separate private cubicles to answer all the embarrassing questions they need to screen out the large population of syphilitic lepers Rock Hill is known for. I haven’t done as much international travel as I did at one time, but it’s still been less than three years since I’ve been to Sri Lanka, so I wrote that down. The nurse came in to review my form.    

“You’ve been to St. Lanka?” she asked.    

“Sri Lanka,” I corrected. “I didn’t go outside the capital and last time I donated they said that was okay.”    

She reached up on a shelf above us and pulled down a large three-ring binder, filled with maps of every nation. The maps apparently show which areas are civilized, and which are disease-ridden hellholes, even worse than South Carolina.    

She leafed through the plastic-covered sheets and asked, “Did you say Panama?”    

Fortunately, it was another healthcare worker who took my blood, rather than this geography-challenged woman who might’ve attempted to tap God-knows-what for blood.    

We were soon done and out of the van, heading back to the car. I know that if I bleed out, get fully transfused and repeat the procedure a dozen times that I’ll never catch Beth in the amount of blood extracted from my veins. So I thought instead I’d engage her in a little friendly competition on the subject of the mini-physical they give you as part of the screening.    

She soundly beat me in blood pressure (I was 131/82 compared to her 120/80) and narrowly edged me in pulse, by a score of 75 to 77 (like golf, a low number is better). That left only two categories for me to achieve at least a draw. I won the hemoglobin/hematocrit competition (something to do with iron, I think) with a cool 16.7. This meant the body temperature would decide the championship.    

“Let’s see you beat 98.7,” I said confidently.    

“I was 97.7,” Beth said. “I always register a little lower than normal.”    

“Hah! It’s a tie then!” I crowed.    

Except that’s not how she saw it. Rather than counting closest-to-98.6 as the best score, Beth contended that the lower the temperature the better. Something to do with burning off calories more efficiently.    

“So the healthiest person in the world, temperature-wise, are those frozen explorers who made a failed expedition to the South Pole?” I asked.    

Tired of me and my stupid games, she conceded the argument, giving me one point and an excellent chance to emerge from Group A if I can come up with a respectable effort against Serbia and Algeria.    

In addition to donating blood (right arm), I also had lab work done for my annual physical (left arm). I proudly wore the bandages for two days to garner all the sympathy I could. Panama, incidentally, is on my shirt in the center of the photo.

+++     

Despite the 95-degree heat we had Sunday, I still found time for a bit of my favorite yardwork — removing mushrooms.    

This is the one opportunity I have during the summer to combine sport with landscape maintenance. I break out the 9-iron, pretend that our city-issued refuse bin is the 18th hole at Pebble Beach, and lob shroom after shroom in a soaring arc, right into the can.    

At my age, I take my fun where I can find it.    

Fun with fungus

+++    

By the way, it’s not too late to suggest a name for the emu that escaped from a farm near here a few weeks back, and gave the local newspaper feature writer a much-needed topic for a slow news day.    

The unidentified emu cavorted on city streets for several hours before being corralled by its owner. Locals got a big kick, as well as a few nasty lacerations, trying to wrassle what they thought was a giant chicken into submission.    

Now, a month later, the emu is back at its home awaiting whatever fate this unusual type of farm animal is destined to face. (Do you eat ‘em? Wear ‘em? Melt ‘em down for fuel oil? Hell if I know). And the feature writer has decided he can squeeze another story out of the subject, so he’s staging a “Name that Emu!” competition.    

Go to heraldonline.com to place your vote. And no fair choosing Emily — that’s my submission.  

+++  

Looks like another “staycation” for me this summer. I’m taking a few days off in July to set up a lawn chair in the median strip of I-77 to watch the cars speed by, then in August I’ll be climbing into my dryer with a scented fabric softener to simulate a flight to Europe.   

+++  

Not that anybody needed confirmation, but you could really tell last night’s Tony’s were a second-rate awards show when they got to the who-died-last-year montage. While faces of press agents and last Ziegfeld girls flashed by to mournful music, the audience was, like, whuh? Finally a vaguely recognizable face like Rue McClanahan would appear and the crowd offered a smattering of applause, figuring that’s about the best it’s going to get.

Fake News: Soccer is like a sport, or something

JOHANNESBURG, South Africa (June 12) — Almost two dozen guys wearing knee-high socks ran around on a big field for a while over the weekend, then they went away only to be replaced by a bunch of other guys. Mostly they were chasing a ball, though occasionally they’d yell at each other, collapse to the ground or rip off their jerseys.

Apparently, the shirts are quite uncomfortable.

Known as the World Cup, soccer or the FIFA quadrennial football tournament, you can call it whatever you like but it still makes very little sense to most observers. The object of the game is to propel the ball into a three-sided netted hut using only your feet. The hut is guarded by a “goalkeeper” who tries to keep the opposing team from scoring a goal, except in the case of the English team where his role is more accurately described as “escorting” the ball into the hut. Points might also be awarded for the team that suffers the most concussions, as players frequently try to be hit in the face with the ball.

The game was invented a long time ago, and is believed to be a hybrid of kickball, rugby and wandering about like an Alzheimer’s patient. It’s a big deal in parts of the world that can’t afford baseball bats, basketballs and race cars. The contest is comprised of two 45-minute periods, unless the referee wants to extend the action a little longer so he can avoid going home to his wife.

If the game ends in a tie, then it’s definitely soccer. In some situations the draw is allowed to stand, and everybody mills around wondering why they even bothered showing up in the first place. In other cases, there may be an exchange of penalty kicks in a sudden-death session, though it’s really more like a lingering death because the whole match can take up to several hours to complete. To make matters worse, the stadium is filled with hooligans, ruffians and hoodlums, as well as huge swarms of buzzing bees whose endless drone is enough to drive you mad.

In an attempt to score a goal, players can actually use any part of their body except their hands and arms, so some have evolved a paw-like appendage that grows from their forehead. If you strike the ball with your shoulder, collarbone or scapula, play is halted while a team of anatomy professors debate whether or not the play was legal. They signal their decision by flopping to the pitch in a prone position (to indicate the strike was acceptable) or a supine position (to indicate they’ve been shot by a blowgun).

Players are allowed to trip, kick and accidentally-on-purpose run into opponents to prevent them from advancing the ball down the field. If the play is deemed too aggressive, the referees may caution fielders to “be nice” by holding up a yellow card, may ban them from the game entirely with a red card, or may test their familiarity with times tables by use of multiplication flash cards. Green cards are occasionally displayed, though this is extremely rare among the mostly illegal immigrant players. There’s also something called “offside,” which is almost as mysterious as why they don’t pick up the damn ball and throw it into the net.

Because of the proliferation of layabouts from Europe, who get up to three months vacation each year, and from South America, where the afternoon siesta is a long tradition, goals are almost never recorded. A high-scoring game would be ½ to ¼, and negative scores are not uncommon. A famous contest in 1954 resulted in a score of negative infinity for France to negative googolplex for Spain.

Three years of incomprehensible playoffs around the world have led to the selection of the 64 national teams competing in the month-long World Cup. Yesterday’s marquee match featured the Netherlands vs. Denmark, though I could’ve sworn that each country had more people than eleven each.

Following round-robin tournaments in creatively named divisions like “Group A” and “Group H,” and elimination rounds later this month, the finals match will be played in early July. When that game inevitably ends in a 0-0 tie, the nation whose army could beat up the other country’s army would win.

Letters may explain bizarre politics

The roll call of disgraced elected officials in the Carolinas is by now well-known. John Edwards. Mark Sanford. Strom Thurmond. Vanna White.

Okay, technically, Vanna’s role as letter-turner on “Wheel of Fortune” was an appointed position.

You’ve probably heard of at least one of the latest aspirants to join this Hall of Lame. An unemployed military veteran named Alvin Greene, a man so soft-spoken as to be virtually incomprehensible, was nominated last week by the Democratic voters of South Carolina to run against Republican Senator Jim DeMint in the fall. Wearing a tie and dress shirt that’s about three sizes too large in the neck, Greene shrugs his way through interviews that ask how he could possibly beat a four-term state legislator by almost 20 points, while never emerging from his father’s basement to even wave a sign.

Observers speculate he was chosen over opponent Vic Rawl because his name was listed first alphabetically on the ballot. (It’s true that there’s a half-note rest after the “G” when you sing the ABC’s song, which was enough time to give voters a moment to consider his qualifications.) Some believe he’s secretly a Republican plant, perhaps a ficus. Others think he may have been mistaken for soul singer Al Green, whose “Let’s Stay Together” would make a catchy campaign song.

On the Republican side, a man named Tim D’Annunzio is yet to be discovered by the national press. He’s in a runoff in North Carolina’s Eighth Congressional district against a chuckle-headed former sportscaster who would seem to be plenty right-wing-crazy enough, but can hardly compare to D’Annunzio. Another Army veteran, D’Annunzio held a “machine-gun social” during his campaign with barbecue, refreshments and a free gun giveaway. The shoot-out/soiree at a Charlotte-area gun range ran from 6:30 p.m. “until the ammo runs out.”

But that’s probably the sanest part of his story. The devout Christian reportedly believes that God will soon be delivering a thousand-mile-high pyramid to Greenland. (Sounds like the Almighty works for BP). He also believes he personally found the legendary Ark of the Covenant and — guess what — it’s conveniently located in Arizona, and would make a great side trip for families headed to the Grand Canyon this summer.

“I know that I have been anointed by God to be part of His plan to save the world,” D’Annunzio explains of his find.

One way he would do this is by abolishing the federal departments of education, health and human services, agriculture, energy, labor, housing and urban development, interior, transportation, treasury and homeland security. About the only agency left standing will be the sporting goods department at Walmart.

So how is it that such dim bulbs as Greene and D’Annunzio are validated by the Carolinas electorate? Are they simply freaks of nature that snuck past a bored and disillusioned citizenry? Or is it possible that their preposterous traits are actually quite representative of the voters?

I scoured the letters to the editor sections of several local newspapers recently to see what’s running through people’s minds. Some of the opinions I found there, excerpted below, go a long way toward explaining how this particular region of the South has come to be so chock-full of loonies.

+++

Our greatest problem today is man’s lack of knowledge of the Bible. We as a nation had better open our eyes and mind, look around and shake ourselves to see what is occurring around us. The disciples asked Jesus what would be the sign of the end times and his return. Matthew 24 gives us the answer.

Did you know that in a period of 30 days between January and February there were 550 earthquakes and aftershocks in our world? It’s possible this is just the beginning of a serious problem with our tectonic plates that surround our globe. Chile’s earthquake was 500 times more powerful than Haiti’s. The big one is coming.

Here’s another tidbit that might interest those that believed we just happened out of the big bang theory. When God created people, he gave us that we call DNA. Every human has it. It is distinct and different from any other person. It is made up of four components: A C T G. Spell it out for yourselves. To me, it spells Act of God. Is this just a coincidence? You be the judge.

A Japanese scientist, Dr. Emato, did a test on water molecules that were frozen. He separated them into various groups. He spoke kind words to one group and mean, evil words to the other group. Do you know what happened? The group that had kind words turned a beautiful golden color. The other group that had been spoken to with bad words turned an ugly black.

+++

On May 20, Mexican President Felipe Calderon spoke to a joint session of the U.S. Congress. In his speech, President Calderon called for a renewal of the Assault Weapons Ban to limit the flow of weapons into his country. This foreign leader’s request to limit the freedom of American citizens was met with a standing ovation from some members of Congress. Was Rep. John Spratt one of the members of Congress who stood and applauded this request?

Secondly, President Calderon chided Arizona for passing a law that simply enforces existing and rather lenient federal immigration laws. This, too, was met with a standing ovation from some members of Congress. Was Spratt one of he members of Congress who stood and applauded the Mexican president?

His answer to these two questions will play an important part in making my decision about who to support in this fall’s election.

+++

Where are all the policemen’s rights? I am so sick of all the rights a law-breaking person should have. When people break the law, they should lose all their rights.

What is wrong with the world today? For one thing it is full of people with too much time on their hands trying to pass laws to help those who don’t need help. The second thing is the world is full of crybabies.

+++

As you may know, the plight of our honeybee population is indeed a sad and sorry one. Most essential to our life, our well being, these little round-the-clock workers contribute to making our world as livable as it can be. Now, at risk of being placed on the list of endangered species by invasion of the African bee in the southern section of the United States, the Italian honey bee, great American pollinator of flora of all description, is in the battle of its life.

In our busy-bee everyday life, it is important that we not only stop and smell the roses, but that we lend full support to creatures big and small as we travel life’s highways and byways.

+++

We have all heard of the Million Man March, and we have all heard of Custer’s last stand. Well, on May 12, I was engaged in the lonesome march, which turned into a stand.

May 12 has been declared “Good Death Day” by Carol Loving, whose son Nicholas died May 12, 1995, with the assistance of Dr. Jack Kevorkian.

Fifteen years later, we are at the same spot. I do not wish to euthanize anyone but myself, and that should be my right.

I stood in front of the main entrance to the Galleria for over four hours holding a big sign: “Good Death Day, May 12, in honor of Nicholas Loving. Thank you, Dr. Kevorkian. Legalize euthanasia”

I got 11 thumbs up from the thousands of cars that passed by, but no middle fingers up that I saw. Among the things I did see were lots of folks trying to commit suicide. You would not believe the number of folks who were not wearing their seat belts, about 33 percent of the people were on their cell phones, some of them eating, smoking or drinking with the other hand.

One of these idiots is going to hit me one day and sentence me to a life of being a quadriplegic, or worse. Do they care about euthanasia? I’ll tell you one thing; they believe in their rights to do whatever they want whenever they want.

+++

This is in response to the letter that my brother wrote on euthanasia. While he is entitled to his own opinion, I take a stand to disagree with him. Although I do not like to take our sparring public, I cannot keep quiet about this. First, I would like to say that I love my brother very much.

Our parents both died peaceful deaths, and I disagree with him that they suffered a lot. I am sure they did suffer to some extent, but none of us is promised a rose garden.

Our dad was coherent up until his final days. Our mother had Alzheimer’s and, toward the end, she didn’t know us, but we knew her.

If someone had euthanized either one of them, I would have missed out on some wonderful blessings. I believe that euthanasia is a violation of the commandment of God that states “Thou shalt not kill.” I believe that God has supreme dominion over his creation and that there is a purpose for human suffering.

I have faith that one day my brother will believe this, too.

+++

I don’t understand why people think it is OK to just put signs on someone’s property without asking. I live on a county road and have chosen to leave a buffer of trees between my yard and the road. I have grass between the trees and the road, so it is very obvious that this property belongs to me. But people seem to think because there is a section of woods in front of the house, it is OK to just put any sign there they want.

Maybe they think this is just road right-of-way but so is the yard in front of their house. I have been tempted to take the ones with addresses on them and put them in the yard in front of their houses and see how they feel.

+++

What a wonderful world we live in. An employee of Wal-Mart tries to stop a shoplifter (a robbery in progress), and her reward for such bravery? She was fired! Wal-Mart’s policy really does stink!

I, for one, have decided to never shop at their chain ever again until this lady is re-hired and given a raise for her bravery.

I also won’t shop there until the policy is reviewed and changed to protect us honest shoppers as much as the company’s liability and false “concern” for its employees.

+++

I think David Bowman should have learned about county issues before ever running for public office. He prances around town with a name badge saying he is a candidate for County Council acting as if he already is. His campaign is more humiliating than anything our great councilman Paul Lindemann has ever done.

I hear Mr. Bowman talk about integrity, and he says he attends church, yet he prances around town going to after-hour events, bashing Mr. Lindemann and the very county he is running to serve. What about his integrity?

+++

Why would the N.C. Senate waste its time on more ethics legislation? Voters elect Machiavelli, not Pollyannas. We send them to Raleigh for knife fights, not parlor games.

But not to worry, the fine folks at the capitol are most likely to vote in more taxes for you and me than put a chain on our pit bulls – and theirs.

+++

As someone with 20 years experience in the pool industry, I think it’s time that something be done as far as regulating it. I estimate more than half the pools I see are improperly wired or have other problems. How many people have to die or be injured before we do something?

Anyone can operate a pool service; there is no licensing. To be honest, I’m glad I never injured anyone in my career, because I had no formal training.

We must start a licensing program for residential pool operators. We don’t need any one else dying needlessly because being a “pool man” isn’t seen as a profession.

+++

The Holy Grail of the western left, the carbon tax, will kill millions of jobs, cause hyper-inflation and punish workers who commute to earn a living. Instead of destroying our economy with a massive energy tax, let’s open our land and coasts to more drilling, not less. We can replace much of the energy we import and create good-paying U.S. jobs and opportunities at the same time. Our need for domestic carbon-based energy — oil and natural gas — is not an “addiction” but a tonic that will lift us out of this sustained recession while we continue to augment our bountiful supplies with newer energy sources.

Fake News: Axis of Evil becomes Alliance of Grace

WASHINGTON (June 16) — Following years of unsuccessful efforts to scold rogue states into better behavior, the U.S. State Department embarked on a new initiative recently to see the “positive side” of border incursions, illegal nuclear development and rocket attacks on neighbors.  

“We’ve tried ‘condemning’ this and ‘denouncing’ that and it’s really gotten us nowhere,” said spokesman Anthony Emerson. “We think it’s time for an approach that recognizes a certain inherent good in nations that threaten world peace.”  

The first example in this new era of diplomacy may have come in response to tensions in northeast Asia following the sinking of a South Korean boat by a North Korean torpedo assault in March. Undersecretary for Asian Affairs Mark Hamm described the attack that killed 46 sailors as a “good shot” reflecting “excellent aim” by the Communist gunnery team.  

“And it was nice, in this era of high-tech military gadgetry and impersonal drones, to see the use of an old-fashioned torpedo to sink the Cheonan,” Hamm said. “Locking in on someone in the crosshairs of a periscope shows a human touch you don’t often see in modern naval encounters. It was so World War II. Very retro.”  

Hamm went on to compliment North Korean leader Kim Jong-il for restraint in not launching an all-out nuclear attack on the South, and noted how that nation’s people have responded to years of internal repression with an optimistic spirit.  

“For example, all the notes we’ve seen asking for political asylum display excellent penmanship and a familiarity with the conventions of writing a good business letter,” Hamm said. “The population may be ravaged by famine but that hasn’t interfered with their sense of courtesy. A well-penned ‘Dear Sir or Madam’ and positioning the date flush right at the top of the page are the small touches that get you noticed.”  

Hamm also said that the North Korean people had a very high percentage of seat belt usage among the 50 or so who own cars, and are typically very conscientious about signaling both left and right turns well in advance of the maneuver.  

A spokesman for supreme leader Kim seemed startled by the positive tone coming out of Washington, perhaps reflecting some initial acceptance of the new strategy.  

“We utterly rebuke the imperialist Americans for their interference in the internal affairs on the Korean peninsula,” said Park Lo-Ji. “No, wait — we don’t rebuke them after all. Instead, we say hey, thanks for noticing us.”  

Meanwhile, a similar policy adjustment was evident in the release of two memos from the State Department’s Middle Eastern Affairs bureau. In one note addressed to Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the leader was complimented for his dapper fashion sense “from his open-collar casual flair to the carefully maintained three-day beard growth that offers a balance from his more rugged side.” The release also observed that Iranian scientists had done a “bang-up job” in their uranium enrichment program and that spy satellites observing the development site hidden deep in the mountains showed very little litter in the smoking area just outside of the plant’s cafeteria.  

A second note to radical Hamas leaders in Gaza gave the Islamic terrorist organization high marks for boating safety in the war-torn region. It noted that passengers on the flotilla delivering aid to the besieged state were all wearing life vests at the time they were attacked by Israeli commandoes in a recent raid.  

“We also want to comment on what a fine job the Gazans are doing in rebuilding their economy. They are now widely recognized as a leader in the manufacture of soot, grime, dirt and related dust products that global markets are just waiting to embrace,” said the memo. “And we would be remiss if we didn’t also mention the world-class tunnel-building technology on the border with Egypt. Some excellent work there.”  

“Whoa,” said Hamas founder Abdel Aziz al-Rantissi. “Gee … thanks.”  

Looking good

Welcome, guest blogger: Ronnie Lee Gardner

Today, we have a guest blogger. Ronnie Lee Gardner, a 49-year-old native of Utah, was executed by firing squad early this morning. But before he was blasted into Kingdom Come, he got off one final shot of his own with this day-long account of his last hours on earth.  

Gardner was facing murder charges in the 1984 slaying of a bartender when he tried to escape from the courtroom. During the attempt, he killed a lawyer and shot the sheriff (though let the record show that he did not shoot the deputy). He was tried for the second murder and sentenced to death. Given the choice between lethal injection and facing a firing squad, he opted for the latter in the belief that it would be way cooler.  

Guaranteed a swift resolution of his case by the Constitution, now it is 25 years later and — sorry, Ronnie — but it’s time to die. First, though, he took us through his final day.  

8:30 a.m. Thursday — Woke up. Got out of bed. Dragged a comb across my head. Go ahead and sue me if you want, surviving Beatles. I just hope your case gets on the docket pretty damn quickly because I’ll be dead by this time tomorrow. Besides, if you’ve seen any recent pictures of me, you know I don’t have any hair anyway, so I’d get off on a technicality. Though I am thinking of wearing a toupee to the execution. Sure, my head will be covered in a shroud, but I’ll know I’m looking sharp and that’s what really matters.  

8:45 a.m. — Bit of a nasty incident with the kitchen staff. It’s my contention that when I’m guaranteed a “Last Meal,” it means I get to eat whatever I want for each of the last three meals of the day — breakfast, lunch and dinner. So I ordered a vegetarian omelet with Egg Beaters, turkey sausage, a fruit cup, juice and coffee. And they tell me, no, you’re getting the usual, some generic version of Honey Bunches of Oats and toast. So I go on a rampage on the cafeteria ladies, killing three and wounding six. I’ve had it with these people. I’m going on a hunger strike. I know it’s only 15 hours til I’m shot, but there’s a principle involved here.  

9:00 — Time to watch me some Hoda and Kathie Lee on the fourth hour of the Today Show. All the guys in the yard find this is a great way to catch up on a little news, some cooking and housekeeping tips, celebrity gossip, etc. It’s kind of a bonding experience for us. We gots to have our daily dose of Hoda.  

9:50 — A clergyman stops by to ask if there’s anything he can do to help me feel I’m “right with God.” I say, yeah, how about a 50.0-magnitude earthquake right here in Utah, breaking me out of this joint and opening up a fissure in the countryside that reveals a treasure chest of gold buried by the ancient Mormons. I grab the gold and head into Salt Lake City to get me some hookers and some crack. He says he can’t do that, because there ain’t any hookers and crack in SLC.  

10:05 — A riot erupts in the common area. There’s one gang, the Aryan Supremacy, that prefers to watch Regis and Kelly while a rival gang, the Latin Kings, want to see Judge Judy. A hail of tear gas and rubber bullets bring the mob under control, and the guards insist on a compromise of The Price is Right. It’s not the same since Bob Barker left, but still it’s better than being thrown into solitary.  

10:30 — I head back to my cell for a meeting with my attorney about the last-minute appeals. (He tried to blow me off til tomorrow but I’m like, “hello?”) He said my last chance is with the U.S. Supreme Court and it doesn’t look good, especially since Justice Scalia has applied to be on the firing squad. I say Scalia should recuse himself then, and my idiot attorney says “what’s recuse mean?” so I guess that means there’s not much hope.   

10:45 — I turn on the portable TV they let me have in my death row cell and watch a little bit of that BP boss (Tony Hayward) testifying before Congress. It gives me great comfort to see somebody who’s under more fire than me. But I could not believe that Republican guy who apologized to BP because Obama was making them cough up $20 billion to pay for the damages. I mean, I’ll admit I’m a low-life scumbag but this Barton guy is even worse. I just wish he’d volunteer for my firing squad. He’d probably apologize to me for how uncomfortable the execution chair is, then end up shooting himself.   

11:30 — I return my Netflix movie, Mamma Mia! I never did get to watch it, what with all this last-minute stuff going on. I’m not leaving much behind, but I’ll be damned if my kids have to deal with Netflix in probate.   

12:00 noon – No lunch for me! I’m on a hunger strike! Okay, maybe just a cookie.   

12:30 p.m. — Nap time. I’ll be up past midnight tonight (even if it’s only til 12:01) so I need a little shut-eye.   

1:45 — Guess I better go ahead and execute my pet roach, Larry. He’s been a good pal these last few months, yet I can’t stand to think how he’d survive without me, so I’m doing one of those mercy killings. I knitted a little hood for his head out of dental floss but damn if I could get it on him. He kept twitching his antennas so I finally just stomped him with my shoe. Farewell, Larry. I’ll see you on the other side.   

2:30 — I watch some World Cup soccer, Myanmar versus Antarctica, I think it was. Soccer is so boring, but it makes time go past slowly which makes me feel like I’ve got more hours to live.   

3:00 — My business manager stops by to offer a final goodbye and some good news about a promotional tie-in we’ve been working on. Usually, the execution guys just pin a white circle over your heart for the firing squad to aim at, but we worked out a deal with Target to use their logo instead. I wasn’t too sure at first about increasing the odds that somebody’s going to shoot my heart. Fortunately, that check for $10,000 convinced me otherwise.   

4:15 — I get access to the computer in the prison library. I’m writing some letters to the families of my victims asking for forgiveness but I can’t get the damn Word files to attach to an AOL email. Oh, how I hate AOL. I look forward to meeting them in Hell. I manage to sneak on to Overstock.com and find a great deal on a bullet-proof vest. I’m willing to pay extra for expedited delivery; I’m just not sure it’ll make it here in time.   

5:00 — No dinner! What? This really is my Last Meal? Okay, I’ll have filet mignon, lobster, caviar, champagne, foie gras, chocolate mousse, and baked Alaska.   

5:10 — Warden says no dice on the fancy dinner, though he’ll be glad to send out a press release saying that’s what I “requested”. (Ever notice that they always say “he requested such-and-such for his last meal” but they never tell you if the prisoner actually gets it? What a scam!) Guess I’ll eat the chipped beef on toast anyway, since now I got myself all hungry.   

6:30 — Doing some yoga moves I read about in the library that are supposed to relax you. I also found one that supposedly allows you to shift your internal organs around. I’m working on having my heart and appendix switch places so that instead of death by firing squad, I’ll simply be having an appendectomy tonight. Hope it works.   

7:15 — Having some second thoughts about turning down that lethal injection thing. I bet it gets you high first, at least for a second or two.   

9:00 — One last bit of fun before meeting my maker: I get to watch Game 7 of the NBA finals. I got the Lakers by eight in the Death Row pool, though it’s not going to do me much good to win the pot. I just hope it doesn’t go into overtime, taking it past midnight.   

10:40 — Back to the library for one last session on the computer. Updating my Facebook status to “almost dead”.   

11:30 — They’re taking me down to the firing range. This is it. Goodbye, cruel world. Oh, and my thanks to DavisW for giving me this last chance to chat with everybody on his blog. It gives me great solace to know as many as 250 people may actually read this.   

11:59 — They’re strapping me into the chair. Here comes the hood. Hey, watch the toupee, will ya? Jeez, it slipped down over my forehead and is now itching me like crazy. Oh, the indignity.   

12:01 a.m. — Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Damn, that hurt.  

Thanks, everybody, for reading my blog!

Revisited: I could care less

I’m worried that I’m not worrying as much as I used to.

Worry can be a great impetus to get up off the couch and do something with your life. If you’re constantly contemplating all the bad things that could be happening to you, there’s a survival instinct that kicks in with a plan to anticipate and address these feared outcomes. Anxiety used to be a driving force in my career and other ambitions I had for myself, but lately I’ve noticed a certain amount of mellowing that would be a cause for concern, if only I could make the effort.

I’ve always defended my pursuit of anxiety as simply a way of thinking through problems before they happen, always in search of a solution to troubles that surely were just around the corner. I’m being proactive, I’d argue, in considering what it would mean for me and my family to have the earth impacted by a rogue asteroid. Maybe we could hide under our car, or check into a nice hotel, or eat at an expensive restaurant and charge it to that high-interest credit card I’m always afraid to use.

One of my earliest memories was as a first-grader walking home from school, shortly after learning about the dangers of being outside in a thunderstorm. One loud boom and I was running for my life in panic, certain that I was about to experience the business end of a million volts of electricity. I survived that afternoon, only to find myself five summers later worrying for three months about my upcoming move from elementary to middle school. That graduation meant changing classes every hour (I’d surely get lost), a more challenging curriculum (I’d never master algebra), and taking a shower after gym (I’d be naked).

When classes finally started in September, I somehow found a way to survive, and came to the end of that first week with a sense of relief I chose to perceive as accomplishment. That’s one of the hidden advantages to building up concerns in your mind into giant fearsome beasts; if you manage to make it through, there’s a sense that you’ve been fantastically constructive, regardless of the fact that you finished last in the 600-yard run not only because you were fat, but as a strategy to avoid taking a shower in the presence of your classmates.

Throughout high school and college, I used the ever-declining state of world affairs (Vietnam, the Cold War, Watergate, Hall and Oates) as a reason to avoid planning for a positive future. This was either a total repudiation of worry or, more likely, adopting it as such an all-consuming lifestyle choice that thoughts about tomorrow could focus on near-term gratification instead. By the time I started my first real full-time job, I was even using worry as an investment strategy, declining to participate in the voluntary contribution retirement plan because we’d all be dead by next Tuesday anyway.

But I was maturing, in a way. I was learning to break down the bigger fears into smaller, manageable chunks of concern. When I found out that I’d need to travel to India on business, for example, I managed to avoid thinking about what an enormous fright the entire three weeks would be and instead looked at the experience as one small adventure after another. First, I’d think about how difficult it might be to find the international counter at the Charlotte airport, then I’d worry if I was indeed in the right line, and only then would I be afraid that my luggage couldn’t be checked all the way through to Mumbai. And so on. To paraphrase Chinese philosopher Lao-Tzu, the journey of a thousand mile begins with a single step, and a 12,000-mile flight to a steaming, overpopulated, poverty-stricken subcontinent begins by abandoning hope that you’ll ever return. I expected the worst and came very close to getting it.

When I did somehow survive the experience and make it back home, I saw how my negativity about the trip had crystallized my outlook on life. If you thought through events in the near future thoroughly enough, you’d realize how unlikely a positive outcome was going to be. With such a constant expectation of imminent disaster, the worst that could happen is exactly what you predicted. You’d always have the satisfaction of being right, even if you also had passed away.

Speaking of physical well-being, it wasn’t until I went for an annual physical a few years later that I finally understood how pointless it was to sweat the small stuff. When the doctor identified a tiny dried spot on my forehead as “something we should look at,” I suddenly had a more appropriate perspective on life. “Great,” I commented, “another thing to worry about.” He immediately responded with the kind of carefully designed treatment plan we’ve come to expect from modern medicine: anxiety medication.

He told me about a class of pharmaceuticals called selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, or SSRI. It seems we have a chemical in our brains called serotonin, and a selective portion of it is uptaken on a recurring basis. Apparently, we don’t want that. A prescription for citalopram wouldn’t do anything for my forehead spot, but it would make me worry less about it, as well as treat my irritable bowel syndrome, chronic pain, post-traumatic stress disorder, obsession-compulsion and lichen simplex chronicus, if I wanted to develop any of those at no additional co-pay. After taking this medicine for a week or two, I seemed to be significantly less anxious, and that moss on my back was almost completely gone.

I’m proud to say that I now have my fears under much better control. Tomorrow, for example, is just the latest test of my new-found coping skills. I’m meeting a plumber to get an estimate on some work I need done at my rental house, and it’s always been a challenge for me, a chronically unhandy individual, to interact with engineer types. But I’ve been studying up in advance on the plumber culture so we might relate better in a man-to-sorta-man relationship. I borrowed a pair of my niece’s low-rise jeans (hope he doesn’t notice the Miley Cyrus decal on the left cheek), I found some NASCAR-branded clothing that seemed appropriate for plumbing (a Dick Trickle t-shirt and a Greg Biffle hat), and I’ve had my right hand replaced with a hook, so I don’t have to shake hands or touch toilet water. I am forcefully taking the situation into my own remaining hand and confronting my fears.

By the way, that dry spot wasn’t head cancer after all. I think the clinical name for the condition was worry wart.

Revisited: Check this out, it’s got vampires in it!

I’ve been doing this blogging thing for quite a while now and I’m still not making the fabulous living that I thought was all but guaranteed. I continue to watch the slot on the side of my laptop for the twenties to start spitting out every time I post and, unless there’s a bad jam in there somewhere, it’s just not happening. Maybe that’s what I should’ve expected when the highest perch in the field is inhabited by Perez Hilton.

I’ve decided to try a new tack in my pursuit of fame, fortune and prestige beyond my wildest dreams (even wilder than that one with both Hiltons, Perez and Paris). I’ve noticed that there currently seems to be a vibrant market for anything to do with vampires. And since the only other blood-based business plan I can think of involves the sale of plasma, I thought I’d give this angle a try. To ensure even greater probability of profit, I’ll also be working a significant number of product placement references into my story. I don’t have any contracts for this in place yet; I assume the companies you mention just send you a check out of the goodness of their heart.

Allow me to preview my treatment here, and then readers can tell me what they think the best media might be for my narrative. I’m hoping you’ll suggest film, TV or publishing, though I’ll also consider the idea of nailing single-spaced pages to telephone poles.

The setting is current-day America, though if I have to be specific to achieve a certain ambience, I’ll say it’s suburban Idaho. [Fact check: does this even exist?] A 17-year-old girl named Jelle is spellbound by all things “Twilight,” so she heads down to the local Best Buy store to buy a DVD of the movie. While browsing through the aisles, she notices a striking young male employee in the next department. Over his bright blue company shirt, he’s wearing a cape and a cowl, and the oddity of his clothing choice fascinates her. She tries to get his attention but fails at first because this is, after all, Best Buy.

Finally, after she kicks at the locked glass case under the music player display, the young man approaches. His name tag identifies him as “Edward Associate,” and Jelle decides to call him “Ward.” They chat briefly about the merits of the iPod versus the Zune [ultimate choice based on highest corporate bidder] and she works up the nerve to ask him when he gets off. “Every chance I get,” he chuckles with twinkling eyes, then realizes his error and quickly answers “nine.” They agree to meet at a quarter past over at the Wendy’s.

Obviously, she hopes he’s a vampire and hopes his choice of menu items will give her a clue of that possibility. When they arrive together at the counter, she orders the new Sweet & Spicy Asian chicken, available for a limited time only (for reasons that will soon become apparent), and he selects a dollar-menu hamburger. She had hoped he’d order something made with red meat instead, indicating a proclivity for blood, and she can barely contain her disappointment with his choice. Still, they sit and chat for a while, and he seems like a nice enough guy. Turns out he’s originally from Pennsylvania, which she thinks might be one of the Sylvanias with vampires.

After a while, Ward says he needs to get going. Jelle says she’s enjoyed talking and maybe they can get together again some time. Ward says he’s got a dentist appointment the following afternoon, and asks Jelle if she’d like to come along. She agrees to meet him at his house. She knows the area – it’s in a diverse subdivision that has a blend of ranch homes, split-levels, bat caves and eerie mansions, so again she reminds herself to keep her dreams in check.

The next day is bright and warm. As she arrives at the Associates family home, she is ever more certain that he can’t be a Lord of the Night and still be going out to the dentist on a sunny day like this. But when she pulls into his driveway, she spies Ward through the full-length glass door of his home, slathering on a heavy coat of Coppertone sunscreen. He greets her with a friendly kiss on the cheek, and over his shoulder she notices the bottle is labeled SPF 120. Could a high-enough UV protection factor shield a vampire from the light of day? Maybe.

They ride to the dentist in his car, a Chrysler PT Cruiser, which seems like ideal transportation for the Undead. She accompanies him to the waiting room, and overhears the receptionist confirming his insurance plan as Delta Dental and the scheduled procedure as an incisor sharpening, which has a significant deductible but he says go ahead anyway. Jelle turns to the camera and says [or else she thinks to herself in italic if this is a book] “looking good.” She sits and reads a magazine article about Jon and Kate so she can sympathize with the pain he’s surely feeling.

After the procedure, Ward suggests they head over to the local Golden Corral all-you-can-eat buffet for an early dinner. Jelle tells herself this needs to be the time and place to find out for sure if this guy is the vampire she wants him to be. She’s already vested almost 24 hours in this relationship, and she needs to know if it’s going anywhere. They load their plates high with yeast rolls, buttered corn and small, deep-fried spheres. The waitress takes their drink orders: Jelle asked for iced tea, and the ever-enigmatic Ward has a V-8. Jelle excuses herself and heads to the carving station for a thick slab of steak, heavy on the garlic, which she plans on driving into Ward’s heart if he finally reveals himself to her.

About halfway through the meal, both are overcome with Corral-arrhea and head off to their respective restrooms. When Jelle emerges 45 minutes later, Ward is nowhere to be found. She checks the parking lot, which is filled with Chryslers, but none of them are the blood-red model that belonged to her new beau.

Heartbroken (sort of), she pulls out her cell phone and sends him a text message: “s’up? thought you liked men,” though what she really meant to say was “thought you liked me.” A few seconds later comes his response. “AWOOOO” it says, which she interprets to mean “Also Women (hug)(hug)(hug)(hug).”

A little later, he brutally slays her and drinks all her blood.

That’s all I’ve got so far. I know it needs a little fleshing out, maybe a dash of character development and a few more action scenes besides the Golden Corral meal. But it does mention vampires five times, so I think there’s potential here. Soon the income should be flowing to me like an open vein.

If not, please know that I have a fallback plan. I registered yesterday to sell my posts on Amazon’s Kindle, which could bring me as much as thirty cents a pop. Now I just have to figure which port on my laptop dispenses coins.

Resisting the lure of the chain saw

I had a great Father’s Day yesterday, at least for a Father’s Day that didn’t include getting a chain saw as a gift.  

I was mowing the grass Saturday when I walked under a large tree and had to dodge the protruding sticks of an obviously dead limb. Looking up, I saw a swirl of similarly deceased branches and it occurred to me something should probably be done about this. The tree itself was healthy; I simply needed to prune away the unsightly stalks. I’ve written in the past about how extremely skilled I am with the lawn mower, and thought for a moment about running it up the trunk of the tree to give it a little trim, then realized this was probably too dangerous. What might be at least a little less deadly?  

A chain saw!  

I’ve always wanted a chain saw but could never articulate a mature justification as to why. They’re loud and dangerous and smell of gasoline and are frequently wielded by movie madmen, which all seem like good reasons to own one. Yet if I was a proper middle-class suburbanite, I’d have to come up with something better than that. Perhaps this clump of limbs was finally a good excuse.  

I’ve done my own yard work for a long time, concentrating primarily on the grass and the occasional shrubbery. My home sits on a tree-covered lot, and I guess I’ve always taken the trees for granted. It never seemed like they needed a lot of maintenance. We’ve had to cut a few down when it was obvious they were totally lifeless, but that’s no more technically challenging than making a phone call to a local tree service.  

The idea that a tree could be partially dead didn’t occur to me. I thought of barren branches as equivalent to a gangrenous toe that you might eventually need a (tree) surgeon to remove. As long as you didn’t walk on it, as a tree was unlikely to do, it’d probably be okay left alone, and would eventually fall off. Instead, I now realized that the branches were more similar to human hair or fingernails, and that occasional grooming was necessary, at least if you had a job.  

The tree does have a job — to cool my home, clear the air and beautify my neighborhood — and now I noticed that several of these were in need of manicures and/or haircuts. Since Great Clips was no longer an option after that nasty incident where I asked a stylist to trim my nostrils, I was going to have to take care of this on my own. Dismissing waxing, tweezing and Nair as practical options, I soon found myself contemplating the chain saw.  

I hurried inside to offer my wife and son this admittedly last-minute Father’s Day gift idea.  

“We’ve already bought your gift,” my wife said. “And besides, don’t you know how incredibly dangerous a chain saw is?”  

“But these limbs are really thick, and our regular saw won’t reach,” I said.  

“They’re not going to be any closer to the ground with a chain saw, you know,” she said. “How did you expect to reach them?”  

I’ll admit I hadn’t thought that part through. We do have a rickety old ladder I might be able to balance on the uneven ground beneath the offending elm. She quickly nixed that approach.  

“I could jump to them,” I offered. “I’m a good jumper.”  

Unfortunately, Beth had some experience in this kind of landscaping, working with her father when she was a young girl to clear an entire peninsula near Charleston. She knew exactly the right tool for the job I described: it was an “extendible pruning saw with lopper attachment,” something Leatherface wouldn’t be caught dead using to terrorize teenage campers, but adequate for my needs.  

So I jumped in the car and headed over to the local home improvement store. I was directed to aisle 37, home to a variety of old-fashioned tools like rakes, shovels and saws. Unfortunately, on the way, I had to pass aisle 36, which featured a broad assortment of high-tech equipment, including gas-powered trimmers, electric hedge hogs, power whackers and, of course, the forbidden chain saw. Some of these saws were small and inexpensive, and might even qualify as “cute”. Others were high-end monsters, their virility so profound that packaging couldn’t contain the blade, and it protruded erect a full three feet from a slit in the box.  

Soft porn for Father's Day

When a worker asked if I needed help, I felt a little like Sen. Larry Craig caught in an airport men’s room, but recovered quickly enough to ask where the manual pruning equipment was. He showed me several options that were close to what Beth had recommended, and I made a few notes to run past her before making a purchase. Now, I’m drooling over what I see on aisle 38 — tools for the home shop, such as sanders, drills, band saws, etc. If I couldn’t buy a chain saw, maybe I could pick up a nice electric drill. Seems like if you drilled enough holes into the base of a branch that eventually it would fall off. Nah, better not.  

On Sunday, then, we returned to Home Depot and settled on a “power-lever tree pruner” made by Fiskars. (“That’s a good brand,” my wife noted. “I thought they made cat food,” I responded). It extends to 14 feet in height and includes a “WoodZig” saw that you can attach next to the snippers, giving you a two-pronged approach to tackle unsightly limbs, be they on your tree or on your torso. I carried the long tool carefully to the checkout, holding the handle down with one hand and the blades up with the other, feeling like a spear-carrying extra in a gladiator movie.  

When we got it home, I had to try it out immediately. Beth handled the minimal assembly required and I reviewed the safety instructions written for idiots: “Don’t cut near electrical wires, don’t stand on a ladder while cutting, and don’t stand directly under the branch you are cutting.” My wife continued admiring the craftsmanship of the tool while I pointed out a minor typographical error on the packaging — “Carefully remove the saw blade from the packaging and (unnecessary double space between words) align blade end openings with carriage bolt,” it read. She said I was missing the point, though I still maintain that typography is important.  

Don't fear the reaper, kitty

With the curving blade now the most prominent feature, I became the Grim Reaper, heading out to the yard to carve my sloppy hardwoods into shape. The work was simple, yet it was easier said than done to avoid standing under a branch you were cutting. I found it pretty effortless to dodge the falling lumber, though if I’d had that chain saw, I could’ve swung it through the air, turning the thick branches into hundreds of beautiful coasters before they reached the ground.

Or I could’ve created a beautiful ice sculpture! “Beth, don’t we need a beautiful ice sculpture?”

Fake News: Oval office not first choice for speech

WASHINGTON (June 21) — Stung by criticism of last week’s Oval Office address, with many pundits saying President Obama looked awkward behind the majestic executive desk, the White House released a transcript of an alternative, more casual speech he considered delivering from historic mansion’s first-floor bathroom.

“We knew it was a risk to use the Oval Office as a backdrop to talk about the oil spill,” said administration spokesperson Heath Anderson. “In retrospect, using a different room may have conveyed more of the tone we intended.”

The president had already spoken on several occasions about the massive gulf disaster from the Rose Garden, the Blue Room, the East Room and the press office. That the chief executive’s private bathroom was considered as a setting for an address to the nation shows how close the administration came to averting the largely negative reaction to last Tuesday’s televised talk.

The speech itself would’ve been as different as the staging, according to a draft released Monday. The 20-minute address, shown during prime time on all the major television networks, would’ve begun with a disembodied hand knocking on a closed door, and the rest of the presidential speech shouted through that door.

“Someone’s in here,” Obama says in his opening remarks, indicating that the federal government is on the job of mitigating the spill and determining who was responsible.

“I’ll be done in just a minute,” the president continues, optimistic that the deep-sea gusher can soon be stopped and clean-up can begin in earnest.

A rustling sound follows for about 30 seconds, meant to represent how intense the executive branch’s response has been to the catastrophe. A mumbled “there’s another bathroom just down the hall” is followed by the assertion that “I’ll be right out” and “Hang on, I’m almost through in here.”

“He’s asking the American people for patience,” said White House spokesman Robert Gibbs. “These quick bursts of decisive language would show he’s a president in charge of the situation. It displays an urgency to bring this sad episode to a quick and clean conclusion.”

After the camera continues focusing on the closed door for another 45 seconds, the voice from inside asks “can you find me some paper?”, hinting at Obama’s plan to use environmentally friendly products like tissue paper to gather up the crude now soaking Gulf coast beaches.

“We have a plan in place to make a full recovery,” the president continues from inside the ornate Oval Bathroom, constructed during the Hoover administration. “My team will not be caught with its pants down. I know there’s a spill, and I take complete responsibility for cleaning it up.”

At this point in the speech, Obama is heard to say “oh darn, the fan is broken,” an apparent reference to how some of the efforts to keep oil out of Louisiana marshlands failed when equipment there malfunctioned. Soon, the sound of a match being struck shows the president’s intention that efforts at recovery will be visible to the American public.

With the sound of flushing water from behind the door, the president indicates how levels of petroleum will soon be decreasing while the seawater is lifted by twice-daily tides to overtake the remnants of the spill.

At one point, Obama is heard shouting “Uh-oh, the water keeps rising!” which is followed by brief splashing sounds and muttered epithets of disapproval from the nation’s forty-fourth chief executive.

“Where the hell is the plunger?” he is heard to ask, calling on BP executives to offer more assistance in the recovery effort. Then, he reports, “oh, good, it’s going back down,” an apparent reference to outstanding financial claims made by fishermen and the tourist industry against the London-based energy company.

The address ends with Obama opening the door to emerge from the bathroom. He is flanked by an American flag towel on his left and an Office of the President towel to his right, the latter obviously soaked with water. Also seen over his shoulder are two small framed photos, one showing a heron wading in the surf and another portraying a variety of seashells.

“I told you I’d be done pretty quickly,” the smiling president tells a reassured nation, then adds “it’s all yours” to point out that the bathroom is now vacant and ready for another user.

Fake News Extra: Gen. McChrystal is, like, “dude!”

Adolescent banter among Gen. Stanley McChrystal and his aides in Afghanistan may be at the root of the lagging war effort in NATO’s eight-year battle against the Taliban insurgency.

In the Rolling Stone article causing so much controversy for the top commander, one of his advisors jokes that the vice-president’s name is “Joe Bite-Me.” The general himself warned that implementing a strategy other than the one he proposed would result in the country becoming “Chaos-istan.” Now, military analysts suspect that such childish repartee in the top echelons of the command structure could have led to miscommunicated orders in the field.

“I understand how the pressures of war build a tight-knit group that uses immature humor to let off steam,” said one former Pentagon official. “But if they’re not careful, those who aren’t in on the jokes could misinterpret critical instructions.”

In one particularly embarrassing incident, McChrystal had information that al-Qaida leader Osama bin Laden was making a secret visit to Kabul, so the general planned a drone strike to take out the world’s most-wanted terrorist. But the command he issued — “Yo-Mama is in Cobb-Hole. Hit him with a bone” — resulted in a mistaken assault on musician Yo-Yo Ma during a performance at London’s Royal Albert Hall. The artist had to cut his concert short when a barrage of corn cobs and artificial penises thrown by a special ops unit from a balcony overlooking the stage severely damaged his cello.

On another occasion, the general wanted to lend support to an Afghan tribal conference, known as a “loya jirgah,” by ordering a meal delivered to the site of the meeting in Helmond Province. He told the caterer that a “royal jerk-off” was going on in “Hellman’s” and to use his imagination to come up with an appropriate meal. When hundreds of hotdogs slathered in mayonnaise arrived at the conference, tribal leaders showed their displeasure with the meal by getting into a massive food fight that ultimately led to exchanges of artillery fire.

Inside sources report that the planned assault on Taliban strongholds in Kandahar this summer is being delayed until fall because of yet another miscommunication. When the general’s top lieutenant said “we’re go for the attack on Candyland,” three Army divisions were redeployed to Pawtucket, Rhode Island, near the headquarters of Hasbro, Inc., maker of the popular children’s board game.

“He has to remember that when orders get repeated down through the ranks, there’s already a potential for misunderstanding,” the Pentagon officer said. “Using slang in a command-and-control scenario isn’t too bright.”

McChrystal has been known to show his disdain for civilians involved in the war effort by giving them derogatory nicknames. He routinely calls the Afghan president “Hamhead Karz-Face,” refers to Ambassador Karl Eikenberry as “Frankenberry,” and uses the name “Richard Holdork” for special envoy Richard Holbrooke. Even allies of the general have become unwitting victims of his verbal antics. National Security Advisor James L. Jones, a close friend of the general since their days together at West Point, was supposed to receive an antique German Luger as a birthday present. Instead, the weapon was delivered to Mad Men actress January Jones when McChrystal tried goofing with the order-taker at Amazon.com.

“All the soldiers in the field love General McWhiteCastle,” said Col. Charlie Flynn, using the pet name favored by McChrystal who is said to prefer the tiny hamburgers of White Castle over those of competitor Krystal. “Most of them would be willing to die for him if asked to do so. That is, if they could understand what he was asking. Otherwise, most would probably end up dying their uniforms.”

McChrystal was reportedly en route from Afghanistan to Washington yesterday to answer personally to President Obama for his blatant display of disrespect. He told associates he was prepared to “gay it up” and “be a total douche” if necessary to keep his job, and would “tell Barrack the Bam-Meister” whatever he wanted to hear. If, as is widely expected, Obama asks for his resignation, the general will likely take his discharge like a true soldier, then will make some infantile joke about how it’s far from the worst discharge he’s ever had.

An editorial to myself: You need to wear scrubs

When I came home from the hospital with my newborn son 19 years ago, I was filled with joy. Yes, Daniel was everything you could ask for in a baby — spherical, compact, Homo Sapien, vaguely orange. But the really cool thing was that they let me keep the green pair of scrubs I had worn while staying in the hospital.    

This loose-fitting outfit that instantly identifies you as being somehow associated with the medical establishment was exquisitely comfortable. This was a necessity while I spent three nights “sleeping” at the hospital as my new family recovered from the trauma of cesarean childbirth. The scrubs were also the properly sterile fashion statement for the stint I spent in the operating room during the delivery itself, and so much more appropriate to the setting than the pilot’s uniform or sumo thong that some dads wear.    

Once back at home, I lounged around the house for several days in the scrubs, feeling every bit as special as a new father deserved to feel. I welcomed the well-wishers who brought us casseroles while wearing the scrubs. I made quick trips out to the store in the scrubs. I even attended at an emergency scene in the local market when a woman slipped on a grape in the produce section. I helpfully rocked her prone body back and forth while we waited for more accredited medical personnel to arrive, since I knew how critical it was to “shake it off” when dealing with possible spinal trauma.    

Now, it’s almost two decades later, and I want to go to the medical supplies store and buy myself an entire wardrobe of scrubs. But, no — my wife and son think it’s a stupid idea. I just want to be comfortable as my middle-aged spread plays itself out around my mid-section and, simultaneously, be admired by any onlooker who thinks I might be a neurosurgeon. Scrubs are like sweatpants, except without the whole giving-up-on-life vibe. And if you dangle a surgical mask around your neck and spring for the little cloth booties, you’re ready for a shift in the trauma unit, except for the eight years of medical schooling.    

Davis, I really think you should buy yourself some scrubs. Don’t pay attention to those who don’t want to see you cool and comfortable.    

Another thing I might want to consider as I remake my closet for the summer is one of those wearable babies. You’ve doubtless seen these cute little guys and gals, strapped in a harness to their parent’s chest, staring wide-eyed at this strange new world before them. With their adorable little faces only a few inches below yours, they make a truly eye-catching accessory. There was a young mom in line in front of me at the drug store the other day picking up her prescription, and the pharmacy tech waiting on her couldn’t stop smiling. I think the mom was just picking up some Lipitor for her husband, but you got the distinct impression she could get anything she asked for. All the cash from the register? Sure, and take these checks too. An armload of diabetes test kits and cases of beer? You’ll probably need a cart. Controlled substances with a street value in the thousands of dollars? Certainly, and don’t let me forget to swipe your frequent customer card so you get credit for those.    

Davis, you deserve a wearable baby.    

And let me just mention a couple more things while we’re in this mood of celebrating my individual “me-ness” and catering to my every whim. I’ve been wanting a wide-brimmed hat for some time, one that will keep the summer sun off my ears and neck. I mentioned this to my son a few weeks back, so he actually got me one for Father’s Day. The problem I’ve traditionally had with all hats is that my head — so chocked full of brain matter that it’s swollen to an almost inhuman size — is too big. I’ve managed to special order a couple of properly fitting hats from a large-headed Slavic nation. One is a baseball cap I wear while mowing the grass and the other is a tall, black top hat that I’ve yet to find the right setting for. (My niece’s recent college graduation is the most formal event I’ve been to in years and even that didn’t seem right for a top hat).    

So I’ve already got this new hat, a dandy of an outdoorsman’s bonnet of extra-large capacity ordered direct from the Amazon (or so says the box). The slight problem is that it barely fits. I can jam it onto my crown and tell that it’s not going anywhere until I’ve got the most terrific headache imaginable, but I’m not sure it looks good on me. You be the judge.    

Hatted, happy and healthy

On second thought, I don’t want you judging me at all. Davis, you ought to feel proud that your son gave you a hat for Father’s Day and that you have enough sense to protect yourself from damaging UV rays, regardless of how dorky you look.    

Finally, I want to note some issues I have with sunglasses. As you can see from the hat picture above, I wear eyeglasses to correct my near-sighted vision. I once sprung for a pair of prescription sunglasses, back in the days when employer-provided eye-care insurance seemed like a good idea for professional proofreaders, but now that’s a luxury. So I have two choices: I can wear just the stylish unprescribed Raybans that protect my eyes from glare while exposing the rest of my body to the potential of being blind-sided by a car, or I can wear a pair of those gigantic overglasses so popular among the geriatric set. Like these…    

Sign me up for some of that "assisted living" I've heard so much about

Davis, I call on you to wear whatever sunglasses you see fit to wear. This is not a time for caving to the passing fads of a fickle public so obsessed with not looking totally ridiculous. Be your own man. Wear what you want to. I urge you to adopt this position.

Book Review: “Important Safety Instructions”

With yesterday’s high temperature outside my home hitting a record 98 degrees, I thought it would be wise to supplement our air conditioning with a small fan. The local CVS store had an inexpensive model so I bought it.

As soon as I got home, I was afraid I’d made a mistake. True, there was a picture of what looked like a simple electric fan on the cover of the package and, because it was in color, I made the purchase. On closer inspection, though, what I bought turned out to be an “air circulator,” not a fan. I examined the appliance carefully trying to discern the difference. Like a fan, this gadget had blades that spun, a cord and an on/off switch. I took a chance and plugged it in and, sure enough, the blades began turning rapidly and a cooling breeze came humming out the front. All in all, very fan-like behavior.

Just to be on the safe side, I figured I’d better read the accompanying owner’s manual, and it revealed itself to be quite the page-turner. Who would’ve guessed there would be so much to know about how to operate a fan, or air circulator, or jet engine, or whatever this thing was. Unless I’m investing in something complicated like a blimp or a tactical nuclear weapon, I usually tend to intuit my way through the operating instructions. But once I started leafing through this tightly plotted 16-page volume, I was gripped by a narrative far more nuanced than the plug-and-play experience I anticipated.

After introducing its main character, the Honeywell Model HT-900 Turbo Force High Velocity Circulator, the story opens with a long list of do’s and don’ts. These are important guidelines to follow if you’re interested in your story having a happy ending in which your body temperature is slightly reduced without having a finger cut off. I don’t want to offer up too many spoilers in this review, but I think you’ll get a better feel for the arc of the story if I hit a few highlights.

Point one urges you to “use this fan only as described in this manual.” (Yes! Confirmation that it is indeed a fan!) Other uses are not recommended and can result in fire, electric shock or “injury to persons.” The only unprescribed use I could think of was hooking it up to a small generator and dangling it out the back of your rowboat so it might act as a makeshift outboard motor. This isn’t specifically covered, but you get the sense as you continue reading that it’s not a good idea.

Point four explains the reason for a “polarized plug,” which features one prong slightly wider than the other so you’re not faced with the debilitating question of how to plug it in. “If the plug does not fit fully in the outlet, reverse the plug,” advises the writer. “If it still does not fit, contact a qualified electrician.” This is the first of several occasions throughout the manual where the user is foolishly advised to spend more money than the $22.95 you forked over for your original purchase, so I’d recommend you also have some other electrical work standing by to fill the electrician’s minimum one-hour charge. Maybe you can have that cat rewired that is constantly shocking you.

“DO NOT,” the author warns of the polarized plug, “attempt to defeat this safety feature.” If you manage to force the plug into your outlet by banging it with a hammer, your victory will be a hollow and short-lived one.

Most of the other opening 16 points are relatively common sense stuff. Supervise any children who attempt to fan themselves. Unplug the fan when moving it from one location to another. Do not operate the device in the presence of explosives or flammable fumes. (In fact, I’d probably expand on that point to advise against doing anything in the presence of explosives or flammable fumes except perhaps run.) Do not use the fan near an open flame or while cooking. Avoid contact with moving fan parts. Don’t hang the fan from a rope attached to your ceiling.

It’s only when you get to page 2 of this book that you start hearing the brighter side of fan ownership. One of the HT-900′s proudest features is its ability to provide an endless variety of angular options. Rather than oscillate from side to side, this design allows you to aim the fan upward in any number of directions. Prefer a precise 47-degree angle? Go for it. Change your mind and want to try a 71-degree slant? It’s a simple adjustment. You can even go the full 90 degrees to cool the ceiling above your head if such is your need.

“Upon using this fan, you will feel a strong and powerful air stream that will quickly move air in order to cool an area rapidly and efficiently,” says the introduction. Why, that’s just what I had in mind.

Page 3 serves to restate some of the main themes encountered earlier in the manual. Before you start your self-cooling, make sure the fan is in the OFF position, and only then should you plug it in. The control knob offers a choice of three speeds if you don’t count OFF as a speed: there’s “high” (or “III” as it’s called on the switch), there’s “medium” (or “II”); and there’s “low” (predictably, “I”). Some of the higher-end models have a child-resistant switch that you have to depress before turning, but that’s only in the more-expensive HF-series. If you sprung for the top-of-the-line HFT, you get left-right movement as well as the angular positioning, so you’ll be blessed with a machine that’s accelerating air all over the place.

Another feature proudly touted is the “concealed handle,” a small ridge of plastic along the back that allows you to easily grip and pick up the fan. Without this brilliant piece of industrial design, you’d probably have to kick the machine from one location to another.

There’s a whole chapter devoted to cleaning and maintenance, as if anyone ever bothers with that on a $23 purchase. You’re told to use “only a soft cloth or cotton swab” to gently wipe the fan clean, and either a pipe cleaner, vacuum cleaner, flexible dustwand or compressed air to clean between the grilles. Don’t immerse the fan in water to clean it, nor should you rub it with gasoline or paint thinner, though why someone would consider that is not stated. You can remove the grille for a more thorough cleaning if you want to, by following a six-step regimen of instructions, or you can throw it away and go buy a new one.

A small Consumer Relations segment gives you an address to mail any comments or questions. “If you experience a problem, please contact consumer relations first or see your warranty,” advises this section. “Do not return to the original place of purchase for repair.” That would be fun to try, though — walking up to the high-school student working part-time as a CVS cashier and asking him for advice on how to manipulate the capacitor to maximize the voltage while minimizing the capacitance.

The final chapter details the one-year limited warranty that comes with all Honeywell fans, with “limited” being the key word. Not covered is damage from “unreasonable use” nor is “normal wear and tear” nor is any “incidental or consequential damages” caused by the occasional rogue fan. And if you try to fix something yourself and fail, that also voids the warranty, as does not being the original purchaser. After all this, if you think you still might qualify for coverage, you can return the defective product along with $10 to cover handling and repackaging. You also have to prepay shipping charges, so now you’re looking at fees upwards of 75% of the original cost and hopefully wondering what kind of racket this is.

There’s another ten pages or so of basically the same story, but this time told once in French and once in Spanish. This exotic denouement does serve to carry you magically away from your pedestrian cooling concerns, to imagine instead what it would be like to “ne jamais tirer sur le cordon electrique” while sipping a fine Merlot at a trendy Left Bank cafe, the saucy waitress flirting as she takes the escargot order of a cosmopolitan fan-owner like you.

Such is the magic of great literature, to transport the reader from his slightly uncomfortable spare bedroom to a world filled with the promise of cool breezes angled in virtually any direction you might imagine. I highly recommend “Important Safety Instructions” — it’s not a heavy tract of abstract philosophy and moralizing that will challenge where you see yourself living in the universe, though it will make a quick and entertaining beach read. Especially when that summer sun gets a little too hot.

Revisited: Forces in Iraq stuck indoors

BAGHDAD, Iraq (June 26) – Commanders of U.S. forces stationed in Iraq have begun complaining to Pentagon officials that “we really have our hands full” now that combat troops have been ordered off the streets of this nation’s cities.

Top brass in Washington acted to drastically reduce the visibility of the 130,000 soldiers in country to comply with agreements to turn more control over to Iraqi security forces by the end of June. Secretary of Defense Robert Gates noted that “it’s really hot outside, and we don’t want our fighting men and women to get overheated.”

“I know it’s summertime and everybody wants to be outside,” Gates said. “But we have to use good judgment so we don’t risk widespread thirstiness and heat rash. There aren’t that many hoses for soldiers to drink from in the urban areas, and they’ll just keep on playing in the sand and forget to keep up their fluids.”

Army General Ray Odierno said it was his job to comply with orders from the top, but noted pointedly that keeping that many divisions indoors while the locals were able to burn off energy in the 130-degree afternoon heat was a “special challenge.”

“They’re really under foot here,” Odierno said. “It’s only been two days and already they’re driving the general staff crazy. It’s natural that they want to blow off their youthful energy, but I’m not getting any younger. I have a splitting headache.”

“Will you lieutenant colonels please knock it off over there?” the general was then heard to say. “I’ve just about had it up to here with you guys.”

Other top military officials who spoke off the record said that the scheduled arrival next week of three C-130 cargo planes filled with Wii consoles and an estimated 13 tons of the popular “Dance Dance Revolution” game should go a long way toward keeping the confined troops busy. Plans were being laid for several week-long sessions of Vacation Bible School in August in one of former dictator Saddam Hussein’s occupied palaces, and a “ball crawl” was also being setting up in an adjacent swimming pool.

Odierno said he understood that the removal of American forces from the streets of Baghdad and other large cities was critical to the establishment of true Iraqi sovereignty. He also acknowledged his forces still needed to remain nearby in case they had to bolster local police in fighting any renewal of the now-largely-dormant insurgency.

“Maybe there’s something good on TV,” Odierno said. “Or I could get out some of those old board games we put up in the attic last winter. I’m really running out of ideas though. This is not a ‘Scrabble’ kind of crowd.”

The general said, however, he remained confident that summer would soon be over and that armed personnel will probably be invading Iran in the fall, and he had to admit he’d hate to see them go.

“I just hope we can find some good ‘back-to-combat’ sales,” Odierno noted with a sigh. “A lot of our people are probably going to be at least two sizes bigger by then and will need all new gear. I complain a lot about them being all over the place now, but I know I’ll miss them when they’re gone.”

Revisited: Shoving epidemic in Washington

WASHINGTON, D.C. (June 27) – FBI officials revealed yesterday they will begin criminal investigations into recent incidents involving top female officials who were thought to have tripped but may in fact have been shoved.

Supreme Court nominee Sonia Sotomayor fell and broke her ankle at LaGuardia Airport earlier this month, and Secretary of State Hillary Clinton shattered her elbow in a tumble last week at a State Department parking garage. Both incidents were at first reported to be accidents, but it’s now suspected that horseplay or hijinks by male colleagues could be to blame.

Investigators became suspicious of a more widespread plot after Senator Olympia Snowe of Maine narrowly avoided a fall over the weekend. She told agents that she discovered fellow Democrat Harry Reid sneaking up behind her on all fours shortly after Sen. Chris Dodd bumped into her in the Capitol dining room. She briefly stumbled before catching her balance and confronting the seven-term senator from Connecticut. A security camera recorded most of the scene.

“Quit it,” Snowe said to Dodd as she fell backward. “Stop being such a moron.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Dodd protested. “I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole. You’re ugly.”

“Harry, what are you doing back there?” Snowe then said, turning to the Senate majority leader from Nevada.

“What are you talking about?” Reid responded. “I… I was just looking for a quarter that I dropped. I swear.”

Snowe then repeated her demand to “cut it out or I’m going to tell” before both Reid and Dodd ran giggling from the scene.

“We take these threats to the security of government leaders very seriously,” said FBI Special Agent Ronald Murray. “Boisterous childishness like this will not be tolerated. These Congressmen are old enough to know better and if they don’t knock it off, we’re going to report them. It’ll go on their permanent Congressional record.”

Contacted by reporters about the charges, Reid said the alleged incident was “all in fun” and that Maine’s senior senator “needs to lighten up a little. Jeez.” Dodd, who is currently shepherding the Obama Administration’s health insurance reform effort through the Senate, said Snowe was “stuck up and whining like a baby” and that her charges were “totally without merit.”

Dodd added that he wasn’t afraid of the FBI, whom he characterized as “stupid,” but later retracted that charge with the claim that he “thought it was opposite day.”

Meanwhile, the Congressional sergeant-at-arms office said it would be beefing up personal security for House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, Maryland Senator Barbara Mikulski and California Senator Dianne Feinstein in the wake of the FBI’s announcement. These three legislators are at particular risk, a spokesperson for that office said, because “everyone knows they’re snobs.”

“They think they’re, like, really cool and stuff,” said the official, who declined to be named. “I’d shove ‘em myself if I weren’t legally charged with upholding the law.”

Mondays, or, Life in Shorts

I love playing Scrabble on my computer. I don’t do it interactively with other live humans (I think I’ve made it pretty clear in previous posts that I don’t particularly care for other live humans) but instead select a robot challenger from among the eight skill levels offered.

I generally play at the “elite” ranking, the sixth most difficult, and tend to win about a third of my matches. That low success rate keeps it challenging, giving me cause for exultation when I win. My coworkers think I’ve found some especially egregious typo when I shout aloud and raise my hands high above my head, when I’m just winning at Scrabble.        

The seven letters you’re assigned to play with are supposed to be randomly generated. I think, however, that this program has it in for me, and assigns me way more vowels than I should be getting. Consequently, I’ve come to adopt two vowel-heavy words as among my favorites.        

The first of these is “adieu,” not great for generating points though it does allow you to clear out your vowel inventory. My second favorite is “vagina,” and not for the reasons you might think. One day I had the opportunity to play this word for a respectable 22 points, leaving me with only an “e” remaining unplayed on my rack. Just for the heck of it, I stuck the “e” on the end of the “vagina” (something I wouldn’t advise anywhere but in Scrabble) and, turns out, “vaginae” is actually a word! Using all seven tiles gives you 50 bonus points, which propelled me to an eventual win.        

I looked it up later, and found that “vaginae” is simply the plural of “vagina,” a variation used more in medical terminology than everyday conversation, where “vaginas” or “you know, down there” tend to suffice.        

As a Scrabble fan, and as a 56-year-old man whose testosterone levels are on the decline, I find myself frequently thinking “adieu vaginae.”        

Please let me know if you can think of any words with six "i's" and a "u"

 +++       

Some final thoughts on World Cup soccer, now that the Americans’ expulsion means we no longer have to pretend to care:
–Wouldn’t setting up a single match with two balls, four teams and four goals, allowing two teams to play horizontally across the pitch while two others play vertically, be more interesting? Remember how much fun it used to be when you’d get a “multi-ball” bonus in pinball? It would be like that.
–Or how about if players could use neither their feet nor their hands, but only their heads? Everybody would be down on all fours, nudging the ball goal-ward as fast as they could crawl. Imagine the excitement of a mid-field breakaway that would take up to several minutes to complete.
–Or what if they added an extra referee, but he was really a neutral player in disguise? At some random point in the middle of the match, he could start kicking the ball around, and everybody would be all, like, “what?”
–If you think the vuvuzela is annoying, imagine if Australia ever gets the World Cup and everyone brings a didgeridoo. Or the U.S. gets it and fans bring banjoes and Sousaphones.
–Best name ever for a sports commentator is Steve McManaman. So manly.
–I don’t know why, but after watching Saturday’s match, I have an overwhelming urge to buy products from a company named Mahindra Satyam, even though I have no idea what they make. And I want to use Visa to pay for my purchase.
–Ghana deserved to lose that match, if for no other reason than that their uniforms made them look like McDonald’s employees      

Would you like fries with your humiliating defeat?

 +++   

I invite everyone to join my new Facebook group, LetsPeeOnTheFloorInBPGasStations. I meant to specify that we pee on the floor in the restrooms of BP gas stations, but ran out of characters. If you want to do it out in the open in the snack aisle, be my guest, but I take no responsibility for this.   

Think of it as a way to protest the Gulf oil spill. I know a lot of these franchises claim they’re not officially associated with BP, but there’s got to be some connection, and we’re a populace that’s extremely frustrated by this unprecedented environmental catastrophe and are looking to take action. Leaking our own toxic waste onto the floor of their bathrooms makes a very strong political statement, especially if you’ve eaten asparagus recently.   

If you’re somehow caught by the manager, simply claim that the volume of the pee compared to the volume of the entire restroom makes the spill inconsequential. You can also say that you followed all rules as prescribed by the proper regulatory authorities (your urologist) and still, inexplicably, the leak happened. If pressed, you can promise to clean it up, but admit it’s going to take you at least two months.   

And I wouldn’t advise using the defense that “at least in my case, no wildlife was affected” because the manager could make you spend the afternoon scrubbing down roaches with dish soap.   

+++

Sorry about the unintended theme in last week’s posts. On Monday I wrote about buying a pruning saw, on Wednesday I considered buying hospital scrubs, and on Friday I reviewed the operating instructions that came with my purchase of a fan. 

I’m thinking of buying a donut today but I promise not to write about it.

+++ 

Virtually every afternoon this summer, I’ll be tempting death. 

I’ve been an ardent jogger since my twenties and continue to run about a mile and a half at least five days a week. This despite the fact that I’m now 56 years old, probably a good 30 pounds overweight, and I face afternoon temperatures typically in the mid to upper 90s. Like hitting yourself in the head with a hammer, it’s torture while it’s happening but it feels so good when you stop. 

Passing motorists are aghast at my exercise, both because it’s so obviously suicidal and because a tight sweaty t-shirt is not exactly complimentary to my figure. Still, I continue shuffling onward, oblivious to the ozone alerts and the high humidity and the teenage boys who think it’s funny to wolf-whistle at me. 

Should these daily posts at DavisW suddenly come to a halt, you’ll know where I am: the same dump where the city hauls all the possums and raccoons and squirrels and financial proofreaders who don’t realize that roads are for cars, not for creatures.

Fake News: McChrystal in the job hunt

WASHINGTON (June 28) — Sacked by President Obama following publication of disrespectful comments made by his staff in Rolling Stone magazine, Gen. Stanley McChrystal now finds himself looking for a job where running eight miles on only one meal a day and sleeping just four hours a night are considered marketable skill sets.

“I’ve been going through the classified ads and thought I could find something under ‘general labor,’” the former commander of U.S. forces in Afghanistan said. “Apparently, they don’t mean ‘general’ as in Army officer; they mean ‘general’ as in ‘entry level cell tower builders.’ I’m more about nation-building than tower-building.”

The 56-year-old career officer said he could retire on his pension if he wanted to, but that he feels he has a lot to offer the right kind of company. That, plus his wife of 33 years doesn’t want him puttering around the Western Hemisphere.

“She says she wants me to find something nice in Asia, though I hear they’re not hiring right now,” McChrystal noted.

McChrystal said that he has been on a number of interviews since his dismissal last week, which he found encouraging when so many job-seekers have gone months without even a nibble of interest from potential employers. He credits his extensive military experience for opening doors and getting critical face time with hiring managers.

Despite recent negative experiences with the press, he allowed this reporter to accompany him on one interview.

“I started out in C Company, 1st Battalion, 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division, then moved on to the 3rd Battalion, 19th Infantry, 7th Special Forces Group,” the general proudly told Ross Bledsoe, personnel director for Safelite Auto Glass Replacement. “I was head of the Joint Special Operations Command when we killed Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, the leader of al-Qaida in Iraq.”

“I was in the Army myself,” Bledsoe chuckled. “I was stationed with the 23rd Psalm, 19th Nervous Breakdown, 7th Heaven, Second Grade. You have a very well-typed resume that reads like a Rambo movie, but I just don’t see how assassinating terrorist leaders lends itself to a career in repairing broken windshields. We’ll let you know if anything opens up.”

“My men were charged with dismantling car bombs,” he offered hopefully. “That’s kind of like auto glass replacement, if you think about it.”

An obviously disheartened McChrystal noted that he was also really good at counterinsurgency, if Safelite ever finds itself expanding into that field.

Afterward, the general said he had a few more irons in the fire for an afternoon session driving around suburban Washington. The crumpled newspaper in his hand had several opportunities circled, including a marketing specialist position at Storm Gutter Guardian, an office manager with Safety Equipment Company, and mailroom director at Dominion Community College. He also had a tentative interview at an Arlington Texaco, which was looking for a convenience store clerk/mechanic.

“Does Texaco still have that jingle about ‘you can trust your car to the man who wears the star’?” the general asked. “I’d think they’d be pretty impressed by a general who wears three stars.”

Tomorrow, he intends to knock on a few doors in healthcare-related businesses. He felt pretty confident he’d at least get a callback on a dental assistant position “because I know a guy who knows a guy,” and said he was “just about positive” he’d have a shot at a $13-an-hour pre-surgery scheduling job.

“Frankly, I’m hoping when they see ‘special operations’ on my resume that they’ll think I’m some kind of surgeon,” he said. “A surgeon could lend some real insight into how to obtain preauthorization from insurance carriers, as long as they don’t think I’d be overqualified.”

McChrystal said he was confident his background in overcoming adversity during heated battles in Kosovo, Kuwait and a stint as senior fellow at Harvard’s John F. Kennedy School of Government would serve him well during the increasingly frustrating search.

“I’m a proud man though I won’t let that pride get in the way of landing me a job,” McChrystal said. “I’ll stand at an interstate exit ramp with a sign reading ‘will insubordinate for food’ if I have to. I’d have to get ‘insubordinate’ to fit on a piece of cardboard, but I am known as a real problem-solver.”

Foods need context, and a little salt

I guess there’s something about encountering foods out of context that makes them more appealing.  

You wouldn’t normally associate a quality ice cream experience with standing in the road next to a truck blaring “La Cucaracha,” yet there’s no better summertime treat than buying a Nuddy Buddy from the neighborhood Good Humor man.  

We decline the stringy turkey leg at Thanksgiving, preferring instead a tender slice of breast meat. But put us at a Renaissance festival surrounded with busty wenches and nerdy knaves, and there’s nothing better than the smoked limb of a gamey tom.  

I guess that’s some of the psychology at play in my office. A lady from the adjacent department has recently begun delivering farm-fresh eggs directly to the desks of my co-workers. Reportedly, she has a friend who has a chicken, and if you supply your own crate and a small fee by Thursday afternoon, she’ll bring you a dozen eggs on Friday morning.  

“They’re delicious,” a friend told me. “You can’t get eggs like that in a grocery store.”  

Well, you normally can’t get eggs of any kind from an office chair wheeled through a maze of cubicles. Maybe it’s the smell of toner fumes from the adjacent copier that gives them a special flavor. Or maybe it’s the improbability of having the makings of a weekend’s omelets dispensed like so many payroll stubs that makes them unique.  

I haven’t yet joined this informal egg club, as the stress of the daily grind is taxing my heart enough as it is without adding a high dose of cholesterol. However, the Egg Lady from Accounting crossed my mind when I was driving down a country road last weekend and came across a yard containing a rickety table full of bright red tomatoes.  

Though my wife and I don’t grow a summer garden ourselves, it did seem like it was about time for the local crop to be coming in, and nothing beats the taste of a juicy ripe tomato fresh from your neighbor’s yard. I pulled into the dusty driveway and climbed out of my car, encountering a stiff-walking bumpkin who noted how hot it was, the traditional mid-June greeting in this part of the South.  

“Yup,” I countered. “Pretty dry too. We sure could use some rain.”  

Having been cleared with the proper code words, I was shown his collection of vegetables. Not only were there tomatoes, there were a few potatoes, squash, peppers and zucchinis. All were crudely displayed under a large shade tree, with the barking dog and beat-up tractor across the way clearly implying he had grown them himself. I felt up a few of the tomatoes; they seemed a little firmer than I might’ve hoped, though nowhere near the rock-hardness of the fruit trucked in from Chile that was in the grocery stores. I pretended to be discerning as I examined five and selected four for purchase.  

It wasn’t until I brought them home and proudly displayed them to my wife that I realized I had been scammed by a yokel. He had not grown any of this stuff himself. He had probably bought them at a store a few days earlier, let them soften a bit in the outdoor heat, then set up this country tableau to lure in suckers like me. I’d had no intention of buying vegetables while running from chore to chore Saturday morning, and yet seeing them whiz by the car window from out of nowhere made them irresistible.  

We tried making a BLT out of the tomatoes and I imagined they were palatable. My wife knew better and soon placed the leftovers way out of context, in our backyard compost pile.  

It got me to thinking about how I came to like or dislike the various vegetables I’ve encountered over the years. Having grown up in the sixties, where a regular schedule of mom-cooked meals was the norm, I didn’t develop the aversion to produce that haunts the dreams of modern kids. I had made pleasant if irrational connections to most of the common greens that allows me to enjoy them even today.  

I liked spinach because I liked Popeye. I liked broccoli because they looked like trees. I liked corn because I liked typing, and gnawing line after line of kernels felt like operating a typewriter (I still say “ding” at the end of each row). I enjoyed cauliflower because it felt like I was eating someone’s brain, which was considered a positive experience for a ten-year-old who enjoyed horror movies.  

By the same reasoning, I loathed dishes like lima beans, Brussels sprouts and peas. Not only did they fail to have a cartoon advocate who gathered super-human strength by eating them, they had terrible names. Squash and zucchini were in the same category; no good-natured sailor with bloated forearms was going to save Olive Oyl from the clutches of Bluto by downing a can of butternut squash. And okra, that Southern specialty with serious viscosity issues, was disgusting long before a certain extremely successful daytime talk show hostess could’ve rescued it just because her name rhymed.  

I didn’t even like tomatoes at the time, unless they had been rendered into ketchup or spaghetti sauce. I’m still not among those who can bite into one like an apple, but I can tolerate a few mixed in with wedges of lettuce. Salads themselves were repulsive until modern dressing technology brought us the ranch and green goddess sauces that gave them some semblance of flavor.  

Now, as I finish up this piece, comes word through an email from my wife’s knitting group that one member wants to share the bounty of her garden with anybody who cares to bring along a sack to that evening’s meeting. Exactly what’s being offered isn’t clear, though that hardly matters. If you were expecting to stitch together a nice scarf with a collection of friends and instead are confronted by cabbages, corn and green beans, they’re going to have to be good.  

Seemed like a good idea at the time

Fake News: Little ones have big plans

A 16-year-old girl tries to sail solo around the world, making it as far as the Indian Ocean before a monster wave nearly drowns her. A 13-year-old boy summits Mt. Everest, and is now headed off to Antarctica to climb that continent’s highest peak.

And you think you’ve got the right to be proud of your honor student?

Younger and younger kids are taking on greater and greater demands. And despite criticism from some quarters that they’re being robbed of their childhoods, and often racking up huge expenses when they have to be rescued from the side of some precipice, most child-rearing experts are happy to see youthful freeloaders making something of themselves.

With many physical challenges already conquered, ambitious parents are now turning to more real-world tests of perseverance in the hope that their offspring will be the youngest ever to do something.

In California, for example, 11-year-old Ethan Hoover has entered the race for governor. With that state being crushed by unprecedented budget deficits and ruinous cuts in public services, Hayden faces a prospect almost as daunting as skateboarding off his stepfather’s roof if he’s elected.

“I’ll admit that there are difficult choices that will have to be made,” Ethan said recently. “We’ll have to hope our revenue stream catches some big air if we want to avoid emptying the prisons and closing the schools. And if we don’t, hey, that’s the way it goes. I hate school anyway.”

In New Jersey, 9-year-old Abigail Henson is busy packing her bags in preparation for a summer vacation to be spent in the lawless frontiers of eastern Afghanistan. There, she will participate in a bridge-building project that will link two remote villages across the Khyber Pass, while dodging rocket attacks from nearby Taliban strongholds.

“I’ve been studying all spring about how to pour concrete at altitude,” Abigail said. “I could’ve been rocking out at a Justin Bieber concert with my friends next month, but my parents and I felt it was more important to contribute to war zone infrastructure improvements that could win the battle for the hearts and minds of the Pashtun people.”

Five-year-old Liam Adams of Barre, Vt., is also headed abroad in early July. He’ll be spending the next six weeks working with the European Parliament in Belgium on strategies to prop up the sagging euro, as economies on the continent struggle with massive deficits.

Little Liam blasts the bond rating agencies for converting much of southern Europe’s debt load to junk status as the likes of Greece, Portugal and Italy come to grips with aging populations that test their pension systems.

“Moody’s and S&P, they just need to chill,” Liam told a group of investors before meeting up with the flight attendant who’ll supervise his transit across the Atlantic. “Once the recession has fully bottomed out, these countries will have a chance to recover. Until then, everybody has to be cool. Now if you don’t mind, I need to make a poopy.”

Liam said he was bringing the $100 savings bond his Aunt Chloe gave him for his birthday in May and would deposit it in the European Central Bank as a show of good faith “if I have to.”

Meanwhile, in New York, three-year-old Elijah Oliver has signed a contract with Time Warner to implement a change in the fortunes of the communications giant’s Turner television holdings, where formerly high-flying cable players like CNN and Headline News are struggling in the ratings.

Elijah will have a difficult task reversing the trend of viewers who have flocked to rivals like Fox News and MSNBC in search of more provocative news coverage. There seems to be little room left in the old-media niche of objective reporting, investigative journalism and incisive analysis.

“With Larry King’s announced retirement yesterday, I think we’re poised for a real turnaround,” the shy Elijah whispered to his mommy, who then communicated his comments to reporters. “I’ll be kicking ass in the executive suites over there, if that’s what it takes to get us back to number one.”

Finally, in perhaps the most adorable effort to overcome the limitations of youth to make their mark in the world, 16-month-old triplets Braden, Erin and Gavin Tannen are beating divergent paths to the top of the toddler heap. Braden is headed to the Yukon Territory to become an ice road trucker, Erin will be touring the former Soviet republics of central Asia in an attempt to secure so-called “loose nukes,” and the red-headed Gavin, the youngest of the brood by 12 minutes, is going to try to stop smoking without gaining weight.

“I don’t know which of them is facing the toughest job,” said dad Albert Tannen. “When I stopped smoking, I thought that was the hardest thing I ever did. Though you’ve got to believe that dealing with Uzbeks, Tajiks and Kyrgyz who have such a dire need for hard currency that they’re willing to sell fissile materials to terrorists ranks right up there.”

“Mommy!” added Erin, called a “real girly girl” by her father. “Don’t go bye-bye! Ethnic Tajiks scary!”

Website Review: BaldGuyz.com

It’s tempting to think that life is easy for the Bald.  

No combing of the hair every time you wake up from a nap or come in from a hurricane. You can wear any kind of hat you want, and it’s bound to look better than you’d otherwise appear. You’re never frantically maneuvering your tongue amidst your teeth and gums, trying to remove a hair that somehow slipped in there. Everyday existence is a sweet ride.   

Turns out, however, that there’s a dark side to being hairless. We were reminded of all the obstacles that bald people have to overcome just this week when the newly crowned Miss Delaware, Kayla Martell, announced that alopecia would be her Official Cause, should she prevail in the upcoming Miss America pageant. Kayla’s tiara fit quite snugly over her bald head once she had secured her victory and could remove that silly blonde wig she wore during the competition because there’s no way she would’ve won otherwise.   

In addition to the cruel mocking of an intolerant society obsessed with furry heads, there’s the issue of sunburn. There’s the issue of being blinded every time you look into a mirror on a sunny day. There are apparently challenges in skin care, and how to keep any unwanted stubble in check, and what to do if your bone structure is too pocked with peaks and valleys.   

To the rescue of those who are bald yet still seek to be at least marginally presentable comes the products of BaldGuyz, a company headquartered in New Jersey that specializes in skull care. I’m visiting BaldGuyz.com for this week’s Website Review, and also to get a good chuckle at the expense of those less fortunate than I.   

I first encountered the company’s merchandise in the “reduced” bin at the local grocery store, mixed in with watermelon-flavored Kool Aid and blank VHS tapes. So I was a little surprised to read on the home page that their flagship product was proudly returning to the market after an unplanned hiatus. “Head Wipes are Back!” screamed the headline and, sure enough, there they were, now available in a fragrance-free formula. (It seems that an unspecified mishap at the factory in Switzerland had briefly interrupted the supply chain, but the product should now be back in stores everywhere, hopefully free of the taint of chocolate or cheese or army knives or whatever it was that interrupted earlier shipments.)   

The “head wipe,” in case you’re unfamiliar, is not the manager of all the assistant wipes. It’s a disposable cloth, packaged much like a condom (in an apparent homage to Howie Mandell), that’s infused with chemicals which “clean and moisturize and cool and refreshen” when you rub it into the top of your bald head. The newest line includes a “green tea formula” because, like everything from oil spill dispersants to lethal injections, you gotta have green tea.  

Besides the head wipes promotion, the home page contains links to other products and tie-ins and about a half-dozen hairless guys, all looking manly, happy and – in the case of Bald Guy of the Week “John M.” of Orem, Utah – extremely self-confident, except about the public release of his last name.  

There’s a “Clubhouse” pulldown that includes a Bald Guy Gallery, the Off The Top blog, the Head Stylin’ Tips blog, the BaldGuyz Buddies and the BaldGuyz Club. The gallery features photographs of nearly a hundred men in various states of repose that all include staring blankly at the camera. According to the intro, “there are many famous, and not so famous Bald Guyz. Here you can [missing verb] the different galleries of bald guys” and have fun filling in the dropped action word (“ponder”? “laugh at”? “consider defacing”?) The site, as you might’ve surmised from the company name, is littered with typos and punctuation errors, but who has time for proper writing techniques when you’re so busy being bald?  

The two blogs contain some very helpful and reassuring information for the denuded demographic. There’s a link to an article about the genetic origins of baldness, quoting the chromosomal studies of Felix F. Brockschmidt, which is a scientist name if I ever heard one. There’s a shout-out to “Financial Baldies,” noting the proliferation of “fellow chrome domes in the financial sector” — Fed Chairman Ben Bernanke and former treasury secretary Henry Paulson, among others — and asking “if they vcould [sic] all agree on the process for moving the country forward … and gor [sic] for it, fellow bald ones”.  

The styling tips discuss how to address the problems of dry skin, flaking, redness and uneven tone, and debate the relative merits of head shine. “Some ask how to get a good one (shine) and others ask how to eliminate one,” hinting at possible sectarian violence in the cueball community down the road. If you prefer the shine, “some use a wax while others use butters and oils.” If instead you’re on Team Matte, “we’ve heard stories of people using baby powder or corn starch to dull the shine.”  

Wisely avoiding the urge to take sides in this budding conflict, the company instead prefers to offer a slate of products to reinforce individuals’ own particular world view. There’s the daily wash and shampoo, “a concentrated gel made to clean and moisturize the skin and wash the hair (if any)”. There’s an SPF 30 sunscreen that includes both green tea and aloe vera, as well as cholecalciferol, hydroxypropylcellulose and fragrance. There’s a pre-shave scrub, a moisture gel, a shave gel and a BaldGuyz coffee mug, presumably to combine all these unguents into if you prefer to drink them. And there’s a fascinating contraption called a head massager “to tingle your senses and stimulate the blood flow of your cranium.” It features perhaps a dozen flexible metallic prongs radiating out from a central handle that you can use to arouse your scalp or, in a pinch, serve as a really bad toupee.  

The Frequently Asked Questions section of the website gives some excellent insight into the dreams and fears of the bald populace. “What makes a bald head special?” is answered with the reassurance that “the pores secrete natural oils that attract pollutants and dust which can cause the head to be grimy.” If you want to clean your oily head during the day or if your head is dry and flaking, you’re referred back to the “Products” section for the appropriate wipe and/or salve. “When my head gets sunburned it hurts, and I have tried all the aloe products which leave my head sticky,” notes another questioner. “What can I use?” I’d suggest a morphine hat, although this page leans toward another balm.  

In the News pulldown, there’s a reprint of a 2007 New York Times article recounting how baldness has become almost fashionable. Gone are the days, it says, when it took formidable personalities and names like Kojak, Yul, Ike and Mr. Clean to pull off the look. Now, it can work for everyone, and the piece cites former combover-wearer and BaldGuyz founder Howard Brauner as an example. It’s obvious that Brauner is the pioneer in the field, though props are also given to some rival firms like HeadBlade and Bold for Men. These, however, seem aimed at a younger market niche. Abe Minkara, the awesomely rad dude who started Bold for Men, said he never uses the word “bald.” “I prefer being called ‘bold,’” he said. HeadBlade makes x-treme products like ClearHead (a salicylic acid), HeadSlick, HeadShed and HeadLube, and temporary head tattoos. (I wonder if you could get a hair tattoo). 

In closing, I think it’s worth returning to Miss Delaware to put the issue of hairlessness into a perspective that only a beauty queen could enunciate. 

“I hope to show people that beauty comes in all different kinds of packages,” she said. “No beauty queen should fit into a box and look like a Barbie every time they wake up. Whatever makes you different, you should embrace it.” 

Even if it makes you look like the love child of Bruce Willis and an Airbender. 

Miss Delaware: Bald and beautiful and (sort of) proud

Revisited: A South Carolina politician who makes Sanford look good

One of the reasons so many South Carolina residents and politicians alike are hesitant to press forcefully for the resignation of our love-struck governor Mark Sanford has to do with the man who would succeed him.

Lieutenant Governor Andre Bauer, like Sanford a far-right Republican conservative, hasn’t shown a whole lot more maturity than the graying teenager currently inhabiting the governor’s mansion.

During an interview earlier this week, the 40-year-old bachelor with the bedroom eyes voluntarily brought up the topic of his sexual orientation, which he said has been the subject of rumors.

Lt. Gov. Andre Bauer, shown here not being gay 

Asked, then, if he’s homosexual, Bauer said: “One word, two letters. ‘No.’ Let’s go ahead and dispel that now.

“Is Andre Bauer gay? That is now the story,” he said. “We’re a long way from where we were a week ago.

“We have diverted what the real topic should be here: Is the governor capable for carrying on the duties for which he was elected?”

But Bauer’s opponents won’t have to look far for ammunition against him. Bauer is beloved by many. But his political career has been plagued by missteps both political and personal.

When Bauer was a state representative, he decided at the last minute to run for an open Senate seat, moving to Chapin and changing his voter registration on the last day of filing.

In 2003, while running late, Bauer ran two red lights in downtown Columbia before stopping for a police officer, who quickly pointed a gun at him. Originally charged with reckless driving, the lieutenant governor pleaded guilty to two lesser charges and paid a $311.25 fine.

In 2006, Bauer was pulled over by a state trooper after he was clocked at 101 mph on an interstate. Bauer used his state-issued radio to tell the officer he was “S.C. 2” – code for lieutenant governor. He was not ticketed. When asked about it later, Bauer at first denied the story.

But Bauer has defended himself at every turn. He says “that officer was wrong,” referring to the Columbia police officer who pulled a gun on him.

And he said he did not try to use his influence to get out of a speeding ticket – and that he did not deny that he was pulled over.

“(The reporter) asked, ‘Did you get a speeding ticket?’ and I said ‘no.’ And that was the truth. Had he asked, ‘Did you get pulled?’ I’d have said ‘yes.’ And there is a vast difference there.”

But some don’t see the difference and wonder if Bauer has the credibility to restore respect to the governor’s office should Sanford resign or be forced out.

“After a scandal, the person who comes in after has to rebuild trust between voters and this highest office,” said Doug Woodard, political science professor at Clemson University. “Now you’ve got a problem. You’ve got a guy who’s got a reputation of doing some reckless things.”

“It’s rare that I drive anymore. If I have anybody with me I say, ‘Will you drive?’ because I am paranoid about anything I do,“ Bauer said.

“I’m scared to drink a beer in public. Somebody will take a picture and they’ll say, ‘Bauer’s an alcoholic. He’s a drunk.’ People expect elected leaders to be something they are not. They make mistakes. What you want out of a leader is you want them leading.”

In 2006, in the midst of his first race for lieutenant governor, he crashed a small plane he was flying. After getting out of the hospital, he garnered support for his runoff battle against Mike Campbell, son of previous S.C. Republican Gov. Carroll Campbell, by hobbling across a 2.7-mile bridge in Charleston with his leg in a cast.

Republican U.S. Senator Lindsey Graham, a 54-year-old bachelor who’s a close political ally of Bauer, agrees that the lieutenant governor is not gay, and is quick to add, “I’m not either.”

Revisited: america.com

Happy Third of July! This is Independence Day, right?

I’m just teasing; I know that the Fourth of July is really on the Fourth of July. But apparently a lot of other Americans are actually confused on this subject. I read somewhere a survey that revealed a significant percentage of our populace could not name the date that this holiday is held on – even when asked straight out “when is the Fourth of July celebrated?”

I thought of this when hearing some guy on the radio the other day who had written a book about our nation’s earliest recorded history. He had worked as a youth at the Plymouth Rock memorial in Massachusetts, and recalled visitors to the site asking him why the rock had a plaque reading 1620 when in fact Christopher Columbus had delivered the Pilgrims to this country in 1492. Stupid tourists. Everybody with even the vaguest memory of grade-school history should remember that it was Leif Erikson who brought the Pilgrims to America, and that Columbus was actually the first president.

I know it’s all this “I read somewhere” and “I heard some guy” information that is distorting our national narrative, but the reality is that common knowledge is no longer necessary in the age of the Internet. I used to be known as the King of Trivia at my office because I could readily name who performed the song “Hang on Sloopy” (The McCoys) and what year Maury Wills set the major league stolen base record (1962). Now, nobody needs to “know” this stuff any more (as if they ever did). Now you just Google “Sloopy” and it’s the first thing to show up in the search, unless you mistype “Sloppy” and you end up with Sloppy Drunk Lisa Nova on YouTube drinking Pabst in a bathtub.

However, that’s no way to honor America on its birthday, which is what I had intended to do with this post. I thought I’d turn to Wikipedia to learn more about this entity we call the “United States”. It’s quite interesting to read about something you feel you already know so thoroughly. Among the things I learned:

• Our government is a federal constitutional republic
• Our “Gini” is 46.3 and our “HDI” is 0.950, or fifteenth in the world
• We are either the third or fourth largest country by area in the world, depending on a territorial conflict between China and India
• There’s a supervolcano under Yellowstone National Park
• Our ecology in considered “megadiverse”
• Not only were Texas and Hawaii independent republics before their incorporation into the union, but so was Vermont
• The two non-states considered integral parts of the U.S. are Washington, D.C., and the Palmyra Atoll, an uninhabited territory in the Pacific Ocean
• We lack formal diplomatic relations not with only well-known adversaries like Cuba, Iran and North Korea, but also Bhutan.
• One-third of our population is obese, another third is overweight, our teen pregnancy rate is five times that of Europe, we have the most prisoners, we’re the biggest TV viewers in the world, and “being ordinary or average is generally seen as a positive attribute.”
• Among the most popular websites with Americans is Wikipedia.

This isn’t really giving me the kind of picture I had in mind. Let me instead visit some sites whose names alone should give us a clearer idea of what it is that makes us so proud to be Americans.

Usa.com is a travel site for foreign nationals who are considering a visit to the U.S. However, in addition to the services you’d expect, like reservations, immigration information and how to find a job, there are seemingly unrelated options such as video editing, real estate training and free credit reports. I can understand the last one, since that seems to be a required link on every site you visit these days, but the need for these other services is pretty unlikely. Still, they make more sense than links for Christian singles and Russian women, which are also offered.

America.com describes itself as an “independent platform for all citizens looking to voice their opinions.” This had the scent of a thinly veiled political organ and yet I could locate no ranting diatribes among the few posts I read. With topics like the economy, family and health, this is apparently a good-faith effort to increase open communications among citizens. The only mildly disquieting features I could locate were a section on education (“from kindergarten to universits, this is the place to discuss about school”) with the most recent entry titled “Could I attend an high school?” Also, you have to wonder how American this place really is with an address like Grand-Rue 26, CH-1260, Nyon, which I’d guess is either in France or a distant, as-yet-unnamed galaxy.

Now if it’s crazed rants you’re looking for, you’ve got to check out georgewashington.com. This is run by a madman who believes he has somehow dragged his moldering cannot-tell-a-lie corpse out of its Mt. Vernon crypt to “lend my support to the cause of Liberty.” Here’s just a taste of his eighteenth-century perspective:

“The shadow governments and their banks own almost everything. (President Kennedy warned us, but he was silenced.) Their man-made world religion is taking shape. Controlling the major media corporations … they cleverly present both sides of the political spectrum. Their guiding evil spirits are now celebrating imminent victory of their New World Order. Jesus gave us a warning against accepting the ‘mark’ which will allow one to buy and sell. The USA is the Babylon of today. Prepare as you are able (more on that soon).” He signs off – eventually – as “your humble servant, George Washington (.com)”.

UnitedStatesOfAmerica.com apologizes in its introduction that it’s “still in prototype stage, so anything can happen” and, sure enough, clicking through the home page transports you to the seventh dimension. Not really. Basically, it appears to be a database of 23 million business listings they admit needs to be updated, which probably means about half of them are now vacant storefronts. When it’s finally up and fully running, you’ll be able to access info about arts and entertainment, various professional and personal services, and towing.

The rest of the sites I looked at were primarily re-directed searches that take you nowhere near where you intended to be.

FourthOfJuly.com lands you on GreetingCards.com, which reminds me that I’ve forgotten again to send out Independence Day cards to my relatives. You can also print-out greeting cards for a whole host of made-up holidays, including Remote Control Day (June 29), Barn Day (July 10), Cow Appreciation Day (July 14) and Monkey Day (July 21), and you can customize each of these for recipients who may happen to be gay or lesbian, angry or upset, religious, or international.

Cookout.com takes you to something called “Hover” and its hummingbird logo. IndependenceDay.com takes you to Fox Movies, which I guess was the studio for that awful film a few years back. Fireworks.com wasn’t available through the employee-access filters at my office, which makes perfect sense. UncleSam.com contained the cryptic message “See if you can find another spoon. With someone helping, this would go twice as fast.” I thought perhaps “spoon” was some new digital term I should know, but according to Google it’s only an indie band, a Thai restaurant, a collective that has ceased operation, and some kind of table utensil.

Just the kind of diversity you’d expect from America.

I do declare I’m pursuing some happiness

(July 4) — I thought I’d engage in the “pursuit of happiness” today by doing one of my favorite leisure activities, criticizing the efforts of others. My neighbors look like they have a grand cookout going next door, and the people down the street are loading up their boat trailer for an outing on the lake. Later tonight, there will be several fireworks displays to choose from.

I won’t be enjoying my holiday with any of these frivolous pursuits. Instead, I think it’s important that someone point out the awkward and archaic writing style of our Founding Fathers, as exemplified by their 1776 term paper entitled “A Declaration of Independence.”

I’m not positive it’s a term paper, but it sure reads like one, what with all the run-on sentences and pretentious word choices and calls for armed insurrection. The Declaration is one of America’s most hallowed documents. This is not because it’s concise and well-reasoned but rather, I think, because it’s handwritten in calligraphy on yellowed parchment and contains lots of words like “usurpation” and “consanguinity.” It eventually gets to the point (King of England bad, New England good), however, it uses such a circuitous route to get there that a reader’s attention is easily lost.

I’ve spent my entire adult career as either an editor or proofreader, and so I take great pride in knowing how to properly use the language. Despite recent debate on this site as to whether or not it’s okay to use “summit” as a verb, and my own internal debate about whether I should counter this challenge from my old college roommate by urging him to “eat me,” I think of myself as an able writer. I probably could’ve even been an English teacher if I’d wanted to.

What follows, then, is my attempt to critique the document that paved the way for this great nation of laws, in which people are free to pursue their dreams for well-being and happiness, as long as that doesn’t include having a secure job or reasonably priced healthcare. The sacred words of the Declaration appear below in black, and my notes follow each paragraph in red.

+++

When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. [This should be broken up into at least three sentences, which would then enable you to drop one completely. Also, instead of "when in the course of human events," I might suggest the more colloquial "every now and then" or "from time to time."]

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security. –Such has been the patient sufferance of these colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former systems of government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these states. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world. [Where do I begin? I know what you mean by "inalienable" but your average reader is going to think they're getting a science fiction short story. I'd soften the reference to "absolute despotism" so you don't lose any readers who might be on the fence, and instead go with something like "annoying inconvenience." Don't use "usurpation" twice in the same paragraph when "being grabby" might do just as well. And this "Prudence" you introduce needs to have her character fleshed out if the reader is going to sympathize with her.]

He has refused his assent to laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good. [I like where you're going here. People love bullet points. You've got the makings of a great PowerPoint slide in these next few punchy lines.]

He has forbidden his governors to pass laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them. [I'd lose the semicolon. Though it might be technically proper, most people these days think it's an emoticon, and a forceful call for freedom and justice is only diminished by a winky eye.]

He has refused to pass other laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of representation in the legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only. [I don't know what "inestimable" means so you better take it out.]

He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures. [Criticizing the King's choice of hotels tends to diminish his other negative traits, like the tyranny and such.]

He has dissolved representative houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people. [I'd make the same point about "manly firmness" that I did about "inalienable" -- this is not a bodice ripper and it's not sci fi.]

He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the legislative powers, incapable of annihilation, have returned to the people at large for their exercise; the state remaining in the meantime exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within. [I like the sense of action you're trying to portray here with words like "annihilation" and "convulsions" and "invasion" and "exercise." Keep this up, and you may find yourself writing the screenplay for the next Vin Diesel movie.]

He has endeavored to prevent the population of these states; for that purpose obstructing the laws for naturalization of foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migration hither, and raising the conditions of new appropriations of lands. [If you're trying to make a point about immigration here, you've lost me. Also, you should consider a synonym for "hither," and I wouldn't recommend "thither."]

He has obstructed the administration of justice, by refusing his assent to laws for establishing judiciary powers. [Good to see you back on the snappy bullet points.]

He has made judges dependent on his will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries. [Now you're cooking.]

He has erected a multitude of new offices, and sent hither swarms of officers to harass our people, and eat out their substance. [Again with the "hither"? Also, note that "eat out" has at least two unintended meanings you might want to avoid.]

He has kept among us, in times of peace, standing armies without the consent of our legislature. [Would you be happier if they took a seat? JK ]

He has affected to render the military independent of and superior to civil power. [Timely stuff, in light of the McChrystal story. Way to keep it current.]

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his assent to their acts of pretended legislation: [Okay, and that would include...?]

For quartering large bodies of armed troops among us: [I hope all these colons are just a conversion error. Did you start out in Word Perfect then switch to Word?]

For protecting them, by mock trial, from punishment for any murders which they should commit on the inhabitants of these states: [You might be getting a little carried away with the bullet points.]

For cutting off our trade with all parts of the world: [Or might each of these be individual slides?]

For imposing taxes on us without our consent: [Hope you've got some clip art]

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of trial by jury: [My favorite is the one with the guy holding a pointer.]

For transporting us beyond seas to be tried for pretended offenses: [Some sea gulls could probably work here.]

For abolishing the free system of English laws in a neighboring province, establishing therein an arbitrary government, and enlarging its boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule in these colonies: [Don't bring Canada into this unless you're looking for a big fight on your hands.]

For taking away our charters, abolishing our most valuable laws, and altering fundamentally the forms of our governments: [Serial comma preceding the "and" is not used in American English.]

For suspending our own legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever. [Can't use a period here -- it's not a complete sentence].

He has abdicated government here, by declaring us out of his protection and waging war against us. [Are you sure you don't mean "advocated"?]

He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burned our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people. [Are we talking Vin Diesel here or King George III?]

He is at this time transporting large armies of foreign mercenaries to complete the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of cruelty and perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the head of a civilized nation. ["Perfidy" will be like, zoom, right over most readers' heads.]

He has constrained our fellow citizens taken captive on the high seas to bear arms against their country, to become the executioners of their friends and brethren, or to fall themselves by their hands. [Suddenly this is a pirate story? Focus!!]

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavored to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian savages, whose known rule of warfare, is undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions. [Very politically incorrect. A more frightening modifier of "savage" might be "Michael".]

In every stage of these oppressions we have petitioned for redress in the most humble terms: our repeated petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people. [Finally, I see you're getting to the point. We don't ask that these essays be a minimum of a thousand words just so you can draw things out. We want instead a thorough argument.]

Nor have we been wanting in attention to our British brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, enemies in war, in peace friends. [You'll change your feelings once the Beatles come along, trust me.]

We, therefore, the representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress, assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name, and by the authority of the good people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that these united colonies are, and of right ought to be free and independent states; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the state of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as free and independent states, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and to do all other acts and things which independent states may of right do. And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor. [Do you think 18 commas in one sentence might be a tad excessive? There's also a lot of what I call "la-di-da" in here -- sounding all high and mighty and self-important. It's like the office memo that begins "it has come to my attention" -- totally off-putting.]

[All in all, you have some very strong messages here but they tend to get lost in your attempt to show how many big words you know. Breaking free from the powerful English empire is admittedly a difficult enterprise, and you need strong language to accomplish such an effort, though bullets and guns are also going to be helpful. Don't fall for that old bromide about 'the pen is mightier than the sword' -- that's a load of crap. Speaking of which, I'm taking off an automatic ten points for submitting your work in longhand rather than in an electronic format. How am I supposed to submit this to TurnItIn.com?]

Fake News: Giant Thesaurus rules the Land of the Lost

WASHINGTON (July 5) — The Republican Party ventured even further into the Land of the Lost over the last month with the results of Senate primaries in Kentucky and Nevada where, as one news report put it, “far right candidates were edged by extreme right candidates.”

With the ascendancy of Rand Paul, Sharron Angle and other batty Tea Party ideologues, it’s becoming necessary to re-categorize this new wing of an already strongly conservative organization. Journalists are laboring to describe political views so far out there that even a thesaurus struggles to come up with an accurate modifier.

The Washington Post recently adopted the term the ”Unbelievably Right” to replace what only last month had been the standard, which was the “Extraordinarily Right.” The New York Times uses the “Especially Right” or, occasionally, the “Fantastical Right,” while CNN has opted for a more down-to-earth “Mighty Right” or “Really, Really Right.” MSNBC typically describes the arch-arch-conservatives as the “Mega-Right” or the “Totally Right” and the left-leaning Huffington Post seems to prefer “Life-Threateningly Right” or “Other-Worldly Right”. Fox News calls them simply “our friends.”

To keep up with this race to the extreme fringe, candidates are seeking ever more innovative ways to show how much contempt they have for moderation. One Libertarian candidate for the state senate in Alabama claims he only makes right turns while driving in his car, accusing his Republican opponent of occasionally hanging a left.

“I’d rather ride around the block in circles to get where I’m going than to consider anything on that opposite side of the spectrum,” said former city councilman Avery Bender. “It’s a slippery slope. First, you’re pulling into an Arby’s and, next thing you know, you’re rounding up gun owners into concentration camps.”

In Texas, the Republican candidate for state attorney general refuses to use either limb on the left side of his body as he goes about his daily activities. Judge Allen Newby hops about his chambers in downtown Amarillo on only his right leg. His left arm has been duct-taped to his chest beneath his shirt. He said he’d rather bang his gavel with his right hand and sign court papers with his teeth than succumb to influences of the left.

An Arkansas candidate for the state house has gone one step further, having his left lung and left kidney surgically removed so that there’s no chance his politics might shift in that direction. The procedure at first appeared to backfire, since the reduction in weight on that side of his torso, as well as the excruciating pain, led him to constantly bend slightly to the left.

“I’m going back in to have some weights put into those empty cavities to give me more balance,” said Martin Carroll. “I’m thinking of having the left hemisphere of my brain removed while I’m already under anesthesia. I just have to make sure my insurance company will cover it.”

In addition to these figurative efforts, there is an intellectual segment of the Incredibly Right that prefers to demonstrate its ultra-conservatism through policy rather than symbolism. The National Tea Party Confederation met over the weekend to sip warm, lightly caffeinated beverages, eat ladyfinger cookies off lace doilies while wearing frilly smocks and flowery hats, and hammer out a platform that will deliver America to a fascist tyranny.

The group took Sharron Angle’s contention that there should be no exceptions to allow abortion in any case even one step further. The confederation believes that not only are fertilized eggs entitled a right to life, but that unfertilized eggs as well as the millions of sperm produced by each man every day should also be nurtured to birth and a full life.

“Even if that life consists only of standing on the shoulders of fellow citizens who take up every square inch of land surface in the U.S., we think it’s worth it,” said Tea Party president Mark Williams. “We firmly believe that life is sacred and that it should be endured by every cell potentially capable of replicating itself.”

On the subject of prayer in schools, the Tea Party platform calls for the Supreme Court to overturn rulings that insist on a separation between church and state. Going beyond merely allowing prayer, they want to require it to be shouted loudly into the faces of schoolchildren for at least five minutes each hour.

“It wouldn’t have to interrupt or detract from the teaching that’s going on in the classrooms,” Williams said. “We would count on volunteers from local churches to be on hand while classes are changing to harangue the youngsters into giving their lives over to God while they fumbled for textbooks in their lockers.”

In perhaps the ultimate show of support for a society unencumbered by structure or concern for the common good, the conference called on its supporters to endorse the termination of every single federal, state and local government worker, except for one. The remaining employee would not be stationed inside the dreaded Beltway of Washington, D.C., but instead would constantly travel the country, picking up people’s garbage, enforcing laws, running schools, staffing prisons and protecting the public.

“We know it’s a lot to ask of one person, but we could pay him or her a billion dollars a year to do it and still save trillions,” said Williams. “We just need to find a young go-getter who’s willing to work hard. That shouldn’t be hard with all those grown-up eggs and sperms looking for a job.”

Taking a second job at the convenience store (a satire)

I’ve been thinking about taking on a second job robbing convenience stores.

I make a decent living in my first job as a financial document analyst. It’s the kind of reputable office work you’d expect a 56-year-old middle-class college-educated man to be doing. Nothing more exciting than performance reviews and the possibility of an annual bonus, and certainly not on par with the thrill of confronting a hapless store clerk with a weapon and demanding cash.

I wouldn’t be doing it for the excitement, though. I’m just trying to bring in a little extra income so my family and I might be able to afford a nice vacation this summer. (We’ve been looking at some very affordable package deals online in the Canadian maritime provinces.) I need a part-time position with flexible hours, something that might take advantage of my people skills. I don’t need any benefits — I already have a nice insurance and pension package at my current job, and I imagine that if I’m shot in self-defense during the felony that the criminal justice system will cover my major medical anyway. I just need a couple thousand dollars in non-taxable income. My wife has volunteered to do some babysitting around our subdivision to help out, but this is something I want to earn myself.

I’ve been beating the pavement for a couple of days now, “casing” a few possible “joints.” There’s an Exxon not far from my home that would allow me to walk to work. However, it’s a little rundown and the sign on the door warns I shouldn’t expect more than a $50 “take.” Besides, it doubles as a car wash, and I’d have to be concerned about those dozen or so workers getting in the way. Not that this ragtag crew would rush to the defense of the clerk; they’re more likely to chase me down so they can get a “cut.”

Another possibility was the Metro Express just down the street from my office. I could duck out during my half-hour lunch break, eat a sandwich in the car, pull off the “heist” and return in time for my daily 1 p.m. network conference call. There’s even a bank branch on the way back that I could rob if I find myself with a few extra minutes (those conference calls almost never start till ten after anyway, with so many people from the West Coast hopping on late). I better think twice about the “bank job” though, since it’s a federal crime and I hate to get the “freds” involved (I hope I’m getting all these industry terms right). Besides, I think the wife of one of my co-workers is a teller there, and it’d be really embarrassing if she recognized me.

I checked out another place after work yesterday that may be exactly what I’m looking for. It’s about halfway between my work and home, across the street from an upscale development and just off the interstate. It’s a recently built Circle J franchise, very modern with a polished concrete floor and high ceilings. It even has a small seating area near the self-serve soft drink machines, with a few tables and surprisingly comfortable chairs where I could sit and hatch my plot.

I parked right outside the front door to facilitate a quicker getaway, and walked in through the automatic doors. I wasn’t sure at first if this was simply a planning run or the real deal, but soon came to realize that early rush hour produced a lot of foot traffic that might yield some would-be heroes. I’d be better off simply taking a few notes now and coming back later, perhaps during the middle of the night.

As I entered the store, I was greeted by the clerk on duty. She used such a friendly tone that I thought at first she was talking to someone she knew, so I didn’t respond. I hope she didn’t think I was rude, though I discovered later during my stay that almost no one else returned her cheery greeting either. I circled around the counter and headed for the Froster dispenser (it’s sort of like an Icee or Slushee) and poured myself a small Pepsi-flavored drink. The $1.39 price seemed expensive for a small, but I guess you have to spend money to make money and considered it a worthwhile investment. I paid for my purchase, keeping my head down as much as possible, then took a seat in the lounge off to the side.

It was a great position to watch the comings and goings of the business and get a sense of how I might pull off my first major crime. I read a newspaper and nursed my drink as I made my observations. There were several “No Loitering Thank You Circle J Management” signs (I wish these people would learn to use proper punctuation!) but I didn’t figure they applied to me since I had made a purchase.  There were several overhead security cameras that I’d have to take into consideration. There was another doorway not far from the one I had come through, providing me with another option once I began my getaway. Both doors had height charts affixed to their frames, so witnesses could get a good reading on an identification feature of the assailant as he fled. This didn’t concern me too much, since I have a slightly stooped posture that makes me look shorter than I am.

As for the personnel I’d have to deal with, there were two female clerks on duty: Melissa, the younger of the two who had greeted me, and an older lady whose name I didn’t catch who was doing something in the back near the restrooms — I only knew that it wasn’t cleaning, if the strong urine smell coming from the men’s room was any indication. I decided I could beat either one of them up, if that’s what it came down to. When I saw each of them take a smoke break during my 30-minute stake-out, I figured I could outrun them too.

As I blended into the background of a typical busy afternoon, I was able to pick up on a few more details of the setting. They had one of those walk-in refrigerated “beer caves,” which would be a lot more humane than locking my victims in the freezer, as I hear is usually standard practice in the C-store robbery biz. The high ceilings would probably muffle the sound of any gunshots that were fired. There was a beep tone that signaled every time the automatic doors opened. Hot dogs and Mexican egg rolls were on sale two for $2, and you could mix and match.

I probably saw close to 50 patrons during my visit, and every one of them was greeted by the clerks. I’m guessing that this is something they’re taught at cashier school, as a security measure to make eye contact and deter any potential hold-up men. I hadn’t yet considered the issue of a disguise, counting instead on the likelihood that my everyday dress — business casual — would puzzle them enough.

A lot of the customers spent virtually their entire time in the store chatting on their cellphones, and soon a scheme developed in my mind. I’d keep my head down as I arrived for the robbery, pretending to enter a text message on my BlackBerry, then would flip the phone up to my ear and start chattering away as I approached the counter and confronted the clerk with my demands. This would give me an “out” if I got cold feet at the last moment. I could claim “gimme all your money and don’t try anything funny if you don’t want to get hurt” was just my way of joking around with a friend on the other end of the line.

I gathered up my Froster cup and exited the store. “Have a nice day,” called out Melissa. I steeled myself not to be weak and respond in kind. She seemed like a nice girl and I was glad she likely wouldn’t be working the night shift that evening, when I returned to carry out my rookie robbery.

In tomorrow’s post, I’ll tell you how it all “came down” and how close the “loot” got me toward that six-night, seven-day stay in a quaint bungalow on the cool shores of windswept Newfoundland.

Fake News: Man arrested in attempted robbery

FORT MILL, S.C. (July 7) — A local man was charged with attempted robbery and conspiracy yesterday after he bragged on his blog that he’d stage a midnight heist at a Babbitt Village convenience store.        

DavisW, 56, a financial document analyst from nearby Rock Hill, was arrested by sheriff’s deputies as he tried to enter the Circle J store on Sutton Road. Police say the man wasn’t armed, made no attempt to disguise himself and in general seemed not very bright.        

“He wrote up his plans in a post on the Internet. He came right out and said he was going to rob the store,” said Det. Sgt. Charles Harrison. “What an idiot.”        

DavisW said through his attorney that he was innocent of the charges, claiming he was only trying to be funny.        

“It’s not funny to threaten the security of a small business owner,” Harrison said. “In fact, we read through a lot of his posts and, frankly, none of them are funny.”        

DavisW reportedly approached the entrance of the store around 10 p.m. Wednesday as police staked out the parking lot after reading of the plans online. As soon as he crossed the threshold, a SWAT team of about a dozen officers descended on the man. He offered no resistance other than saying “hey!” and “what?” and “quit it” repeatedly as he was wrestled to the ground, police said.        

After charges were filed, the suspect was released on $10,000 bond.        

“You know, I went back in at the last minute, right before I hit the ‘publish’ button, and added ‘satire’ to the heading, because I was afraid something like this would happen,” DavisW told a reporter after his late-night release. “Apparently, the sheriff’s department doesn’t appreciate satire as a long-respected literary genre. Imagine what they’d do if I used magical realism.”        

DavisW claimed his plot to raise money for a family vacation to Newfoundland was “not serious,” and that his return to the establishment he had been casing only hours before was merely an attempt to buy a Kit-Kat bar.    

“Give me a break, give me a break,” he said. “They have to know I wasn’t serious.”    

Trial was set for Sept. 14.    

 

Levon announces his big decision

Levon Johns was facing a potentially life-altering decision.

His 90-day contract as a temp doing pick-and-pack at a local warehouse was just about up. The boss said he did good work, that they’d like to have him back for another 90 days. But the economy was finally turning around, and he had these other offers to consider.

He did what any sensible 25-year-old would do in the toughest job market in a half-century. He called his friends and family to gather round, hired a reporter to ask him questions, then dramatically revealed his choice for a new job.

“This whole free agent experience, this whole process has been everything I’ve thought and more,” Johns said. “I put myself in a position to have this process where I can hear pitches and figure what was the best possible chance for me to ultimately have a job and ultimately be happy. It’s all a process.”

Johns’ contemporaries would probably consider him lucky to have any options for work at all. Most of them are riding out this recession among the unemployed – sending out resumes, cruising the internet for opportunities, and counting on their parents to support them. Johns will acknowledge his relative good fortune, though he doesn’t think too much of the choices he has.

He could stay at the warehouse where he at least knew what he was doing, though it was tough being on his feet all day, with no air conditioning and few prospects for winning an NBA championship. Or he could try out what he called the “recruiting process, the whole free agent process” and see what his talents might bring on the open market.

There was the night auditor position at the Super 8 motel, but that would mean working third shift and “they said something about occasional help in housekeeping” being part of the duties. There was the paper route, but that would mean getting up at 3 a.m. and he’d have to get his car fixed. There was the Avon position he saw advertised with “income unlimited — set your own hours,” but he wasn’t sure he had the nerve to hit up his friends at the gym to buy skincare products.

Then there was the option of collecting unemployment, and the option of faking a back injury and trying to apply for social security disability.

“It kinda felt good to be recruited, though I don’t know that visiting the website for social security really counts,” Johns said. “I’d say that I really appreciated having potential employers flying me in for interviews and that putting on all these elaborate presentations made me feel wanted. I can’t say that, however, because it didn’t happen.”

Johns said the decision-making process was “tough, you know, tough” and that he had spent many nights tossing and turning, mulling his alternatives. One morning he’d wake up thinking the Avon deal would be a good one, and that maybe he could earn himself one of them pink Cadillacs, before the cobwebs cleared from his head and he remembered that was Mary Kay, not Avon. The next day he’d be leaning toward the auditing job. At one point, he even thought of suicide, then realized you couldn’t really call that a “job.”

Finally, the moment had arrived for the big reveal. Onlookers edged forward in their seats. A nation stood transfixed in suspense.

“How many people know your decision right now?” the interviewer teased.

“Not many,” Johns said. “It’s a very, very small number. And I probably could count them on my fingers.”

“One hand or two hands?”

“Let’s say one.”

“When did you decide?”

“I think I decided this morning,” Johns said. “I mean, I wake up one morning, it’s this job. I wake up another morning, it’s this job. And it’s a process that I felt it was … I may feel like this is the best opportunity for me or not the best opportunity for me. But this morning I woke up, I had a great conversation with my mom. She told me to put my dirty dishes in the dishwasher, that she wasn’t my maid.”

“So the last time you changed your mind was yesterday?”

“The last time I changed my mind was probably in my dreams, where I got a job as an astronaut but I arrived at the launch pad in my underwear and had forgotten my homework.”

“So does the place you’re going to, that you’ll announce in a few minutes, do they know your decision?”

“Yeah.”

“What was the major factor, the major reason in your decision?”

“I think the major factor and the major reason in my decision was the best opportunity for me,” Johns said. “One thing you can’t control is you never know. You want to put yourself in the position where you feel that it’s the best opportunity. You have to put yourself in the right position.”

“Do you have any doubts about your decision?”

“No. I don’t have any doubts at all.”

“Would you like to sleep on it a little longer?”

“I’ve slept enough. Or the lack of sleep.”

“Are you still a nail biter?”

“What kind of question is that?” Johns responded. “I have many bad habits — not putting the toilet seat down when I’m done, picking my nose in the car, I like to masturbate in the men’s room at Applebee’s. But they weren’t really a part of this process.”

“Well, you’ve had everybody else biting their nails. So I guess it’s time to stop chewing. The answer to the question everybody wants to know: Levon, what’s your decision?”

“In this fall … this is very tough … in this fall I’m going to take my talents to Riverview Road and join the team at Super 8.”

The audience wasn’t surprised. News of the likely decision had leaked out several hours before, and had been reported on all the major networks and all over the internet. At the warehouse, however, where Johns had made friends over the last 85 days and they liked the way he brought donuts that one Saturday they had to work, even though there were too many plain and not enough glazed, there was disappointment.

“This is already a pretty depressed area, and now we’re a little more depressed,” said fellow picker-packer Amy Martin. “I thought he was cute, and will hate to see him go.”

Only a day before, three fellow workers had gathered in the parking lot when Johns arrived for his shift, encouraging him to stay. They held home-made signs reading “Levon — you’re OK” and “You’re the King of aisle 17, pallet 4A” and “We wish you wouldn’t leave us but at the same time we’d probably get the hell out of this dump if we could, though you might want to think twice about that paper route; I did that once and nearly wrecked the suspension on my car.” They sang a song they had written to the tune of “We Are the World.” One refrain went “We are the world/We are the warehouse/We are the ones who pick from shelves/And put stuff in envelopes.” Now, these three were home asleep, not thinking the least about their coworker.

Not far away, the general manager of the Super 8 spoke to reporters.

“I think I remember him. He was the guy with the hair and the thing, right?” said William McGrath. “I should probably call him and tell him the position’s already been filled.”

Warehouse will feel empty without Levon

Revisited: Oh, what we’ll do for a job

Gardening as exercise regimen?

The corporate health initiative at my workplace is now in its sixth week. As I described in my June post(http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/06/03/taking-measured-steps-to-better-health/), the so-called Green Paces program encourages employees to improve their physical condition by increasing their walking. Five-person teams were formed, amateurish motivational posters were put up, pedometers were issued and daily step counts were recorded.

At the latest count, my team is ranked tenth out of eleven at our site. On a corporate-wide level, there are 655 teams ahead of us, which may sound bad until you consider there are over a thousand teams involved. Actually, it sounds bad regardless of the competition.

I don’t want to point any fingers at the source of our pathetic performance, but our failure is pretty obviously due to a certain individual on our team. While the rest of us are regularly recording step counts in the range of 80,000 paces per week, Bob is dragging us down with numbers about half that. The least he could do is hop about his office while participating in his conference calls.

Even the best team at our site is only in eighty-fourth place. In an effort to keep our spirit of competition alive, despite having about as much chance of winning as Michael Jackson did at Wimbledon, our local captain is doubling down in her calls for endurance to strongly finish the 12-week event.

“REMEMBER THE GOAL OF THIS PROGRAM IS TO GET PEOPLE WALKING. IT TRULY IS AN INDIVIDUAL CHALLENGE!!” shouts the printout posted next to the breakroom door. “Please be sure to encourage and support each other. Way to go Teams!! Let’s keep it up!!”

I feel like I’m doing my part, so don’t look at me. I recently discovered that simply raising and lowering your heels while standing, from a flat-footed position to a tippy-toe position, counts the same as a step, and actually causes enough exertion to feel like exercise. So, I repeat, don’t look at me – especially when I’m standing at the urinal bobbing up and down like a piston with prostate problems.

If that sounds at all like cheating, it’s not, at least according to the official rules of the competition. In order to give credit for other valid types of exercise, the regulations specify that we calculate any non-walking exercise to equal 2,000 steps for every 15 minutes. The examples mentioned include biking, jogging, swimming and weight-training, though I know for a fact that some people are counting house-cleaning and gardening.

I can understand the cleaning, since I also work up a pretty good sweat vacuuming our carpets (I think of the dripping perspiration as an organic cleanser). But I just don’t see how you can count gardening as a workout. I’ll admire a juicy, vine-ripened tomato as much as the next person, and yet I hardly think of that as a way to keep fit. Touching some dirt might qualify as a stretch, though it’s not quite a workout. I might give you five steps for squishing a caterpillar, but that’s about it.

So I guess my team will continue to languish in the bottom third of the competition. In the last standings, we trailed a group called the “Walk A Roos” by over a hundred miles. “Looks like we have our work cut out for us,” writes our team leader in an understatement. “Wanted to share these results to help motivate everyone to work on increasing your weekly step counts.”

That definitely gets me motivated. Next week, I’m counting 2,000 steps for getting pissed off at the gardeners.

Check with your physician before admiring

I’d do anything (anything) for you

While blogging at my favorite café the other day, I found myself sitting next to what appeared to be an off-site job interview. A young, well-dressed man was eagerly answering questions being posed by the middle-aged guy across from him. I could see a one-page resume sitting on the table between them.

Anyone currently out of work who is fortunate enough to score a one-on-one meeting with someone in hiring mode knows how critical this session can be in making or breaking the success of the job hunt. You want so much to present a good impression that it’s easy for your responses to get a little out of hand.

The job being discussed was a regional sales position for a paint company. The salary was about $50,000 annually, a very good wage for a twenty-something living in South Carolina. The applicant’s willingness to do what it took to succeed in the job was being severely tested.

“This is not a sit-down office job, you know. There may be days where you’re in the stores helping to shelve paint cans,” the hiring manager said. “You can get dirty and sweaty.”

“That’s okay, sir,” the younger man said. “I’m not afraid of hard work.”

“You may start out one morning to make a sales call in Greenville and you’ll get a call telling you to go to Aiken instead,” said the manager.

“I understand,” said the applicant.

“We may at some point split this region into two sectors, and we require our salespeople to live in a certain area,” the manager continued. “Would you be willing to relocate?”

This time there was hesitation in the young man’s response, but he soon agreed that this too would be acceptable.

This is about the point where I wondered how far someone looking for work in this terrible economy would be willing to go. My imagination with how the interview might continue to evolve got a bit carried away.

“Our competitor’s paint is sold right next to ours,” I could hear the older man saying. “Would you be willing to replace their paint with puddings of different flavors? You know, butterscotch for the light brown, vanilla for the eggshell, etc.?”

“Would you be willing to apply our product to your face and neck when you make sales calls to new clients? To show your dedication to the brand?”

“How do you feel about drinking our paint to show how environmentally friendly it is? Not the semi-gloss, of course, just the matte finish.”

“Would you be willing to threaten retailers with a knife if they don’t give us end-cap prominence in the store display? If not a knife, how about a very sharp stick?”

It’s a very tight job market out there. I bet a lot of people would be willing to think about it.

Revisited: Adventures in the craft store

I think I’m a pretty good guy, as husbands go (especially considering that it’s “go” the bad ones increasingly do). I feel I’m a seasoned practitioner of the art of husbandry, having been married for almost 27 years now. My wife may not always agree, but she can’t deny that I’m trying, in at least two senses of the word.

Take this weekend, for example. On Friday, I accompanied Beth to the doctor, for treatment of her sprained back. Saturday, when she was feeling slightly better, we enjoyed a pleasant morning together, sampling baked goods on the patio of a nearby bakery. I spent most of my day Sunday cleaning the house, balancing the checkbook and – check this out, ladies – doing my own laundry. Can you imagine such a thing? A married man taking some responsibility for the maintenance his own environment? Where do I pick up my award?

It was the previous Saturday, however, when I think I truly went above and beyond. Beth has recently taken up the hobby of knitting. While I have no similar pastime that goes to quite that extreme on the feminine/masculine spectrum (I had to give up weekend bullfighting when my shoulder went out a few years ago), I have been fully supportive of this pursuit, especially since it resulted in a cozy pair of slippers for me. So when she needed a few extra skeins of yard and the local crafts store was having a sale, I cheerfully agreed to ride along.

When we arrived at Michaels, I learned that I was to be an accessory in more ways than one. There was a coupon online that entitled the bearer to one-half off the price of any knitting supply, but the deal was only one-per-customer, and my wife needed to purchase two skeins to finish her current project (it’s either a scarf or a bandolier, I forget which). My assignment was to pretend I was going to be purchasing one of the yarns for by own personal reasons, though God only knows what those might be.

For readers who aren’t familiar (men), the Michaels chain is the nation’s largest retailer of art and crafts materials, “helping crafters of all ages express their imaginations with skill and originality,” according to their website. Operating in 49 states and Canada, they offer a large selection of arts, crafts, framing, floral, wall décor and seasonal merchandise. The thousand-plus stores currently in business carry 37,000 basic items in warehouse-sized stores averaging close to 20,000 square feet of selling space.

When we walked into the Rock Hill store, I felt totally overwhelmed by a world I didn’t even know existed. This must be, I thought, what the first explorers of the ocean floor felt like, except with more air and fewer pounds-per-square-inch of water pressure. To the right of the entrance was an entire section devoted to ribbons, with displays that suggested incorporating them into everything from flip-flops to clipboards to lanterns to baby sleeping pillows. Just ahead was a sign-up station for an upcoming family event, in which participants would “create a summer fun tote bag.” To the left was a sign pointing to “pens, pencils, brushes and canvas.” What the hell, I wondered, is a “canva”?

I could see other department signs hanging from the ceiling in the distance. There was an entire area specifically for “doll and bear supplies” (what could these two subjects possibly have in common, except perhaps for Sarah Palin?) Another sign showed the way to “fashion crafting,” while a third and fourth that were only vaguely readable through the artificial ferns promoted “mosaic supplies” and “glue and adhesives.” They even had a department of foam, which I had believed was only available by pouring Pepsi on your ice cream.

Through the ferns, I could make out a familiar landmark 

Finally, I saw a sign that pointed to something familiar, the rest rooms. Faced with the staggering array of options that lay before me, it seemed like an excellent time to wash my hands. I told Beth to go ahead and pick out the yarn ball I would be buying, and I’d meet her near the cash registers in five minutes.

Fortunately, there were no crafting opportunities available in the bathroom, though I had little doubt that the ladies’ facilities across the way contained gaily decorated commode handles and small statues created out of discarded toilet paper cores. But it did have one feature that would be as little-used as everything else in the store. Jutting out from the wall was one of those baby-changing stations that you see more and more these days in enlightened men’s rooms. Included next to the instructions on how to open the device and strap your baby therein was the raised print of Braille.

Into this improbable world of concepts I never knew existed, here came another: the idea that any man at all would even enter this store, that he would need to use a restroom, that he would have a baby with him, that the baby would need to be changed, that he’d be willing to do it and that, on top of everything else, he’d be blind. And I thought scrapbooking was unlikely.

I finished my business and met Beth near the checkout. I was extremely nervous about the caper we were about to pull. I’ve been involved in very little legally banned activity in my life, and was reluctant to have a career of crime begin with something as unprofitable as buying a ball of yarn that I had no intention of using. If I’m going to risk prison time, at least allow me the thrill of sticking up a liquor store. I am not about to explain to my fellow inmates that I’m in for coupon fraud at the crafts shop.

There were two registers in operation as we approached. I had insisted on going first so that it would technically be my wife who was involved in the criminal enterprise rather than me (as I noted earlier, such a good husband). Just as I stepped forward, my cashier picked up her cash drawer and walked away. Beth had already begun her transaction at the other station, so I was left with no choice but to step in line behind her.

My face felt hot and the back of my neck tingled. While friendly chatter was going on between the Michaels employee and my wife, all I could hear was the throbbing of my heart. We were both purchasing exactly the same item, right down to the dye lot number, whatever that is. There was no way the store would see this as a random coincidence, considering we had 36,999 other articles to choose from. My turn came and I gamely stepped up; the coupon trembled so much in my hand I was surprised the cashier could grab it.

“Oh, I know what you’re doing,” she said. “You’re both using the coupons.”

I was tempted to run but a bank of artificial flowers blocked my escape. I think they were flowers – artificial something, anyway.

“Don’t worry about it. I see nothing,” she laughed in a Sergeant Schultz accent.

I was flooded with relief and managed a slight chuckle. With the ruse exposed, we finished the transaction and I handed the yarn over to Beth, ready to get out of this place as soon as possible.

How fortunate for me and my continued freedom that the cashier was vision-impaired. If she needs a spot to change her baby’s diaper, I know exactly the place.

Just a quick couple of errands

My wife and I had a few errands to run the other afternoon. She cracked me up several times with the casual banter that goes on between two people who’ve been together so long, and I realized how little credit I give both her and my son for suggesting funny ideas for me to blog about.

I started scribbling notes for multiple topics when we got home, then realized perhaps a raw transcript would give a more accurate flavor of what happens on just an average day, doing and talking about average things.

+++

We were allegedly ready to leave five minutes ago, but Beth is still rounding up stuff for the journey. I’m slightly annoyed, though we husbands rarely think this common annoyance through. We’ve got our keys, our wallet, maybe a cellphone, maybe some clothing, and we’re ready to go. Wives have to anticipate anything else that might be needed, and be sure to bring that along.  

We complain about the delay, yet when we need a tissue, a lozenge, a piece of paper, a nail clipper, an egg crate or a copy of the Articles of Confederation, we turn to them and they’re prepared.  

+++  

Where do we go first? Arby’s is farther away and open till late, Earth Fare is much closer but they sometimes close down the hot bar early.  

Nearly 30 years of marriage yields a quick consensus: Arby’s first, then Earth Fare.  

It’s easy to be on the same page with this one. Arby’s food might lose its heat faster, yet the taste and nutritional value will be the same as it would be a year from today. Earth Fare carries organic food, which everyone knows has to be consumed within 30 minutes of whenever the animal or vegetable involved has been killed and/or uprooted.  

+++  

“Have you noticed how the squirrels seem to have taken over the neighborhood this year?” I observe as we pull out of the driveway, narrowly avoiding squishing one.  

Beth postulates that it’s because we adopted Tom. We lured the hulking, scar-faced tabby in from his outdoor existence about a year ago and successfully converted him to the domestic faith. Perhaps it’s no coincidence then that the ecology of the subdivision has since been transformed. The red-tailed hawks have been unable to keep up sufficient air power without the ground support that Tom had provided, and now we’re overrun with squirrels.  

“You’re probably right,” I say. “We removed an ‘apex predator’ from Brookshadow food chain.”  

Now Tom has a new nickname (“A.P.”) and my son Daniel has a name for his rock band, should he ever choose to form one.  

Tom now lives with Man, the ultimate apex predator

+++  

I get a chance to ruminate about the new effort I’ve been asked to take on at work. I’m heading up a project team that will look at our internal processes and suggest improvements that will both cut production time and improve quality. I’m supposed to solicit ideas from all 54 people in our office, synthesize them into coherent action plans, and then take responsibility when none of them work. I’m kind of like a walking suggestion box, except I prefer to be stuffed with Baked Lays sour cream and onion flavor chips than slips of paper containing illegible rants against management.  

We’ve been told the “blue sky” is the limit for what we might propose, and after only two weeks I’m already trying to think how I can get my boss on the next space shuttle.  

The problem is that we can only suggest process changes, not people changes, despite the fact that there is a core group of incompetents who are always screwing everything up.  

“How do you come up with a step-by-step process that everyone can do the same, when not everybody has the same mental capacity?” I wonder aloud.  

“Maybe you have two separate flowcharts with a decision point right at the beginning that asks ‘are you a moron?’” Beth suggests. “If you answer ‘yes,’ you take one path, and if you answer ‘no,’ you take another.”  

“Nah, that won’t work,” I answer. “We just had mandatory sensitivity training a few weeks back, and we’re not allowed to think people are morons anymore.”  

+++  

We drive past a Blockbuster store about halfway to Arby’s. They’re “open” — if by open, you mean they will theoretically still serve people willing to drive halfway across town rather than get their movies from Netflix, Redbox or the Internet. However, there’s not a single car in the parking lot.  

+++  

We pull into the Arby’s drive-thru line. There’s only one car ordering in front of us, usually a good sign that we’ll be in and out quickly. However, there are four people in the car, and the person placing the order is doing so from the back seat.  

“They can’t do that,” I protest to Beth. “It’s the driver that has to order. This is going to take forever.”  

“You forget,” Beth notes, “that we live in the freedom-loving state of South Carolina. No helmet laws for motorcycle riders, legal fireworks sold on every other corner, and pay-day loan franchises everywhere. Our forefathers died at Fort Sumter so that people could order fast food from the back seat.”  

“But you were born in Massachusetts,” I remind Beth.  

“Oh,” she answers. “Right.”  

+++  

We finally get up to the speakerbox to place our order: a three-piece chicken strips combo and two junior roast beefs (just for once, I’d love to use the proper plural and ask for “junior roast beeves,” but I’m afraid what they would give me).  

“Mmmph rmphh phmmph arumm,” comes the distorted reply. Beth and I look at each other, not quite knowing how to respond.  

“I think he said ‘will there be anything else?’” Beth guesses.  

“I’m thinking it was ‘would you like a drink with that,’” I tell her.  

So I try to phrase my reply in a way that would answer both questions.  

“Just the chicken and the sandwiches, that’ll be all,” I say.  

“Mmmph rmphh,” he answers, which in this context we think means pull ahead to the pickup window.  

+++  

The guy takes our money and hands us a receipt, but there’ll be a brief delay in delivering the food. I once drove away in a similar situation without getting my order. This was at a Taco Bell, so I was out only $2.17. When I realized my error, I was not about to go back and make the case to a manager that, while I might be stupid enough to order a beef soft taco, I am not yet not so mentally challenged that I would pay them money to keep it.  

+++  

We get the bag of food and drive away. Though the combo is for my son, I’m quick to exact our family’s “baggler tax.” This is our policy that allows the person picking up the food to eat any french fries that have fallen from their cardboard sleeve and into the bag (hence, the name “baggler”), delivering a slightly diminished collection of potato tubes to whoever is waiting at home.  

Might this practice be adopted as a government tax policy? Any income you earn that is fried or greasy and drops out of your pocket on the way home from work goes toward federal revenues, and you get to keep the rest.  

+++  

Now we’re headed off toward Earth Fare, and Beth tells me about her visit earlier that afternoon to Books-A-Million.  

“They have a whole aisle and end-cap devoted to nothing but Bible covers,” Beth marvels. “Some are psychedelic, for the teens; some are camouflaged for hunters; some are all lacey, for elderly women, I guess.”  

“Why would a hunter want to camouflage his Bible?” I wonder. “Wouldn’t he want the deer and wild turkey to know how the Living Word of God could save them? Not from the hunter, maybe, but at least from the fires of Hell.”  

“You should write about that in your blog,” Beth suggests, and so I have.  

(L-R) Football Bible cover, girly Bible cover, camouflage Bible cover

+++  

We pull into the Earth Fare parking lot. It’s hot, so we’re on the prowl for the spot closest to the door. We see one that’s empty, then realize it’s being reserved for the employee of the month.  

“That space is always empty,” notes Beth, a frequent patron of this store. “I think their employee of the month quit.”  

+++  

Inside the store, there’s a well-dressed young woman just standing in the deli. Just standing there. She’s obviously not shopping, she’s just shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot while a group of young children wait for their free “Family Night” meal.  

A new family walks into the area, a little confused at how this free meal promotion works, and the woman steps forward to offer assistance. She’s been employed to be standing by in case anyone needs help filling out a cartoon order form using a variety of crayons made available for that purpose.  

“I saw her here earlier and wondered if she was a living mannequin or something,” I told Beth. “I’m glad to see she’s a professional loiterer. That seems so much more respectable.”  

+++  

Regular readers of this column might remember the debate Beth and I had recently on the subject of bringing your own re-usable bag to the grocery store. She asserted I was “anti-bag” and therefore “pro-environmental degradation,” while I countered that I simply forgot half the time and, besides, it kept me from buying more than I could carry in two hands.  

Now, on this particular visit, as we’re checking out, I notice that Beth has forgotten her bag. Aha! Just the chance husbands watch for — exposing inconsistency or even hypocrisy in their wives’ arguments.  

“But all I bought was a container of soup and a sandwich, and I’m taking it with me directly to work from here,” she said. “I didn’t need a bag.”  

“So you will admit, then, that there are scenarios where it is acceptable, even appropriate, to not bring your own bag?” I countered.  

I thought I had her on the ropes of logic when she reached deep into the voluminous body of case law that exists to address minor domestic disputes such as these.  

“Just shut up,” she suggested good-naturedly.  

I couldn’t argue with that.  

+++  

Apparently, I need to remember to change the cat litter when we get home. Or so I’m told.  

I should never have brought up the whole bag thing.

Fake news: Foiled terror plot included knitters, weavers

NEW YORK (July 12) — Federal investigators have broken up a terrorist ring that plotted to turn Americans’ desire for fashion “zazz” against them, hobbling their limbs and reducing them to ridiculous caricatures.

Arrested at various locations around Long Island were members of a coalition of avant-garde knitting clubs, a previously unknown sleeper cell called “Al-Qaida in The Hamptons,” or AQITH, and high school student Peter Parker, better known as “Spiderman.”

The groups had allegedly been plotting together for weeks in a scheme to get women to wear the preposterous knitwear, either by heavily promoting it in fashion magazines, or by having Parker force it onto them, shooting the outfits from a contraption on his wrists using his “spidey” powers.

“This was a pretty sophisticated scheme that could’ve disrupted society to an unprecedented extent,” said FBI spokesman Earl Palmer. “Had it succeeded, everyone from vaguely trendy working women to outright fashionistas would’ve made fools of themselves in public. Our normally functioning society would’ve crumbled, as everyone stopped their regular activities so they could point and laugh at the fashion victims.”

The plot was originally hatched by a loose federation of knitting and crocheting enthusiasts who had allegedly grown bored of creating shawls and booties. The groups, known by names such as the “NitWits,” the “Knitting Knuts,” and the “Eager Weavers,” wanted to break out of conventional molds and design clothing that would be both eye-catching and cutting-edge.

Soon, however, their weekly meetings at coffee shops around central Long Island were infiltrated by members of Al-Qaida, who worked secretly to send fashion-forward knitting concepts over the edge and into the realm of the bizarre and frightening.

“Americans’ obsessions with distorting the female image by promoting form-fitting, kicky ensembles must be turned against them,” read a statement on the AQITH website. “The glory of Allah must not be diminished by darling sweater sets, flirty skirts and bright flower prints. We will take fashion to the edge, then use it to destroy Western society.”

A banner scrolling across the top of the website summarized the ominous theme: “Death is the new black.”

The FBI released images of several of the designs, which are shown below.

“As you can see, it would be impossible for normally functioning society to continue if people walked around in get-ups like these,” said the FBI’s Palmer. “This is not your grandma’s knitting. Instead, I see heavy influences from not only Al-Qaida, but also the Taliban and the Muslim Brotherhood, with maybe just a hint of Fause Haten and Peter Kor.”

The blue outfit at the top, for example, requires wearers to have their arms removed from the shoulder sockets and transplanted onto their hips. The yellow jumper makes it virtually impossible to eat. The red piece makes you feel like a turtle, while the blue minidress at the bottom will likely get you arrested for indecent exposure.

“We never intended for it to go that far,” said Sunshine Lowenstein, president of the Eager Weavers. “When those long-bearded newcomers wearing the edgy vests with wiring accents started coming to our Tuesday night meetings, we were just glad to have some guys in the group. I’ll admit they led us into some pretty radical directions but we never intended our knitting to become some kind of jihadist statement.”

Parker’s attorney said the Spiderman was only approached once by the cell, when he was asked if it were possible for him to “squeeze in” some dressing assignments during his crime-fighting duties. Parker reportedly told the group he could theoretically launch the knitwear from his wrists, but couldn’t guarantee how it would fit on his target.

“He’s much more comfortable working with silk,” said attorney Austin Learner.

It’s shocking how often cats get hungry

As I write this, it’s the unholy hour of 2 a.m. About 15 minutes ago, I was awakened by a wet nuzzling on my cheek. It can’t be my wife, as she’s working nights right now. It can’t be a dolphin, or there’d be the smell of fish. Then I hear a loud meow directed straight into my ear, and I realize it’s a hungry cat.    

About six months ago, I took over the chore of keeping our three kitties fed. For years, my wife and son had maintained a routine of twice-a-day feedings: a dry mound of colorless veterinarian-approved senior formula around 7 in the morning, then at 9 in the evening, just for a little variety, a dry mound of colorless veterinarian-approved senior formula. Everybody was fat and happy.    

When I took over, the gravy train started slowly going off the tracks. I’d prepare my turkey sandwich before work each morning, and toss Harriet, Taylor and Tom a scrap of lunchmeat. When I’d get home from work around 1:30, they’d recognize me as that big, awkward human who was an easy touch, and would circle my legs, their faces plaintive and irresistible. I’d succumb and offer up a few morsels of cat treats, then repeat the same ritual several hours later. Discipline and order were spinning out of control.    

This was turning out to be a bad role for me. I pretend not to care whether other humans like me, but I always felt I had a special bond with the animal kingdom, that my simple nature and base instincts gave us a common bond. We don’t have dogs, yet most of those I encounter on the street like me enough to repeatedly bark “hello” when I jog past their homes. Birds and squirrels seem to regard me as a kindred spirit, at least when I’m not accidentally running them over with my car. I have an innate confidence that if I ever encountered a bear or wolf or tiger out in the wild, that they’d like me too, and not just for my well-marbled meat.    

So now the cats are spoiled, and think they can demand food from me at any hour of the day or night. The trio is led by Harriet who, at age 14, apparently won the job of chief beggar by virtue of her seniority and her more piercing meow. I’ll be under a blanket taking an afternoon nap, and suddenly feel a commotion working its way from my feet toward my upper body. She starts by rubbing my shoulders with the side of her face, a move I resist by turning over and snuggling deeper into the blanket. Little vocalizations follow – nothing too disturbing, mostly just a polite announcement that she’s a cat and not a home invader and, if it’s not too much trouble, would I be kind enough to hand over all the cat food. When this fails, she resorts to the wet nose.    

As much as I like animals, and as much as I acknowledge the cat’s reputation for cleanliness despite the fact they bathe in saliva and tromp through a litter box every few hours, I can’t stand to feel their spittle on my skin. Harriet knows this, and so saves her ultimate weapon until the nudges and over-dramatic purrs have failed to rouse me. I burrow deeper into the sheets, trying to keep every square inch of my body covered. No matter how thoroughly I try to hide, Harriet always manages to find an exposed elbow or finger, and starts lapping away.    

My wife enjoys this show of affection, and can lounge for long moments while Harriet or Taylor methodically work a small patch of skin, searching for what she claims is love and I contend is salt. (Tom, who’s only been indoors for a year, prefers a more fang-based interaction with humans). I, on the other hand, can’t stand it. Maybe it’s the constant drumbeat of mandatory safety training at work that puts bodily fluids on par with nuclear waste or Newt Gingrich as a hazardous material. Maybe I need to distinguish between the lick, which involves simple saliva, and the nasal nudge, which involves mucus. Maybe I need counseling to realize that animal slobber is a natural and organic thing, soon to be available in health food stores.    

So when Harriet announced herself at my pillow early this morning, I took the easy way out and got up to feed her. She may have had a legitimate point in this one case. For their actual dinner hour, I’ve started recently to give them only a half portion around 9 o’clock and the other half about 45 minutes later. Taylor has taken up the sport of competitive eating, and will wolf down a full portion so rapidly that he ends up “refunding” (look it up at ifoce.com, the website for major league eating, if you dare). Last night, I dozed off before I could offer up the second course, so her complaint was a valid one.    

Still, I need a solution to this problem that doesn’t require any responsibility or self-control on my part. And I may have found it.    

During a recent visit to the vet, we picked up a brochure from the makers of Invisible Fence. For those of you not familiar with this product, it involves burying a small power grid around the perimeter of your yard which transmits a mild electrical shock to a collar worn by your outdoor dog when he tries to pass over it. It’s basically a self-tasering device that eliminates the need for ugly chain link to surround your property. After a few jolts to the throat, even the dumbest dog learns to avoid the invisible fence.    

The concept is a very clever one, and it didn’t take long for the sales folks at IF to come up with some other applications. My first choice for venturing outside the doggie market would’ve been electric collars to keep weak-willed humans away from bars, fast-food establishments, pawn shops, me and the like. Perhaps the company thought that metallic chokers with a transmitter attached would not be an acceptable fashion statement, though a visit to any high school could’ve convinced them otherwise.    

Instead, the Invisible Fence people are now offering an option to keep cats geographically controlled. And it somehow works not only out in the yard but indoors as well. The brochure doesn’t explain this in any detail, so I’m left to assume they won’t be digging up your living room and sinking high-powered cable around your sofa, but instead employ computers and perhaps a GPS connection to track your kitty. When Puff jumps onto the dinner table and starts gobbling your chicken — as shown in one picture in the brochure that’s captioned “does this look familiar?” — a geosynchronous satellite is duly notified and space lasers offer a virtual “no!” from 150 miles above the Earth.   

Not sure how Harriet, Taylor and Tom would react to that. You could make a strong argument that the punishment is a bit harsh for the “crime” of curiosity and hunger. Electrocuting your pet for the slight annoyance they occasionally cause doesn’t seem to give them enough credit for that whole love and companionship package they offer. But those wet noses sure will help with the conductivity.   

Time to be fed ... again

An editorial: Actually a bunch of really small ones

Just about every newspaper, from the monolithic New York Times to the local small-town shopper, seems to have an opinion page. Much of the space in that section is taken up with editorials, in which various news events are dissected, and the writer eventually comes out in favor of or opposed to something. Most of these are longer than they need to be, in a sad attempt to justify whatever opinion is being espoused.

In today’s fast-paced society, we have to get to the point more quickly than ever. Glaciers are melting, people are starving and celebrities are finding themselves in trouble. Editorialists need to wrap it up faster. Tell everybody what to do and how to feel, and move on already.

Today I’d like to introduce the concept of what I call the “mini-torial.” What follows represents my sentiments on a variety of topics, all of which you’d typically skip right past if they were long and boring. Since instead they’re short and snappy, you will read and heed my word.

• There’s too much variety in the world. Have you been to the grocery store lately? There must be hundreds of different cereals to choose from. This is simply too many. Everything should be the same.
• Bristol, Bristol, Bristol. You’re such a young girl. Do you realize what you’re doing? You’re not pregnant again, are you? Bristol?
• Farewell, George Steinbrenner. It’s such a shame that people eventually have to die. We call for a moratorium on mortality.
• Chinese characters are unnecessarily difficult to read. It looks like a typewriter got stuck in one place and all the letters just typed one on top of the other. Come on, China. Enter the twenty-first century. Start writing and speaking in English.
• Professional car racing for sport represents such a huge waste of gasoline. Stop it.
• BP should be ashamed of itself for allowing the gulf oil spill to go on this long. Wildlife is dying. Clean-up crews are getting hot and dirty and smelly. This is not how we’re supposed to spend a summer at the beach.
• Apple announces it will have a major announcement about the iPhone 4. Just tell us already.
• We’re looking forward to Tiger’s return to St. Andrews for this week’s British Open. We hope there’s a lot of exciting golf and not so much distracting chatter about his personal life. Isn’t it about time that we all started acting like grown-ups?
• There’s no need for phone books anymore.
• Those Hitler shenanigans got completely out of control. Someone should have stopped him back in the 1930s.
• Things are looking increasingly bleak for our war effort in Afghanistan. Soon it will be winter and the Taliban will retreat even further into their caves. People are going to be catching some awful head colds.
• It’s so easy to take oxygen for granted. It’s all around us, in the very air that we breathe. We call on Congress to establish a National Oxygen Appreciation Day, to honor this most precious of gases.
• We need to jump start economic growth. This recession has gone on for far too long. There are people out there looking for jobs, and there just aren’t that many to choose from. If you know anyone who is hiring, could you mention my name?
• The so-called obesity epidemic just means that a lot of people are fat. Since when is that news?
• Congratulations, South Africa, on the success of the recently completed World Cup soccer tournament. Job well done. Let’s do it again some time.
• Muslims in New York are planning to build a mosque right down the street from Ground Zero. If they have the traditional call to prayer five times a day, it’s going to be difficult to hear, what with the traffic noise and such.
• Even though we didn’t usually agree with Dick Cheney’s politics, we wish him well as he recovers from major heart surgery. That can take a toll on anybody, especially someone his age.
• It’s been six months since the terrible earthquake in Haiti, and there’s so little progress in that poorest of Caribbean nations. And now hurricane season has arrived. It’s just one thing after another with those people.
• Twitter is enabling people to keep up with their friends like never before. This is a good thing in our increasingly hectic lives. We need to stay in touch. Let’s have lunch together some time.
• LeBron James has forsaken his hometown of Cleveland for the bright lights and excitement of Miami. Let’s hope he realizes how hot it gets there in the summertime.
• The Tea Party movement needs to stop being against things and start proposing some stuff. Nobody likes too much negativism. Couldn’t they at least say something nice about President Obama’s posture?
• Happy Bastille Day to all the French! We’ll make no snide comments here about how they’re effete, weak, foul-smelling and cowardly. Instead, it’s a day to celebrate all things French – not just kisses, toast, fries and dressing, but the people too.

Star review: The Sun

Ask most people what they think about the sun, and they’ll likely be confused by your question.

They may respond in a meteorological context, thinking that you’re asking how they like the summer heat. Some may answer that the cloudless glare of a typical July day is just what they wanted for their beach vacation, that their tan will soon be a beautiful bronze. Others may be more confused than most, saying that The Son isn’t quite as great as The Father, but He’s certainly preferable to The Holy Ghost in your top three favorites of the Holy Trinity.

If you clarify the issue further to focus on the star at the center of our solar system, the average person may not have much of an opinion at all. The sun is just there, it’s always been a part of our lives, such a routine presence that we barely give it a second thought. It’s like asking if you’d rather have something other than a head at the top of your neck stalk, or if gravity ever gets on your nerves. You’ve never really considered if you’d prefer the sun to be a different color, closer to or further from the earth, shaped like a triangle rather than a circle, or made out of congealed meat rather than mostly hydrogen.

I asked my son (the one with an “o,” not a “u”) what he thought about the sun. Daniel responded “meh,” which the dictionary defines as “an expression of apathy, indifference, or boredom.” Even no less an authority than the Beatles were hard pressed to care one way or the other.

“Here comes the sun,” they sang on their landmark 1969 album Abbey Road. “It’s alright.”

I wanted to learn more about our closest star, that source and sustainer of all life on our planet. So I’m making the sun the subject of this week’s Friday Review.

Most weeks, I devote this space to a critique of websites. Occasionally, I’ve ventured farther afield, reviewing everything from the literary merit of the operating instructions for a box fan to movies (“Avatar was beamed through a projector”) to decades (absolutely loved The Aughts). I’ve even evaluated the worthiness of entire nations, for example giving England eight ampersands on a scale of one to ten, since the British isle is shaped like an ampersand and I very much enjoyed my 2005 visit there.

This being the height of a summer heat wave throughout much of the East Coast, and considering that we just had a solar eclipse across a narrow band of the Southern Hemisphere, and considering that two days from now is “Sunday,” let me tell you a little about our sun.

Obviously, when you’re talking sun, you’re bound to be talking about extremes. It has a diameter of almost a million miles, it weighs about 330,000 times what the earth weighs and, as you might expect, it’s very hot. While its surface temperature is a toasty 10,000° F, its core approaches 22 million degrees, rivaling even my hometown of Miami in August. Once regarded by astronomers as a relatively insignificant star, it recently got a status upgrade, being called brighter than about 85% of the stars in the Milky Way galaxy. (Take that, Luyten 726-8 AB!) By fusing hydrogen into helium, it releases tremendous amounts of energy, with estimates ranging as high as 384.6 yottawatts. That’s a lotta watts.

Though we tend to think of its location as being in “the sky,” it’s technically positioned close to the inner rim of the Milky Way’s Orion Arm, in what’s called the “Local Fluff” or “Gould Belt,” about 28,000 light years from the Galactic Center. Its neighborhood is known by cosmologists as the “Local Bubble,” a space of rarefied hot gas possibly produced as a remnant of the supernova Geminga. If you wanted to go there, you’d travel about 150 million kilometers (hang a hard right at Venus, you can’t miss it). Don’t rely on Yahoo maps to give you reliable directions. When I typed in “The Sun” as my destination, it sent me to Sun, Louisiana, and, even worse, had the nerve to route me through Atlanta.

The sun is a near-perfect sphere, with an oblateness of about 9 millionths, for those of you who care about oblateness. About three-quarters of its mass consists of hydrogen, with the rest being mostly helium. It exists in a plasmatic state rather than being a solid, so you couldn’t walk on its “surface” even if you had really thick soles on your shoes. Its color is white, although from the earth it may appear yellow because of atmospheric scattering.

And check this out: it’s rich in heavy elements, which could most plausibly have been produced by endergonic nuclear reactions during a supernova, or by transmutation through neutron absorption. Is that cool or what?

Looking beyond such dry technical specifications, let’s examine a little of the history of humans’ relationship with the sun. Most ancient cultures regarded it as a deity, as they did with most things they couldn’t understand (imagine what they’d think of Ke$ha or Rand Paul). Their most fundamental understanding of the sun was as a luminous disk in the sky, whose presence above the horizon created day and whose absence caused night. Many civilizations constructed monuments to the sun, from simple stone megaliths to more elaborate floorplans such as Stonehenge and the Aztec pyramids of Mexico.

One of the first people to offer a scientific explanation for the sun was the Greek philosopher Anaxagoras. He reasoned that it was a giant flaming ball of metal even bigger than a chariot. While today’s academia might’ve rewarded him with an endowed chair in the astrophysics department for such a revolutionary theory, he was instead imprisoned by the authorities and sentenced to death. A kind of tenure, you could argue, but probably not what he had in mind.

Later scientists refined these early ideas, usually at their own peril. Copernicus was the first to offer a mathematical model that put the sun rather than the earth at the center of the solar system. Galileo made the first known telescopic observations of sunspots. The Islamic astronomer Maghribi first estimated the sun’s size, and got it wrong only by half. For their troubles, all were teased mercilessly by their respective cultures.

Today, much of what we know about the sun comes from solar space missions, begun as early as 1959 with NASA’s Pioneer series of spacecrafts. Skylab and the Space Shuttle both delivered equipment into orbit that allowed for surveillance unfiltered by our atmosphere. Former President George W. Bush famously proposed a manned mission to the sun during a late-night party in 2006, when he suggested that the danger of such an attempt could be mitigated “if we go at night.” That plan was later scuttled by budget constraints and sobriety.

Earth-based observations have long been problematic, as looking at the sun with the naked eye for even brief periods can be painful. The refinement of light-concentrating optics like binoculars and telescopes seemed promising at first, though these came with the unfortunate side effect of making you blind. Kids still enjoy makeshift experiments out in the yard, proudly giving ants and other insects a close-up view of earth’s nearest star with a magnifying glass. This attempt to educate rarely turns out well for the bugs.

As for the future, earth’s fate in relationship to the sun is precarious. When it eventually enters its red giant phase (similar to adolescence in its trouble-making capacity), the sun will have a maximum radius beyond earth’s current orbit. This sounds bad but could be offset by the fact that the sun will have lost 30% of its mass due to stellar wind, and all the planets will have moved outward. “If it were only for this, earth would probably be spared,” notes Wikipedia hopefully. However, “new research suggests that earth will be swallowed by the sun owing to tidal interactions” and that, even if the earth could escape incineration in the sun, “still all its water will be boiled away and most of its atmosphere would escape into space.”

Despite these dire predictions, I think we can all agree that we’re much better off for the sun’s existence than we’d be floating in the icy void of interstellar space. Through photosynthesis, the energy of sunlight supports almost all life on this planet, with the only exceptions being creatures sustained by deep-sea volcanic vents, most toenail fungus and the aforementioned former president Bush. Because of these nutrients, because of the light and the warmth it provides, and because we all feel happier on a sunny day than we do on a cloudy one, we should do more to appreciate our local neighborhood furnace.

All hail, mighty Sol! I give thee one star on a scale of zero to one stars, because you’re the only star we need.

I hate to tell you this, but you just went blind

Revisited: More questions face Judge Sotomayor

Supreme Court nominee Sonia Sotomayor underwent a barrage of questioning in her confirmation hearings yesterday, with critics on the Senate Judiciary Committee wondering how she could have failed to anticipate that a group of old white men would get so outraged about supposedly prejudicial remarks made years ago.

“She should have shown enough foresight to predict that we’d one day care about such things,” said ranking Republican Sen. Jeff Sessions of Alabama. “Certainly I never anticipated that I’d be pushing sensitivity toward other races and ethnic groups. But I’m not the one who has to go through this process. She is.”

Sessions and other Republicans grilling President Obama’s first high court nominee cited Sotomayor’s now-famous 2001 comment that “I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experiences would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white male who hasn’t lived that life.”

“I am deeply offended that she would consider the judgment of white males to be less than that of others,” added Sen. Lindsey Graham (R-S.C.). “Until about six months ago, I thought our judgment was way better than anybody else’s. Now, I’m convinced that we’re at least as good.”

Meanwhile, it was expected that the questions facing the federal appeals court judge would only get tougher during Thursday’s session. A list of some of the planned queries to come from both Republicans and Democrats was released to the press late yesterday afternoon. They include the following:

• If the divorce of Jon and Kate were to reach the Supreme Court, and you had to decide the merits of the case based strictly on the Constitution, US Magazine and “Entertainment Tonight,” which of those two idiots would you have put to death?
• How much do you weigh? Is that with or without the cast?
• ¿Donde esta la biblioteca?
• Can you spare ten dollars until Friday? We get paid on Friday.
• If one train was traveling west at 65 mph and another train was traveling west at 50 mph on a completely different continent, why would anybody care?
• Did you ever have to make up your mind? Pick up on one and leave the other behind? It’s not always easy and it’s not always kind; did you ever have to make up your mind?
• What is eight times five?
• How do you pronounce your name again? What kind of a stupid name is that?
• If a white man and a wise Latina woman both had to decide between KFC’s new grilled chicken and McDonald’s new Angus burger, who’s life experience would lead them to make the better choice? And, as a follow up, would you like fries with that?
• Do you work out? I only ask because of how taut that dark blue business suit is against your broad, manly shoulders.
• Who’s uglier: Judge Judy or Judge Reinholdt?
• What’s the difference between a Puerto Rican and a Mexican?
• I know you come from the Bronx. Why is it called “the” Bronx and not just “Bronx”?
• Antonin Scalia — mmm — am I right?
• Would you mind terribly if I asked you to get me a cup of coffee? Cream, no sugar.
• Can you spell “jurisprudence”?
• You’re not that Argentine woman that was seeing Gov. Sanford, are you?
• Potent Potables for $800: Martini.
• Do you believe the dinosaurs were obliterated by a meteor some 165 million years ago and, if so, how do you explain the current makeup of the court?
• I understand you’re a practicing Catholic — what’s the deal with the pope?
• The specialized cardiac muscle tissue known as the atrioventicular node, or AV, is located in the wall between the right atrium and what? And can you put your answer in the form of an interpretive dance?
• Are you sure you aren’t Asian?
• See this thing on my lip? What IS that?
• How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if he were bound by the legal precedent set in U.S. vs. the City of Ontario, California?
• Regarding your decision about the firefighter exams in New Haven: what you really wanted was to handicap the entire rescue squad because you hate all people from Connecticut and hope to see them succumb to a fiery death, right?
• Do you have any sisters?
• We Republicans are really into Twitter — would you consider tweeting your thoughts during court deliberations?
• Where does the devil come from? Has he always been around?
• Two of my adjoining rooms have hardwood floors, one honey colored and the other darker. Is there any way to make the light one darker or the dark one lighter so they will match?
• My son has bumps on his head. Is there anything that can be done for him?
• Credit or debit? Paper or plastic? Would you like to donate a dollar to the Boy’s Home of East Lansing?
• A three-part question: When you ruled that nunchucks were not protected under the Second Amendment in the Maloney case, did you intend that virtually any state or local weapons ban would be permissible? Secondly, did you see that movie where that guy almost took someone’s head off with nunchucks? And finally, was that the coolest thing ever?
• Can you describe a time where you have been required to perform as part of a team? What was the situation? What part did you play in the team and what was the outcome of the exercise?
• How ‘bout them Uyghurs?

Revisited: Guilty pleasures from my iPod playlist

It sure was great seeing Paul McCartney perform on the David Letterman show the other night. It brought back lots of memories of some great songs from my youth. It was an inspired touch to have him performing on top of the building marquee, recalling the Beatles’ final public performance on a London rooftop 40 years ago. He looked wonderful for a guy in his sixties; a little jowly maybe, but hardly deserving of the steel girders propping up the marquee beneath him.

As a baby boomer, the soundtrack of my youth included a stunning variety of the most innovative music ever produced. Much of what we still recall today justly deserves the designation of “classic.” However, there are quite a few compositions that would be better off lost.

Some of these songs just had unfortunate titles. There was a Journey hit of the seventies, a soaring melody sung by Steve Perry, one of the best power ballads of the time until it came to the chorus of “So now I come to you, with broken arms.” There was the Boston classic “Four-Letter Feeling,” truly great guitar rock unnecessarily spoiled by the suggestive title. Even the Beatles themselves, widely acknowledged for three generations now as the greatest pop group of all time, stumbled with the unfortunately titled “Hey Jew.”

Other songs may have seemed like a good idea in an earlier, less-sophisticated time, yet just don’t fit the politically correct sensibilities of today. Take “Young Girl,” a number-two smash from 1968 by Gary Puckett and the Union Gap:

Young girl get out of my mind
My love for you is way out of line
You better run girl
You’re much too young girl
With all the charms of a woman
You’re just a baby in disguise
And though you know that it’s wrong to be alone with me
That come-on look is in your eyes.

It might be easy to dismiss a little-known band trafficking in pedophilia like the Union Gap, but even some of the greats had moments of questionable judgment. John Lennon wrote lyrics to “Run for Your Life” that included the line “I’d rather see you dead, little girl, than to see you with another man.” Neil Young penned “A Man Needs a Maid,” reacting to a fictional breakup with the reassuring thought that he could always pay “someone to keep my house clean, fix my meals, and go away.”

There is a difference, I would contend, between popular songs about misogyny and sex crimes with minors, and the songs that are bad for more innocent reasons. These are the so-called “guilty pleasures” that populate many of our iPod playlists, mine included. When you’re looking for a certain beat, a catchy interlude or a fond but distant memory to inspire your workout at the gym, quality of composition is not a prerequisite.

So here I come clean with some of the favorites from my music player, along with an attempt to justify my choices. If no justification is possible, I’ll admit that too.

 “I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do” by Abba. Answering the musical question “Do you realize how many people loathe your music? Do ya? Hunh? Do ya? Do ya?”

“The Stroke” by Billy Squier. A rhythmic masterpiece (or master-something) containing the unforgettable lyric “stroke me, stroke me, do it, stroke me, stroke me.”

“The Good Ship Lifestyle” by Chumbawumba. Inexcusable.

“Life in a Northern Town” by the Dream Academy. If the makers of Ambien set up a charter school in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, this might be their senior class project.

“1812 Overture” by Tchaikovsky. Originally composed for a cereal commercial in the 1960s (“this is the cereal that’s shot from guns,” for those of you under 50), the piece was later adapted and expanded for use at the conclusion of the annual Boston Pops Fourth of July concert. I’m pretty sure it’s the only song on my playlist that features a solo for cannons, and makes me wish Abba had thought to write more music for medium-range artillery.

“All We Like Sheep” from Handel’s Messiah. A celebration of our relationship with the Lord, or, a discussion of the many advantages of domesticated herd animals (wool, mutton, milk, nursery rhymes, etc.). In either case, an inspiring example of Handel’s genius, regardless of whether you’re a Christian or an animist.

“Wind It Up” by Gwen Stefani. What do you get if you combine the yodeling song from “Sound of Music” with a dance-club beat, then throw in the occasional voice of a black guy noting that “she crazy”? My sad, sad attempt to enjoy the latest sounds in pop.

“Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves. A breezy summer hit that captured the spirit of warm-weather efforts at “tryin’ to feel good,” until later connections to a certain killer hurricane with 25-foot storm surges dampened Katrina’s career.

“Beautiful Stranger” by Madonna. Indefensible.

“Word Up” by Melanie G. Former Spice Girl tries to go urban but instead ends up in the central business district.

“Tubular Bells” by Mike Oldfield. Hypnotically repetitive, this piece is best known as the theme from the movie “The Exorcist.” The only lyrics are spoken introductions of the musical instruments – bagpipe guitar, glockenspiel, mandolin, fuzz guitar, Farfisa organ – capped off with the triumphal announcement of “tubular bells!”, apparently a kind of chime.

“Kicks” by Paul Revere and the Raiders. An early anti-drug anthem that would’ve been a lot more effective had it not been sung a band that sported tri-corner hats.

“Grand Hotel” by Procol Harum. Most regrettable.

“Livin’ La Vida Loca” by Ricky Martin, “YMCA” by the Village People and “Relax” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. There’s just something about the heresy of listening to gay anthems like these while watching Fox News on the Y’s treadmill that gives you a tremendous energy boost.

“El Condor Pasa” by Simon and Garfunkel. This ethereal but little-known piece, featuring ghostly Andean flutes, is either about the endangered scavenging vultures of South America, or Paul Simon’s disappointment at losing a bidding war on a townhome in Manhattan.

“Something in the Air” by Thunderclap Newman and “Spirit in the Sky” by Norman Greenbaum. I always thought of these songs as being a paired set, but didn’t realize why until I typed them here and considered the similarities in the titles. They’re both incredibly pretentious.

“Chariots of Fire” by Vangelis. A must for any treadmill runner who looks as bad in shorts as I do.

“Clones (We’re All)” by Alice Cooper. A wonderfully clever song from late in his career, except for The Title (Being Too Clever With).

“How to Kill” by Art of Noise. Inexplicable.

“Walk Like an Egyptian” by the Bangles and “Venus” by Bananarama. These could easily be the same song – “Walk Like a Venutian.”

“How Can I Keep From Singing?” by Enya. One might suggest this now-aging new-age ingénue consider stuffing a large, wet sock in it.

“Flying Dutchman” by Richard Wagner. Not sure you can characterize Hitler’s favorite composer as a “guilty pleasure.” This is also the tune used in the Looney Tunes classic wherein Elmer Fudd, another of history’s homicidal maniacs, sang “kill the wabbit.”

“Circle of Life” by Elton John. I forget now where the circle started for Elton but I know it ended up on a tour with Billy Joel performing before half-filled arenas.

Welcome to GameStop. How can I babble at you today?

While my son battles a recurring illness, I’ve become a soft touch for trips to the local GameStop, one of the nation’s leading video game retailers.

You’d think a chain of over 6,000 stores worldwide that traffics in hot releases like Medal of Honor (in which you play on the ”most unforgiving and hostile battlefield conditions of present day Afghanistan”) and Lego Harry Potter (same concept except with fewer Taliban and more Legos) would be wildly successful. However, as recently as a few months ago, they were among the more desperate victims of the recession, teetering on the brink of bankruptcy. This could be due in part to the fact they have three separate stores within a mile of each other in my hometown.

So I find myself patronizing one of these stores several times a week, and it tends to be a mixed experience. Occasionally they’ll be swamped with dozens of customers whose combined age is less than my 56 years, some wandering the aisles in search of the perfect summertime diversion that doesn’t involve leaving the living room, and others waiting in a long line for the cashier. Other times I can waltz right in, state my business, have the teenage cashier ask if I might be interested in the new waltzing game, and be out of there in short order.

When the wait is lengthy, it tends to be because the chain has adopted the same X-TREME! approach to customer service that it shows in many of its games. Workers have been well trained in an extended script of mandatory verbal monologue that makes the screenplay to Avatar read like a cartoon short.

Call them on the phone to ask for directions and you get “Thank you for calling GameStop, where you receive an extra 10% on trade-ins of up to three previously used games. This is Gary, how may I help you?”

Walk in the front door and you get a hearty “Welcome to GameStop!”, whether they’re ringing up someone’s purchase, helping a mom find a cheerleader game for her daughter, or being held-up.

If you manage to find your selection from racks that cover the walls floor to ceiling, you join the queue waiting to pay your money. The line creeps slowly along, in large part because of jugheaded customers who aren’t sure what they want — “I need 360 X-Box points and that game that makes you say ‘whee!’”, says a grandma — or whose debit card is tapped out, so “can I call my dad to bring some cash? He’s only three states over.”

The other reason the checkout is slow is because of the litany of questions that the workers are required to ask. Here’s what I faced recently when I finally got to the counter, to trade in three used games and purchase a new one.

“So how’d you like Final Fantasy 14?” he asks, despite the fact it should be obvious from my age that, between planning for retirement and prepping for an upcoming colonoscopy, I would have little time to be playing video games.

“It wasn’t for me, it was for my son,” I have to answer. “But he assures me it was at least twice as fun as Final Fantasy 7.”

“Do you have an Edge Card with us?” he asks, referring to the frequent-customer program that gets you up to 20 cents off the price of a $50 game.

I produce the card, and shove forward the three trade-ins. He scans these into his computer register, then asks to see a photo ID, which somehow guarantees I didn’t steal these from my retirement advisor. I sign a signature pad, hoping the credit will be enough for the Red Dead Redemption I “want.”

“Are you going to want the warranty with that? An extra $3 covers you for a year from any kind of damage, wear and tear, malfunction, breakage …”

“No, no, I’m told we don’t want that,” I interrupt. It’s usually barely a week before Daniel beats the game, which puts it into the next trade-in pile long before any rainbow-colored digital bits might fall off the disc.

“How about a strategy guide?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Are there any other new releases you’d like to pre-order? Maybe Oil Spill in the Gulf: Death to the Pelicans or Elena Kagan’s Confirmatorium?”

“Nope, this is going to do it for today,” I say with finality.

“Okay, well with the trade-ins, and remember you’re getting an extra 10% credit on those today only, though be sure to stop by tomorrow when our next random promotion begins, you owe only $13.46. You got a great deal here,” he assures me.

I swipe my credit card, and he asks again for the picture ID as well as the card. He’s comparing the two — wants to make sure they’re both made out of plastic and approximately rectangular — and finally I  pass the security check. My new purchase is bagged and ready to go, but not before one final hustle.

“I hope we did good for you today and ask, if you get the chance, stop by our website and let us know how we did,” he says, using a yellow highlighter to point out the TellGameStop.com survey website on the receipt. “You have a chance to win one of ten $500 gift cards given out each month.”

I look at the nametag on his shirt and tell “Brad,” with all momentary sincerity, that I will do exactly that, and thank him again for his help.

On my way home, I remember it was this same Brad who has helped me several times in the past. I genuinely do appreciate that he always treats me with respect, despite the fact that my fogey-tude causes him to inwardly roll his eyes every time I walk in the door. I like that he thinks I’m hip enough to have an opinion on the latest hot new games and doesn’t try instead to sell me a pack of playing cards or a nice backgammon set. So when I get home, I go online and take the survey.

When I enter feedback code, I learn that “Brad” is a pseudonym that lets him relate to his teenage demographic better than his real name, which is “Frederick.” (Great name for a Halo villain, not so great for a gabby GameStop clerk). I run quickly through the various questions, made simple by the fact that Brad/Frederick does such conscientious work and deserves to be rewarded. I’m “extremely satisfied” with my overall GameStop experience, so much so that I nearly climaxed, but there’s no place to add that. I did make a trade-in with my purchase and it was worth “about what I expected.” Yes, I was “acknowledged” when I came in the store; yes, I was offered additional products or services; and yes, I was thanked for my purchase. I considered myself “very likely” to recommend this location to a friend, and “very likely” to visit again some day.

Finally, I’m asked what could this GameStop location do in the future to improve my experience, and am advised that “all ideas and suggestions are welcome.”

Well I must say, despite the questionable management of the business’s finances at a macro level, I have to admire the can-do spunk and spirit shown in this store. I’m always happy to see Brad working because I know he’ll do right by me, even when they’re at their busiest. He’ll even sneak me to the front of the line on occasion, concerned perhaps that my advanced age will send me toppling over should I have to wait too long behind the jugheads. There’s no telling what he could accomplish.

So I figure I might as well aim high in this free-form field of the assessment, and hope that perhaps the genuine and ambitious attitudes of Brad and his friends could be transferred to issues in the troubled outside world.

“Improvement of service not possible unless they can give away money, increase stalled housing starts, or help Israelis and Palestinians toward a permanent two-state solution,” I write. “Also, fix sign on door that says you open at 11 on Sunday when you open at 10.”

Fake News: It’s Alvin Greene, as I live and breathe

[Editor's Note: The quotes in the following article are real. The hypothesis that the candidate is a living organism is speculation.]

MANNING, S.C. (July 19) — Alvin Greene, South Carolina’s surprising Democratic nominee for the U.S. Senate, made his first campaign speech yesterday, displaying a fully functioning autonomic nervous system and manipulating his diaphragm, lungs and larynx in such a way as to cause sounds to come out of his mouth.

Greene, the unemployed Army veteran whose sole exposure to politics occurred when he allegedly tried to lure a female college student to his bedroom, won a surprising primary victory in May to challenge incumbent Republican Sen. Jim DeMint. Greene got off to a slow start in the race for funding — his $1,000 war chest pales in comparison to his opponent’s cache of $3.5 million — but he’s emerging now on the campaign trail, starting to make up lost ground with a six-minute speech in his hometown.

Attendees at the event claimed that Greene appeared to be breathing, and that a rapid heartbeat was apparent beneath his suit. His perspiration was definitely functioning, as the 32-year-old Democrat repeatedly wiped his brow with a handkerchief. Salivation was somewhat inhibited, apparently by his nervousness, but the diameter of his pupils did respond to slight changes in light in the Manning Junior High School gym. Observers sitting immediately behind the Senate candidate confirmed there was little doubt that his digestion was functioning normally.

Greene bravely resisted the “fight or flight” response, grasping the podium tightly to overcome those instinctive animal urges. Even though it was evident that blood was diverted away from his GI tract and skin via vasoconstruction, that his skeletal muscles had blood flow enhanced by as much as 1200%, that peristalsis was inhibited and that all sphincters were constricted, Greene thoughtfully discussed jobs, education and justice as key themes of his campaign.

“Okay, my campaign is about getting South Carolina and America back to work and moving South Carolina and America forward,” Greene said.

He stressed repeatedly the overriding need for job growth as the nation emerges from its worst recession in decades.

“Just last month in June, we saw a net loss of 125,000 jobs across the country,” he said. “Let me repeat that — Just last month in June, we saw a net loss of 125,000 jobs across the country. Just last month in June, we saw a net loss of 125,000 jobs across the country.”

Greene pointed to education, infrastructure repair and a series of bizarre science experiments as means to improve the lot of the state’s citizens.

“We spend more than two times of our tax paying dollar on inmates than students. A stronger PTA should be put into action — instead of doing less for education, we should be doing more,” Greene said. “Most people who travel to South Carolina get here by vehicle.”

Greene added that “in addition we can expand the water” and that “now is the time to implement … methane.”

Calling for “justice in the judicial system,” Greene alluded to his own troubles with the law. He is facing a felony charge of showing obscene photos to a University of South Carolina student, then trying to get her to accompany him to his home.

“First-time nonviolent offenders should be granted such programs as pretrial intervention,” he said. “Okay, I know this guy that got into some trouble, mm-hmm, he happened to be a person of color … anyhow this guy met the criteria for pretrial intervention but was denied. This same guy’s trial was scheduled for last week, but was put off.”

Greene failed to identify the guy further.

“Anyway, moving on, let’s get South Carolina and America back to work and let’s move South Carolina and America forward,” he said. “Let’s reclaim our country from the terrorists and the communists.”

Displaying a wit previously well hidden, Greene used his own name to call voters to the polls this November.

“From Alvin, S.C., to Greenville, S.C., if you’re not registered to vote, register to vote,” he said.

He finished his address by asking the crowd to “check out my website and let’s get South Carolina and America back to work.”

The circle of life, as formed by a snake

When I headed down the driveway for my daily run Saturday, I came across a snake. Our neighborhood is rife with suburban wildlife, though most of it isn’t of the reptilian persuasion. Squirrels and rabbits and the occasional raccoon are not uncommon, and are generally kept in check by the hawks and the SUVs. I’ve seen a few tiny snakes smushed lifeless in the road. This one, however, was relatively gargantuan, measuring at least three feet in length and as thick as my pinkie, if my pinkie had polio.  

More troubling still, I think he was alive.  

He (I assume it was male because it was obviously lost) lay on the hot concrete, hardly noticing the monstrous jogger looming above. There was no movement I could detect, yet there were no obvious squish wounds to indicate he’d been injured. He appeared to be a healthy specimen, maybe just a little tired. The midday July sun will do that to you.  

I called my family to come take a look. None of us are trained herpetologists, yet I thought we might be able to arrive at a consensus on his health as well as how cool it was to have a snake in our driveway.  

“Poke it with a stick,” encouraged my son. I know next to nothing about snake first aid, but poking with a stick has to be near the top of the triage checklist.  

I found a stick that seemed suitable. As I started the poking procedure, the snake opened his mouth. I don’t know whether he was yawning or saying “ahh” or threatening to bite me. Whatever it meant, it caused me to drop the stick and step back about two paces.  

Now he surely must’ve realized there were humans nearby as he went into his slithering act so as to impress upon us how seriously he took his snakehood. He twisted into a couple of loops and inched slightly toward the edge of the driveway. I was hoping for a hiss or two but he apparently wasn’t in the mood.  

“What do you think we should do?” I asked my wife, knowing how critical humanity is in managing the survival of every species except our own.  

“He looks like he’s okay,” Beth said. “Maybe he’s just basking in the sun.”  

Yeah, that’s right, I remember that from an old high school biology class. Reptiles are cold-blooded creatures, which means they have to get their body heat from their surroundings. Even though just down the hardtop from no less than three Hondas seemed a less-than-ideal place to bask, I was reluctant to interfere.  

“I just want to make sure we don’t back over him,” I said, more concerned about the stain he’d leave behind than in preserving the natural world. “Let’s let him be, and I’ll check him again when I get back from my run.”  

I thought a lot about the snake during the two-mile jog. Though man thinks nothing of clearing whole forests and destroying habitat after habitat, he’s suddenly stricken with concern when a deer is catapulted across the hood of his car, through the windshield and into his lap. Whether the snake was in some kind of distress or merely working on his tan was really none of our business. Mother Nature is a cruel but ultimately wise mistress, and we are foolish indeed if we think it’s our role to offer salvation to one of her straying children. If this snake were fated to die, that was his tough luck. If you’re interested in longevity, try being Zsa Zsa Gabor on your next pass through reincarnation.  

When I returned from the run, the snake was still in about the same position but now it seemed pretty obvious he wasn’t doing too well. His head was raised slightly and his mouth was still open, yet it seemed more like rigor mortis than some sort of action pose. Sadly, I retrieved the stick (I know, I know – you’re not supposed to re-use medical supplies) and resumed some light poking. There was no reaction. I ramped up my treatment to include prodding and jabbing. Still no response. It was time now for extreme measures, so I kicked at him with my shoe. Nothing.  

It was obvious he had passed.  

I broke off a smaller branch from the stick and maneuvered it under his lifeless body. I somehow found the strength to raise him from the concrete and toss the corpse into a pile of leaves under a nearby bush. Perhaps not the most reverential of ceremonies, but it was hot as hell out there and I needed to get inside for a shower and dinner. “Taps” was not to be in the cards for this sad veteran of the animal kingdom’s never-ending war to survive. He was to die an unknown soldier, though we posthumously decided to name him Frank.  

Now this is where the story gets a little creepy. I knew that the body would eventually biodegrade, providing nourishment for tinier less respectful creatures than I. I figured that would take at least several days, and could be carried out in relative privacy under the bush. It was nature’s way, and I didn’t need to interfere.  

I was curious though how that process was working out for Frank when I went for my next-day run, so I snuck a peek at the gravesite. Frank was gone.  

“Snake Jesus!” cried my son when I told him the news. “He has risen!”  

“Calm down, calm down,” I chided. “He was probably picked up by a hawk.”  

“Hawks don’t usually go for dead prey,” offered my wife helpfully. “You’re probably thinking of a vulture.”  

“We don’t have vultures in this neighborhood,” I responded a bit stiffly. “They’re not allowed, according to the zoning covenants.”  

“Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” continued Daniel, until I told him to knock it off. Save your conversion miracle until you’re a little older and meet a nice Southern Baptist girl. Maybe she’ll be from one of those snake-handling sects.  

So we’re not really sure what became of Frank. Maybe one of the local squirrels saw the opportunity to craft himself a nice leather jacket. Maybe a possum mistook him for a pasta dish.  

Or maybe he wasn’t dead after all, and had slithered back into the underbrush to resume the rewarding life of the modern serpent. Frankly, that’s what I was hoping for.  

This could've been me (right) but wasn't. My snake wasn't nearly that big, and I'm not bald.

Fake News: The weird and otherwise

The news of the world and the news of the weird are getting more and more similar. It shouldn’t be much longer before we can combine both into single news stories, much like the following:

+++ 

President Obama signed into law a sweeping expansion of federal financial regulation at a White House ceremony yesterday, before being briefly interrupted by the sight of a parasailing donkey flying high over the capital.

“Because of this law, the American people will never again be asked to foot the bill for Wall Street’s mistakes,” Obama said before signing the legislation. “There will be no more taxpayer-funded… Hey — is that a donkey?”

Sure enough, it was. Promoters from a Russian beach resort had attached the donkey to a speedboat in the Potomac River, then flew him high above Washington for about 45 minutes. Witnesses were horrified as the frightened donkey brayed in panic. And they weren’t too happy about how little the Dodd-Frank Wall Street Reform and Consumer Protection Act will do to prevent banks from becoming too big to fail.

“We’ve done virtually nothing to prevent another big corporate bailout one or two years down the road,” said liberal commentator Allen McGrath. “The American people are much like that donkey — up in the air, helpless, and not too bright.”

The president defended the limited scope of the reform, noting that Republican opposition made more wide-ranging action politically impossible.

“These reforms represent the strongest consumer financial protections in history,” Obama said. “And no high-flying asses — I’m looking at you, Mitch McConnell and John Boehner — are going to keep this much-needed action from being implemented.”

The president added, “I can’t believe that’s a parasailing donkey I’m seeing right next to the Washington Monument. Incredible.”

+++

The temporary cap keeping oil from flowing unchecked into gulf waters off the coast of Louisiana held its ground for a sixth day Wednesday, despite the arrest of a man charged with smuggling 18 rare apes under his clothing.

While at one end of the Gulf of Mexico, BP and the Coast Guard continued efforts to permanently seal the leaking well, in Mexico City Roberto Cabrera was busy explaining to authorities how the tiny titi monkeys had made it into his girdle.

“This is absolutely unprecedented,” Cabrera told customs police after his plane landed at the airport. “What are the odds that a deepwater drilling platform would explode, and that I’d have these monkeys in my Spanx, all in the same year?”

Mexican authorities were unmoved by the man’s claim that both events were symbolic of a world tumbling into chaos.

“The oil companies definitely showed neglect in their safety procedures, but at least there were some efforts at avoiding an environmental catastrophe,” said Mexico’s minister of internal affairs Alberto Lopez. “This guy had to have intentionally put those monkeys in his pants. It’s just not credible that they got there by accident.”

+++

Troubled celebrities had good days and bad days this week.

In Los Angeles, Sandra Bullock successfully obtained a restraining order against a man accused of stalking her since 2003. But half a continent away, the Porky Pig mascot at Six Flags Great America was viciously attacked by two men.

Bullock took legal action when Thomas Weldon, a recently released psychiatric patient, showed up near her home in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The Oscar-winning actress was not harmed in that incident, which is more than can be said for the 24-year-old woman wearing the mascot costume.

Two off-duty employees from the park took a photo with Porky on Monday afternoon, and then punched the mascot in the head 10 to 15 times.

“That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m afraid of happening to me,” Bullock said when told of the Illinois incident. “There are a lot of crazy people out there.”

The Porky attackers told police they were inspired by the actress’s performance in “The Blind Side,” where her character adopts a troubled teenage boy who vaguely resembled the classic Looney Tunes character. But authorities weren’t buying it.

“These men had a grudge against a fellow employee, and viciously assaulted her in broad daylight,” said police spokesman William Perkins. “Th-Th-Th-Th-Th-That’s all there is to it.”

+++

Fox News TV star Glenn Beck announced last weekend that he was suffering from macular dystrophy and could go blind within the year. But it won’t be soon enough to spare him the ugly scenes playing out before the Boulder City Council.

Leaders in the Colorado municipality recently heard a presentation from a citizen who stepped up to the microphone dressed only in his boxer shorts. The council will vote on new decorum rules in September that would ban undressing during meetings.

Beck began to cry Saturday during a speech in Salt Lake City on his “American Revival” tour, sobbing that “I know what my wife looks like, I know what my children look like, I know what color looks like, but I love to read.” He said his doctors told him the eye disorder could rob him of his ability to see. But he may have failed to consider the positive side of being sightless.

Boulder had already passed a law barring people from showing their genitals in public, but declined to outlaw topless females, despite complaints about a woman who gardens in a thong and gloves.

“Gardening — that involves a lot of squatting, doesn’t it?” Beck asked. “Yeesh. That’s not the America that I know and love.”

+++

The Vatican is facing a firestorm of criticism following its decision to categorize sex abuse by priests as an offense equivalent to the ordination of women.

Msgr. Charles Scicluna, the Vatican’s internal prosecutor, down-played the edict that defined both charges as “grave delicts,” a church crime that also included pedophilia, heresy, apostasy and schism.

“Attempted ordination of women is grave, but sexual abuse and pornography are more grave,” Scicluna said. “Believe me, you don’t want to know what we consider even gravier than these.”

Left unclear is how the Catholic Church would deal with two recent cases in the U.S. In Utah, a man is accused of violating a protective order because he allegedly sent letters to his estranged wife’s cat. And in New York, the famous Times Square street musician known as “The Naked Cowboy” is suing a fellow performer who bills herself as “The Naked Cowgirl.”

Donald Wuerl, the archbishop of Washington, issued a statement saying the church “through its long and constant teaching holds that ordination has been, from the beginning, reserved to men, a fact which cannot be changed despite changing times.”

Observers speculate that by not specifically mentioning correspondence with household pets and litigation involving nearly nude, guitar-strumming cowpokes, the Vatican was leaving open the possibility these things were okay.

“The church needs to be more flexible to deal with the modern world,” said Christian Weisner, spokesman for a liberal Catholic reform movement. “The next thing you know, they’ll be condemning that Pennsylvania dog trapped in a hot car who honked the horn to alert his owner because the dog made too much noise. Jesus.”

Oops. Quotes may have been taken out of context

A careful examination of a book produced by the God of Abraham appears to reveal rampant racism, sexism, anti-Semitism and a tone of general intolerance among top officials in His Administration.

Only days after a right-wing blogger meticulously dissected a speech by a Department of Agriculture official to show that a few sentences taken out of context appeared racist,  a similar examination of book called “The Bible” shows a surprising contempt by the Creator for most of humanity.

The analysis of the book  looks not at the entire arc of the holy publication’s message.

“That would be way too hard and way too boring,” said Bart Andrewbreit, whose anti-religion blog first broke the story yesterday. “I thought people would get a truer sense of what’s being said here if I just used a few snapshots.”

What was released on the website was a painstaking edit of the book that forms the foundation for the Judeo-Christian faith. The snippets show not just hostility for the human race, but a sense of confusion and even occasional lunacy by the authors. The audience of the blessed narrative can be seen at several points to be cheering on the antagonism, resentment and outright aggression being spewed by the presenter.

Some of the highlights, recorded during perhaps a thousand years of ancient history by a variety of apostles, saints and men of God, can be read in the following outtakes.

“Your lamb shall be…goats.” Exodus

“Fat…fat…fat…fat…fatty….Moses.” Leviticus

“For all the firstborn among the children of Israel are…beasts.” Numbers

“Take careful heed to…act corruptly and…die.” Deuteronomy

“Jesus said…do not…be…a…flute player.” Matthew

“Jesus sat…on…Peter, James, John, and Andrew.” Mark

“Jesus…said to him…God…is…lame.” Luke

“The woman said to Him, ‘Sir, give me this water…I…thirst.’ Jesus said to her…’No.’” John

“Now, Lord, look on the…feet. Why have you conceived this thing in your heart? You have…lied to me…They…are…unclean…and…a…shame…” Acts

“Are we … both Jews and Greeks?…Yes…certainly.” Romans

“God gave…neither…plants…nor…water…but…fire.” Corinthians

“If we live in…corruption…we…do…good.” Galatians

“For it is shameful to even speak of…your…wives.” Ephesians

“For we do not wrestle…God…but…I have sent…you for this very purpose.” Ephesians

“Jesus Christ… did not…do… things without complaining and disputing…Beware of dogs.” Colossians

“I saw … Man, clothed with a …  golden girdle. His hair was white as snow …  and His feet like fine brass, and … out of His mouth went a sharp two-edged sword.” Revelations

“Repent, or else I will come unto thee quickly, and will fight … with the sword of My mouth. …To him that overcometh will I give … a white stone. I know thy works, … Notwithstanding, I have a few things against thee, because … that woman Jezebel. Behold, I will cast her into a bed… And I will kill her children with death.” Revelations

“So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew thee out of My mouth.” Revelations

“And I saw a strong angel proclaiming with a loud voice, ‘Who is worthy to open the book and to loose the seals?’” Revelations

“And I beheld, and heard an angel flying through the midst of heaven, saying with a loud voice, ‘Woe, woe, woe.’” Revelations

“And thus I saw the horses … and out of their mouths issued fire and smoke and brimstone. …For their power is in their mouth. And I took the little book out of the angel’s hand and ate it up … and as soon as I had eaten it, my belly was bitter.” Revelations

“Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: Also our couch is green.” Solomon

“My beloved … standeth behind our wall; He looketh in … the windows … Thy hair is as a flock of goats … Thy teeth are like a flock of ewes.” Solomon

When these clips were picked up the media, virtually all of humankind joined in a chorus of condemnation for the Almighty. He was asked to resign by His manager, who said the Office of the All-Powerful (OAP) had a zero tolerance policy toward hateful speech. God reluctantly complied with the request.

Later, after it was revealed that the quotes were taken out of context, and that the Bible actually represented a just and merciful guide to life and man’s relationship with his maker, God received an apology and was offered a new position in the department.

“Gee, I don’t know,” the Lord told Meredith Vierra on NBC’s Today Show. “They treated Me pretty shabby. It was shameful how fast everybody came down on Me so quickly before they could read the entire manuscript. I think I’m going to bask in the media spotlight for a few more days before I make My decision. Right now, I’m inclined to take early retirement.”

Revisited: A taskmaster I’m not

I recently received an email from a higher-up at my company that seemed to suggest I’d be taking on an assignment. I don’t mind doing everyday work at the office but something akin to a project was alarming news, or could be if I found a way to make sense of the communication.

I was being “tasked” to act as a “resource” charged with producing a “deliverable” in an effort at improving our “validation.” As I waded through the dense corporate prose, I gradually got a vague idea of what I was to do.

The “validation” was designed to audit a process we have in place to audit our auditors, ridiculous perhaps to those not familiar with all the cross-checks we do in my field yet something I actually understood. Because I’m well past my reproductive peak, I knew the “deliverable” didn’t require me to bear live young but instead to return a written report. I guessed it was me who was being called the “resource,” which is one of the nicer complements I’d received at work in some time.

As for the “tasking,” I finally figured out that it meant I had to do something. I was okay with that, as I do a lot of things every day. I was just glad that it didn’t involve multi-tasking which, like many men of my generation, I’m not very good at.

Dictionary.com defines multi-tasking as “free background checks on tutors, online video tutoring, live learning.” No, wait, that’s the advertisement on Dictionary.com. Multi-tasking is the “concurrent or interleaved execution of two or more jobs by a single CPU,” though it’s also frequently applied to individuals who can do more than one thing at once, individuals who are typically young people or women people.

The example we’ve seen cited most often in the media over the last few months is the breast-pump/Blackberry scenario, in which high-powered female managers are able to successfully balance their family responsibilities with their careers. I think this situation is more symbolic than real, since even the sharpest executive can occasionally confuse a send button with an on-switch, which dismays the heck out of the customer service representative at your wireless provider who tries to help un-stick your keypad.

I realized a few days ago just how inept I was at multi-tasking when my wife called my cell phone while I was driving to a local fast-food restaurant. I answered the call just as I was pulling in to Wendy’s to order a 5-piece nuggets (no sauce), and listened intently as she asked if I needed anything at the grocery store. It took every last bit of concentration I could summon to avoid running over the speaker box and/or placing a takeout order for roll-on deodorant, a can of jungle-strength Off! and a refill on my Lipitor (no sauce).

I didn’t do much better the next day when she called me again while I was hiking along a busy highway from my workplace to a nearby diner. I needed to confirm an upcoming dental appointment, continue walking in a straight line, and avoid being hit by an oncoming tractor-trailer all at the same time. (And I’m not even counting relatively autonomic exercises like respiration, digestion and brain-stem activity.) I was careful, I was successful, and I was proud of myself.

Typically I do a better and more thorough job when I can line up a set of chores in sequential order. Take my morning routine, for example. I start the coffee brewing, remove the lunchmeat from the refrigerator, lay the bread out on a paper towel, remove the cat from the counter, rinse off some grapes, retrieve my briefcase from the hallway, pick out a couple of Oreos, dislodge the cat again, assemble the sandwich, select a breakfast bar from the cupboard, yell “no” at the cat, pour the coffee into a mug, brush the crumbs into the garbage, and put everything into the briefcase. My arms are flying about and the end-result might take a little longer to achieve than if I was able to combine some of my efforts, but at least I don’t open my satchel four hours later and have Tom jump out.

Maybe it’s the involvement of modern communications equipment that contributes to my befuddlement. Considering that I can barely look for the correct expressway off-ramp and listen to a radio at the same time, it’s not surprising that I have these difficulties. I like to say my brain is hard-wired differently, as if that high-tech analogy will deflect any perception that I’m simply an aging idiot. I think I’m pretty adept with computers and electronics for someone in their mid-50s, however I need to focus on the function at hand if I’m to avoid accidentally taking down the Southeast power grid when I only meant to send my son an instant message.

Fortunately, the validation project I was roped into was something I could complete on my own timetable and terms. I took two days “off-line,” as we call it when we head to the conference room for a mixture of spreadsheet compilation and laptop Scrabble, and assembled an impressive list of suggested revisions to our standard operating procedure. I redefined glossary terms, offered a few new practice exercises and assembled a nice choice of additional words into a professional-sounding collection.

I just hope the recipient of my deliverable reads the words in the order I submitted them. Otherwise, she’ll be as confused as I usually am.

Revisited: You can count on me

Today I am 55 years, 265 days old. (Hold the renditions of “Happy Birthday,” please). If I live to be what is generally considered the maximum human age of 113 years, my life is not even half over. If instead I live to reach the typical American white male life expectancy of 74 years, I’m about three-quarters done.

To look at it even more pessimistically, of all the good times I’ve lived – my wedding, the birth of my son, a cruise to Alaska, that time I got a free cookie – probably 90% of these are in the past. Of all the bad times still to be endured, a similarly high percentage is yet to come.

For someone who was never that interested in mathematics during my formal education, I sure can obsess about numbers. My wife used to get on me when I’d make a casual comment during the eleventh day of our two-week vacation that our holiday together was already 78.5% over. “Why can’t you just enjoy it instead of trying to quantify how much of it is left?” she’d ask, and I’d think “but calculating is half the fun.” Even though she had her undergraduate degree in math, she failed to appreciate how my observation was at least as joyous to me as the Napa Valley winery tour was to her.

The farthest I advanced in high school math was a course in intermediate algebra. I never had calculus nor trigonometry nor pertussis nor trychinosis nor any of those higher arithmetics. My love of numbers was more innate than anything that could be taught in a classroom. In the days before calculators, video games and cable television, I would be entertained for hours with self-invented dice games, keeping reams of paper records on how seven was a slightly more likely roll than six or eight. I even made up a baseball game that took as much as an hour to play, then another hour to calculate each imaginary player’s hitting and earned run averages. And I did this in the days before performance-enhancing steroids.

By the time I went off to college, I was finally beginning to entertain some other interests, particularly in individuals who had twice as many X chromosomes as I did. I wasn’t especially successful with the ladies in these days, though I did attempt to numerically prove the opposite. I kept a log of my dates with one woman I was pursuing in the belief that when I reached a certain quantity of hours-per-week that we’d officially be a couple. We hit something like 4.72 before it dawned on me that I had a car and she didn’t, that most of our “dates” were trips to the grocery store, and that the guy on the Bounty paper towel package had a better chance of getting to second base than I. (A double, by the way, is equivalent to rolling a ten in the baseball dice game).

The mathing of my life now continued into adulthood. I kept track on a daily basis of how many hours I logged at my first two part-time jobs, celebrating my entrance into the middle class when I finally broke through to $300 a week. When I took up jogging for health and relaxation in my thirties, I’d measure the route on my car’s odometer before running it, then record each day’s distance and translate that into a graph of weekly averages (fortunately, I had learned Excel by now). When I took my first business trip to India and saw that what I’d thought would be three weeks of adventure were instead going to be 516 hours of hellish heat and overcrowding, I’d figure updates each morning of how much time was left before my return home.

Reducing my life experience to so many digits might seem like a hollow exercise to some, though I’d actually consider my personal circumstances to be quite happy. I recognize that I’ve had my chance to “have fun,” and now it’s time for more mature satisfactions like contentment, a sense of accomplishment, and the continued ability to pee. Like anyone who’s facing down his late fifties while watching the transition of power and fortune pass to a new generation, I do have some regrets about what I didn’t get to do. I can count three things in particular.

One, I’ve never gotten to ride a motorcycle. I’ve enjoyed a lot of cycling in my time but the power generated by my admittedly well-toned thighs can’t approach what a Harley could produce. Perhaps it was the low-rent culture I associated with bikers that kept me away, or maybe it was the odds that I’d end up splattered against a tree that bothered me. In any case, I don’t own a black t-shirt anyway so it’s not going to happen at this late date.

Second, I regret that I’ve never been to Paris. I once spent a week in London and later enjoyed a beautiful morning in Frankfurt, yet these two European destinations can’t compare with romantic France. I was reminded of this once again Sunday as I watched the final stage of the Tour de France, marveling at the tree-lined beauty of the wide boulevards and realizing I could’ve blown the silly helmet off of every one of those guys if I only had a motorcycle.

Finally, I’m really sorry I never got a chance to take heroin. I know this is probably more self-destructive than it is recreational, but it seems like such a great way to relax. And think of the opportunities for charting weight loss! I’m a little queasy about the whole injection prospect, and snorting or smoking don’t strike me as especially sane alternatives. Maybe there are other ingestion options that would appeal to someone trying to keep up a professional appearance: applying black tar as a hair gel, or brushing my teeth with powdered moonrocks. I think I can handle the stupor, as it would fit right in with the glazed looks of others near my cubicle.

I know my odds of reaching these last three life goals are pretty long, and it’s probably best that they are. I had my chances as a younger man to live life on the edge, and it’s because I did such a poor job of it that I’m still here today, relatively enjoying what just became my twenty-eight million, nine hundred and twenty-seven thousand, eight hundred and fifth minute. When my number is finally up, I believe I’ll be able to count myself among the lucky.

Life on the night shift

Observations from the late shift, after I spent a week working 8 p.m. till 4 a.m. in an ill-fated attempt to gather input from night workers on how to improve our production processes when all they want to talk about is how under-appreciated they are, how sleepy they are, and when are we going to do something about that guy who works in the corner and is always pissing people off:

• Prepare to be sickened by your fellow workers and their choices for foods appropriate to the middle of the night. Since they’re already used to an evening schedule, they have no trouble at all eating pizza or popcorn or leftover fish at 3:30 in the morning. I tried to be a nice guy by bringing in a dozen Domino’s pizzas one night, ostensibly to encourage their participation in my suggestion-gathering project. My generosity yielded at least two proposals — one was my own, and involved never bringing that much garlic into your car if you ever expect to get rid of it; and the other was that I shouldn’t believe the new Domino’s advertising campaign, because their pizzas still taste like crap.
• If you can hang on until about 2 in the morning without taking a break, you can accumulate your time for an hour-long power nap in your car. This is how most third-shifters spend their lunch period, and it’s surprising how few are found draped over their steering wheel with carbon monoxide poisoning the next morning. There are several important strategies to consider if you try this. Move your car away from the spots nearest the building entrance, so you don’t have co-workers pointing and laughing at your gaping, spittle-flecked maw. If you don’t want to lose that coveted parking space, simply encase your head in a paper bag, or sleep in the trunk. Tune your radio to the BBC World Service, so you can be soothed to sleep with English-accented reports on the European sovereign debt crisis. With our current heat wave, it was also essential to keep the car engine and air conditioner running throughout my nap. Be sure to place the transmission in park and set the brake, however. Due to my physically active sleep habits, I was tossing and turning and at one point, awakened to the gunning of the car motor when my foot slipped across the accelerator. You don’t want to wake up to find yourself barreling down the interstate with a bag draped over your face. This is certifiably unsafe.
• Sleep masks, while effective at blocking out the daylight, work poorly for someone who, like me, is a restless sleeper. On successive attempts, I awoke with it draped over my head like a toupee, wrapped several times around my left ear and, most troubling of all, binding my throat to my genitals.
• One afternoon, I awoke to find I had lost my pillowcase. I was pretty sure it was there when I went to bed around 6 a.m. but it was nowhere to be found seven hours later. I looked under the mattress, under the bed, in my pajamas — no sign of it. I did, however, have a disturbing fullness in my stomach, despite the fact I had snacked only lightly during the hours before I turned in. Fortunately, my wife revealed that she had laundered and failed to return the pillow case the previous evening, just in time for me to cancel the emergency intestinal surgery I had scheduled.
• If you do find yourself with little appetite when you wake up, try my recipe for a wonderfully light beverage I call ”Air Coffee”: Add two tablespoons of coffee in the filter; pour fresh water into a separate measuring cup; turn on the coffeemaker; then carry the water down the hall while you use the bathroom. When you return a few minutes later, you’ll enjoy the faint smell of slightly burned coffee, a hot but empty coffee pot, and the distinct feeling you emptied the wrong liquid into the toilet.
• Realize that on third shift, the world is upside-down: today is tomorrow, breakfast is dinner, day is night, and the employee to your left is watching TV telephonically with her husband. If your loved one is up by the time you get home, you’ll talk about something that needs to be done “tomorrow” but you really mean “today.” Mondays begin at 11 p.m. and don’t end until after you wake up well into Tuesday. When people arrive for work at midnight, you say “good morning” and when they leave at 8 a.m. you say “good night.” You tell your supervisor that you really like your job and that the hours don’t bother you at all, when in fact you want to kill him.
• The topic of sleep becomes an all-consuming obsession for those who don’t get much. You’ll hear stories about the time in 1984 when a particular individual slept for seven-and-a-half hours straight, or reports that someone once had a dream. Monday conversations usually consist of a recounting of when and where weekend sessions of slumber took place (“I had the best nap during my daughter’s valedictorian address,” reported one mom. “I’m told I caught an 18-pound catfish out on the lake Saturday,” said one man. “And I tend to believe it because of the way I smelled.”) Any sign of rain portends what they call “good sleeping weather,” which I guess means they can wake up in the morning and not bother with a shower if they’ve slept in the yard.
• If nothing else, the lack of sleep makes for a wonderful set of excuses to be used in all kinds of occasions. After just a day or two of staying awake all night and struggling through a few uneven naps during the day, you can get away with virtually any error in judgment. Accidentally get engaged to a Palin? You were so tired that maybe you did, though you didn’t mean it. Chair the board of an oil-spilling energy company? Sorry, but you were so groggy you forget to consider basic safety regulations. Provoke a nuclear confrontation with North Korea? You didn’t think your argument at the corner market over getting the wrong change was going to escalate to quite that level.

Fortunately, there is assistance out there for those who have to work nights. A booklet titled “The ShiftWorkers Handbook,” published by the people at SyncroTech who espouse the patented ChronoCare approach to help the sleep-challenged, urges the frequent use of running two separate words together while keeping the second one capitalized as one method for managing your circadian rhythms. They also blame the arrival of indoor plumbing for the need for round-the-clock work, discuss “zeitgebers” as our body clock’s time cues that double as tasty German chocolate bars, how many people choose to work nights so they can hunt and fish during the day, and the need to be on guard for “penile tumescence” if you grab a quick catnap in public.

It also helps that the book is so useless and so boring that it’ll knock you right out.

Fake News: YMCA goes MIA

CHICAGO (July 26) — In a rebranding move that stirred up its Christian faithful and simply confused everybody else, the YMCA has rolled out a new logo touting the organization as simply “the Y.”

Gone is the “MCA” that completed the full name of the Young Men’s Christian Association that had existed since its founding in 1844. The original charter of serving to develop a healthy spirit, mind and body remains, but the public relations experts who came up with the change hope to increase membership from a wider, more diverse community.

“We had narrowed ourselves into a pretty slender demographic,” said national spokesperson Tom Scribner. “There may be plenty of young, but only half of them are men, and then less than half of these are Christian. When we further require that they be a member of the 1960s soft-rock group The Association, we’ve just about eliminated everybody.”

“By just calling ourselves ‘the Y,’ we can accept almost anyone into our facilities,” Scribner said. “And if ‘Along Comes Mary,’ we’d be able to welcome her even if she were an old Jewish lady.”

Scribner described additional confusion that existed before the image update and name change. A competing group called the “SPCA” — believed to stand for the “Small Pets Christian Association” — was drawing off the existing membership of the Y, sometimes permanently.

“We had people who’d go to the SPCA for a workout and a schvitz in the steamroom, and they’d never be heard from again,” Scribner said. “Apparently, the SPCA workout consists of a 30-foot dog run where joggers are chained to a steel line, and their sauna uses fatal doses of carbon monoxide instead of steam. That’s not good.”

Scribner deflected criticism that came mostly from Southern branches of the organization, who complained that the move de-emphasized the Christian element. Also opposed to the change were roller rinks who feared they’d have to scrap one of their skaters’ favorite songs, “YMCA” by the Village People.

“We took the valuable input of these groups and considered it carefully,” Scribner said. “We told the National Roller Skating Association they could keep singing the song as it was written. But we had to be tougher on the Christians and make them promise never to mention or think about Jesus Christ while they’re in our facilities. Even if they drop a medicine ball on their foot, we’ll be requiring them to say something like ‘crap’ or ‘ouch’ instead of anything that invokes the name of the Lord.”

The shortening of corporate names to a catchy single letter has caught on among marketing experts looking to increase sales among young people. The United States of America, or as it was sometimes called “the U.S.A.,” recently requested fellow members of the United Nations to simply refer to it as “the U.” The Professional Society of Urologists, formerly the P.S.U., is now known as “the P.” A consulting firm brought in to update the image of the 101-year-old NAACP with a proposal to rename the civil rights organization “The N Word” had its suggestion rejected by the group’s membership.

Other firms that have tried this tactic have run into legal trouble with copyrights. The international jihadist terror organization known as al-Qaida was looking to transform itself into an edgy group that could draw young adventure-seekers into its ranks. The terrorists had already printed signage, T-shirts and promotional pens bearing the new name of “The Big Q,” when it was discovered that a radio station in Canton, Ohio, was already calling itself “The Big Q-96.” The station had won some preliminary legal battles but then was threatened with holy war, and decided to compromise by offering al-Qaida tickets in preferred seating for the upcoming Avenged Sevenfold concert featuring Five Finger Death Punch.

Taking a WikiLeak

The WikiLeaks dump of thousands of military documents detailing the everyday horrors of war in Afghanistan didn’t include a lot of important strategic information. It did give substantial insight into the frustrations and dangers being faced by our soldiers, fresh reasons to honor the awful sacrifice being made there by our fighting men and women.

To a lesser degree, we all face routine but terrifying tribulations as we go about our daily lives. You may not be worried about roadside bombs hampering your daily commute to work (unless you live in certain parts of New Jersey or Arizona). However, there are some truly frightful potholes, road-raged motorists and poorly engineered intersections, all of which contribute to a feeling of being embattled. At least we get to return home to our families every evening, a reassuring thought unless your mother-in-law has imposed Sharia law in your household to go along with her bland meatloaf and questionable choices for television viewing.

Like the Army brass that had been chronicling the minutiae of a million encounters with wartime dangers, I too have been keeping a journal of my daily battle to survive. I think it’s also worthy of a dump, though maybe not the digital kind. Regardless, what follows is an excerpt from a typical day. New York Times, help yourself.

• ALARM WENT OFF AT 4. FUMBLED IN THE DARK TO FIND MY SOCKS SO I WOULDN’T WAKE UP MY WIFE. I KNOW PROPER GEAR IS IMPORTANT BUT DO WE REALLY NEED SOCKS IN THE SUMMERTIME? AND WOULDN’T YOU KNOW IT, ONE OF THEM HAS A HOLE IN THE HEEL. THIS LIFE IS HELL.
• Flossed teeth per American Dental Association prescribed 5 minutes, and was careful to use an up-and-down brushing motion rather than side-to-side. Regs suck. I refuse however to brush after every meal. Rather have every tooth fall out of my head than spend half the day on proper dental care. Doesn’t seem to hurt the Taliban.
• Provisions prepared and packed into sack. Not too sure about expire date on the TF [tuna fish] and the CAC [Chips Ahoy cookies] are little but crumbs. So inconvene.
• MORNING DRIVE TO OFFICE IS PERILOUS IN THE DARK, WHAT WITH ALL THE WANDERING WILDLIFE. REMNANTS OF PREVIOUS IEDs [Improvised Explosive Deer] ARE EVERY FIVE MILES IN BREAKDOWN LANE ON INTERSTATE.
• Almost to work when I hit security checkpoint that may be bogus. Bright red light swinging above street is local signal I can’t proceed till bald tattooed guy pulls up next to my car and gives threatening look. Last week had to pay off with carton of cigs here but today he lets me go. Sometimes, it’s just the uncertainty that gets you.
• Finally arrive at forward position for today’s post. Email from local commander says I’m delinquent on required training for new expense report system, so first half of day will be wasted. As a child, dreamed of glory on the battlefield and all I get is reminder that corporate credit card can’t be used for personal purchases. Boss is such a mother-[redacted] cock-[redacted].
• Heading out for coffee break. Thought I had more than quarter tank of gas. Insurgents from next office park draining petrol again?
• I WANT A SESAME BAGEL TOASTED WITH LO-FAT CREAM CHEESE AND MEDIUM COFFEE TO GO, BUT I HAVE TO PAY $4.78 BRIBE TO SO-CALLED “CASHIER”. THIS PLACE IS SO CORRUPT.
• On way back to post, I’m surrounded by 18-wheelers on all 4 sides. I go on High Alert, sensing possible ambush. Spill hot coffee on pants in the process. MEDIC!!
• Fog of war leads to much mistaken identity. Friendly fire a constant concern. Coworker tells me about daughter’s dance recital and how darling she looked in rhinestone tiara, apparently mistaking me for someone who gives a shit.
• Expense report training has given me a massive headache but meds in short supply on the front line. Company policy says aspirin can’t be provided for liability reasons, but they have no problems giving me a mouse where the right-click works only half the time.
• My stint for today is almost done. ASS [assistant security secretary] needs me to sign some papers, while DICK [director of intelligence for corporate knowledge] says I may have to re-do training because server went down. MORON [manager of regulations on nightshift] needs proof I worked nights last week. AHOLE (the asshole who sits in my work station after I leave) complains about sesame seeds left in computer keyboard. I deserve combat pay for working with these idiots.
• DRIVING HOME, I STOP ON INTERSTATE EXIT RAMP EXACTLY WHERE HOMELESS GUY STANDS HOLDING CARDBOARD SIGN. PRETEND TO CHANGE RADIO PRESETS, LOOK FOR SOMETHING IN GLOVE COMPARTMENT. NOW HE’S STANDING RIGHT AT MY WINDOW, MOUTHING THAT HE’LL EVEN TAKE CHANGE. LOCAL POPULATION IS SO PATHETIC IT’S SAD. I’LL MAKE MORE IN TEN MINUTES THAN THIS GUY WILL TAKE IN ALL DAY. I FUMBLE IN CHANGE RECEPTABLE BUT WOULDN’T YOU KNOW IT, LIGHT HAS CHANGED AND I HAVE TO DRIVE OFF.
• Wife radioed that she needs bread, milk and tampons so I’ll have to stop at commissary. Getting items scanned at the checkout, I see telltale traces of lasers, indicating I’m being targeted. I hit the floor and climb under shopping cart. Lady behind me complains I’m worse than shoppers who pay with checks. Short burst of automatic weapons fire takes care of her. Danger apparently past, I stand back up but am targeted again: this time to contribute a dollar to local leukemia victim.
• Can’t jog tonight because of wimpy “ozone alert”. My buddies say screw it but after last physical revealed possible emphysema onset, I listen to weatherman Larry Sprinkle and instead do a few toe-touches in my bedroom.
• HOW CAN IT BE RECYCLING NIGHT AGAIN??!! CAN’T BELIEVE I HAVE TO HAUL BLUE BIN FULL OF BEER BOTTLES ALL THE WAY DOWN TO THE CURB. IT’S AMAZING WHAT WE’LL DO FOR OUR FELLOW MAN. AND WE GET SO LITTLE THANKS. I BETTER GET A WELCOME HOME PARADE TOMORROW.
• Another day closes with a final indignity. Wife’s mother wants to watch Jay Leno because Robert Pattinson will be on. I thought we were fighting enemy over there so we wouldn’t have to fight them over here. Oh, well. At least January Jones is second guest. Talk about a reason to fight another day!

Scouting photos for the office display

In an effort to improve team morale in the office, we’ve dedicated a corkboard to the display of pictures of employees and their families. Photos can be from home or in the workplace, current or from years past.

I want to contribute to the effort and burnish my reputation as something of a super-man at the same time. I’ve narrowed my selection down to five photographs from my Swashbuckling Era, roughly 1971 until 1982. I’ve included these below, with captions, and ask your help in deciding which of the group is most appropriate for my desire to maintain a professional reputation.

During my brief stint in the majors (37 AB, 4 hits, .108 batting average, perfect attendance), I was lucky enough to get a game-winning, walk-off HBP (hit-by-a-pitch) to lead my Dodgers to a 5-4 win in a late-season 1972 contest against the rival Giants. This game was known more for the introduction of pie-in-the-face-to-the-hero than for quality play (each team committed 6 errors, and a declining Don Drysdale pitched 5-2/3 innings with his left hand constantly holding his toupee in place), and the tradition lives on famously in post-game interviews today. As you'll see in subsequent photos, this was my last encounter with shaving cream for a number of years.

In 1975, I turned inward to spirituality on a pilgrimage to Mecca, a small town in Georgia between Athens and Cairo. I used a converted glass-bottom boat to travel backwater swamps preaching my message of love, forgiveness and the value of pocket t-shirts (where you gonna keep a pen in a regular t-shirt, huh?) If you look closely, you'll see two hoses replenishing my onboard stock of Propofol, the same sedative that killed Michael Jackson but which, when mixed with laughing gas, creates a surprisingly pliant congregation.

By 1977, I had abandoned God and instead sought the pleasures of the sensual. This scene from the soft-core classic I Have Your Pizza Right Here, Ma'am; In My Pants, lives on today as the only pornographic title to contain a semicolon.

After extracting myself from the flesh trade, I embarked on a voyage of real-life exploration. In the piney woods of remote southwest Venezuela, I was the first to encounter and describe a new species of capybara, a large type of South American rodent. Here, I'm seen pointing at it, where it sits just off-camera. My only picture of the actual animal was sadly destroyed by an earthquake.

Ready to settle down by the time I got married in 1982, this photo is from our honeymoon cruise to the Bahamas. While everyone else is happily enjoying the skiff excursion to a private "out island," note the concern on my face. I'm worried that I don't, at that one brief moment in my life, have anything to worry about. I also had a snoot-full of Bacardi 151 rum, but that's beside the point. I was not asked to drive and, even if I were, I couldn't have found my way back to the Royal Caribbean's “Adequacy of the Seas.”

Website Review: Or maybe not

Sometimes, I don’t even know why I bother.  

I’ve tried to make it a habit in this daily blog to devote each Friday’s piece to some kind of review, usually a website review. I don’t feel much like making the effort this week because, frankly, readership is down and I’m growing a little discouraged.  

I’d like to think it’s just the dog days of summer, and that most of my readers are on fabulous vacations in Europe during which they’re patronizing our civilization’s great museums and monuments rather than noodling around on the Internet. But deep inside, I know the Louvre can’t hold a candle to funny cat videos and online poker. So it must be me.  

Most websites are stupid and dumb. There, I’ve fulfilled my commitment for this week.  

Normally, discovering a site like mistersteamy.com would give me fresh encouragement. For those of you who haven’t recently spent an hour waiting in a doctor’s office equipped with a television locked to the Home and Garden channel, Mister Steamy is a yellow rubber ball with holes in it. Some genius got the idea to take one of his children’s discarded baby toys, jab at it with a knife for a few minutes, fill it with water and then throw it in the dryer. By following these few easy steps, he’s now able avoid ironing his clothes and can use the extra time spending the millions of dollars this invention has brought him.  

  

Or, I could update everybody on the ineffectiveness of a service I wrote about last fall (see http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/11/13/website-review-gogeese-com/ ). I spent my lunch break Thursday walking around the office park where I work, enjoying a warm summer breeze while studiously avoiding stepping on goose turds. When I got to the small lake near the back of the park, I discovered the source of said turds – a large flock of Canada Geese who supposedly aren’t there because the park management hired a company called GoGeese to keep these beasts in check.  

GoGeese uses its stable of Jack Russell terriers to chase the geese around the park. What most of us would consider an amusing Saturday diversion for our dogs has somehow become a full-fledged business plan for another lucky entrepreneur. Unfortunately, much like Mister Steamy, it’s not working and the geese are still there. And they’re wrinkled.

I tried to approach the flock to get a comment from the biggest bird in the group. He’d allow me to get close, then would usher his family just out of range. In one final attempt, I walked slowly toward the group before breaking into a full-on sprint trying to at least get close enough for a nice mug shot with my camera phone. The birds took flight just as I noticed a co-worker walking nearby, who was probably thinking I had accidentally left my lunch at home again and was trying to capture a handy alternative to my usual turkey on whole wheat.  

  

Instead of the website-inspired observations I might usually make, perhaps I’ll reference an interesting story from yesterday’s local newspaper:  

Mechanics found a cheeseburger in the gas tank of a Rock Hill woman’s car, police say.  

The 30-year-old told police she noticed her car was running “rugged” late last week, according to a Rock Hill police report. The car would stop running, and let her start it again only to cut off a few minutes later.  

Why?  

A mechanic found a cheeseburger and a pickle inside the car’s gas tank, the report said. The lunch caused about $1,000 in damages to the car. It is not known how the sandwich got inside the vehicle’s tank.  

Or I could cite a story out of London, broadcast on NPR yesterday afternoon, in which a report encouraged doctors to stop calling their overweight patients “obese” and instead use the word “fat.” It was believed that pathetic tub-o-lards would respond better to a blunt assessment of their condition than they would hearing it couched in medical-sounding terms. Calling them fat would “subliminally” urge them to lose weight, just as calling them ugly might present a great business opportunity for the doctor next door who specializes in plastic surgery.  

In the interest of journalistic balance, NPR rounded up another interview subject they described as “morbidly obese” to hear which term she preferred. She said she liked “fat” better, not as much as she liked “plus-sized” but certainly better than anything modified by the word “morbidly.”  

(By the way, if she’s hungry, I know where she can find a cheeseburger or, if she can manage a brief sprint, a nice plump — excuse me, “fat” — goose.)  

Or maybe I’ll do what TV executives do in the summer when they know viewership is down: produce a reality show. Instead of posting a scripted humor piece, I could run an excerpt from a memo I had to write for my current project at work, in which I’m charged with soliciting suggestions for process improvement from my fellow workers. See if you’re entertained by this:  

Thanks to all of you for agreeing to participate as part of the Project Greenline core team. In the next week or two, I’ll be coming in during your normal work hours so we can spend some time discussing how best to coordinate our efforts among all shifts.  In the meantime, we’ve identified what might be some “low-hanging fruit,” changes to processes that might be seen as reasonably good ideas that can be easily implemented. Some of these have the potential of getting us moving quickly in a few areas, while we take more time to consider the “stickier” subjects. Please read through the attached list of bullet points and see what you think. If you need more details on a particular subject, let me know. We can talk about concerns or related ideas you might have when we get together in early July.

“Dancing With the Stars” it’s not, but at least I’m phoning it in with the best of them.

Revisited: Saturday musings

At least they have a job

While it might be hard to feel sorry for anybody who still has a job these days, I can’t resist pitying the poor individuals whose duty it is to promote a business by holding a sign or wearing a costume while standing by the side of the road.

Both variations come with intrinsic humiliations. If you’re only holding a placard – usually on the corner near a store that’s going out of business – it may not be as stifling hot, but you’re open to the taunts of anyone you’ve ever known who happens to be driving by. If you’re wearing a cow costume outside a Chick-fil-A or a Little Caesar’s suit at the pizza shop, at least no one will be able to identify you, or the lifeless heap you leave behind after the heatstroke. You can’t even pass the time by checking your text messages without betraying your role (whoever heard of a first century Roman tyrant, much less a cow, carrying a cell phone?).

I saw the worst example yet the other day outside a bedding store near my home. Someone had cut three holes into a mattress and then paid an innocent teenager to stick his head and two forearms through the holes so he could wave and smile at oncoming traffic. He had become a profusely sweating Mr. Mattress, eager to publicize up to 40% off select bed sets. Store owners had provided a barstool to give him some measure of comfort, and to convince motorists he wasn’t being pilloried.

I stopped by later to take a picture of the unfortunate kid (don’t worry, I would’ve shot it from behind; I’m not that insensitive), but all that was left was the stool. Still photography wouldn’t have done the barbaric scene justice anyway. Only video could’ve shown how the urgent arm-waving made it appear less like he was a welcoming mascot, and more like he was being consumed by a pillow-top inner spring.

Probably not what he had in mind when he considered a career in advertising.

New Olympic event?

I’d like to propose a new track-and-field event for the 2012 Olympics: a 100-yard race in which you’re not allowed to move your arms. Tests would need to be conducted to determine whether rules should require runners to willfully hold their own upper limbs in check tight by their sides, or whether strong elastic strapping was permitted. I’m flexible on the subject, as long as they don’t move their arms.

Needling the wife

Jogging on the edge of a rough neighborhood recently, I looked down to see a discarded hypodermic needle lying in the road. Feeling like I needed to do something about it, I poked at it with my shoe. It seemed, though, that this wasn’t enough, that I needed also to inform an authority. But who?

When I arrived home a few minutes later, I told me wife about the hazard. We both agreed that calling 911 or even the police office was a bit of an over-reaction. She contended that the same city officials who cart off animal carcasses could deal with used drug paraphernalia, while I thought it would require somebody wearing a hazmat suit. This led to a spirited discussion of which would be worse – touching a dead possum or risking exposure to hepatitis.

We’ve been married for almost 27 years now, and I’m proud to say we still haven’t run out of things to talk about.

When roaming free may not be good

The health food supermarket where I occasionally do my blogging has a very nice specialty meat section, complete with signs pointing out the advantages of eating humanely-raised animals. One of the items they sell is “free-roaming lamb.” While I’ve heard of free-range chicken and pasture-raised cattle, I have a little trouble imagining how allowing young sheep to wander the countryside would improve their flavor. Seems like a lot of them would just end up tasting like whatever kind of pickup truck they were hit by.

Robotic gratitude

I drove my Honda Civic through the automated car wash not too long ago and was pleased to discover that they had improved the instructions for drivers using the service. After you enter your number on a keypad, you pull forward into the bay, positioning your vehicle precisely so that the pipes and spray hoses can work properly.

There’s a large digital sign containing four phrases, each with a bright red light bulb next to them. The top one says “pull forward,” the middle one reads “stop” and the third one says “back up.” Sensors detect if you’re in the right spot, and then you can inch forward or back to make the proper adjustment. Skilled driver that I am, I hit it right on the nose, then sat back and enjoyed the soothing pelt of water on the windows.

When I was done, the light next to the fourth phrase lit up. “Thank you,” it said. This was apparently my cue to leave, as well as the robot’s way of showing its gratitude for my patronage. I thought we hit a new low in business transactions when the dot-matrix “THANK YOU” at the bottom of your receipt served as your appreciation. I should’ve known that American enterprise could always go lower.

It takes a genius

Readers of the “Ask Marilyn” column in yesterday’s Parade Magazine witnessed further evidence that American’s general level of intelligence has sunk even further.

For those unfamiliar with the piece (typically, I wouldn’t admit reading Parade Magazine either), Marilyn Vos Savant parlayed her fame as holder of the world record for highest IQ into a weekly column answering readers’ most difficult question. Common queries are along the lines of “what is truth?” or “could the sun burn out tomorrow?”

Yesterday’s question was a little less challenging: “What makes islands float?”

Abusing the kindness of others

Anybody familiar with the Panera bakery chain knows how generous they are with their facilities. The free wi-fi, roomy tables and intense air-conditioning are a magnet to both people looking to conduct informal business meetings and those just interested in checking their Facebook pages.

Some of the business people, however, seem to be getting a little out of control. Hooking up your laptop for hours is one thing, but conducting job interviews, offering sales presentations and bringing a portable printer to set up at the adjoining table are simply taking unfair advantage. The shop nearest my work recently had their entire back room taken over for a sales meeting, complete with projection equipment and loud, annoying pep talks.

I fear it won’t be long before we encounter the human resources manager who chooses to take his downsizing announcement offsite. “I’m sorry to inform everyone that your positions have been eliminated effective this coming Friday,” he might announce. “Please accept this cinnamon crunch bagel as a sign of my condolence.”

Math 101 — no, make that 165

Spent $165 this weekend for two introductory mathematics books my son will be using during his freshman year at college this fall. While I’m confident he’ll do well in the course, I can’t help but have the feeling that I just failed some kind of basic math.

Three things I hate, besides Monday

A lot of people say there’s too much hate in the world today. I say it’s just directed at the wrong things. Instead of hating other races, other countries and other religions, we should focus on the particular entities that have done us wrong.

Here are a few that I vehemently oppose.

I hate watermelon

Maybe it’s a contempt for the familiar, considering I grew up in a melon-inundated south Florida. Maybe it’s the fact that few other fruits are as physically imposing, so dangerous if dropped that they can break your foot. Maybe it’s the rugged rind, the sticky juice or all those seeds.

Or maybe it’s that it tastes like a cucumber soaked overnight in a cocktail of artificial sweetener, Red Bull and urine.

I ate enough watermelon as a kid to know that I hate it as an adult. It’s supposed to be healthy, containing as much as 92% water, but so does the Gulf of Mexico and you don’t see people drinking that in. It has many hidden vitamins in its rind, which most people avoid eating due to its unappealing flavor (the rind is reputedly even worse than the flesh). It stimulates the body’s production of nitric oxide, thought to relax the blood vessels, much like Viagra does. Still, I’d rather be dehydrated, undernourished and flaccid than eat watermelon.

A suburban legend of my youth was that a kid once got a watermelon seed stuck in his nose, and it took root in the nutrient-rich “soil” of his nostrils. Because the melon can grow so fast, he woke up the next morning with a huge swelling in the center of his face. Doctors at first thought it was a brain tumor, then were even more horrified to learn it was a watermelon, growing right there in his sinuses. They conducted emergency surgery on the poor boy, then had a picnic right there in the operating room, literally enjoying the fruit of their labor.

On my first trip to India, I endured a 36-hour plane ride, off-the-chart jet lag, and the culture shock that comes from encountering unimaginable poverty, intense heat, overcrowding, card-carrying lepers, and the smell of a sewage river next door. But that was nothing compared to what I came upon at my first breakfast. I asked for my usual OJ, and was told that all they had was watermelon juice. There would be no mystical experience of the subcontinent for me. Hundreds of millions of people living in third world squalor is one thing; drinking a liquefied melon first thing in the morning is quite another.

Fun facts about the massive green orb — that it was declared the official state vegetable by a confused Oklahoma state senate, that it is hollowed out and used as a football helmet by fans of football’s Saskatchewan Roughriders, that it can now be grown in square and pyramid shapes — do little to mitigate its status on my list of the most loathsome things in the world.

Ever see David Letterman pitch a truckload of watermelons off the seventh floor of his New York studio? I’m with Dave.

I hate Black Oak Arkansas

I arrived back at the office after lunch Friday, and was honored to have my position as the King of Music Trivia once again confirmed. A debate had arisen in my absence about who recorded the seventies hit “Jim Dandy,” also known as “Jim Dandy to the Rescue.”

“I bet Davis will know,” said Donna and, regrettably, I did. It was the Southern rock band known as Black Oak Arkansas.

I then proceeded to internally hum the timeless chorus — Jim Dandy to the rescue/Jim Dandy to the rescue/Jim Dandy to the rescue/Go Jim Dandy, go — for the rest of the afternoon.

If you’ve never heard this band’s distinctive growling, whining, falsetto style, it may be simply enough to know a little about the group. They formed in 1965 in Black Oak, Ark., and promptly stole their first amplifier system from the local high school. Convicted of grand larceny and sentenced in absentia to 26 years in prison, they fled to the hills to “refine” their musical style, doubtless influenced by the baying hounds that continued searching for them.

By 1969, they had moved on to Memphis, Tenn., and signed a deal with Stax Records. Their debut album, which fortunately is almost impossible to find, is described as representative of their interests in psychedelia, Eastern spiritualism and the Southern Baptist church. They eventually ended up in Los Angeles and toured extensively, gaining a reputation as an impressive live act despite questionable grooming habits.

The year 1973 was a rough one for this country. The last American troops staggered out of Vietnam. The Watergate scandal began to unfold. Lon Cheney, Lyndon Johnson and “Dagwood and Blondie” creator Chic Young died. And a song so upbeat you’d think the singer was meth-addled reached number 25 on the Billboard Hot 100. “Jim Dandy” had arrived, and he was urgently in need of someone to rescue.

Fortunately, less-than-stellar subsequent releases combined with the nation’s return to relative sobriety to rob “BOA” of its momentum. They faded into obscurity for the next ten years. For their obligatory eighties revival, they were kind enough to record a song called “I Want a Woman with Big Titties,” which quickly sent them back to their deserved place in the shadows.

I hate the immigration officials at Colombo airport in Sri Lanka

In 2007, I made my first visit to the beautiful nation of Sri Lanka (nickname: “India Lite”). I was to spend three weeks training employees of an outsourcing firm my company had hired. Except for a pesky civil war that required armed soldiers to be stationed everywhere except inside my hotel bathroom, it was a wonderful visit.

I should mention that the civil war was in the country, not at the outsourcing company. The workers there were wonderful people, at least the ones who weren’t out sick with Dengue Fever.

Anyway, I found out just before leaving the U.S. that I should’ve had a “working visa” if I intended to do business there. Instead, I had something cryptically called a “landing visa,” which meant they’d let you on the ground at the airport, but only long enough to determine if you were a tourist, who required no further documentation. If you were found to have come for work, I guess they’d make you spend the rest of your life in a small anteroom behind the luggage carousel, jumping up and down so that you were constantly “landing” on Sri Lankan soil.

After I landed in Colombo, I was directed to immigration and customs for “processing,” something I thought was done only to meat. I found the right line, and waited for what seemed like an eternity to learn my fate. Members of the military stood at the ready to dispatch anyone fooling with the rules including, I assumed, the law described on several signs warning that drug trafficking carried an automatic death penalty. I thought about the Ambien I had been prescribed for jet lag, and got even more nervous.

I sidled up to the pasty, shorts-wearing Germans in front of me on the chance I’d be mistaken for one of their group. I thought about my extremely limited German vocabulary, hoping someone would either sneeze (“Gezunheidt”) or invade the Netherlands (“blitzkrieg”) so I could prove myself.

When I got to the official who was to review my passport, he spoke not at all, choosing instead to quietly scroll through his ancient computer screen. He summoned an associate to show him something, and they chatted briefly in Tamil, either about how cool a YouTube video was, or that I might be an enemy insurgent or drug smuggler. More humorless glances in my direction eventually gave way to about a dozen stomps from his official stamper, and I appeared to survive admission to the island nation. But not after a suspenseful interlude that made me more scared than I’d ever been in my life.

Revisited Fake News: Obama not there at all?

TOPEKA, Kansas (August 1) – Doubters of President Obama’s U.S. citizenship have continued to splinter into various sub-groups over the past week even as it appears their overall numbers may be expanding.

Despite repeated debunking with certified documents as well as newspaper clippings and hospital papers, conspiracy theorists on the fringes of the right wing are saying that Obama was not born on American soil or, perhaps, doesn’t even exist at all.

“What first African-American president are you talking about?” asked Steven Adams of the blog Nobama. “I don’t see any first African-American president around here.”

Adams is among a growing group on the Internet who deny the corporeal being of Obama, even though others have criticized him as all too visible on TV and elsewhere in the public eye.

“Maybe you’re thinking of Colin Powell, or perhaps Tiger Woods,” Adams said in response to a reporter’s questions yesterday. “Or that one guy on Saturday Night Live. You know Armisston or Armistrong or whatever the hell his name is.”

Another cynic who goes only by the screen name Voidoid said the “O” in the “Obama” name was misleading “because ‘O’ or zero is technically different from the null set, which is what I’d consider him if it were possible to consider the ether.”

Others in the so-called “birthers” movement admit the existence of an Obama-like creature while still disputing various details about his life that could call the legitimacy of his presidency into question.

“I not only doubt that he was born in the United States, I don’t even think he was born on this planet,” wrote Mike Louis at AliensEverywhere.org. “His Betelgeusean name is actually Bar-Ak, and those big ears of his are really receptor dishes that pick up signals from his home sun. You can tell when he’s getting an incoming message because that mole to the left of his nose starts blinking.”

Another vocal skeptic who has been heard most often on social networking sites claims that Obama was not born in Hawaii but instead in Ireland. Ken Wright has been reporting on his Facebook page that a feint of punctuation has removed the apostrophe from the original O’Bama family name and transplanted to the recently modernized spelling of “Hawai’i.”

“It’s all part of the same plot,” said Wright, who lists “Obama sucks” as his Facebook status. “Apostrophes have a long history in Marxist/Leninist circles.”

Richard Andrews of a group that calls itself the Anagram Truthers claims that the president’s true identity lies in the rearrangement of the letters in his name. The phrase “karma cab boa” could indicate he’s of Indian, Somalian or South American origins while “a kabob car, ma” suggests Middle Eastern roots.

“I think you have to look at his full name: Barrack Hussein Obama,” Andrews told a gathering of his followers last month. “Change it around and you have ‘A cabana bush smoker I.’ This confirms his status as a lazy beachcomber, an Australian aboriginal and a nicotine addict. I also have reason to believe he doesn’t floss every day.”

Fake News: Something is happening somewhere

NEW YORK (August 2) — Despite the annual August news shortage, you know there has to be somebody somewhere saying something that someone else doesn’t like, and a furor is growing to condemn that person, or force their resignation, or call on them to publicly apologize, or just give them a good smack.

And if they’re not saying it right out in public, you know that they’re thinking it.

“This lack of news is just outrageous,” said Alan Harkness, a mechanic from Memphis. “Combining brain function and diaphragm movement to cause discernible noises to emerge from somebody’s face, formed into sounds that offend us to the core — it’s what we’ve come to expect from those covered by the media.”

With Congress approaching recess, the President on vacation, TV in reruns, and even the easily ridiculed nation of France taking its annual month-long holiday, there’s a tremendous shortage of material to fill a 24-hour news hole. Even Fox, the premiere 24-hour newshole, is desperately thrashing about looking for the latest scandal to grab the country’s attention.

“This just in: former Agriculture Department official Shirley Sherrod tells Macon, Ga., cafeteria workers she prefers dark meat,” reports Glenn Beck. “Oh, wait, that’s the chicken lunch special.”

“We’re reporting on a developing story here this morning,” says the anchor on the morning show Fox & Friends. “A guy whose cousin had a friend who knew a guy that worked for the company that rented a PA system to the Obama campaign in 2008 said that the cousin still owes him $10 for a couple of ‘forties’. Gena, how does this reflect other failures we’ve seen in this Administration?”

Even the everyday news-hounds known as “iReporters” for CNN are struggling to unearth an outrage that will consume our collective consciousness for the next day or two, so we don’t have to think so much about harder stuff.

“This is Jeff Stern in Tulsa, Oklahoma. There seems to be some kind of commotion across the street,” according to one three-minute segment on the afternoon Rick Sanchez show. “A woman is pulling a child by the arm away from a playground, and the child is screaming and throwing a fit.”

“Are we prepared to report a kidnapping in progress?” Sanchez asks Stern anxiously.

“No, no, I think the little girl just had too much candy and now she needs her nap,” Stern continued. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s it. We have confirmed and are now able to officially report that she’s cranky and needs to lie down for a while.”

Meanwhile, a woman at a Los Angeles-area fast food restaurant filed an initial report that Mel Gibson was in line in front of her, arguing with the counter clerk that his order was wrong. Turned out, however, it was just a drunken yard man.

Over at liberal-leaning MSNBC, White House correspondent Lewis Philpott was reporting a beautiful day on the grounds of the executive mansion, with the slightly lower humidity offering a break in the heat wave that has charred the mid-Atlantic for over a week.

“There are some flowers over here, and you can see bees flitting in and out among them,” Philpott said. “It’s good to see our nation is back to work, at least on an invertebrate level.”

Finally, late in the day Monday, real news was breaking. Seaside Heights, N.J., police were releasing the mug shot of Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi, star of MTV’s reality hit Jersey Shore, who had been arrested for disorderly conduct Friday.

“Let me see, let me see!” demanded Tina Westbrook, a TV viewer from Houston. “Oh … yes … oh, that feels so good. Oh, thank you, Snooki. Thank you so much. I think I was going through withdrawal there.”

You can lead a cat to water, but you can’t make him drink

A few weeks ago, I wrote about my responsibility to keep our three indoor cats fed. Today, I’m writing about how we keep them watered.

Obviously, I’m running out of topics.     

While watering cats might sound like a fun gardening game, it’s actually quite the real-life challenge to many pet owners. With no lips to speak of and a chronic inability to use a straw, cats rely instead on little nodules built into their tongues to capture drinking water. It’s an inefficient method that requires a prolonged lapping motion to access the same amount of liquid we humans can get in a single gulp.     

You try drinking with just your tongue nodules. It’s not easy.     

So, many cat owners face the unsettling site of their kitty standing front paws in the kitchen sink, back sides high in the air, tonguing desperately at the few drips falling out of the faucet. Conveniently forgetting that they’ve been domesticated for about 5,000 years, they’ve reverted to past primitive lives lived outdoors, where fresh-running streams provided a better-tasting source of refreshment than did stagnant pools of rainwater. They might have a dish full of liquid in the laundry room, crammed between their litter box and the noisy washing machine, but they recognize the superior ambience of the sink and do their drinking there.     

I know cats are supposed to be immaculately clean creatures, famous for spending days at a time doing nothing more than bathing themselves. Still, I’m not comfortable with their mouths slobbering all over the same spigot I use to get my water. And I know the company we’re having over for dinner is similarly uncomfortable.     

I’ve heard from friends about so-called drinking fountains for cats, so we decided to check them out. We went to the local PetSmart store to see about buying one.     

PetSmart is a wonderful pet supply franchise with locations throughout the country. It’s a big warehouse-style establishment whose most distinctive feature is that it allows customers to bring animals shopping with them. You’d have to be blind to get away with this in Sears — just as you probably have to be blind to even set foot inside a Sears — but at PetSmart all of God’s creatures are welcome, as long as they’re accompanied by a human with a credit card.     

My wife, son and I entered the store on a recent Saturday to be greeted by a live pig. (“What is this, Walmart?” my son joked). It was one of those fancy domesticated pigs owned by people so enlightened and so unique that not just any pet is good enough for them, it has to be both smarter than a dog and offer more bacon than a parakeet. Other customers gathered excitedly around the bow-bedecked swine to pet and admire him. Their dogs stood close by, drooling expectantly and wondering when the pig-pickin’ would start.     

Large signs hanging from the ceiling directed customers to individual pet categories — dogs, cats, birds, fish, etc. We headed toward the cat department, stepping around all kinds of canines at virtually every turn. Though PetSmart claims all pets are welcome, there was not a visiting cat to be seen anywhere. I’d be tempted to organize a sit-in to protest this discrimination if the store had a lunch counter and you could get cats to sit still at it. We swallowed hard to look past the blatant pro-dog, anti-cat bias, and found our way to the aisle containing what you’d normally call “tableware” (dishes, bowls, placemats, etc.) except that these would be placed on a floor in the utility room.     

There were several models of drinking fountain in three different price ranges. We read about the features of each, not really sure what was a plus and what was a minus. We’d hoped to find one that was battery-powered but all of them used electric cords. Some had reusable filters, some had visible water reservoirs, some allowed you to grow grass on the lid. We settled on the mid-range model because it promised “no assembly required” and took it home to what we anticipated would be an eager reception from Harriet, Taylor and Tom.

Well, it’s now almost three weeks later, and the Drinkwell Platinum fountain has received mixed reviews at best from its end-users. None of them had the slightest idea what the contraption was when we first set it up, so we proceeded with a makeshift training program designed to explain how fresh, flowing water would both taste good and improve their urinary tract function. Taylor, generally regarded as the brightest of the three, eventually caught on when we held his snoot near the stream and made a splashing sound with our fingers. He drinks from the fountain now about half the time. Harriet, far older and more set in her ways, never did much sink-drinking to begin with and continues to get her liquids however she’s managed all along (probably from the toilet). 

Tom is our feisty tabby, the cat most recently brought into domestication from the wild outdoors and, as by far the largest of the trio, the most intrusive in the sink. We gave him a demo similar to what Taylor received, but he didn’t seem to catch on. We gently pressed his face toward the small pond, trying to wet his lips without wetting his nose, which is no easy feat if you’ve ever studied the anatomy of the typical cat face. It could’ve been a small nuclear reactor as far as Tom was concerned — all he knew was that it made a slight hum and it was something we actually wanted him to use, so he wanted no part of it. 

I tried some more basic, remedial training. Maybe he’d get the idea by looking at the picture on the box. 

“See, Tom, here’s a cat, and here’s his tongue dipping into the water,” I pointed out. 

Tom said nothing. 

“Look, Tom, it’s a picture of the fountain just like we have in the other room, and this cat is drinking fresh, delicious water from it,” I continued. 

Still no response. 

“And if you’ll look closely at the price sticker on top of the box, you’ll see that we spent $79.99 on this device, and that’s not counting sales tax,” I persevered. 

Tom seemed temporarily intrigued, but all he really wanted to do was bite my pointing finger. Which he did. 

A thirsty and confused kitty

So we’re not sure we’re going to keep the drinking fountain after all. PetSmart promised a money-back guarantee on the purchase, and if there’s no improved participation from our cats by the weekend, we’ll probably be taking it back. Tom still prefers to get his water from the dripping faucet in the kitchen sink, and as long as he and the others are well-hydrated, I guess we’re going to have to accept that. 

But I’ll bet you anything that pig would know what to do.

Fake News: Stuff is happening everywhere

Only two days after bemoaning the lack of news during the dog days of August, suddenly I find there are so many current events going on that they keep bumping into each other.

• A California judge ruled late yesterday that the state’s ban on gay marriages is unconstitutional. Taking immediate advantage of the case, former Bristol Palin fiance Levi Johnston and Chelsea Clinton’s now ex-husband Marc Mezvinsky announced they will marry in a civil ceremony in Los Angeles. Officiating at the ceremony will be two judges, one representing Johnston’s Media Whore faith and the other from Mezvinsky’s Jewish heritage. Former American Idol arbiter Simon Cowell will read an incoherent screed against the Palin family written by Johnston for the occasion, while fellow AI ex-judge Ellen DeGeneres will recite a summary compensation table from a recent proxy statement co-authored by investment banker Mezvinsky.
• Democratic congresspersons Charles Rangel and Maxine Waters, both subjects of ethics investigations that threaten to derail Democrats’ attempts to hold onto Congress this November, have been given a special assignment by Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi. Both will be sent to a dinghy anchored 100 miles off the Louisiana coast where they will constantly watch the surface of the Gulf for any signs that the now-contained BP oil spill has sprung a leak. “This is very important work, even though it’s unfortunate they’ll be so far out of the public eye,” said Pelosi. Should the two representatives spot any new sign of oil, they’ll shout their findings to a nearby boat containing a member of the cast of Jersey Shore, who will then repeat the relay to other JS cast members all the way back to the beach. “The Situation” will be on shore to receive the message, then will further garble it before reporting to the Coast Guard that the “boil pill is back in the daughter.”
• After several days of anticipation, Minnesota Vikings quarterback Brett Favre belted out his 600th pronouncement about whether or not he will retire from football in the upcoming season. He joins a list of only five other professional athletes who have been so indecisive about what turn their careers will take next. On the same day, it was announced that Shaquille O’Neal has signed a one-year NBA contract with the Boston Celtics, his fifth team in five years. If, as many expect, he ends his basketball career in midseason to sign with the RE/MAX team of local real estate professionals you’ve come to know and trust, he will tie the previous record of six team changes held jointly by actresses and part-time lesbians Anne Heche and Lindsay Lohan.
• An effort to build a mosque on the site of the Arizona/Mexico border was approved by a judge yesterday only days after implementation of Arizona’s new anti-immigration law, making it impossible to find people to actually work construction on the mosque site. Meanwhile, conservative Republicans in Congress promised to hold hearings about possible repeal of the 14th Amendment, which guarantees automatic citizenship to children born of illegal immigrants. There was also talk in some right-wing circles about the introduction of a new 28th Amendment to the Constitution that would require children already naturalized to serve permanently in landscaping, hotel maintenance, warehouse and building trades occupations. Early drafts of the proposed amendment also call for the heat wave that has gripped the eastern part of the nation for the past two weeks to be ended.
• In international news, model Naomi Campbell survived an apparent assassination attempt yesterday when the motorcade in which she and Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad were traveling barely missed a grenade attack, or maybe it was just a firecracker. Campbell was headed to The Hague in Belgium to testify at the international war crimes trial of former Liberian President Charles Taylor while Ahmadinejad was going to Pakistan to personally stop the deadly flooding there by raising his arms, blinking, and nodding his head. They had decided to share a cab at a layover in the United Arab Emirates. After the near-miss, Campbell tried to warn fellow war crimes witness Ali “The Bachelorette” Fedotowsky about the apparent danger in the region, but couldn’t get her Blackberry to work because of new telecommunications rules imposed by the conservative Islamic government. Fedotowsky’s connection to the former Liberian strongman was unclear, but ABC has hinted that the two could be the subject of a new reality show tentatively scheduled for spring 2011.

Strategies for a successful corporate career

Just recently, I marked my thirtieth anniversary with the same company. That’s not something many people can claim in these days of job-hopping and employment insecurity. In honor of the occasion, I thought I’d share some tips I’ve learned over the years to ensure anyone’s success in the corporate world.

Always be on the lookout for people approaching you with projects. If they’re carrying a large sheaf of papers and a strain on their face, there’s a chance they may be headed to the restroom but more likely they’re about to dump something on you. Act preemptively. Ask the oncoming coworker the question, “hey — did you hear who died?” This tends to immediately remove the wind from their sails, lest the one who died turns out to be one of your spouses. Then throw out a random celebrity name, either someone who in fact did recently pass or else the first name you can think of.

“Britney Spears” or “Troy Aikman” or “The Queen of England” are three of my favorite show-stoppers. Note that you may want to adapt your selection to the generation of the person approaching you. I wouldn’t suggest using “Harry Truman” on the twenty-something IT guy or “Lady Gaga” on the soon-to-retire human resources director.

I used this technique with considerable success just the other day. Allen was slowly walking in my direction with that look that says “I need help here” so I immediately reacted.

“Did you hear who died?” I asked. ”Mitch Miller.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember him. He used to do those TV sing-alongs,” said Allen, who is about my age.

“He was 99 years old. Imagine that,” I said. “Did you ever watch his shows? He’d be conducting a chorus standing behind him while he mugged for the camera. ‘Follow the bouncing ball and sing-along with Mitch,’ he’d say.”

Then I’d simulate the arm motions Mitch did. Allen began laughing and recalled a time he’d watched the show with his aunt and cousins back in Iowa. Next thing you know, we’re reciting the lyrics to “The Yellow Rose of Texas” and before long, Allen had turned and walked away, taking his project with him.

Avoid people working on long-term “off-line” projects. The danger here is not that they’re necessarily going to ask you for help. Rather, because they’re so desperately bored by what they’re doing, they welcome any interruption from their drudgery, even if it’s a conversation with me.

Currently, at my office we have Kelly working by herself in a quiet room away from the larger cubicle farm. I’m not sure what she’s doing — maybe testing a software patch that will allow us to start using the letter “q” in our financial typesetting — but it goes by the generic name of “piloting the next release.” Though this might sound like an exciting trial of a new seat-ejection system for the Air Force’s next generation of stealth fighters, the pallor on her face and hunched posture in front of her computer terminal indicated no such exhilaration.

I step into the room to retrieve something, and Kelly immediately brightens at the opportunity to be interrupted.

“So how’s your son doing?” she’ll ask my back as I rapidly turn to leave.

“Oh, he’s fine,” I shoot back over my shoulder. “They grow up so fast, you know.”

I keep walking out the door as she launches into a narrative about how her son is liking his new job, but it’s a lot of work and he’s not crazy about the hours, and then there are some more muffled sounds I can’t quite make out because by now I’ve left.

A corollary to this is dealing with those who work the night shift. I generally arrive for work at 5 a.m. when many of these people are at the depths of their exhaustion, five hours down but three still to go. It’s as quiet as a tomb, until someone realizes that there’s no better pick-me-up than getting into a spirited discussion with those privileged first-shift people.

I’m barely signed on to my computer when one of these folks walks up to me, demanding to know why we go to the trouble of adding an en-space to the right of all em-dashes that appear in numeric columns of financial tables.

Not exactly the kind of contentious debate you might encounter in a real-world discussion of racial politics or how big an idiot last night’s Bachelorette loser was, but something that’s a very controversial topic in my narrow world.

If I’m not careful, soon there’ll be a mob of people surrounding me, adding their two cents to the subject and deliberately ratcheting up the tenor of the discussion to include hyphens and — God forbid — even piece fractions.

This is about the time I remember that I left my lunch in the car.

Choose your words carefully when calling in late. I always like to say I’m “running” late, as that word has a much more active tone to it. Obviously, if I was really “running” at all, I’d be there by now instead of having just turned off the snooze alarm. But the implied verve in my effort to arrive as soon as possible at least gives the impression that I’m trying harder than I really am.

Send your emails at the end of the day. There are two benefits to this habit: (1) it looks like you’ve spent all day composing them, and (2) it puts the ball in the recipient’s court for a good 16 hours. There’s little or no chance they can respond while you’re still in the office if you time your correspondence carefully. I’ll typically work on several of these throughout the course of the day, then have them all standing by as I shut down the other programs running on my computer. I gather up my briefcase and my thermos, then step about ten feet back from my computer to get a good running start. As I sprint past the terminal, I’ll reach out and mash the “send” command and by now I’ve built enough momentum to get out the door before the “you have mail” message can appear on the recipients’ screens. Occasionally, someone will chase me down in the parking lot, but that’s rare, because I can be a very reckless driver.

Suppress all sneezes. I know it’s bad for your sinuses to do this. What’s even worse, however, is to provoke a “bless you” or “gesunheidt” from a nearby employee that can rapidly escalate into a discussion of whether or not our company should acquire a new tranche of public debt in order to finance that takeover we’ve been considering.

Use catchwords carefully. For example, the term “no-brainer” is good to apply to a fresh idea, but not so good to hang around the neck of the new hire who seems to be catching on a little slowly.

Be careful where you clean your cereal bowl. The dregs of my milk-soaked granola won’t go down the lunchroom sink because it doesn’t have a garbage disposal. Instead, I have to use the men’s room to throw the leftover cereal down a toilet. ALWAYS remember to flush if you have to do this, since you don’t want to put your coworkers through the trauma of having to guess what that milky, grainy material is that you’ve left behind, especially if there’s a dried raspberry remnant in there as well. And listen to make sure there are no other occupants in the room before you exit the stall carrying a bowl and a spoon.

Kill sprees are career killers. The modern office is a frustrating and difficult place to work. Some days it feels like you can do nothing right. Other days, it’s more than a feeling — it’s a fact. Discuss your grievances with your spouse or your clergyman. Seek out your human resources specialists so they can tell you about the wonderful website their department has set up so they no longer have to talk to actual humans. Take a “mental health” day off. But do not, under any circumstances, smuggle large-caliber weaponry in your pants and then open fire on your fellow employees. I cannot stress this enough. An incident such as this is certain to get you poor marks in the “works well with others” portion of your annual performance review, and will almost definitely impact your next scheduled pay raise in a negative way.

Revisited: Fortune awaits me — or maybe not

It was just a thin slip of newsprint, wrapped into that batch of advertising circulars that comes with the Sunday newspaper. But it’s going to change my life for the better, more than Parade magazine ever could, more than Dilbert, more than the handsome tool shed now on sale at Lowe’s, more even than the offer of five two-liter Sprites for $4.

Maria Duval, world-famous clairvoyant and consultant of international celebrities, is advertising what even she admits is a “strange and truly amazing offer.” I get to choose not one but seven wishes from her extensive checklist of dreams for personal bliss. I simply enter my numbered selections on the accompanying “special form for fulfilling your wishes,” then sit back and wait for a large, discreet, white envelope to arrive in the mail. According to the ad, I probably won’t believe my eyes, but each of the wishes should come true.

This offer to use the amazing powers of Ms. Duval, who’s described as a medium even though her photograph shows what I’d describe as a petite woman, will lead to “miracles” (quotemarks hers) once she performs her very special ritual. And there’s nothing to pay; everything is FREE OF CHARGE (capitals hers). I understand that I’ll never be asked for money in return for the realization of my seven wishes, not now, never (alliteration hers, skepticism mine).

Though I’m restricted to a list of 33 suggested wishes – probably to keep out the crackpots who yearn unrealistically for the betterment of mankind, or similar nonsense – there’s a lot of good stuff to choose from. For example, number one is to win the lottery within two weeks; number two is to win a big prize on an instant-win scratch card; number nine is to win enough money to never have to work again; number 18 is to never have any more money problems; and number 21 is to win lots of money in the lottery. Not all of your dreams have to involve cash, though. Number eleven will get you a new car, number 15 will make you the owner of property that you can rent out, and number 33 will enable you to stop working and live off a substantial monthly income.

Some of the wishes even involve improving your personal relationships. Numbers 25 through 30 cover this field pretty thoroughly: I can find true love at last, be madly loved by someone, marry the person I love, attract men, attract women or, possibly best of all, be on TV. I can also advance in my career if I choose number 23 (get promoted), number 24 (find a job that pays well) or number 14 (retire with enough money to have no worries). I can even waste a wish or two on cheap thrills like seeing my kids do well in their studies (number 10) or succeeding in an important exam (number 16).

Did I remember to mention the options that give you material rewards? These include winning money on horse races, winning at the casino, buying a boat, going on a cruise, or solving all your financial problems once and for all.

Once you settle on your seven wishes, you enter the numbers on the special form. There are only seven boxes on the form, to keep respondents from being too greedy and to help those who can’t count to seven. The only other details that Maria needs is the amount of cash you want if you’ve chosen wish number four, to immediately win a sum of money. This entry line has space for 24 digits, so be sure to keep your request under a septillion dollars.

I think I’ll opt for the 5-7-8-12-13-17-22 combo. This will give me a monthly income of $5,000, a house, my own business, world travel, enough money to share with my family, some wealthy friends and another house.

Following that is a brief confidential questionnaire that surprisingly doesn’t ask which of your credit cards you consider the luckiest, and what is the number and expiration date of that fortunate Visa. She asks if you have any major problems in your family life, feel like you were born under a bad star, have a spouse, feel lonely or misunderstood, or feel as if a spell has been cast on you. All these questions require a simple yes or no response, but there is a free-form field to write “the question that disturbs you most.” For some reason, she requires that this question be written “in capitals,” even though it’s a tiny, tiny piece of horizontal space. Again, I think she’s steering us away from certain unwanted responses, such as WHAT KIND OF FOOL DO YOU THINK I AM? and HAVE YOU SEEN YOUR MOTHER, BABY, STANDING IN THE SHADOWS?

Once you list your name, address, place of birth, date of birth, hour of birth and minute of birth (she tactfully omits “method of birth” and “number of minutes umbilical cord was wrapped around your neck”), you’re pretty much done. All that’s left now is to wait for a few days, and watch the mail for that large white envelope containing your secret instructions. “Read them carefully,” she writes, “and expect to see some big changes in your life after a few days.”

Instructions? This seems to imply that I’m going to have to do something other than fill out the form and wish. Nowhere else in the ad is there anything suggesting initiative on my part. What is this, some kind of scam? Are my instructions going to require some impossible effort, like “work hard” or “apply yourself” or “read the help-wanted ads instead”?

Surely not from Maria Duval, whom the ad describes as “holder of the highest honorary awards” with “more than 10,000 TV appearances,” the predictor of “hundreds of major events all around the world” who “has never failed to telepathically locate missing persons” and who has the “ability to predict the future confirmed in experiments by the greatest scientific authorities.”

Maybe it’d be worth checking her credentials from an independent source. Entries in a quick Google search also cite Duval for “preying on people all over the world after being thrown out of Australia” and sending them “annoying emails that try to get you to spend money on their worthless crap.” Another follower says you’ll be sent gifts that include a vibrating crystal, a pentagram, a mascot (I hope it’s the San Diego Chicken – I love that guy), an amulet or a talisman, which will only knock $50 or so off your fabulous riches. Others characterize her as a “parasite who preys on the gullible,” an “incessant junk mailer,” a “*&^%*&^ scam artist” and a “stupid bitch.”

So maybe this offer is too good to be true. Maybe it will change my life for the better, but only if I define “better” as “getting more mail.” Perhaps the “ritual” she’ll perform on my behalf involves contacting her telemarketer for the ceremonial sacrament of adding my name to his call list.

Perhaps the dream of getting something for nothing is merely wishful thinking. But maybe if I act now, I can still get that deal on those Sprites.

Revisited: Catching up at the DMV

I accompanied a young friend to the Department of Motor Vehicles office the other day, and was reminded how much I missed the place. The DMV is getting a lot of mention in the current media, primarily as an example of what could become of our healthcare system if it’s run by the government. I don’t see the cause of all the fuss; frankly, I’d love to wait in my doctor’s office for my number to be displayed on a scoreboard screen, surrounded by cute teenage girls and more clipboards that I could hope for in my wildest dreams.

The office in my part of South Carolina is located off a quiet country road, sitting on a small rise above a green field. You’re greeted by a reception person when you walk in, given a ticket based on your particular business (new plates, road test, just want to hang out) and shown to a brightly lit waiting room. There, you’re entertained by the frightening quirkiness of your fellow citizens, protected by a crew of burly highway patrolmen and many sharp pencils. For some reason, the pencils have plastic spoons adhered to the eraser end, in case you want to eat pudding while filling out your forms.

I think the ambience is quite pleasant. If they had wi-fi and a coffee bar, I’d be there much more often. But this was my first visit in a while, so I thought I’d be able to brush up on modern motoring techniques as I waited. It’s been almost 40 years now since I took my first driving test, and I figured there was much I could learn. For one example, they now have these things called “cars.”

I remember studying hard as a youth to memorize the road signs and sticking my arm out the window at various angles to indicate what action I was planning next (the only one I still recall is that pointing downward at a 45-degree angle indicated you were about to drop your transmission). I’d practiced parabolic parking, eight-point turns and jack-rabbit starts for weeks before I felt confident enough to meet the examiner. I passed the test in 1968, the same year Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. died, though I swear I wasn’t driving anywhere near them.

Much has changed since those days of Corvairs, Barracudas, Sting Rays and the ill-conceived Dodge Squid (suckers were not to the Sixties what tailfins were to the Fifties). I browsed through a copy of the S.C. Driver’s Manual while we awaited our turn, hopeful that I could learn more about recent developments on and near the road.

For example, what was the significance, I wondered, of those white outlined cartoon families you see on the back window of so many minivans and SUVs? I’d always assumed it was equivalent to the notches on the shotgun stock of an Old West desperado keeping count of his victims. But it seemed odd that the road kill almost always included a daddy, a mommy, a gaggle of kids and maybe a dog or cat. Perhaps there was something else I was supposed to learn from these stick-people decals – a warning that the driver’s toothpick arms made vehicle operation risky, and I needed to stay back.

And what’s the current thinking on the safety of driving while using your cell phone with a dog in your lap while you consult your GPS screen and apply your eyeliner? Couldn’t the dog take over some of the tasks? Does GPS really help locate your eyelids? If I don’t have any of these accessories myself, is it okay that I do crossword puzzles instead? Write long rambling letters to my congressperson? Lance that troublesome boil on my chest?

The proper use of turn signals is something else that seems to have changed over time. I know they’re no longer necessary when changing lanes or making a right into a parking lot, and have evolved largely into an ornamental function to be used mainly around the holidays. And when you put on your flashers, you’re allowed to do virtually anything, up to and including a hill climb up the steps of the Capitol. But what does it mean if your brakelights are out, you’re missing two hubcaps, and your passenger-side door is painted with primer?  Besides the fact that you’re probably living in your car.

I’m also not sure about some of the new laws pertaining to older motorists. I’ll be in my late 50s before much longer, and I need to figure out how to get lower into my driver’s seat than I am now. I can still see over the steering wheel, and it seems you’re not allowed to do that once you’ve reached a certain age. I also need to get a brimmed hat, and a better understanding of the mathematical formula that dictates how fast you’re allowed to go. I think you take a hundred miles per hour and subtract your age, and that becomes your maximum speed. If you’re over 100 years old, you have to drive everywhere in reverse. And you have to do it in the passing lane.

When you’re driving near trucks and motorcycles, I know that special care needs to be taken. The big tractor trailers have blind spots their drivers can’t see, and that seems to include anything beneath five feet above the ground. Smaller pickup trucks, such as those used by maintenance and other workers, also need extra room, though don’t get too far back or you’ll miss out on the free ladders and lawn equipment they often dispense. Motorcycles are allowed to swerve in and out of traffic, as long as the driver is wearing a rebel-flag head scarf instead of a helmet and his female passenger shows the world a thick layer of midriff fat. Bicycle riders have as much right to the road as do motor vehicle operators, but only in theory, and only when it’s you on the bike, not someone else.

I looked through the 176-page manual pretty thoroughly, and couldn’t find most of these issues adequately addressed. I even checked the index for “cow (waving)” to try to understand the significance of that scene outside the local Chick-fil-A. Nothing about the etiquette of getting out of your car while someone else wants the parking space you’re climbing into, nothing about dangling chains creating a distracting light show of sparks, nothing about the reason why drivers with NASCAR stickers always go ten miles an hour under the speed limit.

Well, at least the DMV visit wasn’t a complete waste of time. I did learn that everyone was required to have insurance, which made things run much more smoothly than they do at my local doctor’s office.

Asking local doctors, what’s in a name?

As someone whose last name is “Whiteman,” I’m hardly in a position to be making fun of other people’s surnames. I’ve wanted to believe all my life that my forbearers were simply very pale, rather than racial supremacists, and have upheld the family pronunciation of “white-munn” to that end.

However, while reading the Sunday paper yesterday, I was inspired to abandon caution and undertake a wholesale taunt of the medical community in my area. Rock Hill Pediatric Associates had taken out a quarter-page ad to welcome their newest doctor to the practice. A graduate of Wake Forest University, Dr. Elizabeth Super will reportedly make a “proud addition to our staff of compassionate physicians offering convenient, coordinated and comprehensive care” when she’s not otherwise busy saving the earth from oncoming meteors or maintaining an apartment building.

So is Dr. Super a super doctor? She claims in the ad that her “primary goal is a healthier you,” though I’d be concerned that secondary pursuits like foiling super-villains or snaking out a clogged drains could be distracting. Especially if she’s assisting with intestinal surgery and hands over a Shop-Vac when the lead surgeon only needed light suction.

At the particular practice where my family and I are patients, there are a number of oddly named doctors. I recently was treated by Dr. Brandon Sick for back pain. He must be so weary of hearing patients ask if he realizes how ironic it is that a doctor has the last name of “sick” that he’s tempted to harm rather than heal. I’ll try to avoid patronizing him in the future, not because he isn’t a fine practitioner, but because I don’t want to call the answering service one night to report that “I’m sick” and have them send me out on a house call.

There’s another highly skilled professional on staff at this office by the name of Dr. Jerry Sample. He’s been there for the entire span of 30 years I’ve been a patient, so it hadn’t occurred to me until recently that his last name has a couple of other meanings. When the lab nurse gives you a cup and ushers you into a bathroom so you can “give us a sample,” maybe she’s asking you to duplicate a maneuver patented by the good doctor. Assuming that maneuver involves a urine test may be assuming too much. Perhaps he’s known around the office for hijinks that include wrapping an entire roll of toilet paper around his head, then swashbuckling down the hall pretending a plunger is his sword. Sorry, but I’m not doing that.

My wife saw Dr. Sample once and he wanted to prescribe her some new medication. So that she wouldn’t have to pay a steep price at the drug store for uncertain results, he provided her with a few “doctors samples.” She was so confused that she nearly had to be treated for head explosion.

I wonder if there’s something about my area of South Carolina that draws the peculiar-named. I know there are special incentives set up to get doctors to practice in rural or other under-served areas. Maybe there’s a med school student loan program that matches young interns with bizarre monikers to areas of the country that need a good chuckle. How else could you explain? …

Dr. Stephen Bott, gastroenterologist and mechanical man.

Dr. Brian Erb, kidney specialist who prescribes fennel and allspice as a cure to kidney stones.

Dr. Susan Hungness, allergist, immunologist, and one of the more sexually well-endowed women you’ll ever encounter.

Dr. John Hoitink, a doctor of internal medicine and a huge fan of Jerry Lewis.

Dr. Eugene Lepine, the veteran dermatologist who has treated me for a number of skin ailments, but always is careful to issue his advice in rhyme. (My favorites are “it’s wise to incise” and “an irregular mole will take a toll”).

Dr. Myo Nwe, an internal medicine physician whose family name came from the directional indicator on a map.

Drs. Obi Uzomba and Ramesh Bhoothapuri, both obviously foreigners and therefore intrinsically hilarious.

Dr. D. William Moose, an orthopedist who also appears as a favorite mascot from the woods on a local children’s television show.

The husband-and-wife team of Drs. Jane and Patrick Box, rheumatologists whose suggested cure for everything from diseases of the connective tissues to musculoskeletal disorders involve encasing the afflicted area in cardboard.

Dr. Robert Goodbar, a pediatrician you don’t want to be looking for unless you’re under age 16.

Dr. Susan Start, who will be ready to begin shortly, and

Dr. Deanna Threatt, who insists on patients paying for services upfront, or else you don’t want to know what procedure she’s going to suggest.

Obama responds to criticism that he’s having fun

WASHINGTON (August 9) — Some commentators in the blogosphere and elsewhere have been critical of President Obama for celebrating his birthday and sending his family on vacation while the nation continues to struggle with the effects of the Great Recession.

“This dooshbag Obama,” said one blogger who seemed to speak for many, “shud focus on being prezident.”

Ever sensitive to criticism from political opponents, the White House reacted quickly yesterday. Press secretary Robert Gibbs issued a statement claiming that the Obamas’ weekend was considerably less fun and relaxing than was portrayed in the media.

“You know how it goes when you’ve been looking forward to something for a long time,” Gibbs told a nearly empty White House pressroom. “You make all these plans and then — boom — things start backfiring. You end up needing a vacation from your vacation. Am I right, people?”

Gibbs addressed criticism of First Lady Michelle Obama’s five-day trip to Spain with daughter Sasha. Mrs. Obama danced the flamenco, toured Andalusian castles, frolicked on Mediterranean beaches and met with the king and queen on Spain on the island of Majorca during her visit.

“She got her foot stomped on during the flamenco, it should be noted,” Gibbs said. “Those castles had a lot of stairs and the southern Spanish beaches don’t even have taffy. It was no picnic for her.”

“And don’t even get us started on the king and queen,” the press secretary continued. “They were a royal pain in the ass.”

Europeans reporters in Spain claimed that the two members of the First Family didn’t get along well with the hotel staff.

“The bellboys would want to help them with their luggage, saying they wouldn’t be able to handle the heavy suitcases,” said Jean Monsiere of Agence France. “The Obamas were all ‘yes we can, yes we can’. These workers earn their living from tips.”

Meanwhile, back in the states, the president reportedly spent Saturday golfing with friends, then played basketball with several current and former NBA players and had a cookout back at the White House.

“The golf outing at a suburban Washington course turned out to be a complete disaster,” Gibbs noted. “The foursome kept being hit by errant golf balls by Tiger Woods from that Ohio tournament. He’s still got his distance, but his accuracy is just awful.”

The basketball game in a gym at an army base near Washington also went poorly. Administration staffers had originally intended to blunt potential criticism of the all-star event by having young students from a nearby school for the blind attend the game as spectators. When Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel was reminded that “blind” meant the kids couldn’t see, an audience of wounded soldiers was quickly assembled.

“The game proceeded smoothly until about halfway through,” Gibbs said. “Then LeBron James and Dwyane Wade called a timeout and said they needed a break ‘to take their talents to the men’s room,’ whatever that means. The president kept waiting for them to return, but they never did.”

The game finally continued with remaining stars like Carmelo Anthony, Magic Johnson, and some girl player they had rounded up to make the teams seem diverse. The athletes then retreated to the White House for Obama’s 49th birthday party, where attendees feasted on chicken, corn, iced tea and Gulf shrimp cooked up on the barbecue.

“Well, at least we tried to grill the Gulf shrimp,” Gibbs said. “But they were so oily they kept slipping into the fire.”

Gibbs acknowledged that he could understand some of the criticism coming in from the public, and said the president was prepared to make amends for the perceived insensitivity. But he didn’t want to rush to judgment and possibly ruin someone’s career, as happened in the Shirley Sherrod case.

“The president will literally take it upon himself to suffer for creating these misperceptions,” Gibbs said. “For the rest of the year, he will wear a shirt made of hair — a hairshirt, if you will — underneath his suit, so that he can suffer the same irritation, annoyance and pain being felt by those so hard-hit by our current economic woes.”

The official presidential hairshirt

What fun — a trip to the emergency room

There’s little in life quite as fun as a visit to the hospital emergency room.    

I got to see this for myself Monday night when I accompanied a young friend to the facility here in Rock Hill. Our county is plastered with billboards promoting Piedmont Medical Center for its promise to “see” patients within 30 minutes or less of their arrival.    

“Look, there’s one now,” I imagined the lady at the front desk saying as we walked in the door. “I see him. Now, I will make him wait for hours before our staff acknowledges him with any of the other four senses.”    

If ever you needed evidence that our current system is broken, come spend an evening with the poor and uninsured seeking their only option for health care. Watch as they double over in pain in the crowded hallway to the waiting area. Listen as their children dart around the room screaming “Mommy, look at me … mommy, look at me” for an hour at a stretch. Feel the danger as the trio sitting across from you suddenly sit up in recognition of an armed robbery suspect whose face is broadcast on television.    

“Hey, lookie there, Ella Sue. It’s Uncle Bobby! He’s on the TV!”    

The heat poured in through the constantly opening door as we stood waiting to check in. My friend had been told by his primary care physician that his iron levels were dangerously low and he likely needed an immediate infusion. We explained how important this was to the triage woman, aware that it likely wasn’t going to compete with all the broken arms and crushing abdominal pain around us. We might be lucky enough to get in ahead of that guy in the corner dabbing at his sniffly nose with a tissue. No, wait — he’s got a gunshot wound too. Damn.    

One is tempted in such a situation to take advantage of a system that treats individuals based on the “acuity” of their condition. There was a notice behind the sign-in desk advising that if you suspected you were suffering a heart attack or a stroke that you should say so. (Don’t be embarrassed. This is a hospital — they’re used to such things.) Maybe my friend could claim he was having both, then when he quickly got in to see a doctor he could claim that his heart and brain were suddenly feeling a lot better, but this iron thing still had him worried.    

After the sign-in, you’re told to have a seat but none are available. I explored the immediate area to find at least a cool spot to stand, and came to realize this was directly across from a soft drink machine, pumping out tiny bursts of refrigerated air every time someone bought a soda. We took up our position there.    

Periodically, someone dressed in scrubs would emerge to call out the name of the next one chosen to be saved. The eager wounded descended on the poor man to show him their boils and their shattered jaws, in hopes of receiving care. Unfortunately, he was one of many people working at the hospital who was “not a doctor” and all he could do was advise them to get away.    

When my friend’s name was called within the first ten minutes, we thought we had lucked out. Instead, we were only going to the triage room where another “not a doctor” would record vitals like body temperature, blood pressure and pulse. I explained that we also had the symptom of being insured, thinking that might carry some weight in getting us through to the inner sanctum. No such luck.    

It was back to the waiting room for another half hour. Every five minutes or so, the scrubbed one would re-appear and inevitably call out a name that was similar enough to my friend James that our hopes would be raised for a syllable or two.    

First it was Jacob, then Jason, then Jaylene. Each time our hearts soared briefly before returning to their regretably un-attacked status.    

Finally, James was summoned to another room where he was to have blood drawn. This was done by a friendly older man who identified himself as (I think) a philatelist. Though this too was not a doctor, he’d had extensive training in poking people with sharp instruments while training for his Bachelor of Science degree in Jabbing at Clemson. We asked if he’d personally be testing the blood for iron levels and if he could let us know the results as soon as he had them, and he kindly explained no and no. Only the precious doctors could discuss such sacred information, and we could now return to the Coke machine.    

This next stretch without any attention from the staff was the longest of all. For over two hours we sat and waited. Entertainment was hard to come by, despite the presence of Entertainment Tonight on the waiting room TV. There was the thirty-something woman who sobbed pitifully as she gave her check-in information. There was a guy who asked me if I knew where the nearest ATM was. There was the variety of hip-hop cellphone ringtones that went off periodically. There were the two young blondes in halter tops and short-shorts, obviously in need of emergency treatment for hotness.    

My friend was still feeling no symptoms from his iron deficiency, but instead was growing weak from missing dinner. By 8:30, we’d had enough and I approached the check-in desk.    

“Are you the person we notify that we’re giving up?” I asked. It didn’t sound sarcastic to either of us.    

She was that person and prepared to remove us from the waiting list as we walked out the door. Only then did we hear the call “James Wolfe, the doctor will see you now.”    

I was tempted to respond that he’d better look quick as we’d be driving out the exit shortly, but instead we returned to the desk and were escorted to the treatment area.    

What a maze of horror that was. An obvious car accident victim lay in one room. A man with his hair caked in blood was in another. And they were all openly visible to passers-by, like some museum of trauma. It felt like we should pause before each tableau and admire it like we would a fine artwork, stroking our chins and admiring the eye for detail of the knifing victim’s attacker. Everybody had gone to so much trouble, it seemed a shame if the effort weren’t appreciated.    

The escort led us to our cubicle where we were told to wait for the nurse. Finally, we were working our way up the food chain.    

Within a mere 45 minutes, the nurse appeared and instructed James to put on a gown. Again, we pressed for the iron numbers before donning any wedding attire and again we were told that only the doctor could provide these.  

“The only reason he’s feeling bad now is that we had to wait so long outside,” I pointed out. “If we got him home and got him some air conditioning and dinner, I think he’d be fine.”  

“It won’t be long now before the doctor can see him,” she responded. Maybe in geological terms it won’t be long, I thought, but we don’t have any spare eons right now.  

“I’m sorry but we’re leaving,” I said with finality. “I can’t imagine iron deficiency being that dangerous. We’ll just pick up a Wooly Willy game on the way home and he’ll eat the filings.”  

“You understand that if you leave now, we’re not responsible,” the nurse reminded us.  

Yes, I thought. I understand that you’re not responsible. Believe me, I understand.  

Take two of these and don't ever call me again

 

Fake News Briefs: From Uncle Ted to Wilson Pickett

Stevens and Rostenkowski find peace at last

HEAVEN, D.C. (August 11) — Newly elected representatives Ted Stevens and Dan Rostenkowski are already exerting their powerful influence here. St. Peter has appointed Stevens to the Celestial Senate and Rostenkowski to the Heavenly House, and neither has wasted any time in resorting to the pork-barrel politics they were famous for on Earth.

Both men have joined together to co-sponsor legislation that would fund the construction of an express lane from the physical world to the afterlife for those who have devoted their lives to conscientious, bi-partisan public service. The $644 million project would provide a “pathway to sainthood” to politicians who rise above the current Washington environment of petty bickering and instead work toward improving the general welfare of their nation.

Opponents in both the Celestial Senate and Heavenly House were quick to criticize the proposed project as a “bridge to nowhere.”

Passenger frustrations boil over

NEW YORK (August 10) — A would-be terrorist who planned to force a Pittsburgh-to-New York JetBlue flight to proceed smoothly with no delays and a pleasant experience for all was thwarted by a group of disruptive passengers Tuesday.

Ahmad al-Malawi, a software salesman from Albany, N.Y., who described himself as a frequent business flier, commandeered the plane’s PA system when unruly passengers began arguing about space in the overhead luggage bin.

“The Muslim people of the world just cannot take this anymore,” he reportedly announced. “We try to explode a shoe bomb and you interrupt us. We try to explode an underwear bomb and all we get is a painful Brazilian. Now, I try to force you to behave like adults and even that fails. It is all so frustrating.”

Al-Malawi then uttered what was believed to be an Arabic curse — “fuq u-Al” — grabbed two cans of beer and deployed the emergency chute. When he remembered his Islamic faith forbade him from drinking alcohol, he returned the beers and instead took two cans of sugar-free cherry Dr. Pepper. When he realized that the current celebration of Ramadan forbade him from drinking anything during daylight hours, he returned the sodas and selected two copies of JetBlue’s award-winning in-flight magazine Airways. He then jumped on to the inflated chute, landed on the tarmac and calmly walked toward the rental car counter where his mid-sized sedan was waiting.

More are making music to politics transition

DETROIT, Mich. (August 11) — First it was Wyclef Jean, reggae and hip-hop artist, announcing he was entering the race to be the next president of Haiti. Now, another legendary musician has said he’ll make a bid to cross over from the music world to international politics.

Wilson Pickett, a major figure in the development of American soul music, told reporters yesterday that he will seek the office of president in the Land of 1,000 Dances.

Though dead since 2006, Pickett said he could still help the long-suffering citizenry in the imaginary land he created in his 1966 hit, which peaked at Number 6 on the Billboard charts.

“The Land wasn’t a real place, and I’m no longer a real person, so I think there’s a certain synergy there,” Pickett said. “Hey! Uh!”

Pickett said his main focus if he’s elected would be to halt the threatened extinction of many of the 1,000 dances. He noted that the watusi and the pony were in particular danger, and that preserving all of the various gyrations was critical to maintaining the cultural heritage of the imaginary nation.

“C’mon, y’all, let’s say it one more time,” he said in announcing his campaign slogan. “Na na-na-na-na na-na-na-na na-na-na na-na-na, na-na-na-na.”

Pickett said that by paying personal attention to each individual “na,” he hoped to restore the once-proud country to the fame and glory it knew almost five decades ago. He called on both current and expatriate Dancians to “aah, help me … aah, help me.”

Lives of the Dead: Augustus, father of August

It can easily be said that August, without any equivocation or debate, is the suckiest month of the year. It’s way too hot. Students are dreading the start of the school year, just around the corner. There are no holidays, unless you count Ecuadorean independence day. Pre-season football is a joke, TV reruns abound and our only other source of entertainment — a dysfunctional Congress and its pathetic antics — is on recess.

Why do we even bother with such a poor excuse for a month? As with most of our modern-day blights, we can blame the Romans.

August, the month, was named for Augustus, the Roman emperor. Actually, Augustus is only one of several names used by the man who succeeded Julius Caesar and governed the world’s greatest empire around the time of Christ. He was born “Gaius Octavius Thurinus” in 63 B.C., then became “Gaius Julius Caesar” when his great-uncle was assassinated, and later “Gaius Julius Caesar Augustus.” It’s probably only due to the Roman Senate’s decision to add the “Augustus” (or “revered one”) that this isn’t known as the “Gaiest” month.

Though it sounds like California is going ahead with that designation anyway.

Augustus appeared to take full advantage of the confusion around what to call him. (Imagine how far you could go in your career if you decided to change your name every now and then — “You say Bob failed to turn in his report yesterday? Good thing my name is Al.”)

His beginnings were fairly humble for someone who was the nephew of a man they’d ultimately name a surgical birthing procedure after. His father died when he was 4, and his mother remarried a man named Philippus. This guy claimed to be descended from Alexander the Great, so you know he was a bit on the self-absorbed side and had little time for young Octavius. Because of this, he was raised by his grandmother, Julia Caesar.

When she died, he gave such a terrific eulogy that his mother and step-father decided he was a good kid after all, and took a more active role in raising him. He held several part-time jobs typical for Roman teenagers — a member of the College of Pontiffs, staging the Greek games that honored the Temple of Venus Genetrix — but what he really wanted was to join his great-uncle’s military campaign in Africa. At first his mom said no, then she said okay, then he got sick and couldn’t make the trip.

Finally, he was well enough to sail to the front, if you can call becoming shipwrecked “sailing.” He made it to shore and crossed hostile territory to reach Caesar’s camp, greatly impressing the mighty general. Since Caesar didn’t have any children of his own, he decided to dash off a new will naming Octavius his heir, and deposited the document with the Vestal Virgins, who were kind of like the probate court of the time, except even more virginal.

After the Africa gig, he spent several years in military training until that fateful Ides of March in 44 B.C. It was only after the assassination that he found he had been adopted by Julius, so of course he felt obliged to mass some troops and arrive in Rome to claim his newly acquired birthright.

There, he encountered Marc Antony — the consul, not the Jennifer Lopez husband – who was to be a rival for succession. They actually got along pretty good at first, though Antony started losing a lot of political support when he opposed the Senate initiative to declare Julius Caesar a god (seems like they should’ve thought of that before he was knifed; he might’ve survived). Octavius, by now called “Octavian,” convinced Antony to take a prolonged vacation in France, which is probably where the modern-day French got the idea to take the entire month of August off.

After everybody chilled out for a while, Antony was allowed to come back to Rome where he, Octavian and Marcus Lepidus (kind of a Sarah Palin who came out of nowhere) formed the Second Triumvirate. They would rule equally for a period of five years, after which they would be term-limited out of office.

The trio set in motion a series of “proscriptions” for some of the senators and other elites who had opposed them. A proscription was not something you got filled at CVS and took twice a day; instead, it meant your property would be appropriated and if you complained at all, you’d be killed. This is even worse than waiting 45 minutes for your meds and then finding out they’re not covered by your insurance.

Octavian’s family life became as complicated as his public career. He wanted a divorce from Clodia Pulchra, who happened to be the daughter of Marc Antony’s first wife. Naturally, Antony’s wife was unhappy with this turn of events so she did what everybody did when they got pissed off in those days – she raised an army. Octavian didn’t much care, and proceeded to marry Scribonia, who gave him his only natural-born child on the same day he dumped her and married Livia Drusilla. (Attention, Newt Gingrich). Meanwhile, Antony married Octavian’s sister, but he soon started diddling Cleopatra on the side. This was the final straw, leading to a great naval battle between Octavian and Antony. Antony lost, and fell on his sword, probably not by accident. Cleopatra did her famous snake-handling shtick and soon both were dead.

Now Octavian could return to Rome and rule unchallenged. This is when the Senate granted him the name Augustus, and gave him power over Rome’s religious, civil and military affairs. They still claimed they’d act as an “advisory body” to Octavian/Augustus, but mostly this ended up consisting of telling him what a great job he was doing.

And in fact, modern-day historians now agree with that assessment. He restored peace after 100 years of civil war, maintained an honest government, improved the infrastructure and fostered free trade. Art and literature flourished under his patronage. The empire expanded to Spain, France and Dalmatia, a small but important region of only 101 inhabitants.

Despite this success, he remained modest when he wasn’t murdering people, and refused to hold a scepter, wear a diadem or don the purple toga of his predecessor, though the latter was due more to the inability of ancient dry-cleaners to get out blood stains.

Augustus died in 14 A.D. while visiting his father’s grave. Always a great fan of the theater and a bit of a drama queen himself, his final words were “Have I played the part well? Then applaud as I exit.” His body was returned to Rome for a huge funeral at which he was eulogized by Tiberius, the stepson/former son-in-law/adopted son who became the next emperor by virtue of being one of the few family members Augustus decided to leave alone. Augustus was declared a god (again, a little late, if you ask me) and cremated on a pyre close to his mausoleum. There, his ashes rested in peace until Goths sacked Rome in 410 and used them for kitty litter.

Despite a job-hopping resume that included positions as triumvir, general, senator, consul, proconsul, princeps, imperator, tribune, censor, pontifex maximum and pater patriae, Augustus is generally regarded as perhaps the most successful of ancient Roman autocrats. His nature so matched the restlessness that we all feel during this hottest month of the year that naming August after him seems like a fitting tribute.

Let us gaily hail Augustus even as we count the days till a cooler September.

Revisited: Fun with flag disposal

Let me start by saying that I love America. I love the amber waves of grain, the purple mountains, the Green Mountains and the Orange Bowl. I’m crazy for fruited plains. Skies that are spacious are among my top ten turn-ons.

And I also love and respect the American flag. Its asymmetrical design and color absolutely pop off the surface. Its lines are clean and simple, a graphic design concept that was mocked at the time but which now represents all the best in flag composition. I admire the integrity of the Founders, who felt it was best not to sell the back side to corporate advertisers of the day, despite a great offer from Travelocity. I also think cloth was an excellent choice, as opposed to the buffalo hide that was originally considered.

So when I found a discarded flag in the shed of a rental house I was cleaning out this weekend, I was a little uncertain what to do. I knew there were strict rules regarding proper disposal of Old Glory, and I could tell that my previous tenants knew nothing about these rules, as the banner lay in a crumpled heap next to a one-armed chair and an old can of latex stain. It was as tattered as its much-scarred forbearers over Ft. McHenry and Guadalcanal, except this damage looked like it was inflicted by a lawn edger.

Wanting to do the right thing, I discussed options with my wife. We both knew that burning the flag was both a highly provocative act viewed by some as treason, as well as a proper method of disposal. We couldn’t do it in our yard though, because a recent drought might start a wildfire. I supposed we could do it out in the street at the entrance to our subdivision, but doubted our mostly Republican neighbors would view this as the patriotic act we intended.

I also remembered that burial was an acceptable course. Again, however, our yard was not a good location, since tree roots make it very hard to dig; the only soft spot was just off the back deck but to entomb it there might lead to an unpleasant reunion with some dearly departed cats.

If burial and burning were okay, maybe other verbs starting with “bur” were actions we could take: Is “burnish” something that would get it off our hands? Could we turn it into a burka?

We started brainstorming ideas that would allow us to continue our clean-up without bringing down the wrath of all right-thinking Americans. Since the idea is to show proper respect for all that the star-spangled banner represents, and since that was pretty much a non-issue because of its three years already spent inspiring mostly crickets, I thought we might be able to discard it with the rest of our household refuse. Maybe if we did a little ceremony before hand – I thought I had some sparklers left over from Independence Day – we could lay it respectfully across the top of the bin.

“That’d make it look like a casket,” a tactless friend noted. “The garbage men might think there’s a veteran inside.”

Maybe we could unravel the threads so we were left with only red, white and blue fibers, which wouldn’t be so problematic. We could enlist a local seamstress to create a more-respectful new life for the fabric – perhaps a bikini, or an Uncle Sam hat, or some kind of super-hero costume.

This looks like the time I should turn to the Internet for some advice. A site on American flag etiquette notes that it should be lighted at all times, never be “dipped to a thing,” and not used for advertising. It shouldn’t be used to deliver anything and should never touch the ground. When it’s no longer fit to serve our country, it should be destroyed by “burning in a dignified manner” (i.e., not surrounded by ecstatically dancing foreigners).

Snopes.com references the “dignified way” without much further guidance, other than to say it shouldn’t be “dumped into a trash can amidst of bunch of rotting garbage”. Might it be allowable if the garbage is fresh?

Probably the best option I could find is also the most expensive. A firm called American & State Flag Disposal will also accept municipal and local government banners, as well as those from “friendly foreign governments.” (You’d think they’d love to get their hands on an Iranian flag, just for kicks). Fees are on an escalating scale: $5 for a small flag, $10 for a flag larger than six-by-ten, and “contact us for individual quotes” on those super flags you see over car dealerships.

But what about the pole? The flag I found was wrapped around a two-piece aluminum shaft that was capped with an eagle. Doesn’t the pole deserve an equal measure of regard, serving as it did as the supporting base for that most revered of American symbols? Partial burial seemed like a workable choice, and if I did it vertically and spaced them just right, I could string up a badminton net between the two. If I dubbed it the Rock Hill Memorial Net Sports Park, I could be killing two birds with one stone, three if you count the eagle.

While still pondering what to do, I was watching ESPN and caught the highlights of Usain Bolt setting his new world record in the 100-meter dash. While he celebrated his victory, he held the Jamaican flag high over his head, then waved it to the crowd, then wrapped it around his shoulders like a shawl. I know the Jamaican flag is nowhere near as important as its American counterpart, but it did remind me of how U.S. Olympians literally wrapped themselves in the flag, even after some pretty mediocre performances in Beijing. Perhaps I should hold onto this one in case I qualify for the 2012 Games in London (I heard they’re considering adding speed-typing as a new event.)

In the end, I took the easier, least expensive route, and let it lay in the back seat of my car while I remained frozen with indecision. The flag is currently on tour with daily trips between my home and office, and occasional stops at gas stations, convenience stores and Starbucks, where I believe an endorsement deal may be in the works.

Post Script: Reading back over this piece, it occurs to me that I should’ve added my great respect, thanks and admiration to those who have fought in defense of our nation. It’s the sacrifice and bravery of our vets that give us the freedoms we enjoy today. Those who are fallen deserve the ultimate esteem of a grateful nation. And to the vets who walk among us – you’re doing a terrific job of administering health care to our beloved pets, though I’ve got to say you could’ve done a better job with my cats.

Headline goes here (hope it fits)

In between forcing the college president to resign and kicking off the streaking fad, I did a brief stint as layout editor at my college newspaper back in the seventies. Part of the job involved writing the headlines.

The task was challenging for two reasons. One, you actually had to read what the reporters had written, understanding every nuance of whatever issue they were covering before coming up with the all-purpose standby, “Meeting Held”. (Journalism’s most flexible headline — use it to cover everything from the crucifixion of Christ to man’s first steps on the moon).

Secondly, you had very precise parameters to work with in constructing a heading that would fit into the space allotted. There was a character count posted above my desk, telling how many letters I could use per column inch. Each lower-case letter counted as one character, except that the “m” and “w” counted as one-and-a-half, and the “f,” “l,” “i” and “t” counted as half letters.

Usually, we were extremely tight on space, and had to get very creative in our word choice. My proudest day in this position was when the Gay Student Union went to the state capitol to speak with legislators, and I got to use the word “flit” to describe their angry protest march down College Avenue. Likewise, I lived in dread of the day a story might cross the AP Wire reporting that “Wham-O Wows Moms” or “Woman’s Womb Meows”.

So I have some sympathy for modern-day newspaper editors as they go about this task. It’s tough enough to succinctly craft a headline that draws the reader in; plus, you have to worry about the fact that you’re probably going to get laid off next week.

The following is a brief sampling of headlines lifted (there’s another good headline word) from local newspapers in my area. Most of these examples hint at a story entirely different from what was being reported, a story that would’ve been far more interesting than what the reality turned out to be.

Player’s death makes words hard
Emergency personnel worked feverishly to pump air into his lungs, but still he refused to comment on what had happened to him.

Wisconsin looking for another stop
This heading hints at an exciting tale of how state officials are trying to locate a pipe organ component that admits pressurized air to the instrument, or perhaps how a small town is dealing with the theft of its single stop sign. Unfortunately, it was far less interesting: tourism officials are hoping to land a golf tournament on the PGA Men’s Tour.

Hootie and the Blowfish help to round up school supplies
It’s good to see they’ve found productive volunteer work ever since the concert bookings stopped coming.

Wanted: ‘People person’ for animal control post
The previous holder of the position, an “animal animal,” was too sympathetic to the wild tendencies of the captured creatures and allowed them to have parties and stay up way past their bedtime.

Host of cockfights too sick for prison
There are two possible meanings here: (1) a multitude (or “host”) of chicken-on-chicken bouts were judged too tasteless to be staged for the entertainment of convicts; or (2) an impresario of animal blood sports felt just fine while he was allowing poultry to be mutilated on his property, but now that he’s been sentenced for the crime, the thought of the whole gory sham makes him ill.

Money could be available as early as October
This could go a long way to preventing that much-feared double-dip recession.

John surgery advances
Plumbers are using medical techniques honed in the operating room to perform less-invasive repair on the stopped-up toilet.

Stabbing suspect wanted in Israel
The Israelis have such a difficult time dealing with life-and-death security matters and the constant threat of external terrorist attack or internal uprising from Palestinians. They would just die for the opportunity to solve a simple knifing case.

Ke$ha brings inner ‘Animal’ to ‘Today Show’
I just hope it’s a tapeworm and not some kind of exotic badger that she’s attempting to smuggle in a body cavity following her recent smash tour of South America.

Does language matter?
I’d say “yes” but then I’d be using language which would prejudice the whole discussion.

Mom’s beloved bike rolls on to daughter
The actual story was about a mother who was passing on to her college-bound daughter the old Schwinn they had ridden together for years. The only reason I learned that, however, is because I’d hoped there’d be a lurid description of a crush injury.

Two trapped men rescued from clothes dryer
Were they trapped in wet clothing and became much dryer after they were rescued from the sodden duds? Or – surely this can’t be the case — did the two of them become so entwined in the Maytag during whatever God-forsaken thing they were doing in there, and become somehow entrapped?

Man injured after he falls in front of bus
The ankle sprain would’ve healed on its own but the being-hit-by-a-bus part of the accident is not so easily treated.

N.C. State plan targets athletes who miss class
Football and basketball stars alike fondly recall the challenge of the collegiate classroom. Some, however, develop a deep depression once they’ve left their studies behind and land a multi-million dollar pro sports contract. So their alma mater is offering a counseling program to help those who simply can’t deal with the loss of scholarly studies on their own.

China to remember 1,200 killed in flood
They almost forgot, what with the landslide that killed 1,500, the typhoon that left tens of thousands homeless, and the earthquake that decimated an entire province. Someone in the government should write these things down, so they don’t have so much to remember.

Barbecue to be held
Be careful. It’s still pretty hot.

An editorial: Build the salad outpost elsewhere

It’s been years now since the site had become something sacred. And yet it seemed like only yesterday that the awful event occurred. In the interim, the location had grown to be a symbol of how recovery is possible, how life goes on, how we can try to forgive even if we’ll never be able to forget.

The left side of the middle shelf in our office refrigerator may not be special to everyone. But it’s where all who bring sandwiches to work store their lunch.

It’s not just a tradition; there are reasons why we sandwich-lovers prefer this spot. It’s not too warm, like the top shelf is, and it’s not too cold, like the bottom one. Because of how the refrigerator door opens, it’s easy to get to. And there’s a great comfort in being with others of your kind, knowing your roast beef and mayo can sit next to Bob from Accounting’s tuna fish salad and Angie from Human Resources’ ham and swiss.

Recently, a proposal has been made by those who bring salads for lunch — the so-called “saladists” — that they be allowed to use a portion of the left side of the middle shelf. They say there’s not enough room on the right side of the shelf. Their claim that salads are bulkier and need more room, and also that they’re more conducive to employee health, appears to be winning the support of management.

But the current management team wasn’t here nearly nine years ago on that day when Sue’s salad “went bad,” so bad in fact that fumes of rotting romaine permeated every cubic inch of the refrigerator, but hit the adjacent sandwiches especially hard.

“I’d brought a turkey sandwich that day,” remembers Joel of the maintenance staff. “It was tightly sealed in a Zip-Loc bag and yet still, it was ruined by that awful rancid salad smell.”

A spokesperson for the saladists said they’re not asking much — just a two-inch strip down the middle. They claim there should be room enough to accommodate the lunch preferences of everyone, that a fundamental principle of American life is that followers of all different lunch styles can live together in harmony. They say it would be a tribute to this nation’s tradition of accepting people of all appetites.

They point to the top shelf, where those who bring frozen dinners set them to thaw, because the department microwave needs a head start since the rotating thing broke. The Stoufferites would seem to be a community of the like-minded who also think diversity is fine as long as it’s kept on a lower shelf. The saladists claim, however, that the variety of french bread pizzas, savory chicken and rice, and low-fat chicken quesadilla flatbread melts represent pluralism at its finest.

We Sandwiccans also aren’t getting much support from the bottom shelf, where people who bring remains from the previous night’s dinner store their lunches. These Leftoverians claim they need a whole shelf because their Tupperware containers are so many different shapes that they need the extra several inches of height on that shelf. They’d love to have a few salads join them, they say, but there just isn’t enough room.

We hear the logical arguments being made to stake an outpost for salads in sacrosanct sandwich territory. We even agree that a rational analysis of the situation favors their position.

But this is a decision that can’t solely be made by the mind. It must also be made by the heart. Yes, we may appear to be emotional in our efforts to preserve the spot that is so dear to us and our memories. The saladists have many salad days to remember. To those of us who prefer sandwiches, there was only one salad day, and it was a day of inconvenience, if not horror.

Yes, you should be allowed to have more room to store your leafy lunches. We just ask that you be more sensitive to our pain, and look to build your salad outpost elsewhere.

Trashing the convenience of recycling

In long-ago America, people gathered in the town center to share stories, friendships and a sense of community. Today, we have little time for such nonsense.  

In the city, we might exchange a brief glance of recognition with a fellow occupant at the local coffee shop, where Jason Your Barista has replaced kindly old Mr. Johnson, and frigid air conditioning and reliable wi-fi play the role of the park bench.  

In rural areas of the country, however, it’s been a little harder to find a fitting substitute. The feed store went belly-up when agribusiness took over. The seed store closed when everybody started ordering off the internet. The speed store was busted by the Drug Enforcement Agency.  

Just outside our city limits, in a magical land known as Unincorporated York County, a settlement called the “convenience center” is making a name for itself as the new community hub for country folk. It’s hard to say how it came about its name, a euphemism for a trash and recycling collection facility. (It seems like it’d be a lot more convenient just to throw your garbage wherever you wanted to.) Instead, the county government has set up a dozen of these locations where you can toss old mattresses, discard unwanted kitchen grease, and generally trash up the place.  

But it’s also become a location to go and meet your neighbors, where you can swap tales or swap refuse. Saturdays are an especially popular time for folks to pull up their trucks, dump a huge stinking load of rubbish, then set a spell to catch up on what people are doing.  

I decided to join in the scene this past weekend when I had to get rid of some boxes and other junk. I had been to the Mt. Gallant Road location several times before, and it always struck me as a friendly and welcoming place. There’s a large volume of visitors, but a well-constructed traffic flow allows those who want to do their business and be gone to do exactly that, while there are enough pull-offs for those interested in more leisurely dumping.  

The crape myrtle, and other more powerful scent producers, are in full bloom

In the center of the traffic circle sits a grassy island shaded by three flowering crape myrtle trees. My plan was to ditch the boxes, then swing back around and park in the shade, pull out a lawn chair from the trunk, and enjoy a picnic lunch while soaking in the hubbub around me. I even brought my netbook, on the off-chance I could get an internet connection.  

A healthy emphasis on recycling has prompted debris officials to set up various stations where your rejects may be able to start a new life helping someone else. There’s a station for old electronics and latex paint, though I’m not sure how they’re connected. There’s a bin for tires, for newspapers, for cardboard, for large bulky items, for chipboard and for junk mail. There are smaller receptacles for glass of different colors. Around back, kept discreetly out of sight and smell, are vats for antifreeze, motor oil and animal fat.  

Greases, oils and fats are recycling favorites

I knew where to put my cardboard boxes, but I also had about a dozen styrofoam coolers stuffed with what I’ll claim to be thawed freezer packs. I don’t particularly care to disclose what purposes these containers originally served (except to say categorically that they never — I repeat, never — held human organs), which made me feel guilty when I asked one of the two orange-shirted attendants on duty where I should discard them.  

“Put ‘em in the ‘open’ bin,” said the elderly fellow. “That’s for everything that doesn’t go in another category. But no dead animals or construction materials.”  

My dumping complete, I began the leisurely part of the excursion. I decided to stay in the air-conditioned comfort of my car, at least long enough to eat my roast beef sandwich, because the thick summer air was lending a certain olfactory ambience to the scene that wasn’t conducive to successful digestion. Besides, I was afraid it might look weird to be enjoying myself too much.  

People of all kinds could be seen passing through the convenience center on that muggy afternoon. There were moms hauling black plastic bags, country squires in their plaid shorts and sandals, young children helping dads get rid of every remnant left behind by that slutty ex-wife. And there were plenty of representatives from the lower social classes as well, including an apparent militia-man in camo Bermudas and head scarf, and a mostly toothless man who seemed to be collecting more than he was disposing. Many patrons brought their dogs along, treating them to what I’d guess is a canine version of a fine restaurant.  

Attendant prepares to compress a young mother

I sat in my car and took some notes, snapped a few photos out the window, and gave a try at hooking up with the web. The only available router I could pick up was for the “Pogo Family,” but it was too weak to get me a connection. Also, it was secured. The Pogos may be dumb enough to live next door to a dump, but they’re not so dumb as to allow a hacker like me to check a few baseball scores at their expense.  

The longer I stayed, the more suspicious I felt. I don’t think I was doing anything illegal, but I sure wasn’t joining in the camaraderie that all the other rubbish hounds seemed to be enjoying. I noticed one of the attendants looking in my direction, probably wondering what’s up with the guy taking pictures and scribbling in a notebook from behind the darkened windows of a late-model sedan. Might he be planning a terrorist action of some sort? You know, those al-Qaida guys are supposed to be looking for so-called soft targets these days, and what’s softer than a silo full of used oil filters?  

I decide it’s probably time to leave. I finish up my Arby’s combo meal, wad the packaging into a ball, and walk over to the open bin to discard my “Arbage.” I sense the attendant is relieved to see me dressed in shorts and a T-shirt instead of long flowing robes and a bandolier. We exchange a nod, and that becomes the extent of my communion with the locals.  

Returning home to the city, I feel an uncomfortable sensation that I’ve intruded into a landscape where I didn’t really belong. People were going about the honest business of cleaning out their homes, making their best efforts at recycling what they could and properly disposing of the rest. And I sat there and watched them like they were zoo animals, and now I’m posting a blog that ridicules their sincere toil.  

I feel somehow unclean.  

Oh — right. I’ve been hanging out at a dump.

What’s in a name? Sometimes too much.

Neil Patrick Harris announces he’s expecting twins (though how he’s going to squeeze them out is uncertain). A gravely ill Zsa Zsa Gabor has summoned a priest to give her last rights — at least, that’s what they think she asked. Dr. Laura Schlessinger quits her radio talk show, mad at the world because the world is mad at her. Osama bin-Laden continues to elude American forces.

So what do these seemingly disparate personalities have in common? They all go by three names. At least if you count each “Zsa” separately.

Celebrities have come to be so numerous that they’re running out of things to call themselves. The conventional two-name format that served us so well for generations may have worked for the likes of Bob Hope and Gary Cooper, but people aspiring to the limelight today apparently feel the need for a little something extra to set themselves apart. So they add a third name.

It used to be that only notorious assassins would go by more than two monikers. You’d have thought parents would’ve learned not to give their children three names unless they wanted them to grow up to be killers. Even their childhood playmates had to know the likes of Lee Harvey Oswald, James Earl Ray and Mark David Chapman weren’t destined to become astronauts.

Or maybe they used only two names in their pre-criminal days, but when the criminal justice system got mad at them, it sounded just like angry parents: “Sara Jane Moore, get over here, young lady! Did you try to assassinate President Gerald Ford? How many times do I have to tell you: don’t try to murder leaders of the free world. If I told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times! Now go to your room for a minimum of 30 years and don’t come out until you’re sorry.”

Now, every Tom Dick Harry to arrive on the brink of stardom in the world of entertainment seems to be sporting the triple-name. Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Jennifer Love Hewitt. Evan Rachel Wood. Philip Seymour Hoffman. Sarah Jessica Parker. It’s like they think their chances of success are increased by half if they sport 50% more names.

There may have been a few trinomials back in the old days, but they were rare indeed. I can only think of people like Mary Tyler Moore and Martin Van Buren off the top of my head, and only then because of their hilarious turn as co-stars of the 1965 rom-com “She’s the President.”

The current trend may have actually begun with famous actresses who got married, and wanted to take on their husband’s names while still holding onto the label that made them famous. I’m thinking here of Farrah Fawcett-Majors and Patty Duke-Astin. Both soon learned that divorce was common in Hollywood, and that adopting the surname of someone like Lee Majors was just asking for trouble. There are a few modern-day actresses who have yet to learn this lesson — Eva Longoria Parker, Ashlee Simpson-Wentz, Courtney Cox Arquette — but I have a feeling it’s going to dawn on them real soon what a bad idea that was. I’m just grateful that we don’t have a Catherine Zeta-Jones Douglas.

The only male actor to fall victim to this trend was martial arts star Jean-Claude Van, whose marriage to Albert Damme actually helped kick-start a career that led to a series of action hits of the early Nineties like Bloodsport, Kickboxer and Universal Soldier. This rare four-namer has recently enjoyed a resurgence in a French comedy/drama titled JCVD, wherein Jean-Claude Van Damme plays himself as a down-and-out former movie star.

Some figures in the industry may be extremely creative when it comes to thinking up blockbuster thrillers and quirky TV hits, and they want that extra boost in recognition that additional letters can give them. But they just can’t seem to come up with fully realized ideas. So we have folks like M. Night Shyamalan, S. Epatha Merkerson, Michael C. Hall, Samuel L. Jackson and John F. Kennedy. Not surprisingly, most of these people experienced “initial” success but have since faded onto the “B” list or — in the case of our 35th president — worse.

The other strategy certain stars are using to deal with the shortage of two-name labels is to create a title so bizarrely spelled that they can hope at least a vague impression will stick with the public. (“I know her — she was that cheerleader on that ‘Heroes’ show”). There was little wrong with a name like Marion Morrison, besides the fact that it sounded like a girl, and yet this iconic actor felt compelled to change it to John Wayne. No such concern exists for Jake Gyllenhaal, Demi Lovato, Shia LaBeouf, Peter Sarsgaard, Hayden Panettiere and Mariska Hargitay. The old publicity adage that “I don’t care what they say about me as long as they spell my name right” will never apply to these figures.

Finally, I’ll mention the minimalists who have decided to go in the opposite direction and use only one name, as well as a disturbing sub-genre that is experimenting with new concepts in name technology. Mostly found in the world of music, the mononymed include Shakira, Bono, Pink, Diddy, Usher, Prince, Eminem and Rihanna. Their pioneer hero was Cher, who had little choice but to get by with a sparse four letters after the “Sonny and” part of her act skied into a tree and killed himself.

The newest trend, one that threatens to end civilization as we know it, involves adding either punctuation or unnecessary articles to a name. The groundbreaker here was Ann-Margret, the sexpot movie and singing star of the Sixties whose use of a hyphen sent many a young boy’s hearts (mine included) soaring. Following in her footsteps today are the unlikely trio of basketball player Amar’e Stoudemire, singing sensation Ke$ha, and hip-hop artist The-Dream. Lacking the punctuation but still in the same approximate category is U2 guitarist The Edge.

So what options lie ahead for celebrities of the future who want to make a unique name for themselves? There are still some unused articles left, and we might eventually hear from the actor “An Oliver” or the singer “Some Steve”. Punctuation possibilities still abound, so maybe the next teen sensation out of the Disney machine will be somebody like “#arold” or “Ho!!y” or “(harles” or “+homas” or “Virgu/e”.

I just hope that by then I’ll be known as “The Late DavisW”.

Mosque and other controversies could average out

NEW YORK (August 18) — A compromise to settle the uproar surrounding plans to locate an Islamic mosque within two blocks of Ground Zero appears to be in the works.

Rather than following quaint concepts like freedom of religion and assembly, a plan has emerged to let the will of the people — or at least those people who feel compelled to speak on the subject — decide where the community center will be built.

The Nielsen Company has compiled data from the hundreds of interviews done with pundits, politicians, bloggers and blowhards. Some have called for the proposed mosque to be moved an additional three to four blocks farther away. Others have said several miles uptown in Manhattan would represent a more sensitive approach. For still others, putting a gathering place for New York Muslims in Mecca would be too close.

“We took all the distances that have been suggested so far and converted them into miles, and then came up with an average,” said Karen Miller, Nielsen vice president for research. “We’ve given planners a map with a circle showing all possible locations at 78.4 miles from Ground Zero that represented the consensus.”

“Since our founding fathers somehow neglected to address local zoning ordinances in their writing of the Constitution, this may well represent the best course,” said New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg.

The circle begins straight north of the city in Poughkeepsie, heads southwest through the Delaware State Forest and into Pennsylvania, passes into central New Jersey between Trenton and Philadelphia, then encompasses large swathes of the Atlantic Ocean before skirting the Hamptons on Long Island and returning to the mainland in Connecticut.

“There are several good options in there,” said New York City zoning chief Albert Newby. “Particularly attractive at first glance is the Sesame Place theme park in Pennsylvania, the abandoned Borscht Belt hotels in the Catskills, and several offshore drilling platforms virtually within walking distance of the Jersey shore. My sentimental favorite would be the first choice, as I think Elmo would make a great assistant imam.”

Constitutional scholars aren’t sure such a plan would be in keeping with what framers felt were fundamental rights that couldn’t be taken from citizens by popular will.

“But, what the hell,” said Professor Ryan Lehman of the Yale Law School. “Most people now recognize the Constitution as a living, breathing document. So why not let opinion polls and referenda, used with the law of averages, decide more of the pressing controversies of the day.”

One issue that could be impacted by this new philosophy is the subject of gay marriage in California. Though voters narrowly opposed the concept in a 2008 vote, a federal court has recently ruled the marriages could go forward, since they fell under the equal protection clause of the Constitution. So what to do when the will of the people and the law of the land conflict? Compromise.

“I’m proposing a plan that would allow gay marriages to take place, but with certain stipulations that might satisfy the opposition,” said California attorney general Jerry Brown. “Gays and lesbians would be considered legally married, but at the ceremony they’d have to say ‘I would’ rather than ‘I do.’ They’d have to apply Saran wrap to their faces before exchanging the post-ceremony kiss. And instead of being called something like ‘Mr. and Mr.’, they’d be known as ‘Homo and Homo.’”

A similar compromise could be applied to the debate over illegal immigration and whether or not the 14th Amendment allowing children born in the U.S. to become citizens should be struck down.

“How about this?” asked Phoenix mayor Phil Gordon. “Local police are required to ask for citizenship papers at traffic stops. If drivers don’t have them, they’re taken into custody, but the men and women are put into the same jail cell. If nature takes its course and they start producing babies, then the children become temporary citizens of the jail. The parents are deported but the kids are kept around to make coffee for the jailers, run errands and do light housekeeping. Basically, they become mascots of the prison, like the stray kitten you might be feeding in the parking lot. When they turn 18, they become full U.S. citizens.”

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” said immigration rights attorney William Cash.

“So crazy that it just might work,” countered Arizona Gov. Jan Brewer.

Revisited: Sorry about almost running you over

Man’s relationship with his methods of transportation has always been a complicated one.

In earliest times, we rolled head over heels down a hill to get where we were going, until the rise of terraced agriculture made such tumbling impossible. In the Middle Ages, it was the catapult that sent us flying over great expanses; it took centuries to realize the trade-off of speed and distance against the violent landings wasn’t good. Next it was animals like camels and horses and oxen that moved us about, a very efficient option until we realized how good they tasted.

Mmm — camels.

A little over a hundred years ago, we began our love affair with the automobile. Encased in steel, we lost a vital connection to the natural world but gained a cultural icon, a system of interstate highways, and more cupholders than we had hands. Those of us inside the modern motor vehicle traveled the world in comfort while those on the outside scrambled to get out of the way.

I’ve been fortunate in my nearly 40 years of driving never to have killed anyone with my automobile. I’ve had a few car-on-car mishaps, though these were almost all minor fender benders in the eyes of everyone except my insurance company. I did strike a mystery animal that had wandered out onto the interstate early one morning on the way to work (at least I was headed to work; I don’t know what he was doing out at that hour). I only caught enough of a glimpse to recognize it wasn’t a human or a yeti or a chupacabra, and that’s about all that concerned me at 2 a.m.

Aside from assorted small groundlings, the only other creature I’ve hit is the neighborhood dog known locally as “Ironside.” He’s a golden retriever mix that lives near the main access to our subdivision, and he loves to bob in and out of the shrubbery that separates the two entrance lanes. You can’t go fast enough in this spot to gain any real momentum, so though he’s struck constantly by all the neighbors he always gets up and trots away.

We do have a lot of pedestrians in our neighborhood so I try to be extra careful in the area. In general, I’d characterize my driving style as “efficient” (other might use the word “crazy”), which is to say I want to be in the car only as long as it takes to get from point A to point B. I don’t drive for fun or to listen to music or to “make the scene” in my sweet Civic ride. But I’m learning to be extra cautious near home, primarily because I know these people and colliding with them would be extremely embarrassing.

There’s a lot of trauma that comes with an automobile accident, however we’ve given very little consideration to the personal interaction that follows a near-miss. I once pulled up to a nearby intersection just as a jogger was stepping off the sidewalk and into the roadway. As a runner myself, I know how thoughtless motorists can be, honking when you get in their way, occasionally turning left, asking directions, or yelling critiques of your shorts. But when I’m the driver, it’s they who are the reckless jerks.

I stopped short just in front of this hapless fellow, and our eyes met across the hood of my car. He rightfully glared at me, and I had only seconds to come up with an appropriate response. I shrugged my shoulders and offered a weak smile, then held out my hand as if to say “after you.” I thought that was pretty gracious, though apparently not enough to avoid a mouthed epithet that would make a lip-reader blush.

Fortunately, he wasn’t from the neighborhood so I didn’t have to deal with any subsequent consequences that might’ve included having my mailbox bashed in with a baseball bat. Such was not the case a few months later at the end of my driveway.

We have a bushy magnolia tree on the edge of our property, and it effectively blocks the view on that side of the drive. There are only a few houses down that way before you come to the cul-du-sac, so the usual traffic from that direction is virtually non-existent. On this occasion, however, coming up just behind the tree as I was ready to exit into the road was a family of four out for their evening stroll. The mom was ugly and the dad was wearing an unflattering golf shirt, so there would’ve been no loss there, but the two young children were very cute and deserving of surviving into adulthood.

It didn’t really even qualify as a close call, as we all saw one other in plenty of time to avoid near-collision. Still, there was that awkward moment where we all looked at each other wondering what to say or do next. Since I was backing out, it was easy enough for me to turn away in an implicit offer to let them proceed first, and I assume they did eventually. I’d like to have said something to soothe any hurt feelings there might’ve been, but “sorry I almost killed you” seemed so inadequate.

Later, I remembered the events surrounding a parking lot accident I’d had a few years earlier. It was a terrible January Sunday, very foggy with a forecast of freezing rain. As I backed out of my parking place, a young Japanese man was also backing up and our rear-ends met in a crash. Nobody was hurt, and we briefly examined the two minor dents before hustling into the mall to call our insurance carriers. I tried to make non-incriminating small talk as we hurried along, only to discover he didn’t speak English. There was literally nothing I could say due to the language barrier. No excuses were necessary because no excuses were possible.

I guess that’s why I’m so comfortable hitting the retriever.

Revisited: Ride, Captain, Ride

Funny story: Over the weekend, I got the bright idea I could contribute something both serious and unique to the national healthcare debate. I had, I thought, an interesting take on how we’re using so much of our money for such a small return when millions with more legitimate needs were going without basic care. I would offer my modest proposal as a healthy but aging philanthrope (don’t laugh) in a national publication (preferably The New York Times) thereby spurring discussion of a long-ignored solution and, not incidentally, awareness of my website (davisw.wordpress.com).

 

I wrote out my proposal. Then I read it. Bad move — both the writing and the reading. It was supposed to be serious, but I kept feeling compelled to add wisecracks at very inappropriate points during my argument. By the end it was neither a serious think piece nor a snarky blog post. It was instead some hideous hybrid that would neither acquire me national publicity nor entertain my core base on WordPress. I might be fortunate enough to get an angry mob of seniors in my front yard but, unless they felt well enough to rake, that wasn’t going to do me much good.

So I’m not submitting the piece to The Times, and I’m not running it here on my blog.

Enjoy:

I’m a 55-year-old who has lived a good life in contemporary America. I was born into an era when prosperity was pretty much a given for me and my cohorts. I was middle-class and male and white (still am). I’ve enjoyed all the modern conveniences and social conventions made possible by decades of innovation, creativity and a certain social cohesion. Having spent most of my years in the American Century, it’s hard to imagine having lucked into a better era of world history.

But as I’ve watched the health care debate unfold this summer, I’ve felt increasingly guilty about the resources I’ve used and, more importantly, will use in my final thirty or forty or, God forbid, fifty years. We’ve heard how end-of-life care is eating up a tremendous percentage of our national health budget, and yielding very little quality in return. Those of us in our final trimester are going to cost a fortune to maintain and, personally, I don’t think I’m worth it.

That’s why I’m promising publicly to ending my own life no later than my seventieth birthday on November 6, 2023.

As I look at that previous paragraph sitting starkly in front of me, I must admit it’s a little scary. Knowing the exact day of your death is not the most soothing feeling. Few of us contemplate when and where the end will come, but we like to carry a vague notion that it’s way out there in the distance, certainly nothing to worry about any time soon.

In another sense, though, it’s very comforting. I don’t want to spend my last weeks connected to life-sustaining machinery, toxic drugs flowing through my veins and visions of terror flowing through my mind, no matter how many loved ones are compelled to surround me. I plan to live life to its fullest up to and including that final moment, when I plunge from a cliff over a rocky Pacific shore and get swept out to sea.

Don’t want to inconvenience anyone by making them clean up after me.

By foregoing the expenses of heavily assisted living, and getting just a relatively few of my fellow Baby Boomers to join me, we should be able to free up enough funding in the national treasury to sustain those who follow us. My generation has done a number of things to improve the human condition — supporting civil rights, fostering greater tolerance, going to Woodstock — but it’s not like won a world war or anything. On balance, I’m pretty sure we’re taking more out of society than we’re putting in.

When we lament issues like the national debt and the tremendous repayment burden we’re laying on our children and grandchildren, we rarely consider that’s there something concrete we can do about it. If enough of my fellow fifty- and sixty-somethings can commit here and now to a promise that we’ll make a graceful exit when our most productive years are through, the savings could be enough give today’s young people a reasonable hope that they’ll enjoy a prosperity equivalent to ours.

The initiative I’m proposing is completely voluntary. There will be no death panels. There will be no government sponsorship or endorsement. There may be a perceived obligation to do right by our kids, but what’s wrong with that? We can even “sweeten the pot,” as it were, finding a way to incentivize enrollment by offering to make that final year one to remember. A free Mediterranean cruise, DVDs of those movies we always meant to watch, and a stash of recreational drugs would ease the pangs of early exit, and cost a whole lot less than aggressive cancer treatments.

Even more appealing to me is reducing the burden on all those vital young lives that haven’t had the chance to grow into fullness. I’m writing this piece in a grocery store café not far from my house, and watching with a smile as I see young children scurrying underfoot, college students stocking up for a Saturday night party, and young couples selecting the ingredients for a romantic dinner. It’s not a pleasant thought that they look across the aisle at this grey head of mine and see the husk of a productive member of the nation. I’d feel so much less guilty if instead they were looking at someone willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for them.

There’s nothing magic, incidentally, about the age of 70. For me, it’s just a nice round number that seems far enough in the distance so that it’s not a pressing deadline. If others want to choose a different number, that’s fine with me as long as they make the commitment to follow through.

As for the pall that could be cast as those last days approach, I think it’s just a matter of adjusting our too-unrealistic attitudes toward death. We think life is preferable just because it’s all we’ve known, not unlike growing up in rural South Carolina in the belief that that’s the best it can get. I can be convinced that the Great Beyond is simply a nothingness that’s impossible for us to comprehend; boring perhaps but far from unbearable.

I strongly urge others in my position who may read this to strongly consider joining with me in this brave and selfless enterprise. Mark yourself as among the select few who have the generosity of spirit to think about someone other than themselves for a change. If you’ve ever anguished over what’s the right birthday present to give your grandchildren, not knowing a Wii from a Webkin, consider this the perfect gift.

And comfort yourself, as I’ve done, with a song from our beloved Sixties that just played on the overhead Muzak here at the store:

I’m calling everyone to ride along/To another shore/Where we can laugh our lives away/And be free once more.

Ride Captain Ride/Upon your mystery ship/Sail away to a world/That others might have missed.

Taking a shot at joke-writing

I like to think of myself as a humorist (somebody has to do it). I deal in the long form, incessantly bemoaning an obscure point until hopefully I think of some type of amusing payoff.

Humor writing is far different from joke writing, which is the short form. Because of its emphasis on brevity, I think joke writing is much harder, and have never felt very comfortable tackling it.

But today, I thought I’d give it a shot. I don’t necessarily promise quality here, so be forewarned. Please proceed with caution.

+++

So a preacher, a rabbi and a priest die, and find themselves at the Heavenly Gates to meet St. Peter.

“I appreciate the diversity you’re showing me,” St. Peter tells them. “But I think these days, there should also be an imam here.”

“But we thought that was a separate heaven,” said the preacher.

“All three of us are of the Judeo-Christian ethic, and didn’t think we’d need to be accompanied by someone of the Muslim faith,” said the rabbi.

“No,” said St. Peter. “The heaven of Islam is the same as the heaven for you.”

“So, remind me,” said the priest. “How many virgins is that again?’

+++

A dog walks into a bar and orders a gin and tonic.

“I’m not sure I can serve you,” says the bartender. “Are you 21?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” says the dog. “Dogs rarely live to be that age.”

“Are you at least 21 in dog years?” the bartender asks.

“It’s not as easy to calculate as you’ve heard,” the dog responds. “I was born two years ago but after just one year of maturation, we’re able to reproduce. So I’d say I’m well past legal age.”

“I’m sorry,” says the bartender. “I’ve always heard it was one dog year equals seven human years, so that makes you only 14. I can’t give you a gin and tonic.”

“But I’m really thirsty,” says the dog. “Can you at least show me the way to the toilet?”

+++

Why did the chicken cross the road?

The question implies that the chicken had a reason for crossing the road, and that’s an irrational application of anthropomorphism, the attribution of human characteristics to non-human entities. Either the chicken passed over the roadway for the merely random reason that if he was to walk at all, he had to walk in some direction. Or, more likely, he spotted a grain of corn or other seed on the opposite shoulder and was headed that way so he could provide himself a measure of sustenance.

As members of the bird family, chickens have very good vision, and could easily spot a kernel of corn across the street.

Most people don’t realize that.

+++

A traveling salesman shows up at a farmer’s house and asks if he can’t rent a room for the night. The farmer responds that the only spare bed is in his daughter’s room. She’s home from college, where she’s majoring in etymology, the study of words. But as long as the salesman promises there’s no hanky-panky, the farmer will let him share the room with her.

In the middle of the night, the salesman awakes to find the daughter hovering above him, about to give him a kiss.

“What’s the meaning of this?” stammers the salesman.

“‘This’ is a grammatical word used to indicate somebody or something already mentioned or identified or something understood by both the speaker and the hearer,” responds the daughter.

+++

Me: I have a knock-knock joke, but you have to start it.

You: Ok, knock-knock.

Me: Who’s there?

You: ?!?!?!?!?!?

+++

The little moron shows up at his middle school guidance counselor’s office, and says he’s concerned he won’t be able to go to high school next year because he doesn’t have a ladder.

“Don’t call yourself a ‘moron,’” the counselor chides the young man. “You have learning and other developmental disabilities, possibly related to an attention deficit disorder and/or a chemical imbalance in your brain that predisposes you to hyperactivity.”

“Huh?” asks the little moron. “I have no idea what any of that means.”

+++

What do you get when you cross Glenn Beck and Newt Gingrich?

A creative and compelling argument about how homosexuality represents a hallowed feature of the American experience.

+++

A lawyer appears in court completely disheveled. His pants leg is torn, he’s missing a shoe, and there’s a large bruise on his right cheek.

“What happened to you?” the judge demanded.

“I tripped on a banana skin out in the hallway and fell,” the attorney responded.

“That’s no excuse for showing up in my courtroom is such an awful state,” the judge answers. “I’m throwing out your case.”

“That’s too bad,” the lawyer says. “I hate to lose on appeal.”

+++

How many husbands does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

Five.

One to select a bulb with the wrong wattage.

One to improperly unscrew the bowl from the ceiling.

One to pick an energy-efficient light when it’s obvious that brighter lumination is needed for reading at that particular location.

One to stand on a chair instead of using a perfectly good stepladder.

And one to suggest “why don’t I just blow a hole in the damn ceiling with my shotgun and we’ll call it a skylight?”

+++

Your momma is so old, so fat and so ugly that it would be a disgrace to make fun of her condition.

Obama’s Gulf vacation had historical precedent

I’ve taken a vacation on the “Redneck Riviera,” the nickname for that stretch of Gulf Coast from Texas to the Florida Panhandle. I know for a fact that President Obama didn’t take a brief family trip there earlier this month simply because it was a great place to holiday.

I spent a week at a beachfront hotel in Biloxi, Mississippi, in 1986. More precisely, I spent a week hunched over the toilet in my hotel room after acquiring the worst case of food poisoning I’ve ever had. I can’t blame an oil spill or a hurricane or any other of the regularly scheduled calamities that occur in that part of the country. I think it’s just a cursed region, and I was lucky to get away with most of my colon intact.

I understand, though, why the president felt compelled to stop there before heading off for his real vacation in Martha’s Vineyard. It was a sincere if symbolic gesture to show the country that the region was once again a safe place to visit. During their 27-hour visit to Panama City, the First Family went for a boat ride, looked at a porpoise (“Look,” said daughter Sasha, “A porpoise!”), took a dip in the salad dressing known as the Gulf of Mexico, and played a round of miniature golf.

Obama wasn’t the first president to use the power of his office to bring publicity to a stricken area of the country. There are numerous other occasions throughout U.S. history that a sitting chief executive took a vacation meant more to send a message to the American people than to actually have a relaxing good time.

In fact, did you know? …

In 1814, President James Madison rushed back inside the burning White House, set ablaze by the British during the War of 1812, to rescue his wife Dolly and her irreplaceable collection of cream-filled snack cakes. President Madison would later comment to the press that tourists coming to Washington should “fear not to visit what’s left of the Executive Mansion” because the fire had burned itself out within a few days when the building was completely consumed.

In 1841, President William Henry Harrison, who holds the record for shortest-serving president by dying only 31 days after his inauguration, had to have an equally brief vacation. He spent 36 minutes grilling a hamburger in the backyard on April 2 of that year, and urged Americans to heed the slogan “the redder the better” for any meat they might enjoy over the upcoming Easter holiday. He died two days later of pleurisy, pneumonia, jaundice and what medical historians call “overwhelming septicemia” remarkably unrelated to the ingestion of nearly raw beef.

In 1864, President Abraham Lincoln had the weight of the world on his gaunt shoulders. The Union had dissolved three years earlier, and the Confederacy still threatened to invade the North. Lincoln’s wife Mary, known for not exactly being all there, suggested he spend a weekend golfing at the Gettysburg battlefield he had consecrated in his famous Gettysburg Address only a year before. Rather than argue with the First Harpie, Lincoln played 36 holes on Saturday and another 18 on Sunday, shooting a respectable cumulative score of 217, or one over par, before returning to Washington. “It was a little hard to tell the sandtraps from the freshly dug graves,” Lincoln complained to his caddie, Secretary of War Edwin Stanton. “Still, I would recommend a stop to anyone passing through southeastern Pennsylvania. Amish country is nice too. Be sure to have a whoopie pie.”

In 1887, President Grover Cleveland made the first of two vacation stops to Cleveland, Ohio. Though the then-thriving city on the shores of Lake Erie was not named after him, he thought it’d be cool to visit a place that had the same name he did. The prescient president may have sensed that within a century the city would become a festering shithole when he told reporters covering his holiday that visitors would “never want to leave the land of Cleve.” He returned to the so-called “Metropolis of the Western Reserve” (not exactly the “Big Apple” or “Frisco” but actually a pretty catchy nickname by 19th-century standards) when he became the only man to serve two non-consecutive terms as president in 1895, as part of his effort to exactly repeat everything he had done in his first term four years earlier.

In 1901, President William McKinley took time out from waging the Spanish-American War to be shot by a disgruntled anarchist (the worst kind). He convalesced near the site of his shooting in Buffalo, N.Y., for nearly eight days, publicizing the value of bed rest in what historians later labeled the “first staycation”. Glum over the prospects of returning to work after such a refreshing interlude, he instead died on Sept. 14.

In 1931, at the height of the Great Depression, President Herbert Hoover got a bad case of depression himself, spending almost a week hiding under a blanket. He emerged to tell the nation “depression — it’s not so bad,” and encouraged the mostly unemployed citizenry to think of their long, unproductive days as a “leisurely retreat from the cares of the world.”

In 1942, President Franklin Roosevelt was witness to a precipitous fall-off in vacation travel to America’s allies in Europe. World War II and the occupation of virtually the entire continent by Nazis and Fascists meant fewer U.S. tourists contributing precious dollars to the local economies. To publicize the assertion that the war-torn region was still a great place to visit, Roosevelt made a surprise visit to the British seaside village of Dover from where he began his now-famous swim of the English Channel. Despite having almost no use of his legs due to a childhood bout with polio, Roosevelt traversed the frigid waters in what was then a record six days and 13 hours. Within three years of what critics had labeled a publicity stunt, millions of Americans visited the birthplace of Western Civilization, many of them returning alive.

In 1966, fighting an unpopular war overseas and dealing with racial unrest at home, President Lyndon Johnson signed up with the folks at “Vocation Vacations” for a week at Motown Studios in Detroit. There, he sat in on recording sessions for what would become the Supremes’ 1966 hit “You Can’t Hurry Love.” Though mostly relegated to the role of back-up singer and tambourinist, he received a co-lyricist credit on the album version of the song for contributing the lines “I need love, love, to ease my mind” and “Now I can’t bear to live my life alone, I’ve grown impatient for a love to call my own.”

Fake News: Little League World Series has big league problems

WILLIAMSPORT, Pa. (Aug. 24) — Scandal has rocked the Little League World Series being played here following reports that several players have been chewing performance-enhancing gum.

What was thought at first to be the crack of the bat turned out instead to be the crack of cinnamon, apple and spearmint flavored gums laced with steroids and human growth hormones (HGH).

“Considering they use aluminum bats which make a ping instead of a crack, we should’ve realized what was going on,” said series organizer John Carey. “Actually, those aren’t bats at all, but Festivus poles.”

At least three players from the international squads and two players from the American teams have tested positive for the tainted gum. One of them, third baseman James Henderson of the Western Region all-stars (favorite food: pizza), attempted to deny the reports in a meeting with the press before Tuesday’s round of games.

“Do you have enough for everyone?” demanded one reporter.

“No,” James answered sheepishly.

“Well, that’s not very considerate of the feelings of others, is it?” the reporter continued.

“No, sir,” James said. His mother moved in to hug the boy’s waist — that’s as high as she could reach since young James’ height soared past 7 feet earlier this summer — and escorted him away from the media scrum.

Another of the accused players was confronted as he entered the stadium, but it appeared the side effects from the drugs had made him largely incoherent.

“Hey, batter, batter,” babbled Levi Arthur of the Southeastern team (favorite actor: Will Smith) repeatedly. “Swing, batter, swing.”

Though only five players have been named in the unfolding story, it’s believed the gum may have spread to a large percentage of the participants. Some of those suspected have vehemently proclaimed their innocence.

“There was some gum on the floor that got on my shoe,” said Jerry Walters of the Midwest region (favorite disease: liver cancer). “I suppose the drugs could’ve got into my system that way. But I swear I did not chew any of the illicit gum intentionally.”

One of the international players, Juan Belone of Mexico (favorite piece of furniture: chair), said he’d heard rumors of gum-chewing among the 11-to-13-year-old participants. However, he used his limited English to deny that any of his teammates had been involved.

“No guns,” said Juan. “Too many guns in Mexico.”

The doping scandal is one of several distractions the young baseball players have had to face since arriving here for the ten-day tournament. Apparently, some of the teams from overseas are not who they claim to be. The Little League team from Saudi Arabia is not made up of Saudis at all, but instead is comprised of the children of Americans working in the oil industry there. The Little League team from Chinese Taipei is not “little” at all, as demonstrated in their 23-0 dismantling of Canada during which their 300-pound catcher repeatedly sat on batters who were subsequently declared “out.”

In one of the early round-robin games, a player from California (favorite anarchist: presidential assassin Leon Czolgosz) stood up to the plate carrying a Wii controller instead of a bat, thinking he was playing a baseball video game. The contest of Panama vs. Costa Rica was thought to be a border war rather than a baseball game, and had to be cancelled when players using rifles as bats kept firing into the air.

“This is supposed to be the highlight of these kids’ young lives, and organizers have let it become a sham,” said critic and sports columnist Charles Stern.

“Ah, you’re just a big baby who couldn’t get his way,” countered Little League president Carey.

“I know you are,” answered Stern, “but what am I?”

From one old bag to another

Anyone who’s ever met me in person could probably understand why I sympathize with old bags.

Recently, I was strongly urged to upgrade the lunch bag I had used for years to a newer model. I’ve packed and brought my own lunch to work for decades, beginning long before the recessionista fashionistas made it trendy. Somewhere during that time, I acquired a simple yellow cloth sack with the then-innovative feature of a Velcro strip. The shapeless design allowed me to cram it full of sandwiches, cookies, fruit and cereal bars, then stuff that into my equally decrepit “briefcase”.

The sack looks like this …

… and the briefcase looks like this …

I would’ve been perfectly happy using neither of these accessories if I could’ve figured a better way to carry around my stuff. A good friend from my college days was famous for toting many of his worldly possessions around in a crisp, brown grocery bag. He and I were reporters together on the student newspaper. He would hike off across the Quad for an interview with the executive vice president carrying his notebook, pens, pocket dictionary and who knows what else in a fully packed sack, hoisted high on his chest. It looked like he’d stopped off on his way home from Albertson’s to grill the dean about unfair treatment of certain campus organizations, then offer him a stalk of celery to show there were no hard feelings.

I’ve considered simply using my pockets. Crushing a peanut butter sandwich in your pants for half the day actually changes the texture in a favorable way, infusing the bread with jelly and rendering the otherwise pedestrian meal panini-like. You just have to be prepared to explain to your coworkers the occasional presence of what looked like a blood stain in your right buttock.

But I opted for the above-pictured yellow and black ensemble, and they served me well for many years. Then, about a month ago, my wife noticed an irresistible offer at the local organic food store. With any $5 purchase, you could get a free Eco-Guardian Enviro-Sak. It had three strips of Velcro, two of which attached to each other and the third one running along the base in case you cared to collect burrs.

“Look, it’s really nice,” my wife said, and she was right. As you can see in the picture below, it has enough structure to allow it to stand unsupported, and a bright blue design with a splash of yellow and the word “Yum!” scrawled across that.

She was even kind enough to write my name on the top flap, just in case it or I got lost. All I had to do now was fill it full of lunch-style goodies, and I’d be ready for my first day of second grade.

Reluctantly, I tossed my trusty Old Yeller into the garbage and joined the 21st century. That first morning, I tried to cram the new bag into the briefcase, as I had done with the old one, but it just wouldn’t fit. I folded and twisted and shoved to the best of my ability, and yet the recyclable plastic frame was not flexible enough. I had to dangle it along side my briefcase as I walked into the office.

“Cool sack,” commented the production coordinator. “Hey, I’ll trade you my baloney sandwich if your mom gave you Lunchables today.”

I suffered through the derision and mockery for several more mornings until I realized it was curbside garbage pickup day and I was about to say goodbye to my old yellow bag forever. Early that morning, while it was still dark, I rummaged through the rollout bin and rescued the old bag. I haven’t begun to use it again; it’s just nice to know it’s stashed safely in my underwear drawer should I ever decide to return to a simpler time.

Then, just about a week ago, the office park where I work had its annual tenant appreciation day. In addition to plying us with hamburgers and potato salad, they offered a souvenir giveaway. It looked like this …

I think it’s supposed to be the 5G of lunch bags, though it could just as easily serve as luggage for a five-week business trip to The Hague. It has zippers, it has mesh netting, it has an insulated interior and it has what looks like shoelaces strapped across the top, where I guess you can cram anything that couldn’t fit on the inside. It even has our company logo emblazoned on a nylon strip across the front.

A lot of my coworkers are crazy about the thing, but I just can’t stand the thought of yet another giant leap forward in technology so soon after I’m barely comfortable with my Enviro-Sak. I feel like I’m living in one of those rapidly emerging cultures of Asia, where half a generation ago nobody even had a landline phone, and now everyone’s walking the streets with the latest in wireless.

I’m keeping the insulated super bag handy, since Thanksgiving is just around the corner and — who knows? — maybe I’ll want to prepare turkey and all the fixin’s at my desk if I have to work that day. I could even bring a few family members along, secured safely in the side pockets.

I’ll catch a glimpse of my old yellow bag in the dresser as I’m getting ready for work each morning, and think of the good times we shared together. I don’t want to be so old-fashioned as to revert to those fond memories for everyday use. Still, it’s nice just knowing it’s there if I ever want to relive the glory days.

Maybe I can fashion them into a pair of “memory” socks, like some people do with quilts, if I can figure a way to keep the Velcro off my heel.

The readers speak!

Thanks to everyone who was kind enough to comment on yesterday’s post. Getting on the “Freshly Pressed” front page of WordPress is the best thing that’s happened to me this year, which should give you some indication about what a horrible year it’s been.

I think I deserve a day off to relish the honor. So I’m turning today’s edition over to you, the readers, with this collection of comments you’ve made in recent months, offered without any context whatsoever.

• I am constantly on the lookout for new and interesting sports sites and posts… which is what led me here. I certainly plan on visiting again!
• I actually do read the obits frequently…mostly a throw back from my nursing days and also probably due to my chronic health issues and the fact that I almost died a few years ago…it has piqued my interest in death
• I can’t remember the last time I drank water for another purpose besides swallowing a pill
• Interesting read. Thanks – from an antique phone enthusiast
• Now I realize I’m peeing in a run-of-the-mill bleach scented men’s room
• I hear that dentists are protesting the elimination of foil containers — as oral injuries associated with the packets were a reliable source of revenue
• I thought I was the ONLY ONE IN THE UNIVERSE that hated the Van Allen Belt! Now I don’t feel so all alone
• I’m a noisy sneezer: I can’t help it. If I tried to “suppress” a sneeze, my head would explode.
• I don’t mind a nose picker when I work with kids, but the picker/eater makes me cringe a bit
• Thankfully, I have an abnormally stretchy bladder
• I was with you all the way through the word “stiff” which always has such a positive meaning but parted company when we got to “informative”. I would have substituted “obscurational”, which I know is a word because I Googled it
• It’s always nice to have a number to phone
• Why can’t all fruit be as easy to open as a banana? Now there’s a fruit with customer service instincts
• You left out that he was so good they buried him twice
• My “things” won’t be as creative as yours
• When I feel I MUST have one…I just cut it into sections without peeling it..then peel the edible part out of the wedge…but even that can be a pain
• And you are so right about jacks. And don’t get me started on mini spare tires
• Any system of communication that references the Fonz and killer asteroids has GOT to be good
• Loved the saw on the head dream….wonder what the analysts would think of that one? The feet on the wall is totally bizarre
• We had a dummy we called Overboard Ollie. Whenever we did a man overboard drill someone would grab him, toss him over the side, and yell “man overboard”. When not being submerged in salt water he would find himself is some of the strangest places
• Just choose one already. Whether it be Pokemon or Digimon a hobby is for the better
• ‘Hogging’ is also a term meant to describe the driving of a train.
• As a teen, I sang along to a lot of songs, though I couldn’t understand the lyrics
• Also I’d like to correct a scientific misconception regarding dead frogs. [They] don’t bloat, at least if you poke holes in them
• Um, but surely the acids and alkalis would all cancel each other out, leading to bland “neutral” judgements… you need to introduce a justice made of potassium to really get the sparks flying
• I like “Blogging”
• Amazingly… what you have said definitely made me happier!
• Hi, I just found this blog/post by coincidence… I think anyway, at the very least I’m pretty sure I didn’t know what I was clicking
• Last week I made an appointment for my annual mammogram
• I cannot imagine any other system that could possibly explain the tremendous and tumultuous volume of words published on your blog.
• If you can stick pieces of glass or Saran wrap onto your eyeball … Men are such wimps
• In my opinion your article is very nice and very helpful
• Blind Jack also took a number of film classes, usually off to the side of the auditorium with Ruth Stone describing to him whatever was appearing on screen. He might even have been a mass comm major
• 5 minutes? How is that enough time to take a nap in the waiting room?
• Perhaps it happening out of sight and therefore out of mind is the best thing about toilet flushes
• My human had a similar experience with a ruptured tranny line. Thank goodness for small town farm boy mechanics who stay open ’til six on Saturday
• I remember waking up in the middle of the night once in Spain, after having drunk far too much, I admit, and I thought there was an intruder in the front room. I went to investigate, armed with the first weapon to hand, my wife’s hairbrush!
• I love tattoos and don’t for a second regret having any of them. I’m currently getting a koi tattoo sleeve done down my right arm — can’t wait to get it finished! My local tattoo artist is extremely experienced and also very expensive but, he’s worth it!
• Hope you try our creamy concoction…I’m sure you’ll go GaGa
• Yep…we have those stores too….you have to bag or box up your own purchases there
• None of this rules out the possibility that I am subconsciously trying to get back at you for ALL THE TIMES you put your damn used underwear on top of my stereo so long ago
• And speaking of dead raccoons, that reminds me that week before last, I found a freshly dead mouse in the house. I respectfully picked it up by the tail and respectfully threw it into the ferns beside the driveway.
• I HATE THOSE THINGS! …fire ants that is… I rather enjoy apples
• Your squirrels are too busy having sex with exotic Argentinian squirrels to whom they are not married.
• I feel, number 1, that even the president himself could have found humor in the post…most self-assured people can laugh at themselves. Number 2, I believe I am allowed to think it was funny, and not disrespectful. And number 3…you are exactly right that cussing is not socially appropriate
• The Hall and Oates reference caught me completely by surprise straight from left field
• I have frequently found myself walking through the drive-through
• Could you check out my blog? I really want to hear your opinion on my thoughts
• I once read about a man who had cancer. He went to a cabin by himself
• I went to school with an Elijah Oliver…his parents were way into the PTA
• I want to wear those paper outfits I hear you get at hospitals.
• Yesterday, the “L” word brought 28 visitors to the post that has it. It is the reason that post retains its #1 ranking despite being very old. I can tell you that “Guatemalan porn” was #2, but that topic is no longer popular.
• Thinking about vampires and the difficulty of maintaining a relationship for as long as 24 hours gave me a headache
• We arrived the other day to my husband’s mom’s property. He says to me, what’s that sitting in the middle of the property? As we walked closer we found a mother sheep and a little baby. We both just looked at each other. As we walked closer the sheep got up and ran off, along side traffic. I hope their fate ended well. Strange moment.

Revisited: Wolves on the prowl

BOISE, Idaho (Aug. 27) — An Idaho real estate agent became the first hunter to legally kill a gray wolf yesterday, bagging an adult female in the mountains of the northern Rockies.

What a man.

Robert Millage, 34, received one of over 10,000 permits issued after the formerly endangered species was removed from its protected status earlier this year. He wasted little time in using it, experiencing what he called “an adrenaline rush to have those wolves howling and milling about after I fired the shot.”

“I’m a real estate agent in Idaho. What else am I going to do?” Millage told reporters following his brave act to protect local elk and deer so they could be shot by other hunters instead of killed by wolves. “It’s hard to sell a house right now. This was a cathartic exercise for me, and I think the wolves enjoyed it too.”

An estimated 1,650 of the animals (whoops — make that 1,649) now live in the Rockies thanks to a controversial reintroduction program begun in 1995. Idaho set a quota of 220 wolves for this hunting season as part of its plan to manage the wolf population.

A representative of the wolves said his group was not going to take the renewal of the hunt lying down. Well, actually, they will take it lying down but not before walking in circles to tramp down the grass.

“They criticize us for preying on weaker species, but neglect to offer a constructive solution as to what we’re supposed to eat for dinner,” said a full-grown male speaking at news conference at a suburban Pocatello Holiday Inn. “I can’t walk into a store and buy a hot dog. I don’t have any money and, even if I did, I don’t have any pockets to carry it in.”

Many of those who purchased the hunting permits said they would simply frame the historic documents as keepsakes. Others said they wanted to “be legal” in case a wolf leaped from between the floorboards of their homes and attacked their families. One man told National Public Radio “I simply don’t like wolves, and I wanted to send them a message.”

“I don’t need a message blasted out the end of a shotgun,” said the 160-pound carnivore who met with then ate local reporters. “I’m on Facebook.”

The growing conflict threatened relations between wolves and humans in the intermountain west. The animals had been hunted to near extinction early last century, after they reneged on an agreement not to wear sheep’s clothing. The state supreme court later ruled that arrangement invalid as part of a sweeping legalization of transvestism in the Gem State.

Reports emerged late yesterday that the nation’s best-known Lupine-American, CNN news reporter Wolf Blitzer, might be called in to negotiate a settlement in the dispute. Blitzer’s father was a respected wildlife management specialist in Buffalo, N.Y., and his mother was a Canadian timber wolf.

In a related story, I had an exterminator come to my house Tuesday after members of my family saw several large roaches on our deck. It was feared by some that the two-inch-long palmetto bugs could make their way inside our home, but I’m from Miami and am not afraid of creepy intruders. We used to have Giant Poison African Toads in our backyard. We killed ’em by pounding ’em with the back sides of shovels. Didn’t need no stinkin’ permit.

Revisited: Walking my way to better health

We recently completed a get-healthy initiative at my work that encouraged employees to exercise by walking. My truly lame team finished way down in the final standings but, in a larger sense, we were all winners because we had spent eight weeks striding vigorously toward fitness. Not really. I probably weigh more now than when I started, and I know for a fact that I smell worse.

When the winning teams were announced, it was noted that as a company we had walked over 7 million miles during the previous two months. That’s equivalent to 280 circumnavigations of the globe. It’s as if we had walked to the moon and back 14 times. It’s like walking from New York to Los Angeles, turning left and heading to Peru, then boring into the Earth’s mantle and going halfway to the core, and then re-emerging to hike halfway to Venus. Any way you put it, it doesn’t make any sense.

As a runner for the last 30-some years, I’ve never had a lot of respect for walking. I guess I viewed it as the exercise of the weak and infirm, a great way to get to the men’s room perhaps but hardly a challenging physical regimen. Any sport that could be done by the elderly ladies around the retirement complex near my house was not for me.

Though I did spend numerous coffee breaks in recent weeks pacing up and down the road in front of my office like an expectant father, the only deliveries I saw were tractor-trailers backing up to the warehouse (less messy than the typical Caesarean but still smelling of diesel). I won’t say that I’ve gained a new appreciation for walking as exercise; I will admit, however, that my aging knees had better realize pretty soon that there’s a reason you don’t see many 220-pound sixty-year-olds sprinting down the street. We’re either dead or have adopted another workout habit.

Part of my problem with public walking is that, as a method of transportation and an exercise, it’s subject to misinterpretation by onlookers. Friends who drive past you in their cars will stop and ask if you need a ride. Other motorists look at you as a mobile information source, as if you’re circling the neighborhood in case they need directions, can’t find their lost cat or need an explanation of the local zoning codes.

Trying to make it look more like an exercise and less like a leisurely stroll does deter some of this. I’ve learned, for example, that moving your arms in a particular fashion will keep questioners at bay. If you adopt the motion of the race-walker, elbows bent and forearms punching the oncoming air, many observers will realize that you’re disturbed, and therefore best left undisturbed. If this doesn’t work, I try the stiff-armed march of the North Korean infantryman, lifting my rigid limbs high above my head as if about to cross the demilitarized zone. The next subdivision down from me remains on high alert.

Another deterrent to interruption is the iPod. Crank up your Who playlist to maximum volume and you won’t be able to hear the questions and taunts that are otherwise sent in your direction. Of course, you can’t hear oncoming vehicles either, but that’s their problem, not yours. If you get caught up in the song and start singing along — “Love! Reign o’er me!” — chances are good they’ll notice you one way or the other.

My wife used to belong to a martial arts group that occasionally practiced tai-chi in a public park. Most of the time, they remained under a sheltered picnic area but if the weather was nice, they’d sometimes break out this so-called “meditation walk,” where they’d pike around the lake at a slow, measured pace that was half-walking, half-Step-Forward-to-Repulse-Monkey. The kids playing basketball on a nearby court would tease them mercilessly while they practiced their forms in a fixed location, but as soon as the martial artists started marching methodically in a single file toward them, the fast breaks got really fast and tended to head in the direction of the park exit.

I’d be more than a little embarrassed to try this strategy (in fact, I’m generally humiliated to be seen in public at all). One of the biggest concerns with walking is what to do when you’ve reached the halfway point. Unless you’ve plotted out a circular route for yourself, there comes a time when you have to reverse your course. I’m always afraid someone is going to see me doing this.

There’s something inherently unnatural about suddenly turning on your heels and heading off into the opposite direction. It might be fine for exercise purposes, but it exhibits a certain indecisiveness in the real world, causing witnesses to wonder what you forgot. I try to get it over as quickly as possible, or otherwise make the most of it. I once took a stroll with two other family members and we agreed all turn at once, on cue, just as a school bus was passing. The sheer precision of the move left those kids dumbfounded.

I think, though, I’m going to continue walking as a physical activity. With fall right around the corner, it should be quite pleasant. It does clear your head and give you time to think. If I keep it up into the winter months, I’m going to have to consider some alternate venues. Some people from our office had taken to hiking around a nearby grocery store when the heat or rain got too bad during the summer, and that might be fun. Again, it seems like there might be concerns among store employees about what the hell you’re doing. I think if I circle the outer edge, cutting through the produce department and alternately picking up and putting back various melons and cabbages each time I pass, it might not look too weird.

“Help” on the way to Chilean miners

The first images from the mine entrapment in Chile were almost ghostly. Cameras lowered over 2,000 feet beneath the surface showed a face peering into the lens, a man who was glad to be found and glad to be alive, though not too thrilled about being entombed.

Then, workers managed to get a video camera down to the 33 men and a surprisingly more vital scene began to emerge. They danced exuberantly, they played cards, they sang. Their accommodations were sparse to be sure, but they had transformed their 600 square feet of space into something quite livable. There was a table and chairs. There was a first aid kit on the wall. And, back in the corner, standing next to the shirtless guy in the miner’s helmet, was that Kim Kardashian?

No, it turned out instead to be a rather shapely wall of shale. (Honestly, though, we wouldn’t have been too surprised to see the omnipresent reality star making yet another compensated appearance somewhere.)

After word emerged from the site of the explosion in the Atacama Desert that the men had already survived for 17 days, there came the discouraging news that it might take months to free the miners. The small tube that was now transporting food and medicine to the victims would probably not be replaced by a larger hole until Christmas.

The compelling story began to draw offers of help from around the world. NASA said it would lend its experience in launching people in rockets to assist in bringing survivors from almost half a mile below the earth’s surface. (Officials in Chile weren’t sure how that aerospace expertise would be transferred to this situation, but did accept a nice autographed picture of moonwalker Neil Armstrong.) Oil giant BP had learned a lot about successfully handling crises of the deep during the recent spill in the Gulf of Mexico, and said they’d be glad to shoot golf balls and shredded tires at the miners. And everyday citizens from virtually every country on the planet sent donations and prayers.

Now comes news that the focus for the next several weeks will be on keeping the miners mentally stable while work slowly continues on the rescue. If they have a regular schedule, suitable diversions and communications from loved ones, they stand a better chance of not being permanently traumatized by the isolation.

They also may benefit from an idea that came from a small manufacturing concern in eastern Missouri. A firm called Tight-Right has advanced shrink-wrap technology to levels previously unheard-of. The vice president of public relations said his company’s equipment can encase an average-sized human in flexible plastic that is squeezed so tight that the person’s diameter is reduced to four inches. That’s precisely the size of the first drill hole to make it through to the miners.

“Why send them DVDs and books and newspapers when we could transport a virtual USO show down there?” asked Andrew Cash. “That would surely lift their spirits, if not their actual bodies.”

And so, the entertainment industry is putting aside its petty concerns about success and fame to volunteer to make the trip underground and revive the fortitude of these brave men. Well, not the entire entertainment industry. I mean, there was the Emmy Awards show last night, and those statuettes weren’t just going to give themselves away. Then there’s the fall TV season, and media coverage of the mid-term elections, and I think there’s a fashion week going on somewhere in September.

Still, a cast of less-than-A-list celebrities are gathering now in the hot Chilean desert, eager to find out if shrink-wrap and daytime highs nearing 120° could be an economical substitute for expensive cosmetic surgery, and to get themselves a little positive publicity. Oh yeah, and to help nearly three dozen desperate individuals find a thread of hope.

Within days, the stars will be whooshing toward the site faster than a drive-through bank deposit via the pneumatic tube from lane three.

Though neither the aforementioned Kim Kardashian nor sisters Khloe and Kourtney will be able to make it down to South America, there are several lesser Kardashians eager to jump into the spotlight. Third cousins Khadafy, Kibosh and Khrushchev Kardashian, a singing and posing trio from Nevada, will be squished to within inches of their lives and sent down the tube, where the trapped men will unwrap the starlets and enjoy a first-rate Las Vegas-style show.

Also slated to make the journey to the center of the earth is Flo, the Progressive Insurance TV pitchwoman. She will discuss the insurance needs of the mostly peasant-class workers in a chatty conversational style that’s considered insufferable on the planet’s outer crust but could actually be engaging in complete darkness where ear-splitting machinery is pumping in fresh air to overcome the sulfurous fumes of a working copper mine.

Music video director Spike Jonze, who was said to be impressed by the camerawork of that first film clip last week, wants to help the men use their talents to produce a chart-topping hit.

“I liked their treatment of the Chilean national anthem,” Jonze said. “If I can help them add just the right musical hook, and throw in a little pyrotechnics during the chorus on the video, we could be looking at a smash. Or another explosion. But you have to take risks in show business.”

Chuting down the tube right behind the highly compressed Jonze will be Sony Music record executive Timothy Lewis, who will be handling A&R, publicity and eventual tour arrangements for the buried band.

“They’ve already got a great name for a pop music group in Trapped Chilean Miners, though we may eventually go with the shortened ‘TCM,’” said Lewis.

From the world of journalism, it looks like the first cable newsman on the scene will be CNN’s Anderson Cooper. He will be bringing his evening news program “AC360″ down for a week of on-location segments, allowing critics and a largely disinterested viewing public to see that it is indeed possible for his ratings to slip even deeper into a yawning chasm.

“I’ve put on a little weight during my summer vacation, so I just hope I can fit,” Cooper reported. “If necessary, we’ll take only 240 or 250 of the full ‘AC360′ down with us.”

Reactions to all this attention from the trapped mineworkers seemed generally positive, in the sense that they were still alive enough to speak.

“We’d probably prefer beer, cigarettes and some dirty magazines,” said Carlos Puenti, who has served as a translator for the men. “I’m sure if we understood English, we’d be horrified by this onslaught.”

What’s the deal with ketchup?

PITTSBURGH, Pa. (August 30) — Condiment psychologists yesterday announced the results of a three-year-long study that finally reveals what’s the deal with ketchup.    

Long speculated about by observational comedians and stoned college students, a Penn State University team led by Dr. Martin Regis showed that America’s favorite kitchen seasoning has been diagnosed with a fairly common mental disorder. The tomato-based sauce loved by generations suffers from Acquired Situational Narcissism (ASN) with a side of Schizotypal Histrionic Syndrome (SHS).    

“At its root, it’s a pathologically seated craving for attention,” said Regis. “Ketchup has always wanted to be the most revered of the condiments, and so has made many behavioral and other changes over the years to maintain that supremacy.”    

Part of its yearning to be noticed is seen in the various spellings of its name — ketchup, catsup, ketsup and catchup are all considered acceptable.    

“It’s not unlike what we see in certain celebrities who suffer from a similar malady,” said Regis. “You have your The Rock, who becomes Duane “The Rock” Johnson, who becomes Duane Johnson. You have your Sean Combs, or Puff Daddy, or P. Diddy, or Puffy, or Diddy. It’s all just a way to say ‘look at me, look at me.’”    

Ironically, ketchup is believed to have been invented in the modest setting of late 17th century China, where a blend of pickled fish and spices was called “ke-tsiap.” It was brought to the west by British explorers and, by 1801, a recipe for the concoction had made it into an American cookbook.  

As the century progressed, its ascent in popularity continued and in 1876, Heinz advertised tomato ketchup as a ”blessed relief for mother and the other women in the household!” With the sauce now in mass production, “mother and the other women” were not only freed from the arduous task of creating their own ketchup, but they could bungle all kinds of entrees and cover the awful taste with vinegary pulverized tomatoes.    

Modern ketchup began being sold in the 1900s in tall glass bottles with thin necks. When they FDA ruled in 1906 that the poison benzoate could no longer be used as a preservative, producers turned from watery green tomatoes to pickled ripe tomatoes, rendering the topping much thicker. As what Wikipedia describes as a “pseudoplastic substance, a type of non-Newtonian fluid,” ketchup became more difficult to pour from a bottle.    

It was then that advertising executives were charged with making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, and then pouring ketchup on it. The sluggish nature of the pour was transformed from a waste of five good minutes into a confirmation of the quality of the product. Various ad campaigns followed to convince American diners that they better start pouring now if they wanted superior ketchup on their hamburgers some time later in the day. “The best things come to those who wait,” went one slogan. Another commercial featured Carly Simon singing “Anticipation” for the entire 60-second segment, at the end of which a bare hint of the paste had begun to appear below the inverted mouth of the bottle. It was the “s-l-o-w” ketchup.    

It’s the only time in advertising history that a negative feature was so successfully turned into a positive. (Tylenol came close when it promised “there are no headaches in heaven” following an incident in 1982 where seven people were killed by the tainted pain reliever).    

When the go-go Nineties began, Heinz realized that people needed to get on with their lives, and introduced squeezable plastic bottles. Though the ketchup erupted more quickly, it did so with an unappetizing “ppfftt” that created a three-foot-diameter spatter pattern that drew CSI crews from miles around. Finally, just after the turn of the millennium, the dispensing part of the bottle was moved to the bottom. Ketchup makers had finally gotten it right.    

“Usually, it’s a two- or three-year-old that engages in this magnitude of ‘acting out,’” said Regis. “To see it in a product that’s been widely available for over a hundred years is very unusual. The way to stop such anti-social behavior is generally to ignore it. Don’t encourage it. Try using more salsa, relish and mustard.”    

So THAT'S the deal with ketchup

Pro vs. con: Bedding

Today’s topic: Bedding.  

My position on the subject: Pro.

Additional points on my position: Usually snuggled deep under a worn comforter, no top sheet, only the fitted sheet tucked, and a pillow that will stand up to a lot of thrashing.  

There is nothing higher on the scale of creature comforts than those few moments of waning consciousness after you’ve crawled into bed for the night. Cold sheets that slowly warm to your body temperature. Finding one pose exquisitely relaxing, then repositioning yourself five minutes later to find something even better. You can do anything you want with your body – put your hand down the side of your pants, grind your teeth, drool to a point of near-dehydration — because it’s too dark for anyone to wonder what the hell is wrong with you. Your brain fills with a low buzz and next thing you know, it’s off to dreamland.  

Despite my abiding adulation of unconsciousness, I’ve never shown much respect for the materials that make a good night’s sleep possible. For one thing, I don’t “make” my bed, as the photo below will attest:  

The purplish thing is my comforter, not an anaconda

If there was one thing my mother stressed above all else while I was growing up, it was the making of the bed. I might’ve won the fifth-grade spelling bee. I may never have smoked or drank or hung out with the wrong crowd. I even won a college scholarship for writing an essay about how advertising represented freedom of speech. But I was a slacker on the practice of making my bed each morning, which explains the lack of neatness and propriety that has dogged my life ever since.  

Frankly, I just don’t see the point of carefully smoothing a bottom sheet, then tucking in a top sheet, positioning the pillow just so, and carefully draping a bedspread over the whole arrangement. Not when you’re just going to tear the work to shreds in a few hours. Someone, please tell me, what is the practical value of this exercise?  

Is there a steady stream of people you want to impress parading through your boudoir? I wish that were the case, but it is not.  

Is your ceiling on the verge of collapse, and you want to prevent fallen sheetrock from gnawing into the small of your back at 3 in the morning? Better see a drywall contractor.  

Not enough morning chores to do before you leave for work? You can pack a lunch, brew a pot of coffee and run over your neighbor’s dog in the time it takes create this meaningless confluence of textiles.  

I have heard the argument that bed-making keeps dust and dirt off your sleeping surface. That might be a good reason, if I didn’t have a pet who was half-cat, half-burrowing mole. Taylor likes nothing better than to spend the day under my covers, in a sleep made even deeper by a blanket-induced hypoxia. Besides, I’m sure I shed more skin cells during just one night than could ever float through the air and onto my sheets. (I even found half a toe lying there one morning after I got up — how could anything possibly be grosser than that?)  

All that being said, I do appreciate the immense trouble that some hotels go to in creating a soft centerpiece for their rooms. Some resemble a fine sculpture, maybe something from Alexander Calder but without so many pieces hanging on wires. Travelling on business, I’ve been fortunate enough on many occasions to plop down after a long day of work and get lost in the giant mound of pillows. I was once reported missing to the U.S. consulate in Chennai, India, until a maid found me the next afternoon. It was like I had died and gone to Pier One Imports.  

Henry Moore's "Reclining Figure" (1951) didn't need a coverlet

And what American hotels may lack in excessive pillowing, they tend to make up for with a wonderful piece of bedding called the “duvet.” For those of you not familiar with the finer things in life, a duvet is a quilt stuffed inside a blanket stuffed inside a sheet. The name alone, with its suggestions of French luxury not seen since the court of Louis XIV, is enough to send my muscles into a state of total relaxation. When I die, I want my body to be wrapped in a duvet. What you do with it after that doesn’t concern me. Throw it in an overgrown lot zoned for light industrial use for all I care.  

My only objection to hotel bedding is all the tucking that goes on. As a rather proud victim of Restless Leg Syndrome, I derive great pleasure from drifting off to sleep while my feet rotate spastically in circles. Such movement is not possible when the top sheet, duvet, blanket and bedspread are anchored under the mattress by an over-eager chambermaid who thinks all that work is getting her a bigger tip. There’s no line item on my reimbursable business expense report for lodging gratuities anyway.  

I hope that exposing myself as such a vulgarian doesn’t make you think less of me. I do tend to personify the decline of Western civilization when it comes to keeping my home neat and tidy. History tells us that it was only when the ancient Romans stopped making their beds that the Visigoths from the north were finally able to muster the wherewithal to sack the capital of the Christendom. Now, 16 centuries later, I’m signaling to a new generation of unwashed hordes that it’s time to make their entrance on the world stage.  

And they can start by taking a nap in my bed. They won’t even have to pull back the covers.

Two years later, and still blogging away

On September 1, 2008, an eager, bright-eyed 54-year-old sat down at the old laptop he had just inherited from his teenage son. What am I supposed to do with this?, he thought.

He could play solitaire. He could watch DVDs. He could play some more solitaire. He could hang out at the local coffee shop and look cool.

Or, he could build a blogging empire.

Yesterday marked the two-year anniversary of this blog. Originally begun on Blogspot as “FiftySomethingMan,” the work migrated to WordPress later that fall and the rest, as they say, is history. Extremely obscure history, to be sure. But history all the same, as the term is literally defined (“something that’s written down, though not necessarily read by anybody”).

To honor the occasion, I’m reposting that original entry. Let’s move beyond the italic type, and read on…

So let’s see what this blogging stuff is all about.

I’m calling this blog “FiftySomethingMan” because I hope it’s mainly going to be about the challenges (many) and the triumphs (hopefully there’ll be some) of being a middle-aged, middle-class sorta-corporate-type in 2008. I’m facing much of the same stuff in my work life that a lot of people are dealing with right now – downsizing, outsourcing, cutbacks, restructurings – and I thought it might help get me through to keep some kind of chronicle as I seem to spiral toward unemployment or forced early retirement.

Sounds like fun reading, right?

I’ll also reserve the right to go off-topic periodically and write about something completely unrelated to work but that still might resonate with my Fellow Fitty’s. (“Fitty”, as I understand it, is a hep modern term referring primarily to the hip-hop performer “Fifty Cent”. Like most baby boomers, I try desperately to stay up with these things, but know in my heart I’m failing pathetically.) Not sure yet what those topics might be, but we all know there’s plenty of annoyances out there to keep us aging boomers complaining.

I guess I should start with a little about myself. A key fact – my true name – will go undisclosed at this point, as I’m hoping the anonymity will give me more freedom to write frankly. I’m a 54-year-old man, living in the suburbs of a major southern U.S. city with my wife and teenage son and our three cats. I’ve lived in the South for almost 30 years now and, even though I spent my life before that in Florida, I don’t consider myself a typical white Southerner. Thanks to parents who lived in the Northeast until just before I was born and several years of college education, I consider myself an enlightened progressive who is generally uncomfortable around all the NASCAR dads I come in contact with these days. I have a few hobbies, but probably not enough, and until just recently defined myself primarily by the kind of work I do.

I work in the financial services industry, helping process documents the Securities and Exchange Commission requires corporations to produce. I’ve done this for the last three decades. I consider myself very good at my job, and have been recognized as such by my company with a nice salary and extras that have included training opportunities around the world. In the last few years, however, this training “perk” has been diminished by the fact that it’s mostly Asian workers making a tenth of my pay that I’m training, and I’m basically showing them how to take my job away from me and my coworkers. I could’ve declined the opportunity but the movement of our work offshore would’ve just as easily gone on without me. I was convinced at one point that I was positioning myself as an intermediary who’d be able to maintain his position with the company even after all the work had transitioned overseas, but now I’m not so sure.

My office is located in a drab warehouse office park in a part of town more accustomed to the transportation industry and its giant trucks than to people working on disclosure documentation. They hollowed out a small corner of the warehouse to install our staff, our air-conditioning and our computers, but kept us close enough to our blue-collar “pick-and-packers” to remind us of the muggy fate that could eventually await us. There are probably about 40 of us left in the air-conditioning, down from the 80-90 we had only a few years ago. Most of those who have now moved on to another worklife left of their own choice, sensing how they’d eventually be shown the door anyway. Plus, there’s been a parade of countless temporaries who come and go like summer fireflies, many staying long enough to be trained by me and put in a few months before finding full-time work elsewhere.

Where we stand in the current economic downturn is not a good place: our clients are the suffering megabanks and investment houses you hear about in the business news, and the work they are able to give our company mostly goes to those able Asians I trained so well. Only six months ago, I was making almost half my take-home pay in overtime. Then it started getting slower and slower and we all knew something bad was about to happen. We actually breathed a sigh of relief six weeks ago when our department manager called a rare meeting to announce we were going on a four-day workweek and virtually no overtime. When we were summoned to gather ‘round and saw his trembling hands and nervous manner, we were actually relieved to hear we were only receiving drastic paycuts and nothing worse. Yay!

That seemed to relieve the pressure for him to do something for a little while, but as we continued to plod through the summer doing crossword puzzles and cross-stitch, the fears rose again. And then last week, news of layoffs elsewhere in the company started spreading (no formal announcements, of course; just farewell emails and unreturned phone messages) and again we’re wondering how much longer before the axe falls on our sorry necks.

As I write this now – ironically, on Labor Day weekend – I am perversely comforted by the new job losses. For at least a few of the departed, I’ve been asked to pick up some of their duties. Others’ absence may require a little more overtime from those who are left. These tea leaves give me another temporary jolt of job security.

I feel guilty for such a heartless attitude. It reminds me of how two of our cats will attack the third one whenever she cries out with a stepped-on tail. In a sense, we’ve become no more than animals looking out only for ourselves and our own families (if they’re lucky). The global economy is ruled by the law of the jungle, I guess, even though like my cats we’ve been semi-domesticated.

What will follow in future postings (I think that’s what they’re called) are stories of how and if I survive this downturn, and what happens if a pudgy grey-haired guy is thrown out into the job market only a few years short of what would have been his retirement. Maybe the attitude I’ve cultivated while working with hundreds of twenty-something trainees halfway around the world will somehow serve me when I end up interviewing with one of their American cohorts, trying to get myself another job.

We’ll see.

Footnote from 2010: Somehow, two years later, I’m fortunate enough to still have the job. The world is a miraculous place.

An editorial: C’mon, guys. Knock it off.

Item: A 55-year-old husband and father, the widely respected teacher of honors English in a Charlotte-area high school, is arrested by police after allegedly using the camera on his cell phone to take “upskirt” photos of a woman and her daughter shopping at the grocery store.

Item: Two once and future aspirants to be president of the United States — Newt Gingrich on the right and John Edwards on the left — sneak away from their cancer-wives to have secret affairs with younger women.

Item: Four twenty-something men from the TV reality series “Jersey Shore,” including Michael “The Situation” Sorrentino and “DJ Pauly D” DelVecchio, breathe air, eat food, drink water and use up additional valuable resources that would otherwise be consumed by more-deserving biota.

Man has always been a scourge on the planet. The delicate ecological balance that existed among millions of species for millennia has been hopelessly thrown out of whack by the evolution of modern human beings. Now, instead of a world populated by lush forests, sky-blue lakes and majestic wildlife, we have strip malls. We have Branson, Missouri. We have off-shore oil drilling rigs. We have the Volkswagen Jetta. All, the perverse product of Man.

And we have men, a particularly egregious subset of Man, constantly in the news for their irresponsible behavior. Not a day goes by that, from some corner of the globe, comes a report that a male has done something wrong. A crazy guy in China has broken into a school and knifed dozens of helpless children. A slacker dude in Berlin carelessly tosses his burning cigarette from a train and starts a fire. A well-meaning husband in my own hometown puts a dirty dish in the left side of the sink when he’s been told a thousand times to rinse it first in the right side, because he should know by now — after living in the same house for 15 years — that’s where the garbage disposal is.

I am both a man, and ashamed of being a man. It is high time that we men clean up our acts and become positive contributors to society.

C’mon, guys. I call on all of you to knock it off.

Why is it always a male who is in the middle of trouble? It’s a rare occasion that we’re fortunate enough to witness a woman blowing herself up in a crowded marketplace or winning a Senate primary with a vow to destroy Social Security. It’s almost always a man who is screwing things up.

What is it about the presence of external genitalia that turns people into anti-social misfits? Sure, your underwear is a little less comfortable. But that hardly seems like a good reason to launch a Nazi reign of terror across Europe.

Some blame not the sex organs themselves but the hormones they produce. These chemicals pulse through the endocrine system and prompt otherwise sensible citizens to commit crimes, precipitate bank failures and produce situation comedies for ABC. There’s supposed to be a little something we like to call a “system of morals and values” to keep bad behavior in check, but that system seems to grow weaker every day. It doesn’t seem to matter that your mother told you not to hurt others and your wife told you she really likes the look of a particular purse on sale just a week before her birthday. You’re not listening.

Do I have to repeat myself? YOU’RE NOT LISTENING!

The time has come for us to shake off the immaturity of youth and act like grown-ups for a change. We don’t need two hundred thousand people marching on the mall in Washington to tell us that it’s wrong to hold up a Subway. We don’t need an intricate structure of securities laws to know that we’re not supposed to bilk aging widows out of their life savings. We don’t need the world’s largest religion to issue decrees from its pontiff in Rome that it’s wholly improper to sexually abuse the young children of the flock. (Okay, maybe we do need that last one.)

What we do need is a return to common sense, a return to honor and accountability and virtue and decency. We need to measure our actions against the Golden Rule, not use it to hit people with.

I call on all men everywhere to start behaving themselves. Enough already with the genocide and the thievery and the cutting in front of people who have been polite enough to wait their turn.

Act like a man. Don’t act like a man.

Revisited: Out with the old, in with the new

A while back I wrote about my ailing laptop and my fading hopes for its recovery. Yesterday, I picked it up from the computer repair shop and brought it home to die.

The initial prognosis when I first had the aging IBM ThinkPad admitted hadn’t been good. Early optimism that it was just a screen problem quickly turned bleak when the frightening word “motherboard” started being mentioned. Heroic efforts — spending more on parts and labor than it was worth — might save T.Pad, but the work would be painful and the machine’s quality of life could be severely reduced.

Still, I held onto hope. I hoped that if I just left it in the shop, I wouldn’t have to pay for any diagnostic charges. Finally, compassion got the better of me and I called to ask if I could come and pick it up.

“We’re open nine to six,” said the receptionist sadly. “Except on Wednesdays when we close at two.”

When I arrived at the sprawling Metrolina Computer complex in a strip-mall storefront out on the bypass, I gave my name and my patient’s name to a young orderly. He started randomly looking at some shelves filled with ailing desktops and soon came across my startlingly thin machine. Initially shocked at the apparent emaciation, I soon remembered that’s how it looked when I brought it in, that thinness was the whole point of having a laptop.

I tried to get him to confirm the diagnosis I’d received on the phone, putting a hopeful spin on the question.

“They said it might be big problems but weren’t sure,” I said. “Maybe they were able to find something later.”

He scanned a piece of paper that had been lying with T.Pad for any notes detailing the condition. When he couldn’t find anything, he consulted with the nurse/receptionist who called up my order on her screen.  It almost broke my heart to see how snappy her computer response time was compared to the poor health of the machine that now lay with its power chord draped mournfully across its surface.

Finally a man in a lab coat stepped forward. He spoke with a comforting tone about how they had done some minor fix-ups in the beginning and “we had it on the stand running fine for a day or two. Everybody thought ‘great, it’s fixed,’ but then the previous problems returned and it hasn’t worked since.” I choked up at the thought it had briefly brightened the day (or two) of these hardened technicians.

I gathered up my patient, offered a heartfelt “thanks for trying” and headed quickly for the exit. The shop displayed a sign saying diagnostics were free and I wanted to make sure that was the case by getting out of there as soon as possible. They either didn’t have the heart to stop me, or else Obama’s newly installed socialized state was already working on my behalf.

When I got T.Pad home, I set him on the kitchen counter and tried to boot up just like old times. I opened the lid to find a loose screw sitting next to the keyboard, the most appalling display of sloppy repair I’d seen since my doctor left a lens cap inside during my last colonoscopy. I shuddered; somebody again had the air conditioning set too high.

I pushed the power button and the screen sprang briefly to life. I’d hoped to at least share some final memories, by quickly emailing a few key files to myself. However, the cursor soon froze and a blackness overtook the display face that told me the final moments had arrived. Other appliances like the microwave, refrigerator, toaster and coffeemaker had already gathered around in a touching show of support. I retrieved my cellphone and my iPod so “T” would have some younger contemporaries to relate to in this moment of passing. They quietly showed their respects, except for the phone which went off once telling me my reserved book had arrived at the library.

I pressed the off button for the last time. I had to hold it down for several seconds before all the display lights went out and the whirring ceased. It was a brave act of rage against the dying of the light that touched us all, or at least those of us who were sentient. Finally, there was quiet. I pulled the plug on ol’ gramps, knowing I could probably salvage the power chord for use on another machine. I ceremonially sprinkled a little dirt next to the keyboard in preparation for T.Pad’s eternal resting place in the backyard next to four generations of dead cats.

The late great T.Pad is readied for burial

Then I went out and bought a new computer! It’s really awesome and I am so excited!!!

It’s actually not a laptop at all but what they call a netbook. It weighs less than three pounds yet still has 160 somethings that make the memory really big and 16 something-elses that make it as fast as any larger computer. It has a webcam (I’m waving at you right now — can you see me?) and a touchpad with multi-finger gesture input so I can make two mistakes at once. The keyboard is only 90% of normal size, requiring me to keep my fingernails neatly trimmed unless I want a bunch of random numbers sprinkled in with my blog post.

The brand name is one I’ve never heard of. It’s either called ASUS, which you know has to be American-made because it has “USA” mixed in there, or else it’s called Eee, if you find ASUS too difficult to pronounce. It does have the feel of a cheap plastic toy, especially the makeshift security feature that permanently records the fingerprints of anyone who touches its shiny black surface. The performance and reliability so far, however, are excellent. It’s working three days after purchase!

I’m still making my way through the instruction manual. I am forewarned about putting benzene on it, not operating it during a gas leak, not placing it on an unstable surface (that means you, Uncle Jeff), not leaving it on my lap for long periods, and not shoving any foreign objects into it. I also shouldn’t operate it if the temperature outside is below 41 degrees, so I better dive in and start computing before that forecasted cool wave hits later this week.

Much of the operation is intuitive — for example, you strike the “a” key when you want to spell something that has an “a” in it. There are also some helpful blue icons on a few of the keys, in case you want to block out the sun, forbid bullhorns or NumLK somebody. There are some tiny colored lights and a number of holes on either side of the machine, which I guess explains the shoving caveat.

It’ll never replace the special spot in my heart I’ll always have for my very first laptop. But I think it’ll be quite sufficient for me to go online to WebMD so I can finally look up “motherboard,” and also learn how to get that lens cap out of my ileum.

Revisited: Arguments for the beard

About the only thing I remember from my high school philosophy class was a discussion about the “argument of the beard.” It’s the paradox that suggests there’s no difference between things which occupy opposite ends of a continuum, because there is no definable moment at which one becomes the other: day and night, childhood and adulthood, Reese Witherspoon and Drew Barrymore.

“How many hairs does a man have to grow before he has a beard?” There’s no specific number at which an unsightly clump of hairs becomes a beard, though somebody apparently neglected to make this argument to about half the male stars at the Emmy Awards Sunday night.

The current fashion of sporting a three-day growth of facial hair has its genesis in the early 1970s, when I and my good friend Richard Nixon kept forgetting to charge our electric razors. As soon as my hormones had permitted, I opted for the scruffy look (I’m not sure what Nixon’s excuse was; probably something about Vietnam). It’s not that I didn’t shave on a regular basis; it’s just that the regular basis was every time Rod Stewart had a number-one single. Looking back, I guess my motivation was partly fashion, though sheer laziness played a pretty big role as well. Why should I spent an extra five minutes on grooming each morning when there was a cultural revolution waiting just outside my dorm room?

Unfortunately, my Scotch/Irish/Germanic/Pastywhite cultural heritage limited my bearding possibilities to random splotches on my neck and lower face. In my late-teen years, I looked like a Woolly Willie iron shavings toy that had spent too much time in a magnetic resonance imaging machine. Some hairs on the cheek, some under the chin, a few on the upper lip but most of them still hiding somewhere around the edge.

Eventually the bare spots started filling in, giving me the opportunity to forge yet another innovation — the Beardian Presidents style, later called the modified Taliban. Originally inspired by Rutherford B. Hayes, the look originated from an interest in post-Civil War history, when America’s chief executives were too distracted by the strains of Reconstruction to sit down for a little trim. If the likes of Grant, Garfield, Arthur and Cleveland had expressed as much interest in the Chinese Exclusion Act as they did in pogonology (the study of beards), we’d all be drinking green tea today instead of Full Throttle, and this whole civility debate would be moot.

 

(Stroking chin) “Hmm, would I rather veto the Pendleton Act or go to the barber?”

During the late seventies, my beard reached a fullness that rivaled Amazonia. I was going through a period of introspection at the time, out of college but unsure whether to continue a counter-cultural lifestyle or to dive into corporate yuppiedom, which seemed to be paying a lot better than barefoot typesetting. My lack of confidence about the proper career course was reflected in my belief that the more of my face I could keep hidden, the better.

Photographic evidence of this period exists somewhere deep in the files of the State Department, as I had received my first passport during these years. In the innocence of pre-9/11 times, the fierce countenance I displayed didn’t raise much concern. They were letting anybody up to and including rabid abolitionist John Brown purchase a transatlantic airline ticket. The full beard in my passport photo would be flagged immediately by today’s facial recognition search programs, and I’d be put on a watch list faster than you could say “can I check my bags through to Helmand Province?” Then I’d be removed from the list when they looked at my ID and realized I had the most-benign, least-threatening surname (Whiteman) possible. 

“I demand an aisle seat!”

When I moved from Florida to South Carolina in 1980, I soon realized that facial whiskers were making a different kind of statement than I had intended. In a college town like Tallahassee, the bewhiskered were respected intellectuals; in the rural South, the effort to grow a beard was more about obscuring absent teeth than offering a shout-out to Marxian anarcho-syndicalism. Still, I held on to the beard for several more years as I slowly built my corporate career. It was a kind of security blanket that tied me to a more idealistic past; a food-flecked blanket to be sure, but still a vague reassurance that I hadn’t completely sold out.

It wasn’t until the nineties arrived and my son was born that I finally made a break with the past and decided to become clean-shaven. I sensed my professionalism at work was being questioned, not to mention that sad incident where my two-year-old mistook his father for a Furby. I first experimented with the babyface look during a two-week cruise vacation so I could practice things to do with the visible jaw before a more sympathetic audience than coworkers could offer. I gradually mastered civilized chewing techniques and got past the fear of slashing my own throat with Norelco’s trimmer accessory. When I returned to work, one person exclaimed “he’s got a chin!” Actually, after all the late-night buffets, I had several.

Now I’m entering the twilight of my career, having spent the last 20 years with hardly a stubble, unless you count every weekend or holiday. My ambition in the business world is starting to subside a bit, as I reflect more and more on the warped values of hyper-capitalism and on the value of taking SSRI medication. The other morning, I was up early writing the blog and found myself running late for work. I remembered that extra five minutes you could save by not shaving and figured I’d give the stubbly look another try. At age 55, the whiskers come in as grey as head hairs, so I had the look of a certain grizzled dementia that was keeping people from bringing me work, lest I start rambling that proofreading this particular graphic reminded me how much my grand-niece liked to play with range-column charts, and about that time I was examined by aliens who listed my physical traits on a holographic scatter plot. More time for Bejeweled!

So my argument of the beard has come down to this: You say I’m looking a little scruffy today? Big hairy deal.

Looking back on a career of labored days

Memories from 40 years in the labor force:

When I was a bagboy

When I showed up for my first day of work as a bagboy, I had the feeling almost immediately that this might not be a good fit. There seemed to be too many handlers, too many people with their own agenda, too many “professionals” telling me what to do and how to do it. I’d be spending most of time working behind the cashiers, collecting frozen dinners and canned goods as they rolled down the conveyor belt, and placing them in paper bags so they could be transported to the customer’s car.

There were so many rules that simply ran contrary to the good common sense I had accumulated in my sixteen years. The heavier items had to be placed in the bottom of the bag while the chips and baked goods and pretzels were placed on top. If a particular bag was going to be too heavy, I had to double-bag the merchandise. I should offer to wheel the shopping cart out to the parking lot and load the purchases into the trunk. I could accept a tip if it were offered, but I had to say “thank you.”

This was not at all what I was “wired” to do. What was so wrong about mashing everything together into one bag, using my feet if necessary to compress the softer items? If something was ruined in the process, they’d just have to buy more, which seemed to be a good thing for our capitalist system. Why couldn’t our elderly clientele carry their own damn six-packs of generic Bilt-Rite Cola to their vehicles? Why did the cardboard boxes that were no longer needed have to be compressed for proper disposal? Just because the tree-huggers said we couldn’t throw them into the vacant field behind the store?

Crusading college journalist

I’ve been an aficionado of proper spelling my entire life. In elementary school, I won the fifth-grade spelling bee, advancing to the school-wide finals against a taller, stronger and more athletic sixth-grader who “posterized” me when I stumbled on accrued while he monster-dunked inchoate to take the championship. My two best subjects throughout grade school were spelling and geography, and I was crestfallen to learn from the vocational counselor in high school that you couldn’t enter either subject as a career.

With my dreams dashed of opening a specialty boutique where customers could ask how to spell the capital of North Dakota, I instead went to college to study journalism. It was the early seventies and Florida State was gripped with the revolutionary zeal of the times. However, as much as we questioned the establishment and cultural mores and business-as-usual and why Mary Bess wouldn’t allow me to touch her chest, we never challenged the time-tested rules of written communication. Our manifestos demanding the resignation of the president and ROTC OFF CAMPUS NOW! were carefully edited and exquisitely punctuated.

Only once during my tenure as an editor of the school paper did we dare to question The Man (Noah Webster) on the subject of proper spelling, and that was at the prompting of The Woman. Amy Rogers was head of the local feminist coalition, and came to my office one day demanding that as good liberals we abandon the misogynistic term “woman” in our reporting of campus news.

“We repudiate the word, because it comes from the origin ‘womb-man,’” she told me. “We prefer ‘womyn’ instead, and strongly urge you to prefer it too.”

We convened an editorial meeting and debated for several hours the merits of the request. Ultimately, I moved that the proposal was stupid and got a slim majority (all the guys) to agree with me. Then we closed down the paper and had a sit-in, just for the fun of it.

Facilitator of quality, whatever that means

Part of my life in the corporate world has been spent as a “quality facilitator.” Don’t worry, I didn’t know what it meant either.

About 20 years ago, there was this business fad going around that preached the Japanese had figured out the process for building quality into a product rather than tacking it on at the end in the form of a high-priced ad campaign.

Before this quality revolution hit our company, I was running a three-person inspection operation in our shipping department. Our job was two-fold: inspect components before they went into the final product to remove defects early and then, when that failed, scramble around to find a few good items to send to our client’s buyer. Even though everybody who knew anything about our process admitted there were unavoidable variations, we had to reinforce the notion that perfection was possible.

Sometimes this fooled the client and sometimes it didn’t. When we failed, we had to travel to distant warehouses to go through all 10,000 products to remove whatever defect had gotten through. The most memorable trip was a weeklong visit to Brooklyn. We spent five days looking for a spot on a picture of the CEO’s face that didn’t actually exist in real life. (I always thought it would be easier to put the spot on him rather than remove it from his picture, but couldn’t convince my boss).

Upper management eventually became convinced that this was a sloppy way to run a quality operation and decided to eliminate the inspection department entirely. For the next two years, I worked with a new quality manager whose importance to the business was evidenced by the fact that she had her office right next to the president. She was given the power to hire a consultant who trained four facilitators and group of about 25 other workers who learned how to find the root of a problem, brainstorm ideas for fixing it, then test these to make sure they worked. I stood next to an easel while these discussions were going on, making notes of the participants’ observations, and coaching them through the problem-solving process. This is what was called “facilitation” but felt more like taking stenography from an angry mob.

The president assigned us four specific problems to solve. My group had what were called “counts.” Incredibly, our processes were so out of control that we were unable to produce the exact quantities our customers ordered. Team members were chosen regardless of their knowledge of the process, the logic being that outsiders would be have a detached common sense that kept the insiders on track. In reality, the outsiders remained quiet and volunteered mostly for the team’s clerical duties, like typing up the minutes and bringing bagels. The experts would attend the weekly sessions, or not, depending on how busy their departments were. One week they’d express one opinion, then the next week they’d say something different, then the next they wouldn’t show up. People were alternately passionate and indifferent to others’ opinions, or even their own. It was a mess.

Part of my job was to put a successful face on this fiasco. The group would bicker and stall and change direction and give up, all in the course of one hour, and I’d have to describe how “dynamic” the session had been. Our team leader had decided on day one how he would solve the problem and bullied the group toward this end. But we had to put up the façade that we were gathering data before making a final decision. So he coerced everyone into a plan that required counts to be recorded at each step of production and a form to be filled out when these numbers were off. Unfortunately, nobody could convince the front-line machine operators to be bothered with such nonsense.

“I thought we had won World War II specifically so we didn’t have to listen to the Japanese,” said one of the older workers.

Playing corporate games

I’ve been involved in a lot of game-playing during my career. I’m referring to the 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 humiliating 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 environment and put in a setting where you are encouraged to think outside the box, dare to be great, or push the envelope. I 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.

A common method to get group members to talk freely is to mentally transport them to a different place in time. In one session I went through, staged for what were perceived to be future leaders, we were told to draw a picture of where we saw ourselves in ten years. The only thing we all had in common was that we imagined a future very far away from the company we were supposed to be leading. My drawing 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. Poor artist that I am, my group’s facilitator interpreted the scene as someone working at NASA directing a 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 wasn’t especially inspired after that.

I also had an opportunity to spend a few years as an excellence trainer myself. During each day-long quality awareness session, we played a game that demonstrated just-in-time production techniques. Each six-person team was given a collection of interlocking blocks and asked to produce exact replicas of a certain configuration. They were required to re-engineer their process several times to achieve more and better widgets crafted each time with fewer people. At the end, they could do their very best work with only two people instead of six. Invariably, some participant would learn the wrong lesson and ask what happened to the four people who no longer had jobs. We were told to make some vague hint about how maybe they could work in marketing.

The most enjoyable game I can recall from my experience with this garbage was the Myers-Briggs personality assessment. This was something you could do 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 and then be put into one of 16 categories that labeled you as an extrovert, a thinker, a perceiver, an innovator, a molester, an invertebrate, etc.

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. “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.”

Compliance training: You have to do it

I had to do sexual harassment training at work last week. Technically, I guess it was training on how to avoid sexual harassment.            

Our company requires all employees to do this on-line education once a year, primarily so we know there’s a line which we must not cross in our relationships with co-workers. But also so the lawyers are satisfied. If an individual is ever accused of misconduct, the corporation then has documentation that we were specifically told not to grope or fondle each other. “Not only was he told,” they can say, “but he also scored an 89% on an assessment of his understanding of the rules. That’s a high ‘B’, you know.”            

You’re supposed to read some material, then take a test on what you just read, as you progress through the hour-long course. However, most of the answers are so obvious that people skip right to the exam. Here’s one example:            

“John tells his employee Sue: ‘I will protect your job and not select you to be in the next workforce reduction if you sleep with me.’”            

“Is this sexually harassing behavior? Yes or no?”            

You’d have to be a U.S. senator to be dimwitted enough to get this stuff wrong.

Training overseas

My first overseas business trip came in the summer of 2003. I was to spend three weeks in the city of Bangalore, India, a week on each shift, training the eager young workforce.

It was a 28-hour journey. Because I can barely sleep on an airplane, I arrived with a very special case of jet lag, compounded by the fact that our arrival time was 2 a.m. local. It’s not unsettling enough to find yourself halfway around the world for the first time; you also have to go through Indian immigration in the middle of the night. I emerged from the airport expecting to see my host holding my name on a sign, but instead was confronted by a sea of faces desperately begging for handouts.

When I finally found Akshay, he led me to the driver who would take us to my hotel. Even at that early hour of the morning, the sights and sounds of the subcontinent were overpowering. Between the heat, the pollution, the traffic, the intense overcrowding and the profound poverty, it didn’t even feel like the same planet. But they did have some cool cows.

I had about a day to get acclimated before I’d have to report to work. The office was right around the corner from the hotel in a complex that also held what the locals called a “mall” but what appeared to me as a warren of flea market stalls. To get there from the hotel, I could cut through a traffic-choked alley that served as the parking lot for hundreds of motorcycles belonging to the workforce, or venture out onto the street. I tried the street once before deciding that being struck by a scooter would be preferable to being hit by a taxi, then run over by a bus, then asphyxiated by an auto-rickshaw, then flipped into a poisonous river, then set upon by beggars.

The office was still being set up when I arrived the first Monday, so I was shunted to a small desk off to the side and given a single individual to present my carefully prepared training spiel. He and all the people I worked with were very friendly, accommodating and eager to learn, or at least I think that’s what they said. Their heavily accented English had me agreeing with stuff I had no idea they were talking about. I was further confused by the Indian custom of wagging the head from side to side as a way of saying “yes, I agree with you.” They need to cut that out – it’s very disconcerting.

By the third day I was still not sleeping well, I was growing tired of all the exotic atmosphere and I was starting to think I needed an exit strategy. Would I irrevocably damage my career if I arranged to return home immediately?

Fortunately, I got sick instead. The doctor who came to my hotel room to treat my nausea gave me a pretty good once-over, and left two medicines I’d never heard of before. “Take two of this every four hours and one of this every six hours,” he instructed. Or something like that. I just did the math and split the difference, and for some reason got better.

Once I was back on my feet, the second week had arrived and I was supposed to be working with the second-shift crew. I made a brave effort with the unfamiliar evening hours; I kept telling myself it was actually day shift back in the U.S., but my self wasn’t convinced.

When the third week rolled around and my third-shift trainees waited to hear my presentation, I gave up all pretense of doing a good job. When 4 a.m. rolled around and I faced the prospect of another four hours of me wagging my tongue and them wagging their heads, I had to decide whether to brave the motorcycle alley in the dead of night or hang in there. I braved the night and headed back to the hotel.

The end of my stay had finally arrived, and I was thrilled to be heading back to the U.S. I flew into Philadelphia and drove to my hotel on an unusually cool and sweet-smelling late summer day. (I guess you have to go half way around the world to consider Philadelphia sweet-smelling).

Now it’s five years later and the fruits of my labors training abroad have ripened, fallen to the ground and turned into a rotting mush that I can’t get off my shoes. I definitely enjoyed the experience of working with the people I met; I’m just not too thrilled that I did such a good job that now my own job is threatened. Globalization has a way of sucking on a personal level while doing a lot of good at a much higher level. I’d just rather be seeing that broader picture from 30,000 feet on a business-class flight for a month of training in Paris – not too likely in the current business environment.

So called “Foundations” training

The silliest and most recent corporate development experience took place about four years ago and was called “Foundations” training. I still have the workbook from this two-day offsite jerk-a-thon that claimed to be “transforming the business” with the bright idea to “be here now” while you were working. Mixed among vaguely appropriate quotes from the likes of Socrates, Galileo, Albert Szent-Gyorgyi, Mihaly Csikszentmihaly and Willie Mays (?!) were the variety of typical group encounter exercises I hadn’t done since freshman orientation at college. There was a testing and categorization of personality types, something called the “broken squares game,” and a listing of the qualities of a good leader (I wrote “patience” in my workbook) versus a bad leader (“impatience”). But the overriding theme throughout was this need to “be here now” or, as the workbook put it, “Be Here Now™”. My notes in the final exercise of the second day – called “insights and action steps” – reveal the depths of bitterness to which I had sunk:

–“I will assume good intent”
–“I will look at situations from different perspectives”
–“I will be here now”
–“I will be someplace else later”
–“Next week I will be on vacation”
–“Tomorrow, I will be here now, but it won’t be now, it will be then then”
–“The ‘now’ is all we have now; later, we will have the ‘later’”
–“I will be here now even if I’m laid-off later”

And finally, to the strains of tinkling new-age music, I referenced the “broken squares game”: “The broken squares can be equated to the broken lives we lived before ‘Foundations’ training.”

Renting my body for science

So it’s come to this: as I struggle to keep up in a declining industry in a declining economy at a declining age, I’ve turned to offering my body up for medical research in return for $40 now and another $10 a month each time I call in and tell them I’m still alive.

I’ve volunteered to receive an anti-shingles vaccine that’s already been proven safe and/or effective for populations over age 60 and now the drug company wants to see if 50-somethings can survive it as well. It’s all above board and totally without risk, I’ve been assured by the Internet. Because it’s a double-blind study, I actually have only a 50% chance of receiving the real vaccine, but a 100% chance of receiving the money and feeling vaguely cheap as well as a little woozy only an hour or so after the procedure.

I arrive at an office that looks like any office park medical facility, and fill out the requisite paperwork. No, I’ve never had cancer, diabetes, polio, HIV, hepatitis, or a desire to do this before. Yes, I’m willing to pretend to read 12 pages of fine-print risks and sign at several different spots that I won’t sue if anything goes wrong. I finish the form and wait to be summoned from the lobby. A pink card left in the chair next to me suggests “next time you have low back pain or spasms, please call.” They’re also interested in testing those who are “constantly running to the bathroom,” have decreased sexual desire and abdominal bloating. But I have to complete this study first before I can aspire to those conditions and another $40.

When Jennifer calls me back, she reviews my paperwork and asks basically the same questions over again. I guess they’re trying to trip up anybody who claimed to have jaundice in the waiting room but has suddenly pinked-up when personally confronted. She takes my temperature, then explains how I need to keep track of any side effects I might encounter. For the first five days, I’ll need to watch the site of the vaccine and measure the size of any swelling. “If it’s over three inches, just check the box that says ‘3+’”, she says. I’m starting to worry a little. “The swelling might be over three inches high?” I ask. Fortunately, that’s a stupid question. The swollen area, if there is one, would be measured in width, not height.

Fake News: Squirrels to challenge cats

MY HOME, S.C. (Sept. 7) — The passing of Labor Day typically means the start of election campaigns, and it’s appearing ever more likely that the cats’ majority in the house is in jeopardy due to the rise of an energized squirrel movement out in the yard.  

The cats have held a firm majority in the house since 2008 when three of them were swept into power as part of the Obama landslide. Since then, however, a rising tide of public opinion has turned against the felines for their infighting, partisan bickering and inability to get much accomplished. Polls indicate that the public is ready for a change, and the squirrels are gathering their forces to offer an alternative to the cat agenda.  

As the nights grow cooler with fall in the air, evidence of the squirrels’ ascendancy is everywhere. The trees are alive with activity, shattered acorns litter the driveway and high-pitched squeaks lay out the group’s plans for changing the trajectory of American politics.  

“The public is tired of career politicians occupying seats of power like the window sill, the large cushion near the fireplace and the plush rug in front of the TV,” said Grey Tail, organizer of the Squirrel Party Express. “Those fat cats are too cozy with special interests, like the person who dispenses the food each night. It’s time for the house to stop wasting resources on big government, and returning power to the majority of small, furry mammals who aren’t cats.”  

The cats seem to realize that their fate is precarious. Not only do mid-term elections historically reward the party that’s out of power, but a widespread mood against the status quo is also working against incumbents. Even traditionally safe seats, like the perch atop the cat condo near the sliding glass door, are facing a serious challenge in the 2010 cycle.  

“We fully understand the frustration being felt out there in the heartland,” said Taylor, whose chairmanship of the House Sink, Counter and Cooking Surfaces Committee is one of the seats being threatened. “We would just remind people that it was the squirrels and their disregard for proper government regulation that got us into this fix in the first place. Their emphasis on using seeds and bits of pine cone for currency wrecked the economy. It’s why we’re still suffering in the current recession.” 

Rep. Taylor vows he won't give up his seat without a fight

The squirrels had held a majority in the house until 2006, when a nuisance wildlife firm was hired to clear the attic of the colony that had settled there after a woodpecker had broken a hole in the eaves. The cats promised a cleaner government, and initially had widespread support for the way they would lick themselves all hours of the day and night. But as the cats failed to stimulate economic growth despite their lavish eating habits, the squirrels claimed their brand of fiscal responsibility would return the house to prosperity.  

“We know a thing or two about storing resources away so we’ll be ready for hard times,” said Tail, whose only prior government experience involved being nearly run over by the mail truck earlier this year. “By investing the acorns we harvest in holes in the ground over the winter, we would anticipate a return to sustainable growth by the spring of 2011.”  

Observers give the squirrels a better-than-even chance to reclaim power in the house, though it’s unlikely they’ll also be able to win the storage shed out back, where roaches and other insects have a stronger grip on the reins of power.  

“We’re confident that the electorate will see these challengers as a fringe element, and reject them on Nov. 2,” said Tom, a Demo-cat from Ohio. “Some of them even want to dismantle the Department of Warm Towels and the President’s Commission on Empty Boxes. I can understand that folks favor a more responsible budget and monetary policy, but a lot of their proposals are just plain nuts.”  

Grey Tail would shut down large parts of government

When “C” stands for “change” at the C-store

While driving around over the weekend, a warning light appeared on the dashboard of my car. It was a bearded “U” with an exclamation point in the middle. Either I needed to stop immediately to play a game of horseshoes with Zach Galifianakis, or else there was something wrong with one of my tires. I looked at the owner’s manual and found out the indicator was indicating I might be having an issue with tire pressure.        

I’m old enough to remember that you used to be able to pull into a gas station and have the problem checked out by a certified attendant. Now, there aren’t many true “gas stations” left, since virtually everyone pumps their own gas these days outside a convenience store. You could ask the semi-toothed cashier if they would “check your air,” but their response would probably involve trying to sell you a pine-scented freshener from their wide selection of aromatic danglers.        

The modern convenience store really does live up to its name. As you’re fueling up your car, you can also do a quick bit of shopping for those essentials you didn’t realize you needed until you came across them in the brightly lit bustle of the “C-store.” It’s like a mini-Walmart, with the scent of spilled gasoline ably playing the role of store greeter.        

At a single stop, you can buy Beanie Weenies, roach spray, steel wool, toothpicks, frozen chimichangas, Earthquake brand high-gravity lager, gloves, Axe body spray, a mechanical pencil, pliers, something called “gum-out,” a can of boiled peanuts, satin roses, Sasquatch big sticks (an extremely cured meat product), hotdog buns, Lunchables, Bimbo colchones or cinnamon-roll-flavored cappuccino. In fact, you can buy all of these items at the same time, though the guy in line behind you will be muttering something in Spanish about “tu mama” to his fellow landscapers.        

You can also buy a 12-pack of Dr Pepper, that comes in a box that brags “now with new packaging.” (Soft drink companies have apparently given up on tweaking the formula of their sodas, and now concentrate instead on how to make the box more appealing).        

Well, that’s not the only thing with new packaging at the convenience store where I do most of my re-fueling and impulse buying. The shop itself is being transformed, from what used to be called a “Petro Express” into something the new signage calls a “Kangaroo Marathon.” (That’s a race I’d like to see.)

The corporation that owns all of these names is called The Pantry. It operates over 1,600 convenience stores throughout the Southeast and is currently in the midst of converting its 67 Charlotte-area outlets to the company’s flagship Kangaroo brand. Aside from the external signs, and the change from offering Texaco gas products to those of Marathon Oil, there will be some minor modifications inside.        

“It’s going to be different by store,” said chief financial officer Frank Paci. “Some of the stores got Petro Express wallpaper and things like that, so obviously that will change.”        

“We definitely think there is an opportunity to improve the yield of that business,” added CEO Terry Marks, none too helpfully. “It’s about pulling a thousand levers a little bit better. It’s not about pulling one or two big levers.”        

During a recent visit to my favorite Petro-cum-Kangaroo, the conversion process was kicking into high gear. Workers outside had blocked off several parking spaces so they could install a large new billboard over the entryway. Inside, at least a dozen cashiers were tripping over each other behind the counter, watching a trainer explain the new check-out terminals. Wallpaper was being stripped above the coffee machines, as customers at the self-serve struggled to avoid getting dried paste with their cream and sugar. Convenience was everywhere.    

I had to park creatively, off to the side near the kerosene pump, because the construction was taking up so much room in the parking lot. Inching past a guy teetering precariously above the automatic door, which was in a constantly rotating cycle of open and close and open and close, I managed to get inside the store. The lunch-time crush was in full swing. I maneuvered back to the iced drink dispensers while my son checked out refrigerated cases full of canned sodas. We agreed to meet back at the candy aisle before reconnoitering how to approach the growing line of people waiting to pay for their purchases.    

It was especially hot outside, so I decided to indulge in a Coke Slushy. Unfortunately, there were no Slushies to be found. Instead, the whirling mass of partially frozen liquid now had a sign labeling it as an “Icee.” What the heck is an “Icee“? I wondered. I was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the challenges of modern transformative change, much like that first day at work after the new global computer system was installed, except thirstier.   

I went to check on my son and found him shaking his head as he pondered the canned drink selection. It looked to me like all the familiar brands were represented, maybe just in a slightly different order. And yet Rob appeared confused and disoriented. What was the problem?   

“It’s the doors,” Rob said. “When this was a Petro Express, the handle was on the right. Now, it’s on the left.” He paused. “I … I don’t understand how to get in to the drinks.”   

Normally, this is where I might summon a manager for assistance. But I wasn’t sure that’s what they called them anymore. What if they were now called “shift captains”? Or “team leaders”? Or “Purveyors and Expediters of an Exquisite Customer Experience”?   

I saw an alcove nearby that had a water cooler, so Rob and I got our drinks there. Recessed just behind the fountain were what used to be called the “bathrooms,” but were now some exotic locale known as a “restroom.” Gone were the signs indicating which door was for men and which was for women. Now, they were only accepting “ladies” and “gentlemen.” I wasn’t sure I had the proper level of refinement to wash my hands in such splendor, so I just wiped them on my pants.   

We walked over to the candy section and managed to find what we were looking for: Airheads for Rob and M&M’s for me. The world had at least temporarily returned to its proper axis, so we took the opportunity to approach the cashiers.   

As I mentioned earlier, the store seemed way over-staffed. Usually, you’re lucky to find three people working in the entire site — one at the register, one outside on a smoke break, and one lying mortally wounded after the latest robbery attempt. To see a dozen workers hustling behind the counter was totally foreign, especially since they were now wearing orange vests instead of the customary red polo shirts of Petro. Finally, one of the ladies broke loose from the pack and prepared to serve us.   

“How are you today?” asked the woman whose nametag identified her as “Hello My Name Is Marilyn.”   

How am I today? What happened to the traditional greeting of “Can I help you?” And what have you done with my usual cashier, who I’ve come to know as “Welcome to Petro I’m Marilyn”?   

The trainer must have sensed my unease, as he stepped forward to help us complete the transaction. While he patiently walked Marilyn through the proper process steps — take the money, look at the money, enter the amount in the register, etc. — his tone calmed us as well. We got our change, we got our candy, and we got the heck out of Kangaroo before the whole store turned on its head.   

Later that night, I saw a TV commercial for Marathon Oil. Everyday, genuine Americans were pictured going about the business of their everyday, genuine lives. They rode horses, drove convertibles, splashed on a beach, laughed and romped. In the background, you could hear the Marathon theme song, presumably sung by the same cashiers I met earlier that day:   

We’re proud to stand on our own
We’re proud to be home grown
A familiar face and a name you know
C’MON!   

We know you, we know your needs
We know what being a neighbor means
We got a reputation to uphold!   

Can you hear it?
Fueling the American spirit!
No matter when, no matter where
Marathon will take you there!   

I had been reassured. Despite all the differences I’d seen earlier that day, they still knew me, they still knew my needs, and they still wanted me to “c’mon” and join them in this exciting new way to buy gas and snack foods. Much like the kangaroo, I was now eager to jump at the chance and accept the challenge to change. 

Kangaroo is "hopping" to keep your business, and also to amortize a $21.3 million write-off associated with the decision to convert Charlotte-area stores

Keeping customers happy is a marathon, not a sprint

Fake international shorts: Huh?

What were they thinking?

SANTIAGO, Chile — Former Uruguayan rugby players who survived more than two months of isolation after their plane crashed in the Andes 40 years ago were in Chile last week to support a group of miners trapped deep underground.

In 1972, the four were among 16 survivors who lived for 72 days in the snow-covered mountains by eating the flesh of friends who were killed in the accident.

“What are you thinking?” asked Chilean president Sebastian Pinera, except in Spanish. “Are you trying to give those guys ideas? The last thing the trapped miners need to hear are stories of how much hearty protein the rugby team was able to glean from the corpses of those who were trapped with them. Get the hell out of here, and take your ghoulish appetites with you.”

Ramon Sabella, a spokesman for the plane crash survivors, admitted he and the three others hadn’t really thought through their desire to show solidarity with the men who have been trapped nearly a half-mile underground since Aug. 5.

“Gee, I didn’t consider that aspect of our story,” Sabella said. “We don’t mean to encourage them to eat each other; we just wanted to let them know that it’s possible to survive long-term isolation. Boy, my face is red. Note that I said ‘red,’ not ‘rare.’”

Mine foreman Luis Urzua, who has served as unofficial leader of the trapped men, said he still appreciated the effort.

“Mmmm,” he told reporters. “Rugby players.”

How can they tell?

PARIS, France — French unions carried out a one-day national strike on Tuesday to protest a measure that would raise the minimum retirement age to 62. Union leaders estimate that as many as 2.5 million people joined in the work stoppage nationwide.

“How could you tell?” asked President Nicolas Sarkozy. “We’re not exactly known for our work ethic around here. In fact, national strikes are often some of our most productive days.”

There were significant disruptions in intercity train travel, and many short-haul flights were cancelled. Tens of thousands of teachers were reportedly on strike, though it could also be that they were simply taking an extended smoke break. Restaurant and hotel workers remained on the job, but you couldn’t tell it from their surly attitude and leisurely pace.

“Work until we’re 62? Absolutely non,” said Herve Fillon, sitting on a park bench near the Eiffel Tower. “In fact, I’m thinking of retiring right after lunch.”

Less than a week since the end of their traditional month-long August vacation, protesters were energized to fight the proposed austerity measure. They spent the morning marching through the streets of the capital, but after lingering over several bottles of wine at lunch, most spent the rest of the afternoon throwing up and then falling asleep.

What’s that again?

GAINESVILLE, Fla. — The fundamentalist pastor of an ultra-conservative evangelical church near here said he is proceeding with plans to burn the Koran to mark the ninth anniversary of the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks this Saturday.

Terry Jones, head of the Dove World Outreach Center, has drawn worldwide condemnation from Muslims and non-Muslims alike for his plan to incite tensions between the West and Islam.

“What’s the name of his church again?” asked Larry Reimer, one of many moderate Christians to speak up against the planned bonfire. “The ‘Dove World Outreach Center’? How is that an appropriate name for someone who’s against peace, against the world, and interested in only enough ‘outreach’ to collect donations from right-wing fringe groups, or perhaps to pleasure himself?”

Jones has heard calls from leaders as diverse as Gen. David Petraeus, Secretary of State Hillary Clinton and the Rev. Franklin Graham to refrain from the protest. At first, the minister appeared to be considering the pleas when he was quoted as saying he was “definitely praying” about cancelling the demonstration. A closer examination of the tape from that interview, however, indicated he said he was “definitely preying” on irrational fears many in his congregation have about anything or anyone different from them.

“What we’re doing has no middle of the road,” Jones said in a sermon recorded last month. “You have to believe it is totally, totally God or absolutely of the devil.”

Clergy members, academics and elected officials in Gainesville have planned nearly a dozen events to counter the Jones book-burning.

“He represents only 30 people in this town,” said Reimer. “The guy is a complete lunatic. Totally, totally.”

Meanwhile, a collection of tech-savvy fundamentalists in California criticized Jones for what they called his “backward views.”

“In this day and age, what’s the point of burning a book?” asked Martin Winder. “He should simply download a copy of the Koran from the Internet, then erase it from his laptop in protest. He could highlight the icon and hit the backspace key or, if he wants a more dramatic effect, he could right-click on it and select the ‘delete’ pulldown.”

“This is America,” Winder continued. “We don’t need any books.”

Blogging while jogging, and vice versa

Many great artists got their inspiration when they least expected it. John Lennon scribbled the lyrics to “A Day in the Life” on the back of an envelope after he woke up dreaming about them. Pablo Picasso began work on his masterpiece “Guernica” after a vigorous walk along the Seine. William Shakespeare was known to work out with weights and spend 30 minutes on an elliptical machine to clear his mind for wrighting plays.  

Hacks too can find exercise to be a stimulant to creativity. It’s often during my daily run that I come up with ideas for this blog. I’ll be loping along the sidewalk when — boom, out of nowhere — the idea occurs to me that it might be funny to write a history of the human foot, or about my plans to rob a liquor store.  

As soon as I get home, I’m quick to jot these nuggets down on a scratchpad I keep on my dresser (at least, I try to write them down, if I can find a piece of paper not already sodden with perspiration).  

I often think how much simpler it would be if I could just carry my netbook with me as I jog, and work simultaneously on my posting and my endurance. Then I think about how difficult it would be to type and watch for oncoming cars at the same time.  

So this weekend I tried the next best thing — dictating into a voice recorder as I ran, then transcribing the results when I got home. You, the reader, get to travel along with me at the moment this essay is first imagined. It’s like being in on the extraordinary moment of human conception, except without fallopian tubes.  

I hope you enjoy and, don’t forget, be sure to do at least 15 minutes of cool-down stretches when you’re done.  

Runnin' down the road, tryin' to loosen my load

OK, so this is an attempt to record what goes on during an average run through the neighborhood, starting out in front of my house, and here I go…  

And this doesn’t look foolish at all, that I’m talking to myself while I’m running. This is the route that I do pretty much every day. It’s about 3 in the afternoon so there aren’t a lot of people around to wonder why some guy’s running down the street holding a microphone to his face.

There’s utility construction going on in the neighborhood, being done by a contractor called “Trenchco.” Apparently they build trenches or dig trenches or maybe they just like trenches. We don’t know what they’re putting in the trenches but I hope it might be better-quality cable. There’s a bunch of workers up the hill. My wife keeps saying we should ask them what they’re doing, but I doubt they know.

It’s about 87 degrees out here, which is pretty warm for somebody my age to be running. I was known to run in temperatures as high as 100 degrees when I was younger. People know me around the city as the crazy guy who runs no matter what. I once ran in an icestorm, but then I fell down.  

More cars as I turn the corner onto the main road. People are looking at me, wondering what I’m doing, wondering why I’m talking to my hand while running in such heat. I think one should explain the other.  

There goes a red truck.

My wife is at home right now playing Wii Fit with my sister-in-law, so they probably have the more sensible exercise idea than what I’m doing. I’ve always been told I should carry ID when I got out for these runs and I never do, so if I ever drop off the face of the earth, you’ll know what happened. Hopefully somebody will find my body before the raccoons do.  

Passing some private homes on the right, and on the left is a new subdivision they started building right before the recession. They got about half the houses built and pretty much gave up. I think they’re townhomes, which is kind of like living in a real home from what I’m told.

Glad you can’t transcribe panting because that’s what you’d be reading right now. There is a little bit of a breeze as I get close to the top of the hill. The sky is pretty clear, some high clouds not doing much to block the sun. I try to keep my head down while I’m running. Every now and then I’ll find money or something. I found $20 the other day, just laying in a parking lot.

Wow, there goes a huge truck from a nearby paper tube company. “World’s leading manufacturer of paper tubes,” it says. Not sure who uses them but I guess you have to wrap your toilet paper around something.  

Passing some apartments on the right, and another newish subdivision on the left. It’s called “The Pines at India Hook,” located interestingly enough on India Hook Road. The apartments are called Village Station and it’s an “apartment community,” not just apartments. So I guess they can charge an extra $50 a month for that.

There’s an older house here on the right that’s now a law firm, I think. Tall, beautiful hardwood trees out front. I’d say oak or maple or — what’s that other kind of tree they have? — elm. Could be any of those.  

Off to my left is an older neighborhood with a “Dead End” sign. I don’t think that’s the name of the community though, I think it’s just a street sign. On my right is the Spring Arbor Alzheimer’s Care center and there are some folks sitting out on rocking chairs today because it’s so nice. I’ll try not to talk too loud so I don’t disturb the Alzheimer’s people. I don’t want any of them wandering up this way.

And now here’s Chandler Place, a so-called independent retirement living facility. I think that’s sort of like an old folk’s home, but with fewer safety rails. There are some “shoppes” up here on the end, one little restaurant we go to sometimes. I’m going to try to cross the street now and go back down the hill toward my neighborhood.  

So I’m headed back on the other side of the street, a nice white picket fence to my right. This is a pretty nice part of town. I figure the distance that I’m running is about 1.6 miles maybe. I used to do it every day, lately not so much because of the heat. I guess that’s a good excuse.  

From this spot I can peek into some private backyards … not much going on at this hour of the day. Every now and then I’ll witness an illicit affair.  

Coming up on the right is what used to be another rest home but is now taken over by a church that does day care. It’s called “Taking the City Ministry,” and the childcare is called “God’s Blessings Christian Childcare”. I think the kids are all inside right now. Not sure of the church’s denomination. “Taking the City Ministry” sounds pretty aggressive but I think they mean it more spiritually.

There’s a flag over there …  might be the South Carolina state flag. It’s all ripped and stuck in some trees, so it’s kinda hard to tell. Maybe the apartment community has their own government and it’s their flag.  

Hitting a downhill part now and going past a shady area and becoming a little less self-conscious about talking to myself while running. Every now and then somebody from work who lives around here will say they saw me running, and I’ll say “oh.”  

OK, coming up now past that half-built Village at India Hook — “single-level villas, no maintenance, clubhouse/fitness center, two car garages,” says the sign. They look like nice places. I think they still try to sell them on the weekends. They’ll put signs up like “move in today” or “agent on duty” but I don’t think they’re trying that hard.  

So this will count as my exercise for the day. I remember back in junior high the most they’d make us run would be 600 yards which, when I think about the marathons and 10Ks I’ve run since, seems like nothing now. But at that time they called it a “walk/run” because they knew we couldn’t run the whole 600 yards and in fact I could not, except one time I got tired of coming in last and sprinted the first 100 yards and was out in the lead and everybody said “hey, look at fat Davis go!” and then of course I ran out of gas and finished last.  

Somebody just waved at me from a passing vehicle. Doesn’t necessarily mean they know me, it just means that I’m in the South. Running  past a patch of woods. Every now and then I’ll see deer coming out of here. They’re gradually putting up more and more homes in this area so the deer either have to go somewhere else or figure out if they want to rent or buy.  

Going past Heathwood and Heathwood Forest. Looks like the same neighborhood to me. I’ve run back there on occasion and I think there was a woodsy part so I guess that was the forest. Should be “The Forest at Heathwood” though, shouldn’t it?  

Almost to the place where I normally stop. Still not much traffic out … it’s basically the middle of the afternoon and most decent people are working. I guess I’m indecent, as my tightly clinging sweaty T-shirt will testify. They’ve got some election signs out at some of the houses. These people seem to want Tailor for Judge. Yeah, it says “Carolyn Tailor for Judge” … I thought maybe it was somebody named Judge who was running to be elected Tailor.  

Going to have to cross back over the road now and watch for traffic. Here comes a car but I don’t think he’s going to hit me because of the hassle of accident and insurance reports.  

Alright, well, coming back to my neighborhood. Just beyond where I’m turning is the Westminster Church — there goes a motorcycle, by the way — and there’s a bus from the Christian school that’s associated with the church.  

Back in the neighborhood now, not so many cars. Do have some blind corners I have to watch for in this area and no sidewalk, so some care is required here.

Think I’m going to knock off now because I’m getting back in the area where the neighbors may wonder about me. These are people that are more likely to know where I live and leave notes in my mailbox telling me to stop talking to myself while I’m running, so I’ll be signing off.

Fake Sports: Yankees directed to third straight win

NEW YORK — The New York Yankees completed a three-game sweep of the rival Tampa Bay Rays yesterday, encouraged on to a 3-2 victory by a fan near the left-field foul line who held up a small placard urging “GO YANKEES”.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” commented Yankee manager Joe Girardi after the dramatic come-from-behind win. “We sometimes get bogged down in the details of how to play a baseball game, and forget that the main idea is to move forward, to progress, to emerge victorious, to — as that fan so eloquently put it — to ‘go’.”

The Yankees had trailed the Rays by one run going into the bottom of the ninth, but rallied on a solo home run by Alex Rodriguez, a double by Derek Jeter, and an RBI single by Robinson Cano.

“That sign not only inspired me to find the strength to drive the ball deep to right. It reminded me that I should ‘go’ and run around the bases, rather than stop and chat with the second baseman,” Rodriguez told reporters after the game. “I know there is a proper time for base-runners to stop, and I think it’s shortly after they cross home plate. It just helped me to get that confirmation from the crowd.”

The fan, identified as Andy Scott of suburban Long Island, said he had become concerned about the Yankees’ recent four-game losing streak, and decided to hand-letter the encouraging words on the back of an old MapQuest printout he had abandoned in the back seat of his car.

“It may not have been a professional sign, like some other people were holding, but it did speak from the heart,” Scott said. “I’m just glad they didn’t notice I had to squeeze in the second ‘E’ of ‘YANKEES’ after initially misspelling it.”

“No, I didn’t notice that at all,” said Jeter, whose double paved the way for Cano’s game-winning line drive. “I guess I was focused more on the ‘GO’ part anyway. I knew the second word began with a ‘Y’ and I just assumed it said ‘YANKEES’, though I supposed it could’ve said ‘YOUSIF’ or ‘YEUNGLING’ from where I was standing. It was the context that made me think it was probably addressed toward our team.”

Cano said he also appreciated both the general encouragement of the message, as well as the specificity of the directions.

“When I hit one in the gap and can tell it’s in there for extra bases, I sometimes get caught up in the moment as I’m streaking toward first base, and forget whether I’m supposed to turn left or right at that point,” Cano said. “If more fans would hold up signs reminding us of the importance of fundamentals — be it ‘TURN LEFT’ or ‘KEEP YOUR EYE ON THE BALL’ or even ‘JUMP UP WHEN A BALL IS HIT OVER YOUR HEAD’ — I think it would keep us grounded in reality.”

Many of the other Yankees agreed that plain-spoken, concise advice from fans was helpful.

“I wish I could get guidance on some of my financial investments,” noted designated hitter Mark Teixeira. “This being New York, you know there have to be some Wall Street types in the crowd. I’m constantly on the lookout for the banner that says ‘BONDS ARE SAFER IN THIS ENVIRONMENT’ or the guy who’s painted something like ‘STOCKS ROCK’ on his bare chest.”

“I’d appreciate some child-rearing counsel myself, since I have two young children,” said pitcher Andy Pettite. “We’re on the road a lot, and frankly it’s easy to forget whether to put the diapers on the bottoms or on the heads. I think of myself as a father who’s closely involved with his children, and little reminders like that from the crowd would be so thoughtful.”

“The only down side I’d note about fan involvement involves some of their clothing choices,” said center-fielder Curtis Granderson. “If I see a guy in Section C, Row 8 wearing a ‘Yankees’ jersey, I sometimes think I’m supposed to throw the ball to him after I make a catch. Maybe if they could hand-write the word ‘SUPPORTER’ or ‘FAN’ underneath, it’d be a little more clear to me that he’s not actually an active member of our roster.”

“I can see where there might be some confusion on an issue like that,” manager Girardi confirmed. “On balance, though, it’s that supportive attitude from the home crowd that frequently gives us such an advantage.”

First-baseman Lance Berkman began to chime in on the subject, but stopped in mid-sentence when he noticed the sign above the locker room door that said ‘EXIT’.

“Guys, guys, look at that,” Berkman called out to his teammates.

At that point, the entire Yankees squad headed for the players’ parking lot, even though many of them had not yet dressed after their post-game showers.

Revisited: Clearing out the photo files

I was going to follow up a recent post about mortuaries with some leftover information on the subject of cremation. On further reflection, however, it seemed like that wouldn’t be such a great topic for a Saturday.

I still wanted to share this one photo that I found. It shows the crematorium worker whose job it is to operate the furnace. Notice how concerned he is about the quality of his work.

“Everything going okay in there?”

 

Another picture I found while researching corpse disposal methods used by Native American tribes of the far north. This shows the lamalor armor made from hardened leather, wood and bones worn in battle by Siberians and Eskimos. It looks more to me like an ancient attempt at flight, what with the wing structures on the back. See what you think.

Protection at the expense of mobility

 

Finally, here’s a picture of an escaped murderer, included for no apparent reason.

If this guy wants to clean your gutters, say “no”

Revisited: He’s Tom. He’s a cat.

This is my cat. His name is Tom. We already had two cats when we got him, so we didn’t put a lot of creative energy into naming him.

He lived outdoors for at least a year before we adopted him, and has the attitude and scars to prove it (there’s one — a scar, not an attitude — you might be able to see on his nose in the picture below). He’s fat and happy now that’s he’s living the indoor life. His hobbies include getting really mad at birds, and biting any human that attempts to pet him.

In this photo, he’s holding down one of his favorite positions on the kitchen window sill that looks out into our front yard. It’s a defensive posture from which we have trouble getting him down. He hunkers behind a ceramic cat mobile that he can tangle himself into should one of us stop by and feel the need to pick him up for some much-hated hugging.

They say that, unlike dogs, cats can’t show emotions via facial expressions. After viewing the contempt in his face that’s shown in this picture, I challenge anyone to agree with that contention.

He’s Tom. He’s such a kitty.

Tom says: “Just try picking me up from here. Just try.”

The NFL: A look back at Week One, and forward to Week Two

This is your Fearless Football Forecaster here, reporting in on my perfect prognostication of games in week one of the NFL season.

I was a flawless 16-and-0, predicting the winner of every single contest played in the opening weekend of pro football. My secret? It’s a careful analysis of offensive strengths pitted against defensive weaknesses, with an “X Factor” in which I multiply the quarterback rating of each starter times the number of suspected felons on the special teams and divide that by the number of traumatic brain injuries suffered during the preseason.

Then I take that number, I write it on a piece of paper and I flush it down the toilet. Because all I really need to consider is the nickname of each team, and how that character would perform against its opponent in a real-world fight. So the sharks always beat the tuna, the leopards always defeat the wildebeests, and any dogs beat any cats, any cats beat any birds, and any birds beat any worms or insects (which explains why there’s no such thing as the San Antonio Silverfish or the Minneapolis Mealworms, except maybe in the Arena Football League).

It’s a simple system but you have to know how to use it. And, boy, did I use it this week!

New Orleans 14, Minnesota 9
Both saints and vikings are long dead, so you’d think this was a close call. While the final score was indeed tight, you have to consider that, on average, Nordic seafarers of the tenth century have been dead longer than most saints, and that increased decomposition time is sure to play havoc on endurance, especially in the fourth quarter. And if they were both alive, the Saints have good on their side, while the Vikings had mostly herring going for them.

Miami 15, Buffalo 10
Dolphins are generally known for their friendly nature, their comical laugh, and their unstoppable desire to rub their fishy privates against you during a Dolphin Encounter. But they can turn violent, especially when confronted by a squad made up of Bills: Bill Cosby, Bill Clinton, Bill Gates, Billy Bob Thornton and the Rev. Billy Graham. The 91-year-old Graham, who opens the season at quarterback for the Bills, at least provided inspiration to Brett Favre that he’s got another good 50 years in him. But the wheelchair-bound evangelist’s 12-for-26 passing performance with two picks and only one TD make you wonder how long he has left.

New York 31, Carolina 18
The panther is one of the animal kingdom’s most dangerous predators and, were the team from Charlotte made up of giant panthers, they would’ve easily overcome the giant men. However, the New Yorkers used their superior size to literally step all over the cats, opening their new state-of-the-art stadium with a resounding victory.

Green Bay 27, Philadelphia 20
Meat-packing businesses usually offer butchering services as well, which does not bode well for a raptor that, while admittedly fierce and majestic, still provides little match for an abattoir full of burly Wisconsinites. The Eagles did manage to peck the eyes of a few of the Packers, but it wasn’t enough to overcome carnage on an assembly-line scale.

Washington 13, Dallas 7
On paper, you see a matchup between cowboys and Indians, and you’re thinking it’s a no-brainer to pick Dallas. The Redskins, however, are red not only because of their native American heritage, but they’re also boiling mad about preseason controversies which kept them out in the sun too long. And remember that cowboys, despite their portrayal in popular media, spent most of their time herding cattle and strumming guitars around a campfire, not battling indigenous peoples with six-shooters.

Now, a look forward at next week’s schedule.

Pittsburgh vs. Tennessee
Steelers are merely factory workers employed in an industry that’s shipping most of its jobs overseas. I’m not sure what Titans are, though — unless I miskeyed their name into Google — they appear to be an outfit of sixteenth-century Italian painters. I’m thinking the Titians’ loose brushwork and subtlety of polychromatic modulations without precedent in the history of Western art will be too much for a group of working class stiffs from the Rust Belt.

Kansas City vs. Cleveland
This inter-ethnic match-up could be the week’s most entertaining game. The Chiefs were Plains warriors who held white intruders at bay for nearly a century before succumbing to disease and forced relocation. The Browns are a melting pot of Hispanics, South Asians and Pacific Islanders who don’t have a strong tradition in football, but whose expertise in landscaping, business process outsourcing and tossing coconuts back and forth will likely give them the edge.

Seattle vs. Denver
Only in the NFL might you see a fight between a seahawk and a horse. Normally, these two creatures leave each other alone, considering one flies high above the ocean while the other is largely confined to rodeo stadiums. I predict a low-scoring affair, as it’s entirely possible they might just stare at each other for the entire contest. In the end, though, I think the bronco will be able to kick just high enough to knock the hawk out of the air, bringing new Seattle coach Pete Carrell his first loss of the season.

St. Louis vs. Oakland
Were this contest to take place in St. Louis, I’d give the rams the edge, even though their massive horns would do little damage to men who have peglegs. Since the game will take place in the Raiders’ arena, I anticipate an entire flock of sheep walking the plank.

Arizona vs. Atlanta
Both the cardinal and the falcon are birds, so this could be a close one. When they’re not hopping around among your azaleas, it’s important to remember that cardinals also serve in a prominent position within the Catholic Church, where their power is second only to that of the pope. I pick the Cardinals over the Falcons in this week’s Upset Special.

Trying to explain cats in my car

It was an odd sequence of events that began with a tickle on my neck and ended with me trying to explain to a police officer why I was sitting in my car, under a tree, next to the lake, with a vehicle full of imprisoned cats.  

About a week ago, I was lounging on the couch, watching some skuzzy reality show on TV, when I thought I detected something itching around my collar. Probably just an allergic reaction to the quality of the program, I thought, some mild communicable disease I had picked up from a syphilitic bachelorette. (Disease transmission via television, turns out, is rampant in these days of high-def programming).  

When I went to scratch my neck, I looked down into my lap to discover a large roach, about three inches in length, strolling down my thigh.  

Having been born and raised in the subtropics of Miami, I’m usually not alarmed by unexpected wildlife encounters. Where I grew up, it was not uncommon to find giant bufo toads hopping around the backyard, at least until I ran over them with the lawn mower. We had alligators in drainage ditches, chameleons all over our shrubbery, poisonous snakes working the drive-through at McDonald’s. My mother still proudly tells the story of the time we removed a dying tree from our property, then woke up the next morning to find a window so darkened by the coverage of palmetto bugs that you couldn’t see out.  

So to me, a roach is not a big deal. But to my family, raised in more civilized parts of the country, it was a huge deal. I made an appointment with the exterminator.  

The nice lady at the aptly named Killingsworth Pest Control answered my questions patiently. The treatment would take about an hour, and could be scheduled for Monday. They couldn’t guarantee a completely roach-free lifestyle after they were finished, but we should see a significant decrease in vermin. It was okay for humans to be in the house while the spraying was done, however it would be a good idea to remove any pets.  

“Some people will schedule vet appointments while we’re there,” she said. “Or maybe just take them for a nice ride in the car.”  

In my home, all the pets are cats. Unlike dogs, they are not familiar with the idea of a “nice ride in the car.” You rarely see cats driving down the road, their heads straining out the window to feel the onrushing air in their slobbery jowls. That’s a dog thing. The cat thing is to cower in a puddle of your own vomit while howling at ear-splitting volumes.  

When the appointed afternoon arrived, our plan was in place to evacuate our three cats into three separate cat carriers, and put them in my car. I was to crank up the air conditioning, drive to a shady location and wait with Harriet, Taylor and Tom until we were called with the all-clear signal. Beth would supervise the bug guy and make sure he didn’t spray any pyrethrum on our toothbrushes.  

We maneuvered the cats into their respective cages without too much trouble, though Harriet did put up a respectable resistance. As the more elderly cat of the three — she’s about 13 — I would place her carrier next to me in the front seat. She would ride shotgun and I would calm her as we drove. Tom and Taylor would take up the back seat. I positioned their cages so the open ends were facing away from each other, since imprisoned cats are not known for comforting their comrades.  

I drove toward Winthrop Lake, a tree-covered recreation area about two miles from our home. Marie howled piteously the entire route, while the two backseat cats were a bit more restrained.  

“Don’t worry,” I told them. “We’re not going to the vet. We’re just going for a little ride in the car. You guys don’t get out much anymore and I thought you might enjoy a trip to the park.”  

When my quiet, deliberate speaking tone didn’t seem to work, I turned on the radio. Neal Conan was hosting “Talk of the Nation” on NPR, and that man’s voice could soothe a caffeinated Jack Russell. The meowing started to subside just as we pulled into the park.  

Neal Conan, calming radio voice

I knew that next to motion sickness, my biggest concern in maintaining the cat’s health would be the temperature of the car. It was almost 90 degrees outside, and the full-blast air conditioning of my Civic could provide only so much relief. If I parked under a tree near the cooling breeze that came off the lake, we should be comfortable.  

Once the car had stopped moving, everybody settled down. Outside, I could see a few college students playing Frisbee across the way. A slightly older man was roller-blading on the road that ran around the lake. Young moms were dropping their children off at a nearby rec building for some kind of after-school enrichment. Inside my car, Neal was transitioning out of a discussion of the 2008 banking crisis, which all three cats agreed was a wake-up call to the perils of capitalism run amok. Though they had been very upset about the bailout at the time, they had now calmed down nicely.  

When he returned from the break, Neal introduced his next guest. The man was an ex-pat American who had grown up in Chile, and was on the show to discuss how the current entombment there of 33 miners represented a recurring theme in a Chilean culture that had relied for two centuries on the extraction of minerals for the nation’s economic survival.  

“Children learn from a young age that entrapment is something that can happen,” the man told Neal. “There’s a certain mythology to it in Chile, not unlike how Americans feel about the adventures of the Wild West.”  

Harriet stirred in her cage. Taylor started poking a clawed paw through one of his breathing holes. Tom began turning in tight circles, rocking his carrier back and forth. Clearly, they were not interested in hearing that being confined in a closed space with no escape in sight was an acceptable state of affairs.  

This was about the time that the police car pulled up next to mine. The officer climbed out and approached us. I rolled down my window about halfway, trying to strike a balance between further alarming the cats with noises from the outside, and easing the tension that all law officers feel when they encounter a suspicious vehicle.  

I tried to start off the conversation on a light note.  

“I’m sure you’re probably wondering why I’m just sitting here in the middle of the day with a car full of cats,” I chuckled. “This probably seems a little weird.”  

He peered into the car to see a trio of rocking cages, each with a furry body part poking out the side. I’m sure he wanted to believe they were just cats, not the twitching remains of a dismembered corpse, but he had to be sure.  

Harriet went into full howl mode, and the officer seemed reassured.  

“We got a report of a suspicious vehicle, and I had to check you out,” he said.  

Just then, my cell phone went off. Beth was calling to say the exterminator was finished, and it was safe for me to bring the cats home.  

“That went pretty quickly,” I told her. “Does he feel like he killed them all?”  

I realize now that this was probably not a good question to be asking in front of a policeman. He looked like he was taking it in stride, though I could sense he was thinking of pulling out his tazer and training it on us. I didn’t relish the thought of what would happen if you tazed a cat.  

“We had an exterminator out to the house, and they said we shouldn’t have pets around during the treatment,” I told the officer. “I didn’t know what else to do with our cats, so I figured I’d ride them around in the car for a while. Then I was afraid they’d get carsick so we stopped here.”  

He eyed me cautiously.  

“They’re very nice kitties,” I continued. “They don’t usually make this much racket.”  

“So you’re ready to go back home then?” he asked.  

I answered that I was, and he appeared relieved. He stood up straight and motioned for us to move along.  

I started the car and we had an uneventful ride back home. About halfway back, my phone went off again. It was Beth, suggesting that I might want to write a blog post about this experience. She’d meet me in the driveway to take a picture to go with the article, and here it is…  

An imprisoned Harriet, asking "Are we there yet?"

 Yes, Harriet, we are there.

An editorial: Is it really a seven-layer burrito?

The seven-layer burrito, as created and sold by Taco Bell, is a wondrous thing.

Available at most locations of the popular fast-food outlet for as little as $1.49, it’s practically a meal in itself. A soft flour tortilla wraps around rice, beans, a blend of three cheeses, lettuce, tomatoes, sour cream and guacamole, like a protective mother wraps her arms around her children. Spicy scamps that they are, the ingredients try to ooze free as you eat the burrito. But they are doomed instead to satisfy even the heartiest hunger, except maybe for that glob that landed on your shirt.

There is little that one can editorialize against in this marvel of Mexican cuisine. Oh, sure, the food police will tell you that it’s got too much fat or sodium or cholesterol or insect parts-per-million. What they neglect to note, however, is that by ordering it “fresco-style” — with salsa serving as an able replacement for the cheddar, pepper jack and mozzarella cheese sauce — you can cut the fat content by 25%. Also, it has 12 grams of dietary fiber, which sounds like a lot of grams.

Where the editorial board here at DavisW’s blog has a bit of a quibble is with the marketing of the product as “seven layers.” The dictionary defines a layer as “a single thickness of something that lies over or under something or between other similar thicknesses.” Once compressed into its cylindrical casing, the true meaning of “layer” is lost. What arrives through the window of your car at the drive-through is more of a mish-mash of ingredients, randomly swirled about by the whims of the burrito’s creator, and by how it is jostled during its journey from the warming tray to your open maw.

Also, the use of the number “seven” to describe the quantity of components is a little misleading. If you count the three different cheeses as separate entities, what you’re actually getting is a ten-layer burrito. One could even make the argument that the tortilla itself should count as a layer, bringing the constituent total to eleven. Why, then, is it not named after a larger and presumably more desirable number?

This probably has to do with the storied history of the meal itself. As far back as the Aztecs, the number seven held mystical properties. When they sacrificed virgins to their primitive gods, all the girls had to be at least seven years old (something to do with what we now know as child labor laws). The ancients measured their year as consisting of seven months of 52 days each. When they slew their enemies in war, they ate the defeated heads as the original seven-layer burrito, oddly counting the nostrils of the nose as two separate ingredients while both the eyes and the ears counted as one item each. The tongue was the original “al fresco” option — warriors could choose to omit it if they were watching their weight.

What concerns those of us who reside in the 21st century is how to order the seven-layer burrito when we want to omit an item or two. Should we ask for a seven-layer burrito without the cheese and sour cream, even though such an omission makes it a less-than-seven-layer burrito? Would it be better to characterize this order as a five-layer burrito, or would that be too confusing for the marginally educated counter staff? Why not start instead from the bottom up, requesting a “zero-layer burrito” with rice, beans, lettuce, tomatoes and guacamole? Or might this prompt them to leave out the tortilla entirely, instead handing you a ball of soggy starches and vegetables unrestrained by an outer casing?

We call on Taco Bell to clarify their position on this issue. Consider an a la carte menu option. Allow us to enter the food preparation area and construct the mass ourselves. Remove any number from the name of the product, and call it simply the “layered burrito.”

Just don’t make us do math — especially subtraction — when all we’re interested in is satisfying a hunger as primal and demanding as those Mesoamerican civilizations of centuries past.

Footwear is now required

Trick or treat
Smell my feet
Give me something good to eat

I’m reminded of this ungracious taunt from my childhood as I think about Halloween being right around the corner, and as I look down at the appendages attached to the end of my legs. I’m not asking you to smell them (for now, at least, that’s still impossible on the Internet) but I do ask you to take a look …

You may be able to tell that I’m wearing three overlapping pairs of slippers. This is not an attempt to recreate the popular layered look. Instead, I’m simply trying to keep my tootsies warm.

I guess it’s a matter of advancing age and retreating circulation that I find it harder and harder to keep my feet toasty. We maintain a vigorously air-conditioned home, which I’ve always found to be otherwise comfortable. Having spent the first half of my childhood in Miami without the benefit of AC, I figured my metabolism had been permanently reset and that thermostatic extremes are now required. The rest of my body likes this. My feet, not so much.

For the last half-century or so I went barefoot every chance I got. Growing up in south Florida, we played stickball in the street without shoes. We explored nearby construction sites without shoes. I tried to go to church without shoes once (you’d think Christianity would be okay with this, considering all the foot-washing references in the Bible) but, in the Lutheran denomination anyway, this was frowned upon.

You also had to wear shoes to go to school, at least until I went off to college, where there was no such requirement in the 1970s. While attending Florida State, I also played tennis barefoot (recreational, not varsity), went to work at the student newspaper barefoot, lived virtually my entire life barefoot. I developed immense calluses that rivaled the protective qualities of some of the world’s best sandals. I was like Huck Finn, except a little less tow-headed. Life was carefree and wonderful.

Now, of course, I have to wear shoes more often than not, at least if I hope to earn a living outside the home. Like the Lutheran church, the financial document analysis business frowns on the unshod foot. In my particular office, we don’t have any direct contact with clients that would require the decorum that shoes provide. Still, right there in the Employee Handbook, on page 37, between the requirements to wear pants and to occasionally cut your hair, it is clearly stated:

Associates must wear appropriate footwear at all times. Steel-toed shoes are required in pressrooms and warehouses. Elsewhere, it is to be decided by the local management team what kinds of footwear are and are not proper.

I don’t know how often the managers at my facility hold meetings amongst themselves to discuss the kinds of shoes that associates are wearing, but it can’t be that often. Throughout the summer that’s just now ending, most women wore flip-flops, or a slightly upscale variation thereof. The men generally went with athletic shoes, though a few (especially on the night shift) would occasionally don foot thongs. Loafers and wingtips were extremely rare.

I went with a pair of nice running shoes on most days, but as soon as I got home, I’d abandon these at the foot of my bed, a good idea considering I’d usually be taking a brief nap after having gone to work at 5 a.m. Even after I woke up and began puttering about the house, I’d typically leave the shoes and socks aside.

Now, though, I’m starting to wear these slippers. Maybe I’ve got that Peripheral Artery Disease so common in TV commercials. Maybe I’m feeling some early symptoms of diabetes. But I’m not about to show up at the doctor’s office with the complaint that I have to wear foot coverings. I’m sure that’s not covered by insurance, even though it really really hurts when your feet get cold and you can’t get them to warm up.

So I guess I’m fated to finally act and dress like a grown-up. As the blood flow retreats more and more from my extremities, I’ll do whatever it takes to stay comfortable. I guess a hat and gloves are next. Not long after that, I imagine I’ll start rocking a shawl, and then soon thereafter, they’ll dress me in a full business suit for my viewing at the funeral home.

But most caskets I’ve seen have a two-piece lid, and maybe I can be barefoot under the bottom half. I don’t think they have a “no shoes/no service” policy in Heaven — in fact, most artistic renditions of God show the Almighty sans footwear or, at most, wearing flip-flops — though I might need to be careful where I step if I end up in Hell. At least my feet will be warm.

Revisited: Guilty pleasures from my iPod playlist

It sure was great seeing Paul McCartney perform on the David Letterman show recently. It brought back lots of great memories of some great songs from my youth. It was an inspired touch to have him performing on top of the building marquee, recalling the Beatles’ final public performance on a London rooftop 40 years ago. He looked great for a guy in his sixties; a little jowly maybe, but hardly deserving of the steel girders propping up the marquee beneath him.

As a baby boomer, the soundtrack of my youth included a stunning variety of the most innovative music ever produced. Much of what we still recall today justly deserves the designation of “classic.” However, there are quite a few compositions that would be better off lost.

Some of these songs just had unfortunate titles. There was a Journey hit of the seventies, a soaring melody sung by Steve Perry, one of the best power ballads of the time until it came to the chorus of “So now I come to you, with broken arms.” There was the Boston classic “Four-Letter Feeling,” truly great guitar rock unnecessarily spoiled by the suggestive title. Even the Beatles themselves, widely acknowledged for three generations now as the greatest pop group of all time, stumbled with the unfortunately titled “Hey Jew.”

Other songs may have seemed like a good idea in an earlier, less-sophisticated time, yet just don’t fit the politically correct sensibilities of today. Take “Young Girl,” a number-two smash from 1968 by Gary Puckett and the Union Gap:

Young girl get out of my mind
My love for you is way out of line
You better run girl
You’re much too young girl
With all the charms of a woman
You’re just a baby in disguise
And though you know that it’s wrong to be alone with me
That come-on look is in your eyes.

It might be easy to dismiss a little-known band trafficking in pedophilia like the Union Gap, but even some of the greats had moments of questionable judgment. John Lennon wrote lyrics to “Run for Your Life” that included the line “I’d rather see you dead, little girl, than to see you with another man.” Neil Young penned “A Man Needs a Maid,” reacting to a fictional breakup with the reassuring thought that he could always pay “someone to keep my house clean, fix my meals, and go away.”

There is a difference, I would contend, between popular songs about misogyny and sex crimes with minors, and the songs that are bad for more innocent reasons. These are the so-called “guilty pleasures” that populate many of our iPod playlists, mine included. When you’re looking for a certain beat, a catchy interlude or a fond but distant memory to inspire your workout at the gym, quality of composition is not a prerequisite.

So here I come clean with some of the favorites from my music player, along with an attempt to justify my choices. If no justification is possible, I’ll admit that too.

 “I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do” by Abba. Answering the musical question “Do you realize how many people loathe your music? Do ya? Hunh? Do ya? Do ya?”

“The Stroke” by Billy Squier. A rhythmic masterpiece (or master-something) containing the unforgettable lyric “stroke me, stroke me, do it, stroke me, stroke me.”

“The Good Ship Lifestyle” by Chumbawumba. Inexcusable.

“Life in a Northern Town” by the Dream Academy. If the makers of Ambien set up a charter school in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, this might be their senior class project.

“1812 Overture” by Tchaikovsky. Originally composed for a cereal commercial in the 1960s (“this is the cereal that’s shot from guns,” for those of you under 50), the piece was later adapted and expanded for use at the conclusion of the annual Boston Pops Fourth of July concert. I’m pretty sure it’s the only song on my playlist that features a solo for cannons, and makes me wish Abba had thought to write more music for medium-range artillery.

“All We Like Sheep” from Handel’s Messiah. A celebration of our relationship with the Lord, or, a discussion of the many advantages of domesticated herd animals (wool, mutton, milk, nursery rhymes, etc.). In either case, an inspiring example of Handel’s genius, regardless of whether you’re a Christian or an animist.

“Wind It Up” by Gwen Stefani. What do you get if you combine the yodeling song from “Sound of Music” with a dance-club beat, then throw in the occasional voice of a black guy noting that “she crazy”? My sad, sad attempt to enjoy the latest sounds in pop.

“Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves. A breezy summer hit that captured the spirit of warm-weather efforts at “tryin’ to feel good,” until later connections to a certain killer hurricane with 25-foot storm surges dampened Katrina’s career.

“Beautiful Stranger” by Madonna. Indefensible.

“Word Up” by Melanie G. Former Spice Girl tries to go urban but instead ends up in the central business district.

“Tubular Bells” by Mike Oldfield. Hypnotically repetitive, this piece is best known as the theme from the movie “The Exorcist.” The only lyrics are spoken introductions of the musical instruments – bagpipe guitar, glockenspiel, mandolin, fuzz guitar, Farfisa organ – capped off with the triumphal announcement of “tubular bells!”, apparently a kind of chime.

“Kicks” by Paul Revere and the Raiders. An early anti-drug anthem that would’ve been a lot more effective had it not been sung a band that sported tri-corner hats.

“Grand Hotel” by Procol Harum. Most regrettable.

“Livin’ La Vida Loca” by Ricky Martin, “YMCA” by the Village People and “Relax” by Frankie Goes to Hollywood. There’s just something about the heresy of listening to gay anthems like these while watching Fox News on the Y’s treadmill that gives you a tremendous energy boost.

“El Condor Pasa” by Simon and Garfunkel. This ethereal but little-known piece, featuring ghostly Andean flutes, is either about the endangered scavenging vultures of South America, or Paul Simon’s disappointment at losing a bidding war on a condo in Manhattan.

“Something in the Air” by Thunderclap Newman and “Spirit in the Sky” by Norman Greenbaum. I always thought of these songs as being a paired set, but didn’t realize why until I typed them here and considered the similarities in the titles. They’re both incredibly pretentious.

“Chariots of Fire” by Vangelis. A must for any treadmill runner who looks as bad in shorts as I do.

“Clones (We’re All)” by Alice Cooper. A wonderfully clever song from late in his career, except for The Title (Being Too Clever With).

“How to Kill” by Art of Noise. Inexplicable.

“Walk Like an Egyptian” by the Bangles and “Venus” by Bananarama. These could easily be the same song – “Walk Like a Venutian.”

“How Can I Keep From Singing?” by Enya. One might suggest this now-aging new-age ingénue consider stuffing a large, wet sock in it.

“Flying Dutchman” by Richard Wagner. Not sure you can characterize Hitler’s favorite composer as a “guilty pleasure.” This is also the tune used in the Looney Tunes classic wherein Elmer Fudd, another of history’s homicidal maniacs, sang “kill the wabbit.”

“Circle of Life” by Elton John. I forget now where the circle started for Elton but I know it ended up on a tour with Billy Joel performing before half-filled arenas.

Revisited: Working with babies

Everybody stop what you’re doing! There’s a baby in the office!

I’m not talking about that maturity-challenged assistant manager who seems to be eternally stuck in pre-K. I’m talking about the straight-up, hard-core, full-bore baby, the kind who was physically borne into the world sometime within the last year. The kind of newborn who is so adorable that everybody in the workplace has to stop what they’re doing — regardless of the urgency — and come admire the fact that before humans can be big, they have to be little.

You say you’re in charge of directing jumbo jets to land at a major international airport? Surely you can break away from the radar screen for a minute; he’s so cute in his little sailor outfit. You’re a 911 emergency operator with a suicide threat on the phone? Tell the distressed caller to stop by central dispatch as soon as possible to get a look at this charmer. In the midst of robbing a bank teller at gunpoint? You should be ashamed of yourself — you might startle the baby.

In most cases, these infants didn’t just wander in off the street of their own volition. Typically, they had to be carried into the office, usually by a parent who works with you, or by their spouse (unless it’s one of them fancy walkin’ babies). The new parent has been monopolizing the breakroom conversation about his or her ability to procreate since this Max or Emma or whatever you call ‘em was merely a splotch of cells on the sonogram. Now they feel compelled to offer physical proof that their time off from work was spent bearing live young. Maybe it’s some kind of human resources requirement.

Now I don’t intend to come off as a curmudgeon who casually trashes toddlers. I’m actually a big fan of babies. As I’ve written in this blog before, I believe that children are our future and that, by transitive property, babies are our children’s future. We need to take care that they’re raised up properly, with all the values critical to a civilized society, and with as few missing limbs as possible. Part of the socialization process has to involve meeting with strangers and projecting a variety of protein spills at them. It’s how you interact with your boss, and it’s how your child will have to interact with his.

When we have a newborn stopping by my workplace, I’m always eager to join in the scene, smiling and cooing with the best of them. I’d even be glad to hold the baby for a while, if I could wrestle him or her away from the women who are beside themselves with excitement. It’s been too long since I got to cradle my young son in my arms, and I honestly miss the wiggling heft of the young child. It would also represent the rare chance to be less creepy than my fellow employees if I were not among those asking “is it okay if I steal him?”

I think I remember the basics of elementary tot handling. If they’re really young, you keep them horizontal, with the head in the crook of one elbow, the feet in the crook of the other, and the mouth as far from your breast as you can. If they’re slightly older – as distinguished by the fact that you can tell what sex they are, or perhaps they’re wearing a watch – they can be held in a more upright position. These are sometimes called “hip babies” in the parlance of my small Southern town, not because they are “cool” or otherwise “with it,” but because you sit them on the outer edge of your pelvis.

I also learned an early lesson about the wisdom of not holding the baby by its head. To this day, I remember the psychological trauma of an incident from my early childhood where I was called on to admire the new member of our neighbor’s family. I resorted to interaction practices I knew best from my own home, which were those I’d had with our dog, Augie. I patted the baby on the head.

Bad move. There’s this thing called the “fontanelle,” and it’s very much different from another feature I knew from 1950s Miami, the “Fontainebleau” resort hotel. The fontanelle is the area on the top of the infant’s head where the skull is not yet completely formed. If you touch it, the plates of bone will shift to the side, lava will erupt and brain damage will ensue. At least, that’s what I was led to believe. I was worried for days that I had severely disturbed the development of this young child and, sure enough, he beat me up a decade later.

Probably one of the best things about babies, aside from their portability, is that they’re not terribly discriminating in their dealings with other people. You could be Mother Teresa or you could be Hitler; it’s all the same to them. (In fact, they might even prefer Hitler, considering how much his moustache resembled a kitty). Still, I try to do what I can to impress them because, more than anything else, I want to be liked.

The whole “goo-goo, ga-ga” gibberish is not really something they relate to, and they’re more likely to think you’re patronizing them than trying for any type of meaningful dialog. Likewise, an adult-style conversation starter like “hot enough for you?” or “how ’bout them Cowboys?” tends to go over their soft little heads. Smiling and waving are good, or at least it seems to make the parent happy. When you’re meeting them in an office setting, though, there’s not a lot more you can do to entertain them. Makeshift amusements like staplers and push-pins are rarely a good idea. The last time we had a visiting baby, I offered her the prospectus supplement I had just finished proofreading which seemed to make her happy, at least until she turned to the “Risk Factors” section. A rolled-up ball of paper, a dangling string or a can of Red Bull (unopened) can also provide pleasant diversions.

Above all else, it’s important to remember that the experience of encountering a crowd of strange, contorted faces in an alien environment can be overwhelming. I’ve gotten used to it after thirty-some years in the workforce, but an infant is still adjusting to even the most basic stimuli. Make your movements slow, your speech patterns sing-song, and don’t expect too much. It’s not really all that different from working with grown-up fellow employees on an everyday basis.

I don’t like Monday

My adopted home state of South Carolina is once again proudly in the news:          

Last Wednesday, a 48-year-old woman from the small town of Clover accidentally shot herself in the mouth while trying to kill a rat.          

No, the pest hadn’t climbed in while she slept, mouth agape. The woman told sheriff’s deputies that she was sitting on her patio with a .22 caliber revolver in her lap, waiting for the rodent to be lured to a piece of cheese she had placed on the ground. When she leaned over to adjust the cheese, the gun accidentally discharged.          

She was rushed to a local hospital, where a doctor found a bullet lodged in her jaw. She was treated for being shot in the face.          

The woman was alone at the time of the shooting, and no charges were filed. There was no report on the condition of the rat.          

+++          

I wonder if anyone has ever made the following mistake:          

Long interested in studying the galaxies but as yet unable to complete the GED that would get him admitted to college, the young student stumbles across the Kenneth Shuler School of Cosmetology. He is surprised to learn that only $300 allows him to become enrolled.          

He shows up for the first day of classes, and his teacher begins with an overview of scissors work. At the next session, he learns about permanents and body waves. It’s not until the third day, when tinting and highlighting are introduced, that he starts to wonder when they’ll start talking about the origin and structure of the universe.          

“You’re looking for a program that studies cosmology,” the teacher sadly informs him. “This is cosmetology.”          

Actual photo from the Shuler Cosmetology school website. Seems a makeover like this would really cheer up someone like Stephen Hawking.

+++          

A new sign has been posted outside the men’s locker room at the local YMCA:          

“Please report any staff members engaged in strange behavior, or other activities that do not reflect our core values of Honesty, Responsibility, Respect and Caring.”          

Is this supposed to reassure members that management is trying to provide us with a safe environment for our workouts? Because I felt oddly un-reassured being asked to join in an effort to stamp out strangeness at the Y.          

Also, I wondered if behavior that is “strange,” but still in keeping with those core values, is okay. The 75-year-old guy who sits naked and splayed on the bench in front of the lockers is, in a way, honest, perhaps to a fault. If the same guy starts exhibiting a “caring” attitude toward me, I guess I would regard that as bizarre.  

With cool weather finally returning, I think I’ll give up the treadmill and start running wildly through the streets again.          

+++          

This is the scene I encountered when going out to pick up my morning paper Saturday:          

The music professor who lives in the condos across the way is not your typical resident of South Carolina. He likes to greet the morning sun each day with an outdoor session of tai chi. Right across from my driveway.       

I know for a fact that this ancient Chinese martial art is a tremendous exercise for both mind and body. My wife spent several years teaching both tai chi and yoga, and I’ve seen first-hand the good it has done for her and her students.       

Still, I find it somewhat unseemly for a neighbor to be half-twisted, half-crouched, and waving his arms about his torso in the middle of a neighborhood street at 9 o’clock in the morning. If I walk down and pick up the newspaper, I imagine he’ll greet me, and then what am I supposed to do? If he stops his routine in mid-Slow Power Heron Step, I’ll feel guilty that I’ve interrupted him. If he continues sweeping his limbs about him as we discuss current events of the subdivision, do I have to join in?       

“I hear that one vacant lot up the road is being cleared for new home construction,” he might say as his right arm curls gracefully above his head. “Let us greet the morning star, for he is our brother.”       

“I saw them doing some trench work there just last week,” I could respond. “How’s it goin’, sun?”       

I refuse, however, to join him in his snail-paced dance.       

+++    

My son and I were scrolling through what we call the “Channel Channel” Saturday night. This is the cable-provided listing of all programs then broadcasting on each network and in each time slot. It’s the service that basically killed TV Guide single-handedly.     

There was little to choose from at 8 p.m., so I paused on the entry for “The Apprentice” and hovered my thumb over the “select” button. I’ve never before watched this much-hyped Donald Trump reality show, yet there was so little else from which to select.     

“What do you think, Daniel?” I asked. “Should I do it? Should I push the button?”     

“I’m not going to be the one to say ‘yes,’” Daniel responded. “You realize you’re about to consider altering the arc of your entire life, don’t you?”     

“It seems like harmless fun,” I said. “Let’s give a shot.”     

And so we sat for the next two hours, watching the premier episode in which eight alpha males and eight alpha females bashed and clashed with each other, while The Donald and His Demon Spawn glowered their disapproval. Gee, I thought, what they’re doing is even worse than my job — this is great!     

So now my DVR is set up to catch the second episode, scheduled for Thursday night. And, for your information, I also plan on watching “Dancing With the Stars” tonight, even if it doesn’t include a performance by my neighbor.     

So there.     

+++     

Domino’s Pizza received generally high marks from those in the advertising industry for the campaign it began several months ago admitting that its product sucked. The chief executive himself was seen promising viewers that Domino’s had heard the complaints and was working hard to regain consumer confidence. They even badgered innocent civilians who had previously refused to eat the pizza. Give it a try, they urged the individual from billboards and sound trucks and street signs around their city. Not bad, most responded when finally confronted with the pie in question.     

They also asked people to send in their own photos to prove how good the pizza looked when it arrived at their doors. One unlucky home diner found his toppings adhered to the lid of the box, and sent in a picture to show it.     

This photo is now included in the latest series of ads from the campaign. “We still have work to do,” says the CEO, a full nine months after promising the pizza maker had already reinvented itself.     

As for me, I’m starting to lose faith that advertisers speak the truth.     

+++  

A friend at work was showing off a new spread he was applying to his graham crackers. It was a product called “Naturally More.” Included on the label was the tagline “What Peanut Butter Should Be.”   

“So, it’s not peanut butter,” I said.   

“Sure, it’s peanut butter,” Adam replied. “That’s what it says.”   

“No, it doesn’t,” I contended. “If you read it carefully, that’s not what it says at all. It might be ‘what peanut butter should be’, but that doesn’t mean it’s peanut butter.”   

We read a little more of the small type from the label.   

“It features a natural recipe that, unlike most peanut butters on the market today, is enhanced with beneficial nutrients.” That doesn’t say it’s peanut butter.   

“While normal peanut butter is almost exclusively monounsaturated fat, Naturally More contains essential fatty acids.” Still not officially peanut butter.   

“The unique formula has a peanut butter base, fortified with flax seed and flax oil.” Close, but a “peanut butter base” does not a “peanut butter” make. And the flax sure doesn’t help.  

Adam offered me a sample, and I tried it. It tasted approximately like peanut butter. Which is what it was.

Fake News: The Queen and The Pope are on their own

LONDON (Sept. 20) — A summit of world leaders so prominent that they are referred to simply as “The This” or “The That” has concluded in London with disappointing results. Political bickering caused what was hoped to be a larger meeting to end up with only two participants — The Queen and The Pope.

“We felt it was the right time to bring together the globe’s biggest icons so they could discuss the staggering number of crises facing the planet, and just hang out with their own kind,” said organizer The Edge, lead guitarist for the politically active rock band U2. “I was sorry we couldn’t get more of these folks involved. The devil is in the details, I guess.”

“Hey,” he added. ”We should’ve invited The Devil!”

Among the most well-known figures to be turned away from what had become known as “The ‘The’ Summit” were U.S. President Barack Obama, and the spiritual leader of Tibetan Buddhists, The Dalai Lama.

Obama, widely referred to as simply “The President,” was challenged for that seat by Al Hammer of Indiana, president and CEO of Terre Haute Electric (THE). Hammer insisted that it was he who was THE President and that, because his “THE” was spelled with all caps, he should be awarded the slot over Obama. In the end, organizers couldn’t decide which man had the more legitimate claim, so both were turned away.

The Dalai Lama was refused admission because two names followed his “The” instead of just one.

“If they use a modifying adjective as part of their name, they’re simply not esteemed enough,” said another organizing official, Robert Kirk. “If he were known as just ’The Lama’, then we might’ve seated him, although we’d then have the issue of whether he was widely respected figure of peace and spirituality, or perhaps a hooved South American pack animal prized for its soft and lanolin-free coat.”

Others who had wanted to attend but were turned away included actor Duane “The Rock” Johnson, hip-hop artists The-Dream and The Game, TV reality star The Situation, and Vegas funnyman The Unknown Comic.

“Each of these men made a good case for why they should be able to attend but, in the end, each faced a simple technicality that kept them out,” Kirk said. “The Rock has moved away from his wrestling name as he attempts to make a career in the movies. The-Dream uses a hyphen, which we just can’t have. The Game and The Situation almost qualified, but their stature on the world stage wasn’t quite high enough. As for The Unknown Comic, I don’t think any explanation is required.”

Several other applicants attempted to make the case that, although their name didn’t start with “The”, their use of a similar determiner article should allow them to attend, at least in an advisory capacity. Among these were A. O. Scott, film critic for The New York Times, and A. Philip Randolph III, grandson of the mid-20th century civil rights leader.

“First of all, to Mr. Scott, I would say his name would have to be ‘An O. Scott’ to be grammatically correct,” said Kirk. “And for Mr. Randolph, with the ‘Philip’ and the ‘III’, it was just way too much.”

Legendary Texas oilman T. Boone Pickens tried to claim that the “T.” in his first initial stood for “The”, but a quick check at Wikipedia revealed it stood for “Thomas.”

Other pretenders who attempted to persuade the selection committee to allow their admission were film director M. Night Shyamalan, architect I. M. Pei, and R&B musical artist R. Kelly.

“‘M’ is not ‘Am’, and even if it were, as the first person singular present of ‘be’, it’s more a verb than an article,” Kirk said. “‘I’ is a first person singular pronoun and ‘R’ or ‘are’ is a third person plural present. If these guys wanted to end up as major players in global geopolitics, they should’ve paid a little more attention in seventh-grade English class.”

A brief look at the new TV season

The new TV season is finally here! Everybody is so excited! You can tell by the exclamation points!

The critics are still out on how good, or how excruciatingly awful, the new and returning shows are. The best minds in Hollywood have been working hard for months creating what we all hope is compelling viewing.

But these aren’t the entertainment industry writing jobs I’d like to have. What I’d want to be is the guy responsible for the eight-word-or-less summaries that appear in the online listings that cable and satellite providers offer. In previous eons, we might’ve referred to this short literary form as a Japanese haiku, restricted to 17 syllables. These days, it’s probably more comparable to a tweet, only shorter.

Containing the bounty that is contemporary commercial broadcasting is no easy feat. Even the titles sometimes defy space parameters. Our local cable company posted the name of one popular sitcom as “The New Adventures of Old Christ…” for several weeks before evangelicals complained that there is no “Old Christ,” only the One, True Living Lord, Jesus Christ, and he’s not featured in a show starring Julia Louis-Dreyfus, even as a walk-on.

Since I’m sure I’ll never get one of these precious jobs, I guess I’ll just have to play around on my own. What follows is my attempt to summarize possible plot lines for many of the programs debuting this week on network television.

Dancing With the Stars — Bristol Palin incinerated while touching partner Alpha Centauri

How I Met Your Mother — She was a “he” back then

Rules of Engagement — Rule One: Turn off the television

Two and a Half Men — Who cares about them? Watch for the hotties.

Mike & Molly — M&M meet an old friend; he slays them

Hawaii Five-O — Updated police classic still has hulas, fat guys

90210 — I thought this was cancelled long ago

House — House diagnoses a surprisingly common malady: shark-jumping

Chuck — Cheap meat cuts vie for cash and prizes

Gossip Girl — You won’t believe what she just said

Lone Star — They could afford only one recognizable actor

The Event — What will you believe? This show will fail.

Chase — Catch it!

No Ordinary Family — In fact, no family at all — just horses

Detroit 1-8-7 — Incredibly, the Lions play to seven ties

NCIS — No Cops In Sight, just good-looking investigators

NCIS: Los Angeles — Same as above, but really good-looking investigators

The Good Wife — Going against type, she eats a live kitten

One Tree Hill — There’s this tree, and it’s on this hill

Life Unexpected — No telling what will happen this week

Glee — Homo High qualifies for the regionals

Raising Hope — “Hope” is a person — clever, huh?

Running Wilde — Aesthete icon Oscar Wilde vows to finish marathon

Parenthood — Humans bear live young, and the fun ensues

The Middle — Investigating what makes a great sandwich

Better With You — Best of all, you go to Istanbul

Modern Family — The attractive Latina bends over several times

Cougar Town — Lions, leopards move in next door

The Whole Truth — Can you handle it? This show sucks hard

Survivor — Sweaty, hungry people are fortunately far away

Criminal Minds — Preserved brains grow feet, run amok

The Defenders — Let Binder & Binder help settle your claim

America’s Next Top Model — Sweaty, hungry people are getting closer

Hellcats — Don’t mess with these kitties; they’ll scratch ya

Lie to Me — Tell me I’m pretty, so very very pretty

Hell’s Kitchen — Just what you want: a pissed-off chef

Undercovers — Sheets, comforters, quilts do battle with evil

Law & Order: SVU — Police procedural is So Very Unwatchable

My Generation — People try to put them down

Grey’s Anatomy — Derek has a thing on his thing; ouch

Private Practice — Urologists, gynecologists solve crimes under cover

Big Bang Theory — Nerds talk pretentiously; somehow that’s considered funny

$#*! My Dad Says — This week, “motherfucker” and “shithead”

The Mentalist — Solving crimes with ESP; we’re so impressed

Vampire Diaries — Bloodthirsty undead blog about their lives, loves

Nikita — Former Soviet premier Khrushchev now a lithe Asian-ette

Bones — The ulna beats tibia senseless with fibula

Fringe — Like X-Files but everyone wears 60s vests

Community — Nobody that glib in real life

30 Rock — Jack tells Lemon to jump off a cliff

The Office — Someone left copier on “darken”; coffee is drunk

Outsourced — Indian accents are naturally hilarious

The Apprentice — Pressure, humiliation and Trump combine for smiles, tears

Secret Millionaire — Just in case Bush tax cuts expire

Body of Proof — A proofreader finds a mistake, is murdered

20/20 — Is it possible Hugh Downs is still alive?

Medium — Just try finding a sweatshirt in your size

Blue Bloods — Tom Selleck? You can’t be serious

Smallville — Superboy runs for mayor on Tea Party ticket

Supernatural — Neither super nor natural, it’s a pedestrian fraud

Human Target — Man, the most dangerous game (next to dodgeball)

Good Guys — Their name is “Good”, so are they; wacky!

Who Do You Think You Are?/School Pride — Probably some kind of Glee rip-off

Dateline NBC — This week’s predator: a 1200-pound grizzly

Outlaw — No summary necessary; no one will watch

Crimetime Saturday — Lucky viewers win a home invasion

48 Hours Mystery — The mystery: Why is this still on?

Cops — Viewers vie with viewees to see who’s skankier

America’s Most Wanted — He’s calling from inside your house!

America’s Funniest Home Videos — Finally, someone gets killed

Extreme Makeover: Home Edition — Just blow it up and start over

Desperate Housewives — Bree gets upset, drinks a white wine spritzer

60 Minutes — Fortunately only 46 if you don’t count commercials

The Amazing Race — Contestants race to Swat Valley; several actually survive

An editorial: Stop the damn dumping

I live in a quiet suburban neighborhood covered with towering hardwoods. Through the subdivision runs a small brook. On one side of the creek is a community of about 60 single-family homes, the kind of classic middle-class setting complete with well-behaved children and well-groomed lawns. On the other side is a development of townhomes called “Clover Creek,” which houses many retired faculty from the nearby college.

These condo dwellers — or “condors,” as we on the other side of the creek call them – appear to be a bunch of uncivilized animals. I’m not sure what these former professors taught during their time at university, but I’m thinking it had something to do with the barbarian sack of Rome or perhaps the situational ethics of illegal dumping.

My house is right across the street from the quaint little bridge that leads into the condos. Ever since we’ve lived here, there will be at least one incident a month where one of the “condors” discards a mound of refuse right across from my driveway. This is what’s out there right now …

I have no idea what this junk is or used to be. Behind the large wooden panel looks to be a charred step-ladder (foreground) and a rattan hamper now shredded beyond recognition.

This is plainly against city code. The first time it happened, we called the proper authorities and they came out to post a “no dumping” sign, which was stolen within days of its installation. (The pole holding the sign remained behind but it didn’t turn out to be much of a deterrent).

Ever since, we’ve watched a cavalcade of junk appear. Old sewing machines. A sled. A box fan. A VCR. Sometimes, I’ll go out there myself and drag the offending item back across their precious little bridge. Other times, it’ll sit for weeks until one day it disappears, carried off presumably by scavengers.

Which is what I thought condors were supposed to be. Aren’t they the big ugly birds that feast on the carcasses of dead animals? Why, then, are these condors instead producing rubbish instead of eating it?

Oh, I find ways to exact my measure of revenge. Since they don’t have roll-out garbage bins, they have to carry their household waste to a large dumpster near their entrance. A sign says it’s for the use of condo residents only, but I’ll sneak over there sometimes and throw in a bag of soiled cat litter, just for fun. Once, I even spilled a little in the road.

This only gives me so much satisfaction, however. Usually, I and my family just sit and steam, powerless to stop the unseen elderly who roam the night, hauling old chairs and bedding behind them.

I call on the residents of Clover Creek to stop this irresponsible behavior immediately. There’s a perfectly serviceable city dump somewhere around here where they can drag their antique asses and their beat-up furniture for proper disposal. Rise above your baser instincts and your bestial ways. Quit putting all this crap in front of my house.

My life as a public speaker

Surveys have consistently shown that the two everyday activities Americans fear most are death and public speaking. So imagine the stress facing the convicted murderer anticipating his imminent execution. Not only must he compose his thoughts into an organized and compelling presentation that will make a satisfactory set of Last Words, but he has to die too.

“I want to say I’m sorry to the victim’s friends and loved ones. I’m sorry to my own family for the heartache I have caused them. This PowerPoint slide shows some of the other things I’m sorry about. But most of all, I’m sorry that I’m about to receive a lethal injection. It’s not going to hurt, is it?”

This being Friday, it looks like I’m about to make it through another week without facing my ultimate demise. However, I did not manage to avoid public speaking.

As part of a project I’m heading up at work, I had to do what the corporate world refers to as a “stand-up”. This is not at all like the stand-up routine you might see a comedian perform on TV. For one thing, it’s not funny. Continuous process improvement rarely is. The main reason it’s called a “stand-up” is that my dozen or so coworkers get to stay seated, while I have to stay on my feet and speak coherently at the same time.

I don’t find this exercise especially easy, but I’m better at it now than I once was. I still remember the terror I faced delivering a simple oral report in elementary school. Probably the worst thing about it was that, since my name begins with a “W”, I was always one of the last in my class to speak. It was like being Yugoslavia after World War II, and watching as the Soviet Union subjugated all of Eastern Europe under the iron fist of communist enslavement, if the Soviets had extended their authoritarian hegemony in alphabetical order.

In junior high school, I foolishly volunteered to take a small part in a play titled “The Plot to Steal November.” The story centered on an effort to change the calendar in a way that would deprive us of our eleventh month, eliminating such American institutions as election day, Thanksgiving and my birthday (Nov. 6, for those of you who like to do their gift-shopping early).

I played a boy selling newspapers, and my part consisted of striding onto the stage, announcing “Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Read about the plot to steal November,” and then crouching next to a group of my fellow actors as they read the story. More out of blind terror than any kind of creative choice, I decided to lean on a table instead. The teacher managing the stage direction had a fit, loudly whispering “squat, Davis, squat” throughout my entire 30-second performance, further damaging my confidence in front of audiences.

When I went off to college, I considered majoring in education until I realized that would eventually involve speaking to a room full of students. I opted instead to pursue a degree in history, and spent most of my time at university in a mode of public listening rather than public speaking. This meant attending Timothy Leary lectures and Stephen Stills concerts, both of which I only vaguely remember. Any oratory I did was limited to late-night, drug-fueled bull sessions with a handful of roommates and friends, where I frequently made the extemporaneous argument that wouldn’t it be cool if you could fly.

After my schooling was complete, I began a 30-year career in financial document analysis. I got good enough at my job that eventually, I was asked to train others. This started out easily enough as a one-on-one affair, but soon blossomed to include more and more students. When my company decided to outsource some of its operations overseas, I was asked if I’d be willing to train what ultimately seemed like half the subcontinent of India, and a similar percentage of the eastern Pacific. I wanted the free travel opportunity, so I figured I better get over any lingering stage fright pretty quickly.

One of my first large-scale sessions was in Manila. I carefully reviewed all my material the night before. I browsed the internet for tips on public speaking. I imagined the audience would all be wearing underwear, though this would ultimately backfire thanks to some particularly attractive Philippine women. I reminded myself they’d probably be more afraid of the graying American than I’d be afraid of them. I took handfuls of klonopin.

I thought the training went really well. After the first few minutes in front of a room full of people, I felt surprisingly at ease. I only needed to occasionally glance at my notes, I made lots of eye contact with various faces around the room, and I successfully avoided wetting myself. I waved my arms around a lot, which they seemed to like.

Arm waving can capture the attention of your audience

The only real stumble came with a lame attempt at humor. I was trying to make the point that it was important for them to know how to spell the names of certain key players in the financial services industry, and how one of our people had once mistakenly read some illegible handwriting as “Goldman Sucks” instead of “Goldman Sachs”. I thought this was pretty funny, but they didn’t get it at all. Of course, this was in 2006, before the worldwide financial crisis made even the most primitive tribesmen of New Guinea aware that Goldman Sachs sucked.

Now, it’s 2010, and I’m quite comfortable doing this much smaller session with my coworkers. I have a one-page script I wrote, but it was rewritten by my boss and, if I follow it too closely, I’m afraid I’ll say the “(adlib)” that she’s sprinkled throughout. I hit all the introductory points, then dive into a quick overview of the “big themes of the project: communication, efficiency and workflow”. I reference the handout they received earlier that morning in their email, which one person has actually read. We’re changing the way we do certain things, and I remind them that change isn’t always easy. That cliché, and the request for any questions anyone might have, are fortunately met with blank stares – just the response I was hoping for.

I wrap up the session with the announcement that I’m supplying a pizza lunch in a blatant attempt to bribe them into compliance, and suddenly everyone is loose and smiling.

“I hope the pizza will grease your creative juices, and that you’ll continue to offer suggestions for improvements,” I say, later regretting the metaphor when I got a look at my particular slice of Domino’s pepperoni.

Once everyone is busy chowing down, I have a chance to evaluate my performance, and I think I did pretty good. A friend who witnessed the presentation, who happens to be a member of the Toastmasters speakers club, said I used a few too many “uh’s” and “ah’s”, though I avoided the “so’s” that are the real sign you don’t know what you’re talking about. And he liked the arm waving.

I’m just glad no one tried to get me to squat.

Revisited: A little tsar humor

Tsar Nicholas II was the last and arguably the worst of a long line of terrible Russian rulers, and that’s saying a lot considering some of his predecessors actually had “The Terrible” as part of their name. Ruling from 1894 until being terminated (by gunfire) in 1918, his official title was “Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias” and “The Passion-Bearer.” When you have “autocrat” as part of your job title, you’ve generally got some pretty good job security. But the communist Bolsheviks had to do some serious down-sizing when they prevailed in the Russian Revolution. Nicholas was given his walking papers, then proceeded to walk to the basement where he and his entire family were executed.

Despite his regal lineage — he was related to just about every royal family in the western world short of King Kong — he attempted to at least sound like an everyman dictator. Feeling unprepared when he ascended the throne at age 26, he asked “what is going to happen to me?” During the first revolt against his rule in 1905, he wrote to his mom “it makes me sick to read the news.” He greeted advice from foreign leaders on how to handle the uprising with the whining complaint that “I am getting telegrams from everywhere.” Even in his final moments of life, shortly before facing a firing squad, a stunned Nicholas is quoted as saying “What? What?”

In 1896, shortly after his coronation, he modestly staged a celebration near Moscow that included food, free beer and souvenirs. He chose the site, called Khodynka Field, because it was believed to be the sacred center of the Russian Empire. He neglected to notice the area had also been used as a military training ground, and thus was filled with trenches. When the beer appeared, a crowd estimated at half a million people rushed forward, trampling those who were admiring their souvenirs instead of paying attention. Almost 1,500 people were killed in the melee with another 20,000 injured. Par-tay!

By 1904, Nicholas had mustered enough confidence in himself and his divine powers to get into a war with Japan almost half a world away. Since the Japanese had wisely insisted on staying put in their corner of Asia, the Russians had to schlep their Baltic fleet through the Suez Canal, across the Indian Ocean and up the entire east coast of Indo-China before they could be annihilated by the Japanese at the Battle of the Tsushima. The only other way to get Russian forces to the front was on the 6,000-mile Trans-Siberian Railway, which was only one-way as well as missing a significant loop around Lake Baikal. Needless to say, the Russians were soundly trounced by the Japanese in one of the first cases of a European state being defeated by a non-Western power.

Understandably a little peeved at his Eastern misadventure, the Russian people started getting restless. A priest named George Gapon organized what seemed like a respectful demonstration of concern in which workers carried crosses, national flags and even portraits of the tsar, singing the imperial anthem “God Save the Tsar.” Nicholas took it all the wrong way and had his soldiers open fire on the demonstrators, killing 92. As bullets riddled their icons and their portraits of Nicholas, the people shrieked “The Tsar will not help us!” Duh. Father Gapon, who had been considered a moderate, turned on Nicholas, calling him “soul-murderer of the Russian empire” and “you hangman.” Not too surprisingly, Gapon’s body was found hanging in an abandoned cottage a few months later.

Pressured into at least an appearance of reform, Nicholas allowed the convocation of a state Duma, an advisory body of representatives that could be mistaken for a legislature if you squinted your eyes hard enough. He didn’t care for the make-up of the first one — they “looked sullen as though they hated us,” the sensitive Nick complained — so he dissolved them and established the Second Duma, which he also dissolved. His relations with his ministers were better, and he even liked one of them well enough to make him a “Knight of the Order of Saint Alexander Nevsky.” In his own hand, Nicholas himself added the words “with diamonds” to the decree, since the concept of “extra cheese” had yet to be invented.

Succession concerns started to weigh on Nicholas around this time. Having no “vice-tsar” at the ready, he had his choice of four daughters (in an era when girls were widely considered to be yucky) and his one hemophiliac son, Alexei. Despite the fact that even the slightest injury could mortally wound someone with a blood-clotting deficiency, his family took Alexei on a hunting trip in 1912 where, wouldn’t you know it, he started bleeding severely. This is when the tsar’s wife Alexandra brought in a specialist by the name of Rasputin, a crazed mystic who was nevertheless lucky enough to be around when the bleeding miraculously stopped. “The Little One will not die,” Rasputin proclaimed in his best spooky voice. “Do not allow the doctors to bother him too much.”

As you might imagine, Nicholas was no great shakes as a leader during World War I against Germany. He had first tried a peace overture to the increasingly aggressive Kaiser Wilhelm, which was actually called the “Willy and Nicky correspondence.” When that failed the tsar mobilized his troops, which the Germans saw as an act of war but turned out to be a great convenience to them, because it gathered the entire 4-million-man army in one place where the Germans could wipe them out. Exhausted and lacking equipment, the Russians had to battle heavy Germany artillery with bayonets, in what a sportscaster would call “not a good match-up.” Back in the capital, Russian citizens showed their hatred of the enemy by looting bakeries owned by people with German names. As general after general failed him on the battlefield, Nicholas decided his personal presence would inspire the troops so he made himself commander and headed off to a position miles from the front where he inspected field hospitals and presided over military luncheons.

No longer able to display his stellar management skills on the homefront, the citizens again started getting thoughts of revolution. Despite huge posters telling people to keep off the streets, vast crowds gathered. (And they were really nice posters too, full color with a very clean design). Some regiments tried killing the protestors but others started firing into the air before eventually deciding to kill their own commanders instead. The Russian Revolution was finally at hand and, in 1917, Nicholas was forced to abdicate in favor of his son, who said “no thanks, dad,” so his brother Mike took over.

Nicholas and the rest of the immediate Romanov family were evacuated to the Ural Mountains, allegedly for their own safety. At first, they lived in considerable comfort in the former governor’s mansion, but conditions soon deteriorated and the family occupied itself with keeping warm. The tsar was even forbidden to wear his epaulettes. The family was transferred to a smaller house, where they were awoken at 2 a.m. on July 17, 1918, and told by soldiers there was something in the basement they wanted to show them. That “something” turned out to be the firing squad that ended the rule of the Romanovs.

Revisited: Time shifting with the NFL

I want to tell everyone how happy I am that NFL football is back on television. And I’ll do that, right after this message.

Ads for erectile dysfunction drugs, beer and not-for-children films abound on pro football telecasts, upsetting parents worried about the harm to younger viewers, the Associated Press reports. Earlier this year, a national media monitoring group urged the NFL to “clean up their act” after reporting that half the commercials featured sex, drugs or alcohol. A league spokesman said “we are comfortable with our policies and those of our network partners,” while the CEO of Pfizer, the maker of Viagra, noted that referencing possible side effects such as long-lasting erections was a hard and fast FCC rule.

Despite the best efforts by advertisers to lure me into watching their commercials by featuring sex, drugs, and alcohol, I’ve reached the point where I can no longer stand to view a live televised game. The way they mess with such a basic concept as the passage of time leaves me so disoriented at the end of a Sunday afternoon that I feel like a serf living in a prehistoric cave, preparing for the next day’s manned flight to Mars.

A football game supposedly lasts for 60 minutes but is slotted in the programming schedule to run for a full three hours, which it usually exceeds by another 15 to 30 minutes, unless there’s overtime, and then it could run into next month. The action itself — the time during which people are running frantically about and crashing into each other — is far less than an hour in length, since the game clock continues to progress between many plays. The clock is frequently stopped for time-outs, during which slow-motion or stop-action replays are often shown. Referees have even been known to put time back on the clock, tooting their whistles in blatant defiance of Newtonian cosmology.

Though the commercials might be entertaining, you’ll quickly tire of their adolescent themes and wish they’d hurry back to the part with the jiggly cheerleaders. A few years back, the quest for advertising dollars reached the point where, after showing a touchdown, there’d be a series of ads, then they’d return for the kickoff, and then head back to another round of commercials. This was more than even my bladder required.

Now, with the advent of the digital video recorder, I too can be a lord and master of time control. I can record the particular game that I want to watch and play it back later while skipping past the ads, the Burger King halftime update (“whoppers are still bad for you”), the news insert, the background profiles, and the statistical breakdown of which players have been suspended for having dog-fights in their pants while drunk-driving with a shotgun. I can cut right to the chase, watch all the highlights and learn the final score in a fraction of the time it would normally take.

There are some complications in watching sports on a tape-delay basis that I’m still learning how to handle. One has to do with the tense of my rooting. Most games that I record will feature one team that I prefer to win and another that I prefer to lose. So the convention is that you verbally exhort your favored team to perform well, even though — as my wife reminds me — it’s unlikely they can hear you, or would be considerate enough to accommodate your request even if they could. Since the action I’m watching has already occurred and the game outcome is decided, it really does no good to express standard cheers such as “go!” These have to be modified to a conditional past tense — “have gone!”, for example. You can’t yell “you suck” at the quarterback who just threw his third interception of the first half (you can probably tell I’m a Carolina Panthers fan); instead it has to be “you have sucked at some point in the recent past.” Even harder is the case where you accidentally heard that your team has already won, and you’re watching a decisive play that was later overturned by the instant-replay official: “You would have stunk!” is difficult to shout with much conviction.

I try to avoid hearing the outcome in advance, as it tends to ruin the suspense. I had a friend once whose wife had already learned that his favorite team was the winner of a key game, so he attempted to explain the concept of time-shifting to her as the reason he didn’t want her to tell him the score. She apparently didn’t get it, since she responded “I won’t tell you anything, but I think you’ll be pleased with the outcome.”

If you’re a really rabid fan, you also have to beware of the subtle cues that the rest of the world may be putting out. If you run out to the grocery store in the interim between the actual game and the one being played in your own private universe, it’s best to avoid eye contact with fellow shoppers, lest their look of  despair over the price of green seedless grapes be misinterpreted. I tried tape-delayed viewing one year when my hometown team was in the Super Bowl, and practically had to wrap my head in gauze to avoid clues about the results. If I’d heard shouting crowds and thunderous explosions in the neighborhood, it would’ve been a certain indication that either Pittsburgh had won, or else laid-off steelworkers were storming the mills to regain by force their rightful place in the U.S. economy.

When you find yourself in the position of being able to master time and space like this, you can not only speed past the boring parts but also prolong the drama of the game’s turning points. One of my favorite techniques is to hit the pause button, then advance the on-screen action one frame at a time. This is most effective when you’re watching the potentially game-winning field goal sail from the foot of the kicker into the direction of the goalposts. The ball seems to be heading wide left! Then one frame later, maybe it’s curving back toward the posts! Then one frame later, it appears President Kennedy has been shot!

Often the outcome is decided way in advance of the final gun, yet you hold out thin hope that a miraculous comeback from a 45-3 deficit can still be achieved in the remaining 5 minutes. So you run the game at triple-speed, concentrating not on the hulking Keystone Kops that have taken over the field but on the score and time remaining displayed in the banner across the top of the screen. You glance back and forth between the plummeting clock and the score, and suddenly get excited when the game has somehow become a tight 2-1 affair, only to realize they’ve interspersed scores from other sports, and you wonder who the hell is Manchester United?

At least I can take some comfort in the impending arrival of the post-season baseball playoffs. The passage of hours and hours during America’s traditional pastime is so much more predictable than what football can offer. Intense action on the field is much like the diamond itself; rare and compressed and not really something that goes with your faded Florida Marlins jersey. Capturing the essence of a 12-inning scoreless pitcher’s duel in a compressed DVR format is so ridiculously impossible that you might have better luck drinking water vapor from the air. It certainly has to be more entertaining.

My trip to Manila and Hong Kong

Next week marks the fourth anniversary of the Best Business Trip Known to Man. In 2006, I had the opportunity to travel to Manila in the Philippines, staying for five weeks to train a new staff for my company. It was a great adventure, both in the office and out.

Recently I came across the emails I sent home during that visit, and decided to condense them into today’s blog post.

October 7 — Safely arrived in Manila. Haven’t figured out how to make long distance calls yet and there was no one to ask at 2am when we arrived at the hotel. I’m in the business center now trying to use AIM but it’s got that pop-up-block thing on. Flight was uneventful, not quite as arduous as I’d feared. The Japan transfer was uneventful, except it happened through Nagoya instead of Tokyo, like I’d thought (good thing I didn’t have to know that). I did travel with John Brzbzbzibkzi (sp?) from the NY office. He’s a nice guy, about my age and style. Hotel is very nice. Breakfast buffet was fairly Western. Outlets in my room seem to work. TV selections last night didn’t look too good, but maybe because it was the middle of the night.  

October 8 — Walked around outside the hotel a little, and found a 7-11 that had a pretty good frozen choco-coffee drink. Manila is definitely a big step up in modernity from India. It’s hot and humid and smelly but not that bad. Crowds on the street were smaller, and there are no beggars or people dying in plain view!  

October 10 — Got to tell you about my foot-in-mouth moment last night. We got a handout with the office address and phone number on it. I joked “Hah, you spelled ‘Philippines’ wrong,” and the three other proofreading trainers immediately jumped me and reminded me that one “l” and two “p’s” is correct. I was mortified.  

October 11 — Don’t want to jinx it but things seem to be going exceptionally well here. Just Western enough to feel close to home (except for the “Pepsi, now with Bamboo”). I had to handle my first training class almost single-handedly last night. The Indian guy who’s supposed to be helping me is a little hard to understand, though he’s real good keeping up with the handouts. Got back to hotel just before room service ended at 11. I had something called Oriental spaghetti. Not bad at all. Easily could’ve passed for Occidental.

October 12 — Tuesday night training went well. We had a real downpour on the drive there. The local paper this morning talks about a fresh terrorist threat that could include Manila but was mostly for Mindanao, in the south. Plus, there’s a volcano not far away that was spewing ash and another typhoon headed roughly in this direction. And, a North Korean nuke test. Bring on the locusts!  

Check-out lines at the MegaMall's grocery store

October 14 — Walked around the so-called “MegaMall” near the hotel, and truly it was mega. The malls are huge here, and they’re everywhere — not sure why. And they’re building four more. What could be more impressive than a MegaMall and the Mall of Asia? Gargantua Mall? Elephantine Mall? Mall of the Universe?  

October 16 — Not much new. Same routine starting to get a little boring. Haven’t really done anything yet except work, hang around the hotel, and try to sleep. (Isn’t it about time for this country to have an insurrection?) Room service food also getting a little tiresome. I had a satay and rice dish last night that was a little spicy for so close to bed. Uprising broke out in my stomach instead of on the streets.  

October 17 — We’re finding the training materials to be severely lacking, and have to make up a few exercises of our own. Those cartoon features “Spot the Difference” are real popular over here, so I brought one in to do as a comparison exercise (it’s sort of like proofreading). I asked secretary to make copies for everyone, and the picture on the left came back really fuzzy and obscured, so of course everyone says “that’s the difference.” Maybe I’ll try a spelling bee next.   

Crammed in a minivan, headed to Subic Bay

October 20 — Had a very interesting adventure driving to Subic Bay on Sunday. It was a three-hour drive to get there, and we were supposed to have a van that would fit 12 people, but they must’ve thought we were all Filipino-sized instead of chunky Americans. Four of our nine-person group were bigger than me and all the room we had was a standard-size back seat and middle seat. So we had four in the back, four in the middle, and the fattest woman of all in the front seat with the driver. We should never have even tried, but we were too polite, saying “No, it’s fine, we’ll squeeze in.” We went to a place called White Rock Beach Resort. They had hammocks, warm ocean water with mountains across the bay, golf, beach chairs, a bar, etc. We spent about 4-5 hours there, waiting to see the spectacular sunset so we could all take photos. I mostly did crossword puzzles and listened to my iPod. It was one of those experiences you’re very glad you did, but you’re also glad when it’s over.  

October 21 — Back in Manila, I took a ride on the “el” train. This will also include my first jeepney ride, which I’m told is like being packed in a sardine can, right down to the smelly strangers. In class, had an exercise with the trainees where I asked them to write two anonymous questions, one work-related and one personal. One of the funny questions: “Why do you wear rubber shoes?”, an apparent reference to my running shoes. I explained that I like to run, then asked them about their various exercise activities, which revolve mostly around trying to survive in a teeming Asian megalopolis.  

October 22 — Finally made it to the Mall of Asia. Really impressive — broad walkways, bright with skylights, an outdoor park, skating rink, the works. Baked goods are really big over here, so you can imagine the fun I’m having collecting these. Took a subway where they have a special car just for the women, I guess so they don’t get groped. Good idea.  

October 23 — Walked around the hotel neighborhood a little more and discovered even more malls. One called Robinson’s Galleria had a Cinnabon (with bun options unavailable in the U.S.), not to mention a “Pizza Hut Bistro” with tablecloths, fine china and silverware, and another restaurant called the “Burgaloo”, which claimed to be American. Menu looked like something from Denny’s, except with prices in pesos. Walking back, I saw a Scion minivan. An absolute abomination!  

The trail to the top of the volcano

October 24 — For some reason, on our day off for Ramadan yesterday, we thought it would be neat to climb a volcano. First a two-hour drive, then a half-hour outrigger trip across a lake, then an hour-long steep uphill trek to the peak, through dust and deep ruts and horse dung and locals trying to rent you a horse even though you’re almost there already. We were exhausted by the time we got to the top, but it was a great view. No lava though, just a lady selling coconut drinks. I may have seen some steam coming out of a rock — not sure.  

October 25 — Training on first shift now, still stuck with my humble but able (at least when I can understand him) assistant Uday. Uncertain whether we’ll be able to declare more than just nine of our 54 trainees as “passed,” not because they aren’t doing well but because the exam is ridiculous. I may just fudge the results and declare everybody trained. Went to a Chinese place for dinner last night with several fellow trainers, and we got to share stuff like garlic-sauteed asparagus, black mushrooms and bok choy, shrimp dumplings, and various fried dishes. Best of all, we went to Cinnabon again after to get Choco-buns for breakfast.  

October 26 — Had something for dinner from room service called “gratinated prawns.” I’m hoping it was cheese and shrimp, but not sure.  

October 27 — I walked past a Dunkin Donuts and they had something I’ve seen elsewhere over here: a senior citizens check-out lane. I guess that’s the place all us old folks can take the time to fumble for our change and write checks for $2.85. Halloween is real big over here, and the mall was in full decoration. However, they’re also starting to play Christmas music. Very disorienting.  

October 28 — I’m finally starting to get the hang of street-crossing in traffic around the city. When I went out earlier, I walked a fine line between bravado and foolishness. The best bet is to find a local who’s also crossing at the same spot, and use them as a shield, following closely by their side. Still, pretty death-defying.  

October 29 — We’re apparently getting hit by another typhoon, this one called “Paeng”. I can’t find out much about it; the local weather forecast on weather.com just mentions the usual scattered thunderstorms notice they put up every day. I saw a radar photo and it looked pretty well-organized, but I guess it’s no big deal for the locals. Looks like a friend and I will be taking a weekend excursion to Hong Kong. He’s been there before so I’m leaving all the details to him. Except the $600 for my cost – that I have to be involved in.  

October 30 — I guess we got that typhoon last night, though nobody seemed to care. I heard lots of rain during the night and woke up to find my window had leaked and my carpet is soaked. I put down towels and called the front desk. They may want to move me, but I hate to repack and unpack again. I’ll probably just stay here and squish around the room unless it starts to stink.  

October 31 — Turns out “Paeng” was a “super-typhoon” they tell us now that the danger has passed. Didn’t seem that super-typhoony to me.  

Party time at the cemetery on All Saints Day

November 1 — Took the train down to Makati City for our day off and saw a movie, “Marie Antoinette.” Some of the casting seemed a little weird — especially New Yorky Jason Schwartzman as the young king-in-waiting. But the costumes and settings were fun to watch. I was just disappointed they didn’t cut anybody’s head off. After that, I walked to the Manila South Cemetery, where they were having graveside festivities as part of All Souls Day. Families come to the graveyard to hang out with dead relatives, have picnics and buy balloons. Pretty macabre if you ask me, so don’t. Then went to a mall and met some of my fellow trainers for Indian food at the Bollywood Bistro, followed by dessert at a chocolate restaurant. Hardly what you’d expect from the third world.  

November 4 — Starting to pack for our weekend trip to Hong Kong. I found the hotel online we’re staying at. It’s called the Imperial but didn’t offer many other details, other than that it has a spaghetti restaurant and “wirless boardband”. Back at the office, we’re getting increasingly desperate for training ideas. We were given ten days to complete five days of material, so I’m busy making up a crossword puzzle that uses proofreading terms. Next, we’re going to have to break out the coloring books.  

November 5 — Training facilities continue to deteriorate. As new courses begin, they’re taking our proofreading space and shoving my group further and further into a corner. Where we are now, people using the bathroom have to cross right in front of our overhead projector to get to it. May turn this into a game — guess what kind of elimination they did based on how long they were in there.  

They say the neon lights are bright in Hong Kong

November 7 — Back from Hong Kong, and boy was it unbelievable! We stayed in Kowloon, which is apparently not Hong Kong proper but close enough. Wandered through a park near the hotel and saw people doing tai chi and swans. Had a great first day — up on Victoria’s Peak, harbor rides, etc. Then we went to Stanley, on the far side of HK Island. It was a bumpy but scenic ride. Ate lunch seaside and drank a beer. Later spent lots of time wandering around “Central” which is what they call downtown Hong Kong. Had a nice breakfast next door to the Imperial which, turns out, is a dump. My room does have a nice view of Nathan Street, however, which is one of the roads famous for so much lighted signage. For some reason, we went to the Hong Kong Museum of Art to see a big exhibition on French impressionism, not exactly what I came here for but my traveling companion John liked it. Had dinner at a seafood place. I got the seafood pasta which was only OK, primarily because so much of it was taken up with a whole octopus. Just before heading to the airport, we had high tea at the famous Peninsula Hotel. It’s kinda like eating lunch but the food is taller. At the airport, they almost didn’t allow us to leave because we had no proof we were eventually headed back to the U.S. instead of just the Philippines. I was surprised that Americans would have to prove they had no intention of relocating to Manila.

Fake News: Actual simpleton running for president

WASHINGTON, D.C. (Sept. 27) — At first, the Tea Party was satisfied with promoting unconventional candidates at the state level.

Perky and quirky, these included Rand Paul, the Kentucky libertarian who questioned the Civil Rights Act; Sharon Angle, the Nevada Republican who promised “Second Amendment solutions” to national problems like the continued breathing of Democrats; and Christine O’Donnell, the Delaware doll who dabbled in the Dark Arts.

These and others were dubbed “crazy,” “impulsive,” “cynical” and “dim-witted” by many in the national press. Their defenders countered “I know you are but what am I?”, and basically made the claim that learning-disabled wack-jobs had as much right to representation in Congress as did more literate and reasonable people.

Now comes the announcement that Steve Culver, a medically certified imbecile with schizophrenic paranoid delusions, is the first Tea Party candidate to announce his intention to run for president in 2012.

“Uldy-duldy, uldy-duldy,” Culver told a packed press conference in his hometown of Baton Rouge, La.

Culver proudly bills himself as a “Washington outsider” with the background to effect meaningful change on a national level, despite an IQ of 47. His campaign manager said he was originally diagnosed by psychologists as a “low-functioning moron,” but a recent bout of fever sent him plummeting to his current imbecile status.

“Morons are elitists,” Culver said. “Imbeciles, idiots and the feeble-minded — these are the real Americans, the people I’m hoping will support me.”

Despite his mental state, and the delusion that “the bats! the bats!” are flying in and out of his ears, Culver brags of an extensive background that he feels qualifies him for high office.

“I’ve held a lot of jobs,” Culver said. “I’ve been a short-order cook, a smoker, a passenger, a super-middleweight, and I’ve been probed by aliens. I’m a good listener, a self-starter, I know Excel and I once killed a man just to watch him die. Let’s see if any of the major party candidates can make these claims. Yow-za!”

Many of Culver’s proposals would’ve been regarded as bizarre only a few short months ago, but the conservative movement’s drift toward the lunatic fringe now places him squarely in the mainstream, especially since that stream recently jumped its banks and stranded moderates high and dry.

Like many in the Tea Party, Culver wants a “smaller government, perhaps run by midgets and pygmies, but not any of them African pygmies, I want all-American forest dwellers.” He wants to dismantle large parts of the federal system, eliminating all cabinet departments that begin with a vowel. And he wants to rein in spending, requiring the government to show two forms of ID before it is allowed to use its debit card.

To address the economic downturn, he said he will focus “like a laser on shiny objects and on job creation.” He has put forth a number of proposals to get people back to work: beginning a massive program to transplant dog heads onto cat bodies and vice versa; relocating the entire nation about 100 feet underground; and hiring out-of-work clerical personnel to string paper clips together that will then be used to build a fence along the Mexican border.

Among government reforms Culver is eyeing is a plan to “bring federal functions closer to the Constitution, moving staffers into the National Archives so they can sit right next to it.” He also wants to reduce “taxis and faxes, as well as taxes,” and intends to create a cabinet-level office so he can appoint that flute-playing guy from the Burger King breakfast commercials to “secretary of the Department of Awesome.”

Culver admitted that his limited experience in government could be a hindrance, so instead of fielding a vice-presidential candidate to run with him, he is asking Fox News pundit Glenn Beck to fill the post of ”More President” should he be elected.

“I believe in establishing a vision for my administration, then picking qualified people who will have responsibility delegated to them to carry out this vision,” Culver said. “I plan to spend my time as a crime fighter, in a costumed crusade against super-villains. They’ll call me ‘President Man’ and I’ll be feared throughout the underworld.”

In search of the perfect toilet paper

Life used to be so simple. 

You’d get a call at the office from the wife, asking you to stop at the store and pick up some milk and bread on the way home. The milk was offered in two, maybe three, varieties: regular, skim and, possibly, expired. Bread was just bread, not whole wheat, not ciabatta, not hemp, not gluten-free. You’d get your two items, maybe sneak a quick peek at the babe on the cover of Good Housekeeping, and pay the cashier. With something called cash.  

You’d leave the store, climb into the driver’s seat of your giant Chevy without worrying about sissy seatbelts, light up a Pall Mall, and harbor a deep prejudice toward races other than yours. It was that simple.  

When I got a call from my wife the other day asking me to pick up some toilet paper after work, I practically had an anxiety attack. Even though she was very specific about the kind of toilet paper we wanted – Cottonelle Ultra double pack, the purple label, NOT the blue – I’ve been in the bathroom tissue aisle of the grocery store recently, and it’s a very imposing corner of the universe. The options are tremendous, as you can see from the photo below.   

TP as far as the eye can see

Choice is a great thing but it’s increasingly obvious that we in America have taken it too far. From ketchup to dog food to beer to right-wing lunatics, there are now so many options available in the modern marketplace as to be overwhelming to the uninformed consumer. Even though I had clear instructions – don’t forget: purple, not blue – I thought I could better prepare myself for the assignment with a little online self-education. 

“Toilet paper is a soft paper product used to maintain personal hygiene after human defecation or urination,” Wikipedia tells us. “However, it can also be used for other purposes such as absorbing spillages or craft projects.” (Note to Wikipedia: This article may need to be edited to meet your quality standards. Not clear that these are three separate and distinct uses, and that TP does a poor job of “absorbing … craft projects.”) 

I learn that toilet paper products can vary immensely in the technical factors that distinguish them, including size, weight, softness, chemical residue and some frightening feature called “finger-breakthrough resistance.” I learn that a light coating of aloe or lotion or wax (!) may be worked into the paper to reduce roughness. I learn that so-called luxury papers may be rippled, embossed, perfumed, colored, patterned, medicated or imprinted with cartoon animals. 

Thus prepared, I enter the local Bi-Lo and find my way to aisle 11. Any confidence I may have gleaned from my studies is soon dashed. The huge expanse of options on display reminds me of the sea of faces I saw upon exiting the Mumbai airport baggage claim, each face either searching for a passenger, offering their porter services or looking for a handout. Except the Indians were less quilted. 

I found some paper called “Aloe and E,” which I assume contains both lotion and vitamin E, or else the user says “eee!” when they use it. I found Angel Soft, Supreme Softness and Charmin Sensitive, all for the touchy bum. I found a bargain label called Clear Value, another brand aimed at the Hispanic market called Paseo (which I think means “pass” in Spanish), and a store brand named Southern Home, with equally unsavory connotations. One product promised the feature of “tuggable huggable softness.” 

As you can see from the photo above, I also saw Spic and Span cleaning wipes, Ziploc storage bags and rubber gloves. I want very much to believe these were in the neighborhood by coincidence. 

I found an Ultra Plush, which is not the same as the Ultra I was looking for. I mentally cordoned off the aisle into four sectors, to better zero in on the specific label for which I was searching. I felt like the field archeologist exploring for the one femur bone that would confirm the existence of a previously unknown subspecies of early man. Only by being methodical and patient might I eventually succeed. 

Still, I couldn’t find what I was looking for. I knew my fate if I failed to succeed. Like the ancient hunter/gatherer returning to the home cave with an antelope carcass when his wife specifically told him she wanted zebra for dinner, I would be vehemently chastised. “Don’t you listen to me anymore?” I’d be asked. “And I suppose you got the wrong tree lichen too.” 

I could call my wife and ask if there were any acceptable substitutes, but I hate those people who wander about the contemporary supermarket, cell phone to their ear and listening to a recited list that should’ve been written down. They’re always running over my foot with their shopping carts. I didn’t want to be one of these people. I’d rather buy a half dozen items that might be close — including Ultra brand razors and Ultra brand saltines — and hope to luck into the right purchase. I’d prefer to return the others later rather than come home empty-handed. 

Just as I was about to give up, there it was, in all its purple-packaged glory. The label said it was “new – even more cushiony comfort” and there was a picture of a napping puppy lying under what looked like a thick blanket, right below the Cottonelle name. (I assume it was a blanket; it looked about two inches too thick to be toilet paper). No wonder I had trouble locating the right stuff. My wife should’ve mentioned the puppy. 

I threw my prize into the cart and headed for the checkout. A sense of triumph coursed through me, as did the satisfaction of knowing that I was providing for my family. 

I headed for home, my stomach gurgling with the accumulated tension of the hunt. Within moments, I’d be happy I had found the right stuff.

Fake News: Congress comes up with the dough

WASHINGTON, D.C. (Sept. 30) — In a rare show of the ability to actually do something, Congress passed a measure to fund the federal government for another two months early this morning. Both Democrats and Republicans exhibited a bipartisan spirit as they scrambled to find enough money to keep the country in business until an annual budget can be passed.

“We may not agree on much,” said Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, D-Nev. “But if you’re looking for someone who will do virtually anything to scrounge up some cash, we’re your guys.”

Minority leader Sen. Mitch McConnell of Kentucky concurred, adding “hey, I was willing to accept a contribution from the National Association of Murderers (a lobbying group that works to support the right of psychopaths to kill friends and neighbors). You know my ethical standards are off-the-charts low, so coming up with the $219 billion wasn’t as hard as you might think.”

The stop-gap effort effectively keeps the lights on at agencies and major federal programs until Dec. 3 when, if a final budget is not agreed upon, government workers will resort to candles, flashlights and night-vision goggles in order to see in the dark. The move marks Congress’ second major accomplishment since returning from summer break in September. They also passed a resolution encouraging veteran House clerk Roger Patterson to keep fighting in his battle against cancer, voting 228-194 on a motion that Patterson was a “tough old bird who wasn’t about to let a little node on his left lung get him down.”

As the midnight deadline approached, members of both houses and both parties fanned out across the Washington area to scare up every spare penny they could find.

Sen. John McCain (R-Ariz.) checked his car ashtray and found $13.87 (minus a 5% processing charge from the Coinstar machine at the all-night Kroger near the Capitol). Democrat Russ Feingold of Wisconsin rounded up aluminum cans from trash bins in the Senate breakroom, which he was then able to redeem for $8.93. Sen. Barbara Boxer (D-Calif.), involved in a tough re-election battle against former Hewlett-Packard executive Carly Fiorina, had a box of used toner cartridges delivered to Fiorina’s campaign headquarters, for which the U.S. received $35.87 in credit.

Conservatives and liberals alike came to the aid of their country in its half-hour of need. Tea Party favorite Sen. Jim DeMint made a stop at a 24-hour plasma center to donate platelets, a good-faith effort that came to naught when screening tests revealed the South Carolinian was a reptile. Republican House whip Rep. Eric Cantor pawned a “Role-X” watch he bought during a junket last year to Hong Kong, bringing in $13.45. The Senate’s only avowed socialist, Vermont’s Bernie Sanders, sold his autographed copy of Karl Marx’s “Das Kapital” on E-Bay for $45,000. Retiring Sen. Arlen Specter of Pennsylvania got an unsecured $100 loan from a payday lender for only 20% interest, and Minnesota Democrat Al Franken’s cousin works second shift at Burger King and they get paid on Wednesdays so he was able to front Franken $20, as long as Franken swore on their common grandmother’s grave he’d pay it back.

North Carolina’s Mel Watt went through a suburban Panera’s dumpster, looking for bagels that could count toward the Department of Education’s $115 million budget for school lunch programs. Massachusetts Sen. Scott Brown hung out on a windy corner near an ATM machine, hoping to find dropped cash that had blown into the bushes. Sen. Charles Schumer (D-N.Y.) shoplifted a box of Lindt chocolates from a Rite-Aid drug store, then returned it for a refund. Alabama Republican Jeff Sessions waded into a fountain at a Georgetown Dean & DeLuca and brought back $11.17 in wet change.

Even former senators got into the act of trying to raise funds to keep the government running. Idaho’s Larry Craig, famously caught in a 2007 sex sting at a Minneapolis airport men’s room, said he’d blow transients at the Washington homeless shelter for a quarter a piece.

“It’s really great to see that we can come together as one when we really have to,” said President Obama, who promised to sign the appropriations bill and contributed $47.85 of his own by breaking open his daughters’ porcelain piggy banks with a Predator drone attack. “If it’s petty theft we need to make this nation great again, then it’s petty theft we’ll have.”

Your healthcare reform questions answered here

Six months after passage of the new health care law, more than half of all Americans are still bewildered by it, according to a poll released Monday. Even as the first of the new consumer protections start kicking in, confusion has risen to the highest point since April, and 53 percent of those polled are in the dark about what the new law means.

Is this really surprising in a nation where half the people think evolution is bogus, where a third can’t name the current vice president, and where “real housewives” are believed to be the centerpiece of an entertaining evening in front of the TV?

Why am I not surprised?

Regardless, I feel it is my duty, as a know-it-all blogger, to inform the public in the interest of creating an educated citizenry that is the bedrock of the successful modern democracy. So today, I’m taking questions about the law, in one man’s attempt to wade through the fog of uncertainty and come out the other side a little damp, but better informed.

Is it true I have to keep my children under cover until they’re 26?
No, you’re free to allow your adult children still living at home to go about their normal daily business (if they have any besides sitting in front of that damn Xbox all day). The new healthcare law will permit parents who obtain insurance through their employers to keep adult children under those plans. You may be confused with the recently reaffirmed law in China that permits parents to have only one baby, the so-called “one-child policy.” This applies only to those people living halfway around the globe, not to you.

Where can I sign up to be on a death panel?
A shocking three in ten senior citizens believe the new healthcare law creates government boards that will decide whether elderly and infirm Americans deserve life-saving medical treatment. This is not the case. (Though if it were left up to me, and if my crazy Aunt Sarah won’t stop bothering me about how often I borrow her car, I’d … well, I probably shouldn’t go there.) Before it was passed into law, the bill did contain measures to pay for end-of-life counseling for those who chose to receive it, but this was distorted into a call for “death panels” and was jettisoned from the provision before it was finalized. If you really want to be on a commission that kills people or, at the very least, makes them wish they were dead, might I suggest you run for city council and rain death down upon your fellow citizens every Tuesday night at 7.

Do jobs on the death panels have full benefits, including healthcare coverage?
I already told you — there are no death panels. But, if there were, they’d probably be staffed by temps, who typically do not get such benefits.

Will in-home nursing be covered? I haven’t been weaned yet.
Exactly what kind of “nursing” are you talking about? Because if you have some young woman coming to your home on a regular basis offering to breast-feed you, and yet you’re old enough to submit this question, I want to get in on that.

Can I see a doctor who’s not named “Obama” under Obamacare?
You can continue to see a provider of your own choosing, and he or she can be named anything you want them to be, including Dr. Zhivago, Dr. Scholls, Dr. Doom, Dr. Horrible or Dr. Who, though personally I’d stay away from Dr. Laura and Dr. Phil. “Obamacare” is generally a term of derision used by Republicans and other conservatives who contend the president wrote the 2000-plus-page law himself. Do you really think he’s going to take time for that when he’s got his hands full running the country down the road of collectivist communism? Plus, despite all his other accomplishments, he never did finish his requirements to graduate from medical school, though he swears he’s going back for night classes next semester to pick up that one osteoporosis credit he needs. Incidentally, a recent survey indicated an estimated 99.999% of all American doctors are not named “Obama.”

Can I get a flu shot online?
No. The Internet is currently only able to provide information to users, and has not yet reached the stage where a provider can reach through your computer monitor and inject a vaccine into your butt (though, if you’ve checked out Chatroulette, you’ll see there are no shortage of people offering up their hind ends on screen).

What if the pre-existing condition I have is that my name is Carl? Can I still be covered?
With the rules that went into effect earlier this week, children cannot be denied coverage for a so-called pre-existing condition but adults will not receive similar protection until 2011. So if you want to remove such a silly name before then, you’ll have to pay for it yourself, Carl.

I hear the new law gets rid of lifetime maximums. Does that mean I’ll live forever?
The “lifetime maximum” you may have heard about is an amount of coverage costs that will be permitted over the course of a person’s life. If you have major medical expenses such as a car accident, a kidney transplant or open-heart surgery, you may find yourself “maxed out” under the old system though, with three such serious conditions, that may be the least of your problems. In any case, there’s nothing in the new healthcare regulations that will enable people to live forever, a shortcoming that many Republicans are focusing on as they campaign against the new law during mid-term elections.

What’s this thing on my foot? Does it look like cancer to you?
Hold it up a little closer to the webcam, will you? Hmm … I’m not sure what that is, but it certainly is troubling. Turn it a little more to the left. Now, a little more. Wait, I think that’s just your pinky toe.

Why does it always hurt to say goodbye?
Emotional longing for a loved one who either moves to a different city or perhaps departs this life altogether is a tough struggle for many people. Do what nine out of ten doctors do — turn to drugs for relief from the pain.

Do I need to get undressed for this?
Yes … yes, you do. And do it slowly. But don’t take off the high heels.

I recently went through one of those full-body scanners at airport security. Do I still need a chest x-ray?
Probably not, since the only thing a chest x-ray will reveal is whether or not you have lung cancer, and now you surely do, since you went through one of those scanners. And by the way, just a tip from Roger at the Transportation Security Administration: you really should be wearing boxer shorts instead of briefs at your age.

Can I have a sip of your Ensure?
Sure. In fact, I’m working on a six-pack here, and I’d be glad to give you one of your own. Try it over ice, with a jigger of gin and just a dash of vermouth. I call it the “codgertini”.

Will anyone be able to tell if I inject my husband with cyanide?
If he deserves it, what does it matter whether anyone can tell? Would you rather spend the rest of your life sitting on the couch next to that soulless husk of a human being, or take a chance on the excellent crafts program that most state penitentiaries now offer? A lot of the minimum-security facilities even have job training opportunities, exercise facilities and state-of-the-art cafeterias, so life might not be so bad in there. Just remember that the mistake most people in your circumstance make is not using enough cyanide. Be sure he gets at least a quart.

Revisited: Back to the future

I am writing this post in a way I’ve never written any other blog posting. Flat on my back, using something called a ball-point pen and a Stuart Hall spiral notebook. It’s very awkward.

The reason I’m in bed and not hunched over my laptop is that I suffered a lower back strain on Sunday. As I was hanging shirts up in my closet, I made a slight pivot and felt a twinge of pain that within hours had blossomed into a full-blown back attack. It was the same pain I felt when I first developed disk problems 30 years ago — except instead of lunging to reach a drop shot on the tennis court, I was now injuring myself doing laundry.

And now the handwriting is becoming increasingly illegible and the pen is starting to fail. My back might be flat against the mattress and temporarily compliant, but everything else is growing strained.

Ouch! Screw this. I’m getting my computer.

Hey, these little netbooks are pretty handy for use in bed. I can still lay on my back and set the thing on my lower abdomen, and type with relative ease. And the radiation is soothing too — maybe it’ll work it’s way through to my back.

So anyway, I got through the rest of the day Sunday without too much trouble, then spent the night tossing and turning and moaning and groaning, and not in a good way. Exclamations of agony followed every turn, and by the time morning had rolled around, my wife was insisting that I get to a doctor or a hotel.

First I had to call my office to inform them I was taking a sick day. Not really a sick day, per se, because we don’t have those. Like many businesses tired of hearing contrived excuses from lazy employees looking to catch up on their daytime dramas, we’ve lumped vacation days and sick days into one neat package called “paid time off.” Whether you’ve had an ischemic stroke or decided to take a three-day weekend in Paris, it’s all the same to them. All they want to know when I call in is “with or without?” in reference to whether or not I want to be paid for the missed day. Yes, I want to be paid but no, not if you’re going to consider a day at the doctor’s office the same as a day at the beach.

Yow! This netbook-in-bed thing is just not working after all. I’m taking it out to the kitchen counter, and hoping that sitting erect on a stool will have some positive effect.

Okay, everything is back to vertical now and, though it’s a little tiring, it feels much more proper than to be blogging horizontally.

So I get to the doctor’s office, and the place is filled with the sorriest collection of humans this side of Guantanamo Bay. Coughing and sneezing and wretching, they’re making me very uncomfortable, so I’m glad I finally get called back to the inner sanctum. When the doctor shows up, I tell my story, explain how I was x-rayed for disk problems years ago and now have these periodic flare-ups, practically diagnosing myself. He insists, however, on conducting an “exam,” during which he asks me to move my arms and legs. I thought that was his job.

He gives me a thoughtful look, and announces that he disagrees with my assessment, proposing that instead it’s a muscular problem. I’m pretty sure I know better, but he’s the one with the prescription pad, so whatever. He suggests some new age-y vegan therapies — putting frozen peas on the small of my back and stretching — and dashes off a couple of scripts, one for an anti-inflammatory and one a muscle relaxer. These should knock me out enough to allow me to spend the rest of the day in bed, which is just the rest my bothersome spine needs.

Ah, jeez, this sitting up at the counter isn’t working either. Let me stuff those peas in my pants, elevate my lower legs onto a coffee table, and try suspending my computer from the ceiling with snow chains.

I take a shower when I get home from the pharmacy, and it’s quite the ordeal. The thing about back problems is that you never know which subtle and otherwise harmless movement is going to provoke lightning bolts of pain. Getting into the car for my drive home was not too bad, since I took it slowly. But once I’m situated in the driver’s seat, I forget that I have to reach out to close the door and Christ that hurts like a mother. I maneuver myself through the bath, deciding that foot-washing will best be left for another time, perhaps during a Catholic ritual. Now I emerge wet onto the bathmat, and have to figure whether it’s really worth the trouble to dry the lower half of my body. I make the attempt, but not with a lot of muffled yips and involuntary gasps.

I swallow the prescribed meds and head for bed. I need a little light reading material to help me doze off, so I grab the patient information leaflet that accompanied my drugs. I’m taking methacarbamol, 750 milligrams, one or two tablets by mouth every eight hours as needed for muscle spasm. It’s a white, oblong pill, stamped for some reason with the imprint “Westward 292,” and should be kept in a dark, cool, dry place. Possible side effects include lightheadedness, drowsiness, pendular eye movement, slowness of heartbeat, and the possibility of blog-writing being both painful and not especially funny.

Maybe it’ll turn out better in my dreams.

Revisited: I sternly decry the newspaper editorial

When I was an editor at my college newspaper back in the early seventies, one of the biggest challenges we had was coming up with a topic for the daily editorial. Every day we, as representatives of the student voice, had to arrive at an opinion on an issue of the day, then explain rationally and thoroughly why we opposed allowing waterbeds in dorm rooms, or supported genocide in Southeast Asia (maybe it was the other way around).

Though there was no shortage of controversial subjects in those turbulent times, it became difficult to not only develop a unique viewpoint, but also find the right verb to describe what was almost always our outrage and/or indignation. We would deplore, condemn, reprimand, revile, regret, reproach or admonish the university administration for its stance on something. Every now and then, we would commend, endorse, extol, applaud or acclaim something else, usually whatever it was we saw as contrary to the establishment, although that wasn’t nearly as fun as denouncing. A good thesaurus became a must for us.

How dare President Nixon remain in office despite the continuing revelations of his Watergate-related crimes, and despite calls for his resignation from me and the friend of mine who wrote the editorials? We implored — no, insisted; no, demanded — that he leave office immediately, or as soon as he got around to reading the FSU collegiate daily.

The conceit, of course, was that anybody really cared what we had to say. Sure, we claimed to speak for a new generation that questioned authority and spoke out against injustice. But so did Pepsi.

Newspapers today continue to print editorials, although no one is quite sure why. About the only time I can think that it’s useful is for low-level electoral races, when I’m faced with choosing between the retired veterinarian with the funny name and the old lady with the frizzy hair running for assistant county coroner. You can imagine any of those qualities being a good background for handling dead people. However, you assume your local paper has done more research than that and can endorse the best candidate, so you vote for the other one because the local paper is staffed by liberals (i.e., people who went to college).

Our faculty advisor told us you should never espouse a particular stance unless it’s conceivable that someone else could plausibly argue the other side of the argument. So no fair to editorialize that puppies are cute, or that Hitler was being mean in his treatment of the peoples of Europe.

But it seems like a lot of newspapers, especially those in small towns, never got this message. They continue to advance “Our View,” as my hometown daily describes it, on the most non-controversial matters you can imagine. Recent examples in the Rock Hill Herald include:

• Congratulations are in order for recent breakthroughs in research on a potential AIDS vaccine, though “those who are sexually active would be well-advised to use the preventative methods that already are proven to work.”
• The state attorney general should return campaign contributions from lawyers he later hired.
• A new building just opened at the local university is a “unique addition to the campus.”
• It’s fair to ask school administrators to take a few days without pay to address a budget shortfall.
• It’s good that plans for a new county museum under consideration are being scaled back, in light of the recession.
• Don’t text while driving.
• Owls and people should get along.

That last subject was inspired by a recent incident in my city’s largest park. A jogger was buzzed by a bird believed to be an owl, prompting municipal officials to close a nature trail where the predator struck. Park managers scratched their heads about what to do — perhaps considering guidance from the editorial, which said that slaying the bird “wasn’t an option” — and finally consulted with state wildlife officials. They said it was probably just a mother owl protecting her young. When baby birds were seen near the site a few days later, it was surmised that the young were now out of the nest, and the mother would no longer be quite so aggressive.

“We’re delighted that those who walk or jog through Cherry Park now are safe from owl attacks,” read the next day’s editorial.

We had another animal-related incident reported locally that inspired me to see if I still had the opinionated touch I exhibited back in college. Vandals broke into a pet store, stealing supplies and computer equipment and generally, well, behaving like animals.

Maybe I can offer a guest submission on this subject to the paper. How might such an editorial read?

October is national Predator Appreciation Month, and we’d like to do our part by offering kudos to a local group of potential killers who showed remarkable self-control under some very trying circumstances.

When burglars entered the Animal Supply House on Anderson Road Saturday night, they not only destroyed and stole property, but they also let a half-dozen cats out of their pens, opened bird cages and removed the lid from a snake’s terrarium. When store workers arrived the next morning, they might have easily expected to find that Nature had taken its course — that the cats had eaten the birds, and the snake had eaten the cats.

Such was not the case, however. Though given the opportunity to roam free, the snake had stayed put in its cage. Birds fluttered about the ceiling, and yet the cats were found sleeping on several pillows, oblivious to the tasty morsels swooping overhead.

“Anything could’ve happened,” observed owner Robert Beaty. “But luckily nothing happened.”

Rather than taking advantage of a bad situation for their human overlords, the cats and snake chose to look inside and find their better selves. Just because some neighborhood delinquents had violated the animals’ security was no reason for them to then turn on each other. The kind people who kept us locked in our cells will be returning quickly enough, they must’ve thought, and they’re sure to bring those dry brown pellets that provide us sustenance.

We congratulate these predators on their honorable display of restraint. It might be a dog-eat-dog world out there, but in a little corner of our hometown, the cats and snake have chosen not to participate. And for that, we pay tribute.

Fighting the Sunday blahs

I don’t like Sundays.

Maybe not as much as Brenda Spencer and, later, the Boomtown Rats disliked Mondays. Brenda was the California teenager who opened fire on a schoolyard in 1979 because of her distaste for the first day of the workweek. “I just did it for the fun of it,” Spencer said when asked about her motive. ”I don’t like Mondays. This livens up the day.” The Boomtown Rats never explained their reasons for picking up this obscure quote and turning it into a number-one single. Perhaps if they had, we could’ve appreciated their follow-up hits — “I Hate 1:15 p.m.” and “January 12, 1968 Really Sucked” — a little more.

As I write this piece, it’s Sunday afternoon and I’m battling the combination of anxiety and stress I always feel at this point in the weekend. If you’re among the lucky few who still have jobs, you’re probably familiar with the sensation yourself.

The weekly two-day break during which you’re free to pursue leisure unencumbered by responsibilities, except perhaps to the lawn, starts winding down shortly after you get up on Sunday morning. If you’re the religious type, you head off to church and pray to God that He pick a day other than Monday to dawn the next morning. If you’re not, you try to squeeze the last bit of enjoyment out of your time off, maybe going out for brunch, maybe watching an old movie on TV, or maybe, like me, doing my laundry and cleaning the kitchen floor.

I choose to do household chores on Sundays because the sense of accomplishment it provides makes a nice antidote to the dread I’d otherwise be drowning in. I have a feeling that, if I tried it, I’d probably find even more comfort in a search for spiritual peace in the community of like-minded worshippers than I do in mopping. Or maybe not. One should not discount the solace reflected in a shiny floor.

I can remember not liking Sundays as far back as my childhood. Half the day I’d be berated by Pastor Papke of Biscayne Lutheran Church for not being Christ-like enough. Then the other half, I’d be the one doing the berating, screaming at my hapless Miami Dolphins to try a little defense for a change.

Bedtime at this early age was 9 o’clock. I’d struggle to get to sleep while my parents watched the intro to “Mission: Impossible” in the living room. “Bump, bump, bump-bump, bump, bump,” mocked the theme song. “We’re all about chasing adventure around the world and overthrowing oppressive regimes, and you lie there in your bed worried that Mrs. Stonecypher will make you deliver your oral report to the fourth grade tomorrow. How pathetic.”

Shortly before I headed off to college, my father’s work schedule changed. He had to work Saturday but was given Monday off in return. That struck me as an extremely raw deal. Now his weekend was made up of the two worst days of the week.

What I liked much better was working at the college newspaper. Since we published Monday through Friday, we had to work Sunday through Thursday to prepare the next day’s paper each afternoon. Getting Friday and Saturday for the weekend was like a dream, as was smoking marijuana while laying out the front page and most everything else I did in my days at Florida State.

What ruins Sunday now is the inevitability of Monday and the return to work. If there were at least a chance that the day following Sunday wouldn’t be a day of office drudgery, you could probably get through it a little better. Here’s a proposal: each week, make the two days you’ll have off be scheduled on a random basis. Every evening, there’d be a nationwide announcement declaring the next day would either be a workday or a day off. You’d never know which was coming, so you couldn’t get all agitated. Since five days out of seven are spent at labor, you’d always be assuming the next day would mean work, and it’d be such a pleasant surprise when it didn’t.

Who should I speak to about making this happen?

Now I look at the clock and it’s 3 p.m., and I mull over my choices for what I could do when I’m finished with the blog. I can fold the towels. I can check on the NFL scores. I can go for a run. I can call my mother. While all of these pursuits are worthwhile in their own way, there’s little that will excite me, or make me forget that I’m back in the office tomorrow morning at 6 a.m.

I know! I could have a heart attack!

Sunday afternoon seems like the ideal time for a catastrophic cardiac event. The emergency room will be almost empty. The ambulance would come right away. There’d be little pressure to survive, because you know you’re dealing with back-up crew at the hospital. And yet you’d still get all this attention.

And best of all, you get to call in sick on Monday morning with the following awesome excuse: “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it in today. I have a 90% blockage in my three of my four pulmonary arteries and it’s unlikely I’ll survive the night. If I’m feeling better then, maybe I’ll make it in Tuesday.”

Of all the major medical calamities you can have, I would think heart attack would be the best. I’m sure there’s some pain involved, but the characteristic dull ache radiating down your left arm seems manageable. As they advise in those commercials, just take an aspirin. It’s not as bad as the raging headache that accompanies a stroke, or being hit by a car, or having your house catch on fire. Your appearance isn’t defaced and there’s no smell of a slightly-off barbecue. You just tell the triage person in the ER that “my heart hurts” and you’re admitted faster than you can say “insurance card and two forms of identification.”

Okay, heart attack it is. Now I just have to summon one up. What’s the best way to give yourself a heart attack? Seems like straining might work. Mmmmmhhh. No, that didn’t do it. A bunch of jumping jacks done real fast? I don’t know, that’s a lot of effort. Let me check those football scores again — the Cleveland Browns won a game? Huh, even that didn’t work.

I suppose I could fake one. I’d have to do a little more research on the symptoms. Shortness of breath I can do, thanks to that drama class I took in high school, but not so sure about the clammy skin. Then what happens when they hook me up to a heart monitor? I’d once again be tormented by the “bump-bump, bump-bump.”

This is why I hate Sundays.

Fake News: Ryder win cheers Europe

LONDON (Oct. 4) — A website associated with al-Qaida announced yesterday that the jihadists will cancel plans for a major terrorist operation in Europe and instead join in the continent’s celebration of a memorable 14½ to 13½ Ryder Cup win over the American team.

The biennial golf match that pits two continents’ best pros against each other in a variety of formats finished Monday in Wales after a weekend of weather delays. There was no previous indication in earlier communiqués from the notorious radicals that they watched golf on television, especially a tournament that’s not on the regular PGA tour.

But al-Qaida spokesman Akbar Alawi said he and other terrorists like the ancient game, even if they have few opportunities to play it themselves in the forbidding terrain of northwest Pakistan.

“We enjoy very much looking at all the green grass,” Alawi said. “And we like the match play better than the medal play. And when someone hits the green of a par five in two, we all yell ‘good shot’ and fire our weapons into the air.”

Alawi said the rumored plot of a terrorist attack, possibly on tourist destinations or the transportation infrastructure, was put on hold indefinitely in tribute to the aggressive play of the European team.

“We hate all westerners, but we hate the Americans — and, of course, their freedoms — the most,” Alawi said. “When we saw Graeme McDowell hold off a late charge by young Hunter Mahan to clinch the cup for Europe, we offered up a hearty ‘Allah is great!’ and decided then and there to cancel our attack.”

Meanwhile, revelers throughout Europe celebrated the golf victory Monday in the characteristic rowdy style of its sports fans. In Paris, the festivities included several incidents in which golf enthusiasts sprayed Metro trains with AK-47 automatic weapons fire. In Rome, partiers set off a car bomb outside the Colosseum. In London, a man wearing a suicide vest blew himself up in Trafalgar Square, shouting “Four-Ball Forever” shortly before the explosion. At a restaraunt in Madrid, somebody put the wrong kind of sausage in the paella.

Or maybe that was al-Qaida. Europe is very confusing to us Americans, what with all the people driving the wrong direction and speaking the foreign language.

Regardless of the website announcement, the U.S. State Department continued its warnings that travelers headed to European destinations need to be vigilant, and to expect occasional inconveniences in the interest of security.

“Citizens of the U.S. should be prepared to sit for hours on long transatlantic flights, endure endless waits at baggage claims, encounter confusing airport signs and be cheated by surly taxi drivers,” said State Department spokesman Jason Williams. “And all that’s before you even get to your hotel. If you plan to see the sights, expect unseasonably damp weather and crushing disappointment, especially at something as over-hyped as the Changing of the Guard.”

“Remember too that they use funny money over there,” Williams warned. “I would encourage all Americans to be wary of their change, and to count it carefully. And don’t even get me started on the  pick-pockets.”

Viral marketing, Jesus style

We were in Charleston about ten years ago and I must’ve gotten a-hold of some bad she-crab soup. My wife and I were wandering around the historic district when I found myself in urgent need of a bathroom. After a few desperate moments, I located one in a record store. (Okay, maybe it was 20 years ago).

As I finished up my business, I looked down at the floor of the men’s room, and there lay at neatly folded $100 bill. Risking God-knows-how-many diseases that may have been present in a public toilet, I picked up the bill, only to find the disappointing message printed on the reverse: “Looking for happiness, prosperity and wealth? Look no further than Jesus Christ.” And sure enough, there was a picture of Jesus where I would rather have seen Benjamin Franklin.

Not exactly viral marketing. Bacterial marketing, maybe. Either way, I had been duped into receiving a religious tract left behind by some jerkwad who wanted to show me the way to Everlasting Life.

Lately, I’ve come across several more attempts to win converts to the Lord through publicity campaigns that essentially consist of littering. Not exactly well-targeted, these efforts aim to reach the souls of people who can find nothing better to read, or those who hate to see garbage on the ground, or car owners who wish to use their wipers without having the windshield obstructed by a rapidly disintegrating brochure.

I don’t know what kind of advertising agency advises its clients to reach their target audience through random pamphleteering, a practice I thought had died with Thomas Paine. It seems, however, to be a strategy on the rise. Consider three of my recent experiences:

Decision magazine, a publication of the Billy Graham Evangelical Association, featured son, heir-apparent and Islamaphobe Franklin Graham on the cover. This particular issue began its life as a subscription mailing to the home of a fellow worker. Apparently, his desire to witness consisted of anonymously leaving the periodical in our men’s room, covering his imprinted name and address with black Sharpie scrawls before abandoning it. It was the June 2004 issue and now, over six years later, you have to wonder whether all the stuff about God and Christ being so great was still current. For all I know, some recent revelation converted these good Southern Baptists into believers in other deities altogether.

Still, it made decent bathroom reading compared to the other offerings available on the back of the commode (an Us, an Auto Trader and a torn scrap of stock quotes). There was a message from Billy Graham himself, telling the parable of Naaman, a commander of the Syrian army who had wealth, success, prestige and leprosy. The message, according to the headline, is “Having It All Isn’t Enough”, but my takeaway was an interesting fact about how lepers of that time had to constantly cry out “Unclean! Unclean!” to warn fellow citizens to steer clear. I think about how useful this would be in the modern office environment. The ever-sniffling lady three cubicles down from me could spend the day declaring “Mucus leak! Mucus leak!” and then maybe everybody would stop blessing her every time she sneezed.

The other articles were mildly amusing at best. A story about a revival held by Franklin Graham showed a photo a three young sisters who had attended a side session at “Kidzfest” (you know it’s cool because it has a “z” in it) featuring a costumed mascot called “Bibleman”. Among the adults attending the revival was Dr. Greg Heyart, a Bakersfield chiropractor and believer who struck a creepy pose fondling a column of spinal vertebrae as he urged others in the medical community to know Christ.

There was a first-person account from a drug-addicted realtor who came to Jesus during a brief break in the housing boom. She craved salvation, however she wasn’t sure she could work it into her busy schedule. “That Sunday I showed a beautiful house, but it didn’t sell,” she wrote. “I believe God prevented it. When it didn’t sell, I knew I could make it to the Crusade.”

Another article described ways to talk about Jesus with your unconverted, hell-bound friends and associates. “American Christians are giving the lost people around them a silent death sentence,” wrote Ron Hutchcraft. “It’s a death sentence that says, ‘I know how you could live, but I’m not talking.’” He offers tips about how to proselytize without embarrassing yourself, which apparently includes leaving 44-page full-color publications in the can.

On a recent doctor’s visit, I stood waiting for the elevator and noticed a bank of receptacles on the floor nearby. The three locked boxes were the property of LabCorp, a medical laboratory, and were meant to collect various effluents from the human body destined for sample testing. On top of one of the boxes sat a stack of small handouts titled “God’s Simple Plan of Salvation”. The intended readership of this drop were those seeking comfort from concerns they had about blood in their stools.

The message in this piece had to be much more direct than a lavish magazine. “God says in order to go to Heaven, you must be born again,” read one line. ”In John 3:7, Jesus said to Nicodemus, ‘Ye must be born again.’” Unlike the smelly samples in the boxes below, no need for analysis and interpretation there.

“Because you are a sinner, you are condemned to death,” read another entry. And you thought that oozing sore on your neck was just a harmless boil. However, “if you read this tract over and over, without laying it down until you understand it,” there is hope. That hope can be found at Emmanuel Independent Baptist Church, 102 Iron Station Road, Dallas, NC 28034, where “you should be baptized in obedience to the Lord Jesus Christ as a public testimony of your salvation, and then unite with a Bible-believing church without delay.”

Finally, stuffed into my home mailbox, in direct violation of postal codes though apparently not God’s law, I found a brochure advertising an upcoming four-night seminar at a local hotel. The Christian Creation Conference was promoting an “exciting Bible seminar affirming creation” with the headline “Evolution Exposed!” On the cover, the question is asked “Did Darwin Murder God?”, with artwork featuring a monkey contemplating a human skull, sitting on a pile of biology textbooks and, for some reason, holding a pair of pliers with his foot. (The subtle point here, I guess, is how could we possibly be related to the apes when we can’t even grip tools between our non-prehensile toes?)

Though I myself have never heard such a claim, there’s apparently this great consensus among foolish science-believers that Darwin murdered God.

“Charles Darwin didn’t want to murder God, as he once put it, BUT HE DID,” read one large headline hovering above a T. Rex. “See shocking evidence that, at best, Darwin could only be charged with attempted murder.”

The seminar’s other topics will be “Dinosaurs, Fossils and the Age of the Earth (Wednesday)”, which will ask why missing links are still missing and how “the Cambrian explosion in the Geologic Column has effectively cut down Darwin’s Tree of Life”; “Noah’s Ark and Secrets of The Flood (Thursday)”, wherein “secrets of The Flood may supply the most critical information in the entire creation/evolution debate”; and “Ape Men: Don’t Make a Monkey Out of Yourself (Friday)”, wrapping up the week with a tour through “evolution’s hall of shame” and finally an answer to the question we all ask: “What about ape men?”

“Bring your Bible and your mind, you will use both,” claims presenter H.S. Rester, whose pre-Christian credits included a course in chemical engineering before finding his way to a divinity degree. “Jesus will be uplifted! The Bible will be affirmed! Free book for all those who attend three or more nights!”

I assume any leftover books will be strewn over the lawn outside.

An editorial: Time for a Little River ban

I was working in the yard, working not too hard, mostly leaf-blowing. The song came to me from out of nowhere. First the chorus, then the first stanza, then the endless loop that I still can’t get out of my head.

Hurry, don’t be late
I can hardly wait
I said to myself when we’re old
We’ll go dancing in the dark
Walking through the park
And reminiscing

The song, as you may be able to tell, is called “Reminiscing.” In 1978, it was released by an Australian soft rock group called the Little River Band. It shot to Number 3 on the Billboard Hot 100, representing the peak of LRB’s popularity in America. In 1996 it was covered by Barry Manilow, and again released in 2001 by a band called Madison Avenue. It was used prominently in the recent Will Ferrell film “The Other Guys.”

Now, it must be expunged from all recorded history.

“Reminiscing” was hardly the most vile, mind-numbing affront to Western Civilization produced by the band. They had other hits in the late seventies and early eighties that were every bit as cloying. There was “Lady,” “Lonesome Loser” and ”Cool Change.” There was “Happy Anniversary” (“Happy anniversary, baby/Got you on my mind“), probably the most egregious abomination of the lot. There was “Help Is On Its Way” which, to this day, I kind of like.

But for some reason, it’s “Reminiscing” that’s stuck in my head, an earworm that has wrapped itself around my cerebral cortex and will not let go. Action must be taken to remove this sonic tumor from my brain, before it metastasizes to drumming fingertips, tapping toes and dancing feet.

I am proposing a four-pronged approach to dispatching this cancer.

First, we round up all surviving members of the band and confine them to an internment camp somewhere in the desert Southwest. This could be a bit of a challenge, not just because it smacks of Stalinism, but because the original five were subsequently joined and/or replaced by dozens of other musicians in the 30-plus years of the band’s existence. Original members like Beeb Birtles, Glenn Shorrock and Graeham Goble can easily be located; they still perform, though they do it under the name Birtles Shorrock Goble since the official “Little River Band” name is owned by former member Stephen Housden, who rents it out to transients. But obscure one-time players like Kip Raines (drummer, 2004-2005) and Hal Tupea (bassist, 1996-1997) are bound to be harder to find, unless we can subpoena the employment records of fast-food giants like Taco Bell and McDonald’s.

Second, we institute a worldwide buyback program. I’ve already lined up the philanthropic might of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation to establish a fund of $4 billion, so that every vinyl record, every cassette, every eight-track cartridge can be purchased from the public and destroyed. Preferably by fire, though a giant crusher will do.

Third, I propose we begin a Manhattan-Project-style effort in the scientific community to learn time travel, so we can send a team back to 1975 to abort the band’s formation. Most physicists acknowledge that one-way travel into the future is arguably possible, given the phenomenon of time dilation based on the theory of special relativity. Going backwards in time is more problematic, given constraints of the so-called “grandfather paradox”. This concept raises the question of what would happen if the traveler killed his grandfather before he met his grandmother, and then his father would never have been born, and neither would he. This could easily be addressed, however, if the execution team could terminate both band members and their grandparents.

Finally, I am offering to perform a lobotomy on myself, boring a hole in my forehead with a common household power drill to allow the demons of “Reminiscing” to escape from my mind. If there’s any money left over from the buyback fund, I could use it to help defray my medical bills. However, I am willing to take on the entire risk and expense on my own IF I COULD JUST GET THIS AWFUL SONG OUT OF MY HEAD!

The world can’t afford to ignore this issue. We must pull together and act now. As LRB would themselves say: Hurry don’t be late/We can hardly wait.

If you encounter these guys, report them IMMEDIATELY to the authorities

Tidbits for a Friday

One of my favorite terms in the business of financial documentation, where I make my living, is “satisfaction and discharge.” I don’t know what it means exactly but it’s something to do with “indentures,” which are kind of like dentures except not at all. If it were the other way around — “discharge and satisfaction” — I’d know exactly what they were talking about.

+++

Here are some other terms and phrases from the prospectuses I read that I enjoy: “compensation package,” which replaces your real package when you’re successful enough to be getting stock options and fully paid health insurance coverage; “the parties met telephonically,” which means one guy called another guy on the phone; “orally indicated,” which means “said”; “stakeholders,” which sound like vampire killers; “mandatory redemption,” apparently a requirement that you submit to Christ; “tender offer,” something one lover might make to another; “total capitalization” which, for some reason, is set in all lower-case letters; and “EBITDA,” which always reminds me of Porky Pig.

+++

I see that Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino, breakout star of “Jersey Shore,” is now frequently going by a shortened version of that nickname, “The Sitch.” When he tires of that, I predict the following progression: “TS” (short for “The Sitch”), followed by “Tease” (a combination of “T” and “S”), followed by “Darjeeling” (a type of tea), followed by “Darj,” followed by “DJ.” At this point, to avoid confusion with fellow cast member DJ Pauly D, he will continue on to “DJ2,” “The Second,” back to “TS” (short for “The Second”) and finally to “That Guy Working at Walmart Who Used to be ‘The Situation’.”

+++

Loving the baseball playoffs, but not understanding the excessive spitting by the ballplayers. Are all the steroids causing water retention, which for some reason can only be expelled orally? I suppose there are worse ways of getting rid of excess hydration in public. I’m just glad this isn’t an issue in other occupations, like law, banking, medicine, politics, etc. How awkward would it be for your dentist to be matching you spit for spit during your oral surgery?

+++

My normally taciturn manager stopped by my desk the other day to show me a picture of himself as a five-year-old. I’m not sure why, nor do I have any idea what was the proper response in a workplace setting. I said he was “cute,” then immediately regretted my choice of words, lest it be grounds for some type of verbal harassment. Wish I would’ve said something like “my, you were young once.”

+++

Easiest job in the world must be as an advertising copywriter for TV ads featuring sports celebrities. During last night’s playoff game, for example, we got to see Tampa Bay manager Joe Maddon extol the virtues of a vitamin product for men over 50. “That’s a hit!” he proclaimed. Football stars “tackle” dandruff problems, basketballers think buying the new Ford Edge is a “slam dunk,” and race car drivers using Viagra “finish first,” though their wives don’t necessarily think this is something they should be bragging about.

+++

Listeners of National Public Radio are no doubt familiar with the philanthropic work of Robert Wood Johnson, a 19th-century entrepreneur and  industrialist whose foundation funds many of the network’s best programs. I want to hear more about his brother, Dick Wood Johnson, the pioneering pornographer.

+++

In the third inning of last night’s Braves-Giants game, the high-definition feed briefly changed to regular definition. I thought I was having a stroke.

+++

Was saddened to hear driving in this morning that the lyricist for the eighties Caribbean-influenced dance hit “Hot! Hot! Hot!” had died. As we pause to remember this great artist, it’s worth recalling his words as we seek comfort for our loss:

I’m hot, you’re hot, he’s hot, she’s hot
I’m hot, you’re hot, he’s hot, she’s hot
Real hot, real hot, real hot, real hot
How you feeling?
Hot hot hot, hot hot hot
Hot hot hot, hot hot hot
Hot hot hot, hot hot hot

+++

Spectrum Brands is one company that seems to have nailed the concept of corporate synergy. They’ve brought together diverse and seemingly unrelated products under one roof, and somehow made them connected. The company has four divisions: Global Batteries and Personal Care (global?); Global Pet Supplies (again with the global?); Home and Garden; and Small Appliances. Name brands you may recognize include Dingo Meat in the Middle rawhide snacks for dogs, Rayovac batteries, Hot Shot bug killer, Remington shavers, George Foreman grills and Breadman breadmakers. So if you ever need to plump up the family pet, stun him, kill him with poison, remove the hair from the meat, cook him on a grill that drains off all the fat, and serve him up as a sandwich, Spectrum Brands is the company you need to turn to.

Revisited: Vacationing in Hipsterland

Combining recognition of our twenty-seventh wedding anniversary and the fact that we managed to take no vacation at all this summer, my wife and I went out to lunch together last Saturday. Celebrations tend to get progressively more modest as we age. For our thirtieth observance in 2012, we’re thinking of going to a parade.

To spice up the event, we chose a restaurant in the trendy redeveloped district just north of Charlotte called NoDa. NoDa is short for North Davidson Street, and a better choice we figured than SoFa (south of Farley Street), NoWay (north of Waverly Heights) and WeWee (west of Weeden Avenue). The residents of NoDa are mostly young professionals, artists and assorted hipsters who have gentrified this part of town with galleries, cafes and shoppes. They live mostly in lofts, where I believe they sleep hanging upside-down from the ceiling.

I obviously don’t know much about the hipster culture, except that if I were the proper age, I would aspire to be one myself. But I am fascinated by foreign peoples, so we decided to imagine this outing was actually an overseas adventure to an exotic land. The tattoos were simply a melanin adaptation of local inhabitants, and the plaid porkpie hats were a costuming choice mandated by distant forefathers and their abandoned trunks of vintage clothing.

We took the MapQuest-suggested route and quickly found ourselves at the interstate exit for Davidson Street. As soon as we hit the bottom of the ramp, we saw our first native, the driver of a retro Ford plastered with bumper stickers for alternative bands. Research we had done before the trip indicated the natives love it when you flag them down and ask them to pose for a picture. Actually, it turned out that they “love it” in quotes, which meant they actually hated it. Pinto Guy gave us a dismissive shake of the head and chugged off before we could set up our camera.

We followed the ordained route into NoDa, which circled us through an industrial area. Soon the abandoned warehouses gave way to older brick buildings with amateurishly painted storefronts and lots of newly installed no-parking signs, and we knew we had arrived.

There were two sites we particularly wanted to visit. One was a funky yarn store my wife was interested in. It seems knitting has become not only a way to create thoughtful gifts for friends and relatives, but also an ironic statement on how life weaves together different strands of being and yet all you end up with is a washcloth. The other location was the Crepe Cellar, just across the road and, not surprisingly, nowhere near a cellar.

We went first to the Yarnhouse, which had a sign that looked more like “Yamhouse.” (To me, a specialty shoppe featuring sweet tubers was only slightly less likely than one with yarn.) The front door opened onto a narrow retail space jammed with tufts of thread, knitting needles, four middle-class ladies slumming for crochet supplies, and one actual male hipster manning (I use the term loosely) the cash register. The only redeeming features I could make out were a sign on the wall claiming the business had free wi-fi, and a half-box of Dunkin Donuts, leftovers from an apparently retro grand opening ceremony held earlier that morning. Other than that, it was fiber arts as far as the eye could see.

I cowered in a corner while my wife shopped among the bins. I tried to look interested when she’d occasionally show me a particularly noteworthy aggregation of wool. I’d comment that it was “nice,” observe whatever feature that seemed to set it apart — “that label has a really unique font,” was one of my best – then return to my refuge near the crullers. A sign near the back directed customers to “notions,” but the one I had in mind (leaving the store) was nowhere to be found.

The most amusing part of the half-hour to me was when a confused local, obviously from the original neighborhood, stumbled in looking for one of those portable sewing kits used to make quick repairs on shirt buttons. With no visible piercings and an entirely too sensible haircut, he was obviously not among the shop’s target demographic. When he had the nerve to ask the cashier where he might locate such a kit, he was told “nowhere in NoDa. You might try the CVS drugstore. We don’t carry that kind of thing at all.”

Now if he wanted to knit himself a shirt from scratch, and use genuine virgin alpaca to do it, this would be the place.

We managed to get out of the shop with only a small purchase. Now, we had to cross the street to get over to the restaurant. It’s a pretty highly trafficked road but, as I learned during trips to the crowded cities of South Asia, it’s best to observe how the locals get past the cars, and mimic that behavior. (Taking hostages is most common on the mainland of the Indian sub-continent, while automatic weapons fire and elephant-riding are favored in Sri Lanka.) A couple of young women in low-slung pants and mauve hair walk out into the roadway completely oblivious to oncoming motorists. They have a right to be there, and besides, wouldn’t it be so ironically sweet to be struck dead by passing SUV?

The atmosphere in the restaurant is even more intimidating than the yarn store. It’s plain that no matter what we say, what we do, or what we buy, my wife and I are among the tragically unhip. It’s a very dark interior, mostly deserted, yet we’re still seated in a far corner where we won’t embarrass anyone except ourselves.

Our waitress brings us a menu and takes our drink order. What do people drink in this strange and foreign land? Mercury? Sap? The blood of tourists? It’s too dark to see the menu, so I lamely ask for a glass of water. My wife spots a sign on the wall advertising the grapefruit margaritas, and has one of those. I’d try a sip, but my Lipitor bottle specifically forbids grapefruit, and I don’t want to die in a “gastropub.” The waitress would thank me for giving her such a great story to tell her cool friends; still, that’s a high price to pay.

Speaking of high prices, my eyes finally adjust to the light enough that I can see the menu. Most items are followed by a single two-digit number, no decimals — always a bad sign. You obviously have to get the crepes at a place called Crepe Cellar, so we agree to order several different items and split them. Beth has the Spinach and Wild Mushroom Caramelized Shallots and Goat Cheese crepe while I ask for the Pesto Brie Hand Cut Pommes Frites, also known as French fries. These are priced at “6.5,” so I mentally scramble through my wallet looking for leftover euros. Hopefully, they take the exotic-sounding ”Visa.”

On the back of the menu, there’s a little blurb describing the restaurant: “Cozy up to butcher-block tables to share a pint aside aspiring artists and hip-hop junkies. Open windows stir up the conversations of women dreaming and scheming their love lives, and candlelight basks across the faces of a first date match.” Unfortunately, no mention of a men’s room, which I’m starting to need. (Later, I find a small, very dark room behind the bar and what I hope was a urinal, not crepe-maker.)

The food arrives and it’s generally good, though the pommes are a little too frite-y. Portions are large so at the end, we want to ask for a take-out box, yet I know for a fact that’s not what Pinto Guy would do, and I’d so much want his approval if he were here. I offer up the credit card, leave a way-too-big tip trying to impress my emo-haired Giselle, and we slink out the door.

We return to our car, satisfied that we’ve had enough excitement in a two-hour trip for it to qualify as a vacation. At least for a couple of middle-aged adventurers in Hipsterland.

Revisited: Traveling among the worksites

Today’s topic … well, I really don’t know.

Usually, I have an idea and a few notes when I sit down to write my daily post. Today, however, finally emerging from the mental mists of backache medication, I find myself feeling very unprepared. If only the buzz from anti-inflammatories could incite the same creative juices that liquor seems to inspire in famous writers.

Let me check my backlog of topics that seemed like a good idea at the time. “Live blogging of Ambien effects.” Talk about a snoozefest. “A critique of the pulmonary system, like you’d review a movie.” Makes me winded just thinking about it. “The over-automation of modern cars.” “People who always end their phone calls saying ‘I love you.’” “My cat’s opinion on the debate over health insurance reform.” “Some kind of fun link.”

I can at least do that last one …

…but I’ll need to do better than that.

Maybe I’ll write a little about the different venues I typically choose to work on blog posts. There are four of these, and I have a feeling it’s going to take a visit to each in order to finish this entry.

For starters, I’m sitting at University Fire Grill, a fast-food outlet located across the street from the university. They’ve only been open since the start of the school year, so workers have yet to sink into the sullen surliness featured at the larger chains. To the contrary, they’re annoyingly helpful, stopping by my table several times to ask if I need anything, maybe some extra ketchup, and have you tried our cookies? I’m trying to get by with the purchase of a soft drink in return for their free wi-fi.

“Just a small Coke for the moment,” I tell them as I set up my laptop. “I’ll be studying your combos while I work.”

“We don’t have small. Will medium be alright?”

“Yes, whatever is smallest.”

The first time I worked here, the manager didn’t even know he offered wi-fi. As I searched the available networks — wading through the dozens of slyly named routers I was picking up from a nearby dorm — I asked him what to look for. “Don’t really know how that works,” he admitted. “But we did make too many fried mushrooms this morning. Would you like some?”

I accepted the fungal offering then asked him to show me a wall outlet I could plug into. One was awkwardly located under a booth while the other was immediately beneath the self-serve soda fountain. Either I’d have to crawl on the floor of a burger joint, with all the health risk that entails, or combine a sticky keyboard with my greasy fingertips (maybe the two would offset each other). I decided to operate on battery power.

One last observation about the UFG work environment: They have some of the most thorough hand-washing signage I’ve ever seen in a public restroom. With everyone from the President to corporate managers encouraging hand hygiene during this flu season, it’s good to finally see someone telling us how to wash our hands. A bank of signs tells me that a 38-degree Centigrade water temperature, a vigorous scrubbing lasting at least 20 seconds that includes both the fingernails and the forearms, and a single-use paper towel are essential. Also, don’t handle dangerous chemicals or take out the garbage after you wash.

Moving on to the next location, it’s now about two hours later and I’m camped out in the EarthFare cafe. EarthFare tries to be a lot of things — purveyor of organic produce, friend to local farmers, profitable — but tends to fall short at all of these. Basically, it’s a grocery store, and that’s good enough for my tastes.

You see, I absolutely adore grocery stores. I would’ve gotten married in the cereal section if my wife’s relatives didn’t threaten to withhold the wedding gifts (talk about clean-up in aisle five!). I almost never go food shopping any more, as it seems to degrade and objectify the element I find so intriguing, the items offered for sale. I prefer to approach it instead like I would an art gallery, where guacamole, fusilli, cream of celery soup and cassava chips are museum-grade objets, and the meat department is a post-conceptual post-organic installation. Let us each summon our own impression of the aesthetics of each display, and remember that the coupons are tripled on Tuesdays.

It’s perhaps a little odd I would feel this way, since my first-ever job was a much-hated stint as a bagboy during high school in Miami. I only lasted eight weeks, with the last three of these spent loitering in the adjacent department store while my parents thought I still had the job. My primary memory now, 40 years later, is the urine stench of the employee’s men’s room, and the need to put cans on the bottom of the bag, boxed items in the middle and bread at the top. Oh yeah, and don’t pee in the grocery bag.

It’s starting to get a little crowded here in the cafe corner of the store, and I’m worried that security camera over my left shoulder may have picked that last phrase in the previous paragraph. So I’ll shut down for now, and resume early tomorrow morning at another favorite spot …

… the kitchen counter.

The challenge at this location is easy to see in the above photograph. Somehow, our home has become infested with three small furry automatons who generally operate in a sleep mode except when there’s activity in the kitchen. The cats haven’t yet learned the difference between me blogging at 2 o’clock in the morning and me stumbling around packing my lunch for work. All they know is that the Big Ugly One Who Sometimes Gives Us Food is active, so they need to be on the lookout because anything could happen.

I’ve started a bad habit of giving each of them a small shred of lunchmeat as I prepare my sandwich, and the whole thing has gotten out of control. Seems there’s this thing called a “conditioned response” and I believe they’ve used their studies in the field to purr and meow and rub against my leg to make me give them a piece of food. Apparently, intermittent reinforcement is supposed to work best, but I don’t think they made it to that chapter yet in their reading of the landmark work of L.Y. Abramson, M.E.P. Seligman and J.D. Teasdale on “Learned Helplessness in Humans” (1978 – Journal of Abnormal Psychology). (I found it hiding under their catbox.)

Otherwise, I actually enjoy working on my blog at this early hour when the rest of the house is asleep. I’ve got the pressure of a deadline driving me on (I have to leave for work by 4:30) and I can take occasional breaks on the couch watching updates of the news and learning about the details of ABC World News This Morning’s anchor Vinita Nair’s upcoming wedding. (The groom is from Texas!)

Great — now there’s a fight somewhere down the hall; they’re involved in their traditional post-prandial inter-cat squabbles brought on by the increased energy you get from a small slice of oven roasted chicken breast. I’ve got to break this up, then start getting ready for work, where I hope to finish this post in between projects before the daily 8 a.m. posting deadline…

I’m now at my desk at work or, I should say, I’m at my desk located at work. Business in the world of financial services is still a little slow, so I can usually squeeze in the last few paragraphs of a post in between the proxy statements and the offering memoranda. I just have to be careful about any cut-and-paste copy getting from a work document to the blog or, God forbid, vice versa.

The sterile environment of an office is not the best locale for creativity. All the background chatter, gossip and occasional need to do real work can be distracting. I’m usually able to prohibit or limit, by regulation or order, payments by any insured depository institution or its holding company for the benefit of directors and officers of the insured depository institution, though sometimes I can’t. And when I can’t, it really, really hurts.

Uh-oh. I see that I’ve just pasted a boilerplate phrase about banking regulations into the previous paragraph. That means that, some time in the next four to six weeks, common and preferred shareholders of First National S&L of Salleem are going to be getting notice of a special meeting at which I’ll be peeing into a bag of groceries. They can vote on the issue via the Internet, by proxy, or by attending the annual meeting in person.

I’m going to have to stop working at work.

Happy Columbus Day (sort of)

Christopher Columbus went to his grave with the mistaken belief that his historic voyages of exploration had landed him in Asia. To honor the heritage of his error, it is today that we celebrate Columbus Day, even though the 518th anniversary of his discovery is actually tomorrow.

Columbus Day was officially changed to the second Monday of October years ago. Such historical revisionism would’ve pleased the man credited with finding the New World, despite the fact the Vikings had made settlements in Canada 500 years earlier, and millions of natives already in the Americas had discovered themselves long ago.

The legacy of the fabled Italian mariner who famously sailed the ocean blue has swung from positive to negative in recent years. Historians stripped him of his title of “Discoverer of America,” giving him instead the wordier and more specific honorific of “the man who led to general European awareness of the American continents in the Western Hemisphere”. He got to keep the naming rights to Columbus, Ohio, Columbia, S.C., and the nation of Colombia, though he would’ve gladly traded those to Verizon for a multi-year deal when he toppled into bankruptcy in his later years. His legacy now is one of exploitation, genocide and enslavement, not much for even the best PR firm to work with.

So we (sort of) honor him today with a holiday for mailmen, bankers and owners of liquor stores, a limited but fitting observance of the life of someone whose star has faded.

Columbus was born in 1451 in Genoa, Italy. His parents were middle class, with his father working as a wool weaver, tavern owner and proprietor of a cheese stand. (Years later, the Catholic Church almost agreed to fund his first voyage when a cardinal misunderstood his desire to “bring cheeses to the pagans.”) Young Christopher loved adventure from an early age, and longed to spread his influence throughout the known world. He became a semen in his late teens but, when he learned that sperm donation for cash was still centuries in the future, switched his career to seaman. He traveled extensively throughout Europe as a business agent for important Genoese families, going as far as West Africa, Britain and possibly Iceland to get away from his wife, whom he left for good in 1487.

He taught himself Latin, astronomy, geography and history, even though he is not regarded as a scholarly man. He made hundreds of notations in the books he read, and clung vigorously to the simple, strong and sometimes wrong ideas that a self-educated person gains from independent reading, making him something of a Glenn Beck of his time.

When he hatched his plans to sail west to Asia, Europe was confronting the challenge of how to maintain the spice and opium trade with the Indies after the Ottoman Turks closed the Silk Road in 1453. The entire continent was going through Vicodin withdrawal, and searching about desperately for cough syrup and/or new routes to the Orient. Columbus presented his “Enterprise of the Indies” proposal to the Portuguese king as early as 1485, asking for three sturdy ships and the title of “Great Admiral of the Ocean.” The king’s experts thought correctly that Columbus underestimated the distance he needed to travel, but he was only off by about 9,000 miles.

Next he sought an audience with Spanish monarchs and singing duo Ferdinand and Isabella. They also rebuffed Columbus, yet were intrigued enough by his ideas to offer him 12,000 maravedis to keep them to himself, lest rival nations somehow benefit from the cock-eyed notion that you go west to get east. But he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, despite the fact that it’s pronounced the same way in Spanish and Italian. Finally, the king and queen gave in to his incessant pestering, and Columbus was good to go.

In August of 1492, he set sail from Palos, Spain, with three small ships: the Nina, the Pinta and the Sea Yawl Later. In just over two months, this modest fleet reached land in the present-day Bahamas, at a site he named San Salvador but which is now known by the less-romantic name of Watling Island. Here he encountered indigenous peoples who were peaceful and friendly, much to their later regret. Columbus liked them a lot, noting that “they ought to make good servants, for they repeat whatever we say to them … I think they can very easily be made Christians.” He kidnapped a dozen or two to take back to Spain with him but most of them died en route. Even in those days, it was tough to find good help, or at least the kind that survived long ocean voyages.

Columbus continued this first of four expeditions, knocking around the Caribbean like a college dropout with a Eurail pass. Later in October, he sighted Cuba, which he thought was China. In December, he landed on Hispaniola, which he thought was Japan. There, he established a colony of 39 men and left them behind, which he thought was a good idea (when he returned on a later voyage to stop and say “hi,” all had disappeared). Nothing was what it seemed in this foreign world, at least not if you held 15th-century concepts of navigation and interpersonal relations. Columbus gathered up some gold and some spices – most notably basil, oregano and coriander that Isabella needed for her paella recipes – and returned to Spain.

There, he received a hero’s welcome. He had shown that great wealth lay just over the horizon to the east, regardless of whether you wanted to call it Asia, the Indies or America. He proved that the earth was round and that circumnavigation of the globe was possible. He opened up two whole continents whose riches over the next century would make Spain the most powerful nation in the world. And don’t forget the paella.

Columbus would make three more voyages over the next ten years, two of which were billed as reunion gigs while the last was a farewell tour meant to supplement his admiral income. On the second trip, he discovered Montserrat, Antigua, St. Kitts and St. Croix, to the everlasting thanks of twenty-first century rock stars looking for secluded beach getaways. During the third voyage, he explored the mainland of South America and had some of his crew hanged for disobeying him. On his last trip in 1502, he was looking for the Indian Ocean which, you have to admit, does kind of look like Jamaica, which is what he actually found. He came close to discovering the Pacific Ocean in Panama, but he probably would’ve thought it was the World Showcase lagoon at Epcot.

Despite some legal problems that led to him being briefly jailed, Columbus enjoyed a good four years of retirement, living on the gold he had accumulated from the New World. He died of a heart attack reportedly brought on by arthritis, conjunctivitis and painful urination at age 55 in 1506.

Even though he was quite callous in his dealings with his own men, and is now widely recognized as pretty much a dick when it came to respecting aboriginal civilizations, Christopher Columbus still deserves recognition for the bravery it took to sail off into the unknown and expand the known world to its current size.

Even 517 years and 364 days later, he deserves to be remembered. If you have to work on this holiday meant to celebrate his life, drive a different route to the office than you might normally take, and just explain to your boss that you’re two months late in honor of the spirit of exploration. If you do get to stay home for the holiday, stroll next door to infect your neighbor with smallpox, then move into his house when he leaves for the hospital. If he complains when he gets out, tell him he’s mistaken his old neighborhood for Asia.

"You haven't seen Asia around here anywhere, have you?"

Fake News: Miners will be rescued ‘in the pink’

COPIAPO, Chile (Oct. 12) — The rescue of 33 men trapped for two months in a Chilean mine was delayed early this morning to allow time for the miners to receive and don pink accessories to promote Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

Americans who have watched NFL match-ups over the past two weeks may be familiar with the campaign to raise awareness of the disease. A number of players have worn pink shoes, tape and stickers during nationally broadcast football games. The Chilean miners, however, were unfamiliar with the effort, and expressed disappointment with the delay.

“We are certainly all in favor of breast awareness, after having been down here for ten weeks. In fact, we have thought of little else,” said Hernando Soto, a spokesman for the entombed men. “We will wear the pink rescue harnesses, the pink helmets and even the pink socks if they want us to. We just wish they could’ve been delivered sooner.”

Workers at the site predicted it would take little more than three to four days for the colorful equipment to be transported down the half-mile shaft. The commemorative clothing will be personally delivered to the trapped miners by pop singing star P!nk, who is currently finishing up a 36-city North American tour.

“We don’t want people to think this delay is simply to allow P!nk to perform her last two concerts in Miami,” said Allen Mooney, the chief engineer on site. “We also had to widen the shaft by another four inches to get her down there. She’s a healthy gal, you know.”

Rescuers hope they won’t have to grease the two-time Grammy winner with “arrollado,” a local pork belly specialty, to squeeze her down the narrow tunnel. They fear the sudden appearance of the glistening star will permanently scar the already frail psyches of the interred workers.

"So What?" if I'm a little late, P!nk sings

Meanwhile, reports that the miners were squabbling amongst themselves to be the last, rather than the first, to escape the underground chamber appear to have been misinterpreted. Some of the men believe the risky maneuver to bring them to the surface is doomed to complications, and want their fellow miners — “especially the guy who kept hogging all the soda,” according to one report — to go ahead of them. Others say they rather liked life deep in the bowels of the earth, and were reluctant to leave.

“They say location and amenities are the keys to a good piece of real estate and, frankly, this place is hard to beat,” said subterranean realtor Chrissy Haverford. “There’s very little seasonal variation in the weather, you’re close to shopping and entertainment that come out of that big tube over there and, when you eventually pass away, you’ll have the convenience of already being buried. Yes, it’s a bit of a fixer-upper but many of these guys have become quite handy in their two months down here.”

The trapped men who want to remain behind may have some competition for the home they’ve built out of solid rock beneath an arid Chilean desert. A number of groups have expressed interest in claiming the location once it is abandoned. Democratic congressional candidates, victims of home foreclosures and Atlanta second-baseman Brooks Conrad, who made three errors in one game to cost the Braves a key game in the National League playoffs, have all made inquiries into when the desolate cave will be on the market.

“I’m prepared to make a very attractive offer,” said House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, who is expected to lose her leadership position in a Republican landslide next month. “All those Tea Partiers who have encouraged me to ‘go to hell’ got me to thinking what a good idea that might be, especially if the U.S. is taken over by reactionary chuckleheads.”

When the miners do finally emerge from underground later this week, they’ll encounter a very different world than the one they left behind the day they were trapped in August. For one thing, it’s getting cooler outside now, especially at night, and they’re going to have a lot of raking to do when they get home. They also may not be aware that David Hasselhoff and Michael Bolton have been voted off “Dancing With the Stars,” and might be surprised to find there are people who aren’t witches running for the U.S. Senate, and that veteran actor Tony Curtis has died.

Plus, they may be confused by a new set of traffic signal colors being rolled out around the world, to increase understanding of several ailments plaguing the planet. The traditional red, yellow and green that had previously been a near-universal presence at intersections around the world have been replaced by pink, a sort of mustard brown, and a metallic blue. The pink, of course, is for breast cancer awareness; the golden brown is for boils, carbuncles and other pus-based skin eruptions; and the blue is for victims of a rare silver-eating disorder.

“It’s true, they’ll have a substantial adjustment period ahead of them,” said NASA psychologist Karen Moreland. “We just pray there aren’t too many car accidents.”

Needless technology marches onward

I show up at work Monday morning and wade through a dozen email messages, all telling me I need to restart my computer because of a technology update pushed out over the weekend. Seems my company, one of the world’s largest publishers, had to load a new font. So tens of thousands of employees in three dozen countries around the world each waste five minutes, just so we can have access to Lucida Sans Unicode. Whoever she is.

A few hours later, I take a break at a nearby coffeehouse and attempt to fire up my netbook. But first I have to answer the question: Update with Internet Explorer 9 now, or Ask me later? Apparently Microsoft has designed a new hourglass icon that will keep me better entertained while I wait for the inevitable crash to follow, and they’re eager to rush this innovation out to their users. “Ask me later,” I answer, but only because they don’t have a “Don’t ever bring this up again” option.

Finally I get to WordPress and — oh, joy — they’ve added some new features. My daily view stats are now shown in bar graph form instead of the line chart that seemed perfectly adequate only last week. More upgrades are doubtless to come from the restless geniuses who brought us webhooks and widgets. I anticipate stats will next be shown in a pie chart, then a scatter diagram, then finally a Rorschach inkblot. (The more it looks like an upside-down bat wearing headphones, the more hits your blog has had.)

I’m getting a little tired of the endless and increasingly pointless applications of new technology for technology’s sake. I’m pretty certain that everything of value has already been invented, and now developers are simply gilding the lily in a never-ending attempt to seem current. The great leaps forward are over. We’re down to the new wrinkles and, as someone who’s pushing sixty, I can tell you that new wrinkles are not what I’m hoping to find as I boot up each morning.

Three recent examples of useless know-how have come across my radar in the last few weeks. How we ever picked our way through the digital landscape before these arrived, I’ll never know.

The Gap

Retail clothing giant The Gap announced a few weeks ago that it was replacing its 20-year-old logo with a new iteration. The company name is still spelled correctly, which is good enough for a fashion-challenged Ross Dress For Less shopper like me. Apparently, though, that wasn’t enough for its trendy customers who not only want to overspend on their wardrobe budget but be aesthetically uplifted by a blue insignia at the same time. Customers rebelled and took to the digital realm to show their displeasure.

But The Gap didn’t get to be The Gap without keeping its finger on the pulse of its clientele. They know customers without a detectable heartbeat aren’t going to be opening up their wallets, nor will customers whose artistic sensibilities are shaken to the core by the grotesque eyesore on the right above. The Gap used its Facebook page to acknowledge the growing protest.

“Thanks for everyone’s input on the new logo!” they crowed optimistically. “We know this logo created a lot of buzz and we’re thrilled to see passionate debates unfolding! We love our version, but we’d like to see other ideas. Stay tuned for details on this crowd sourcing project.”

And so the people spoke, and by “spoke,” I mean they tried to type coherent comments without the benefit of grammar-check:

“That is a horrible logo,” said Ashanti Ward. “I am a huge gap fan but this is not a new logo its lame!!!”

“As if your new logo isn’t enough of a slap in the face to the design community,” wrote April Moen, “now you want us to provide you with free work?”

“HATE HATE HATE HATE HATE!” observed Nicole Guillen. “Please bring the old logo back! The new one is horrible and not classy at all! It looks so cheap, I just hate it!”

“You’re the freakin’ Gap,” wrote Joanna Dee. “You got loads of money! Use it to pay for a new logo designed by industry professionals and trash this disgusting new logo that looks like someone’s vomit.”

This is how people protest corporate malfeasance these days? In my time, we held Big Business accountable through actions, not words. When defense contractors made huge profits off the carpet bombing of Southeast Asia, we organized boycotts and held candlelight vigils. When New Coke was introduced to replace Classic Coke with a sweeter, more Pepsi-like formula, we besieged the Atlanta headquarters, refusing to allow executives to leave the building until they saw the error of their ways. We didn’t whine and moan on their Facebook page.

But that’s apparently what works in these modern, plugged-in times. The Gap issued a press release Monday, quoting company president Marka Hansen as saying “All of the comments say over and over that they are passionate about our blue box logo and want it back. So we’ve decided to do that.” What else could they do? A Twitter account opposing the change had gathered 5,000 followers and more than 2,000 comments were posted on Facebook. The people had spoken and the people had won.

MyPanera

My favorite bagel and free wi-fi outlet is a franchise called Panera Bread. When I stopped by for a sesame and a schmear not long ago, I was asked to join the new MyPanera customer loyalty program. At an online terminal set up right there next to the counter, I could enter all my personal information and, in return, I’d receive a colorful piece of hard, swipe-able plastic and something called “rewards.”

Just for signing up, I got a free pastry. If I offered up my new card every time I made future purchases, I’d eventually earn other as-yet-unspecified rewards. I could only hope this included the right to keep my birthdate and phone number out of the hands of minimum-wage employees eager to sell my data to scammers.

I was issued a user name and password so I could keep track of my “account” online if I wanted to. When I investigated further a few days later, I expected to find perhaps a list of future premiums, maybe a list of participating locations, maybe a way to opt out of junk emails. Instead, I found out way more about my dining habits than I cared to.

Did you know that I ordered a cinnamon roll at 8:37 a.m. on Sept. 28? That I bought a Fuji apple chicken salad the following evening at 6:49? That I purchased a decorative mug at 4:12 on the afternoon of Oct. 2, returned it three minutes later (I found a crack in the base), then bought another mug two minutes after that?

Every transaction I now made with any of the 1,362 Panera locations around the world was being recorded and tracked. I’m not sure I understand the benefits of having access to this level of detail about my loyalty to Panera. But if I ever have to prove in a court of law that I couldn’t have murdered the victim in question because at the precise time of death I was buying a bowl of low-fat chicken noodle soup with a whole grain baguette as the side, I now had a digital alibi.

The Charlotte Observer

No need to adjust your glasses if the photo above appears out of focus. It’s supposed to be that way. It’s something called 3-D printing and, apparently, it’s the latest way for the NASCAR-loving readers of the Charlotte Observer to look at the pretty pictures while ignoring all those boring wordy parts.

Our largest regional newspaper proudly printed a two-part supplement on Sunday titled “Comin’ At You.” It came with a pair of disposable 3-D glasses and featured some 20 pages of fuzzy photographs recounting the history of NASCAR and promoting the upcoming race being held at the local speedway.

There’s a huge blurry picture of a Winnebago RV, barely outrunning an exploding fireball to jump over the world’s biggest outhouse from a 1996 pre-race show. There’s a huge blurry picture of U.S. Army helicopters executing a touch landing just off the front-stretch of the Coca-Cola 600 race in a reenactment of the 1983 American invasion of Grenada. And, as you can almost make out in the image above, there’s a huge blurry picture of a pit crew changing tires in as little as 14 seconds, or maybe it’s the massacre at Tiananmen Square, or maybe that scene in the movie 300 where a bunch of naked guys jump off a clip.

Even some of the ads are in stereoptics. There’s a particularly compelling one from the folks at MetLife, which includes a 3-D chart showing the monthly premiums for 10-year term life insurance for non-smoking males between the ages of 40 and 70. The Bank of America ad shows tailgaters enjoying a pre-race cookout. Enjoy the ad; just be sure not to wear the special glasses into your local bank branch unless you want to be charged with attempted armed robbery.

Besides giving me a gigantic headache from which I’m still recovering, this special section demonstrated that print media can still be relevant in the digital age. It also provided future excuses for the Observer production team to explain how the notoriously unreliable four-color printing process is again out of register. It’s not hazy and ill-defined because of our poor quality control on a high-speed press. It’s supposed to be that way. And the huge blob of black ink covering half the editorial page, the mangled comics section, and those annoying thin ribbons of newsprint that have fallen into your lap. Those are intentional too.

It’s all high-tech, don’t you see?

The miners’ rescue: A review

The helmeted hugfest that was the rescue of 33 miners trapped for two months deep in a Chilean mine may have been a ratings hit with viewers around the world, but how did it stand as a piece of television drama? The reviews are mixed.

For one thing, the show played itself out long before it ended late last night when the final miner was pulled to safety. A good story line needs to start with a pop, and this one did. The appearance of the first survivor Tuesday night, rising like a phoenix from the depths — points off, by the way, for the person in charge of titles, who misspelled it “Fenix” on the escape capsule – was TV at its best.

But having the same plotline repeated another 32 times, and dragging it out over the next 22 hours, eventually became tedious. I’m all in favor of bringing back the long-form miniseries as a staple of broadcast entertainment. A little variety, though, would’ve been a nice touch.

You half-expected survivor number 16 to arrive at the surface rattling his cage and calling out “Hey! Over here! Somebody let me out!” as the focus gradually shifted elsewhere while the operation grinded on. By then, workers on the surface, and much of the estimated billion-person TV audience, had checked out and switched their attention to something more riveting. Like watching paint, or the tears of the families, dry.

You certainly can’t fault Chilean officials for scrimping on production values. The site was blanketed with cameras, with one even placed deep in the cavern itself, though a stage manager had to constantly remind milling victims to get out of the shot. As CNN’s Anderson Cooper noted, the lighting and sound were superb, the blocking crisp, the staging splendid. (Cooper seemed especially intrigued by sight of all those burly men being inserted into a shaft and then shot deep up the bowels of the earth, but I think that was just him). The drama, however, soon wore thin.

The second and third acts definitely could’ve benefitted from punching up by a Hollywood screenwriter. An action sequence or two around the 15-hour mark would’ve gone a long way in holding onto the diminishing audience, especially that key 18-to-35-year-old male demographic. I heard that each evacuee was given a small charge of dynamite to help dislodge any rockjams they might encounter during their ride to the surface. Once rescuers realized this wasn’t going to be a problem, would it have ruined the atmospherics of an intimate drama to have an explosion or two? Who could’ve resisted watching the capsule rocket out of the hole in a shower of flames?

A little comic relief would also have given this offering more staying power. Have the capsule emerge into view only to find that the miner was put in upside down. Stage a “Cash Cab”-style game show on the transit to the surface, peppering the victims with trivia questions as they rode through the unforgiving rock. Bring Baby Jessica out of retirement for a cameo appearance.

And speaking of casting, I’m all in favor of giving unknowns a chance at their big break. Heaven knows it was refreshing to see Hispanic men in roles other than Landscaper In Yard or Drug Pusher #2. It’s just a little tiresome to see a Jorge following a Carlos following a Pablo following an Estaban, all 5-foot-4, all dark-featured and all rocking the monobrow. Was Matt Damon suddenly not available?

Even some small touches could’ve delivered more entertaining fare. I know post-production sweetening isn’t an option with a live event such as this, but there’s a lot that could’ve been done in real time to elevate this teleplay to levels that might’ve garnered Emmy consideration.

In the area of costuming, the sunglasses were a hit with early focus groups, though the clunky helmets, drab jumpsuits and lack of accessories other than a canvas harness were being judged more harshly. Props and sets were only okay; I appreciate the austerity of a simple wheel, rope and hole, but must admit I was a little disappointed with the lack of high-tech-iness. The musical score was sparse and realistic, with the chanted “Chi, Chi, Chi … Le, Le, Le” lending an air of authenticity, and the rousing show-stopper of a national anthem bringing down the final curtain with a flourish. I just found myself longing for the haunting tones of Simon & Garfunkel’s “El Condor Pasa.” (Technically, yes, that’s a Peruvian style of music. However, to the rest of the world, South America is South America).

All in all, I’d still give “Miracle at the Mine” a positive review, as long as I had a crossword puzzle standing by. I agree with Omar Reygadas, miner number 17, who offered two thumbs up as he was carted away on a gurney. True, he’d had most of the rest of his fingers blown off in a previous mining accident. But his spirit, and that of an ambitious production that now seems ready for translation to the big screen, video-gaming and possibly even Broadway musical theatre, showed that the human spirit can prevail. Even if it wasn’t prevailing in high-def.

It’s not what you are that counts; it’s what you aren’t

WASHINGTON, D.C. (Oct. 14) — Negative advertising has long been a staple of political campaigns. This year, however, more candidates than ever are going the extra mile to define themselves by what they aren’t rather than what they are.

In the current anti-incumbent environment, it’s understandable that many don’t want to be defined as a “career politician” or “Washington insider.” But many are denying more fundamental aspects of their lives in order to curry favor with voters.

Most Republicans, for example, have rejected the label “sentient being” in favor of portraying themselves as some type of messenger from God. Democrats, facing a backlash against what’s seen as a government that’s gone out of control during the four years they’ve held majorities in Congress, are positioning themselves far from the policies of President Obama, claiming they’ve “heard of” the man, though they couldn’t say what he looked like.

This phenomenon has been most pronounced in the Delaware Senate race, where Republican Christine O’Donnell has bought TV time to declare publicly “I am not a witch.” Not since President Nixon’s famous “I am not a crook” pronouncement has the denial of something you’d hope would be obvious become such an essential component of the campaigns.

Now, other candidates are adopting the same tactic, hoping to build an image in the voters’ minds of someone who’s outside the tradition of conventional politics-as-usual and yet not completely batshit-crazy enough to think they’re a farm animal or a visitor from outer space.

Nevada’s Republican challenger Sharron Angle claims she’s not a referee in the defunct American Basketball Association, not an oil painting, and not a sable coat. Her opponent, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, says he’s not a bottle of bourbon, not a proprietary file format and not a beanbag.

O’Donnell’s Democratic opponent in the Delaware race, Chris Coons, asserts he is not a junior dragster, not an amorphous silica wall and not a Toronto Maple Leaf.

California’s incumbent Democrat Barbara Boxer says she is not a pinch runner, not a charter school and not a fan of the fugue, while her Republican opponent, former Hewlett-Packard executive Carly Fiorino, claims she is not a funnel-shaped valley, not a predatory sea snail and not an infinitely typing monkey.

Florida’s three-way Senate race features Tea Party favorite and Republican nominee Marco Rubio claiming he is not a near-earth asteroid, not a horseman of the apocalypse and not a gangbanger. Democrat Kenneth Meeks declares he is not a camel, not an interstate highway and not a plantar wart. Former Gov. Charlie Crisp is conducting a campaign as an independent in which he states he is not a coherence therapy practitioner, not a totem and not a member of the rock group The Cro-Mags.

In Kentucky, Libertarian-turned-Republican Rand Paul has announced that he is not an Australian zookeeper, not an adder, and not a Jewess. His opponent for the Senate, Jack Conway, asserts that he is not a maestro, not a concentration camp survivor, and not an ecumenical patriarch.

In the race in South Carolina, incumbent Sen. Jim DeMint says he is not a foxhound, not a lubricant or gel, and not a morning anchor. His opponent, the little-known Alvin Greene, admits he is not a monthly manga magazine, not a plateau, and not an internal combustion engine.

In neighboring North Carolina, Republican Richard Burr asserts that he is not cooking show host Paula Deen, not a microbiologist, and not the world-bearing elephant of Hindu mythology. His opponent Elaine Marshall claims she is not a Daughter of Bilitis, not a cowboy, and not the president of Niger.

Sarah Palin favorite and Alaska Republican nominee Joe Miller reveals he is not a hip implant, not a Japanese prefecture and not a superbly aged pinot noir. Opponent Scott McAdams says he is not the creator of Dilbert, not the first runner-up in the European song contest competition, and also not a hip implant.

Finally, in a tightly contested race in Wisconsin, Democratic Sen. Russ Feingold claims he is not a low-pressure system, not an archer and not a mound of decaying organic matter commonly known as a compost heap, while opponent and businessman Ron Johnson says he is not a river-access homesite, not a pair of shoes, and not a violent sexual predator.

“These things are good for voters to know,” said political analyst and senior fellow at the Heritage Foundation (but not a front-end loader nor a supermarket franchisee) Allen Rigby. “I guess.”

Revisited: You call these benefits?

Opposition to health insurance reform seemed to be crumbling across the country this week as employees began receiving notification that it was time for their annual benefits enrollment meetings.

“No! Anything but that!” said John Beck, head of the Atlanta-area Tea Party Movement and a systems analyst at BellSouth. “I’m not going to have to sit through one of those boring human resources presentations am I? I don’t think I can take that.”

“Oh, God. Is he going to use that same PowerPoint again?” he added. “No!”

Typically, most Americans who consider themselves satisfied with their healthcare coverage are receiving insurance benefits through their employers. The traditional process has been a painful autumn full of angst and frustration as workers learn how much will be deducted from their paychecks each week for medical coverage.

Enrollment is completed in November, then the holidays intervene, with most forgetting how much it’s costing them. By the beginning of the new year, most have returned to a vague notion that they’re getting healthcare for very little out-of-pocket expense.

At the moment, however, they’re wrestling with heavily shaded rows of spreadsheet data, clunky brochures and HR representatives whose answer to every question is “I’m not sure about that — you should really check out the website that Corporate has set up.”

“Was I supposed to be able to read those numbers?” commented Alan Jansen after he attended a presentation at the suburban Washington bank where he works. “They had like a 70% screen on the category that applied to my situation. I think they sent me something in the mail but my wife thought it was junk and she tossed it out.”

Jansen said he had been a strong opponent of the reform plan that seems most likely to pass the Senate next week, saying it represented a slippery slope toward socialized medicine. Now, he admits he’s reconsidering his position, especially since he’s forgotten both the user name and the password needed to sign up for his employer’s plan.

“It’s the same crappy routine every year,” Jansen said. “There’s always several smaller sites that are teleconferenced in to the meeting, and those people ask the dumbest questions. I can barely tolerate sitting through it.”

Harold Taylor, a part-time Republican campaign worker and a full-time document specialist at Chicago’s United Airlines headquarters, agreed. He complained about the flexible spending accounts, the health savings accounts and the so-called “wellness credit” that will reduce his premium by $1,000 if he completes a health questionnaire on-line and agrees to quarterly counseling sessions with some idiot grad student at the University of Michigan.

“I studied all the stuff they sent us before hand, and they still made me go to the meeting,” Taylor said. “I can’t believe there’s money taken out of our paycheck and yet we still have a co-pay, co-insurance and a deductible that would choke a horse. I’d take a death panel over this mess any day of the week.”

Tea Party leader Beck said he now feels like a fool for attending the anti-reform rally in Washington last month, and thinking that his employer and the big health insurance companies were giving him a better deal than the government could.

“I’ll admit, for maybe ten months out of the year, it feels like you’re well-covered,” Beck said. “Then you sit down and study the difference between ‘Plus’ and ‘Select’ and ‘Preferred’ and you think, aw, they’re just messing with us, now.”

“I hope I don’t have to try to get anything out of that ‘new dental partner’ they were talking about,” said Jansen after his company meeting. “Every year they say they’ve brought in someone new because the old plan was so bad. I could’ve told them that last year.”

“Long live Obama,” Taylor said. “I’m ready for Scandinavian-style socialism after watching that HR woman fumbling with her laptop. She didn’t even realize she accidentally backed up ten slides — she just read the same thing over again, in the same steady robotic tone. I say, bring on Big Brother!”

Revisited: How about a little help with MY life?

One could make the case that Republicans didn’t do such a great job of managing something as large as the federal government when they had the chance. Though I rarely find myself in agreement with them on most issues, I must admit they’ve recently shown some real potential.

Specifically, I’m thinking about many of the smaller-scale suggestions they’ve made recently about President Obama’s governing style. Certain members of the GOP have shown genuine insight into what might be better ways for the chief executive to be using his time.

Glenn Beck criticized Obama for his recent attendance at what he called a “Latin dance party,” otherwise known as part of a White House salute to the nation’s diverse musical styles. The president’s visit to Copenhagen in a failed attempt to bring the Olympics to Chicago was roundly repudiated by Republicans as a poor use of time that could otherwise be spent on the nation’s economic woes. Even last week’s trip to New Orleans — which hosted no fewer than seven extended visits by former President George W. Bush, including a flyover where he looked out the window at them — was rebuked as too short, clocking in at a mere four hours on the ground.

He hardly even had time to get his feet wet.

I’m starting to think the conservatives’ strength lies in the minutiae of government. President Obama might have grand ideas for ways to address large and chronic problems facing America but, let’s face it, the guy is hardly a master of time management. The eye for detail that helped us find the WMDs in Iraq, capture Osama bin Laden and avoid the largest financial crisis in 80 years is a real strength for the Republicans. And since they’re so eager to pipe up with observations of every little thing the president is doing wrong, I’m hoping they might be available to help me run my own life more efficiently.

So if there are any Republicans out there who can offer me the same incessant advice they’re giving to Democrats, I’d like some help with the following pressing issues facing me on an everyday basis.

• When I make a sandwich to take to work for my lunch each day, I’ve been adding a thin slather of mayonnaise to both slices of bread. Might it be better to add a slightly thicker layer to just one slice?
• I’m getting a little tired of msn.com’s online Solitaire offering to get me through the slow times at work. What’s a better alternative — Rise of Atlantis or Cubis 2?
• I’ve found myself putting on a little weight lately. Should I buy myself some new slacks that are a size larger, or simply diet myself down a few pounds? I know a shopping trip to Target would help the October consumer retail numbers, but I also realize any healthcare reform that passes is going to be so narrow that it’s unlikely to cover the gastric banding procedure I’ve been looking at.
• When I go running on the treadmill at the gym, does it look better for me to wear ankle-high socks or those longer tube models that go halfway up my calves?
• On my daily commute to the office, is it better to get off the interstate and deal with all the traffic lights on Westinghouse Boulevard, or drive about five miles farther and end up closer to work on South Tryon? I’d consider using MapQuest for help, but I’m afraid of the mainstream media.
• Should I visit Starbucks or Panera on my coffee break? Panera often has abandoned copies of USA Today I can pick up for free, yet Starbucks is more likely to have free samples.
• I love watching “PTI” on ESPN every day. I’ve got it set up to record on my DVR but I usually get home just as it’s halfway through. Should I watch the second half live, then back up to watch the first half on tape, or wait till the whole thing is over and watch it in order? Does the fact that I don’t like Guinness beer factor into this decision at all?
• Should I personally invade Iran, or are the efforts of one person not going to make that much difference?
• If there’s no one driving behind you and you’re making a right turn on a largely deserted street at 3 o’clock in the morning, do you really have to use your turn signal? I know it’s “the law” but it just seems like an unnecessary government intrusion. Also, do I have to stop at stop signs?
• Is it worth the effort to offer cashiers a penny along with my paper money when a purchase ends in .01, .06, .11, etc.? I think I’m just confusing them.
• Is it absolutely necessary that I add a comma after this phrase, or is it just as clear without?
• I forgot to pay property taxes on my car, and had to show up at the assessor’s office to pay in person. The woman in front of me in line spent at least five extra minutes at the window telling the official that “people were getting fed up” and “I think we’re in the end times and ready for the rapture” because “I just heard on the radio there was another earthquake in Indonesia, and there are all those hurricanes in Mexico.” Is it okay for me to be steamed, or should I have added “yeah, and how about that tsunami in Guam?”
• Paper or plastic? Credit or debit? Do I want fries with that? Can you help me decide once and for all?

Monday snippets: The baseball edition

There is no sport that abuses one player so much more than all the others than baseball abuses its catchers.

The rest of the team spends its time in the field essentially loitering, waiting for the occasional play that will require the exertion of moving several feet to the left or right. The pitcher has to throw every pitch, but for his efforts he’s given three days off. Bench players stroll the dugout, trying to think of innovations in spitting and scratching technology.

The catcher is involved in every play, defending himself against the 100-mph fastball with his mitt and his mask. About the only relief he gets from this assault is when the batter fouls one off the catcher’s thumb, or his chest, or his foot. Even though he wears more protection than an armadillo practicing safe sex, he still finds himself bruised from head to toe following each game.

And if the physical abuse isn’t enough, there’s the mental torment. He wore his cap backwards decades before it became the hottest trend in headwear, though he’s given virtually zero credit for this style innovation. He’s nominally charged with calling his hurler’s pitch selection, yet is constantly told “no” by his pitcher, like he was some kind of very bad dog. To communicate these signals, he has to finger his crotch in front of a national television audience.

Then there’s the squatting. What other occupation, in sports or elsewhere, requires its workers to sit on their haunches all day? I can think of the Bangladeshi beggar and that’s about it. The catcher’s knees are a mass of damaged cartilage by the end of each season. Their wives scoop them off the field in a wheelbarrow after the final game, then bring them home to recuperate.

I say it’s time for the catcher to rise up, both figuratively and literally, and end this oppression. On pitches where there’s no one on base, the catcher’s only real purpose is to protect the umpire and keep the backstop from getting all scuffed up. On these plays, he should instead pull up a lawn chair next to home plate and enjoy the action in comfort. Let the pitcher come retrieve all the passed balls. He’s got a day off tomorrow. And the day after that and the day after that.

+++

The intentional walk is a mainstay of baseball strategy. Rather than face a powerful hitter at a key point in the game, the pitcher will — on purpose — throw four pitches way outside the strike zone, allowing the batter to take first base.

I like the concept of intentionally screwing up one task to benefit the larger goal of accomplishing a later task. Is this something I can use in the business world?

“Sorry, boss, about that expense report I turned in with all the random numbers in it,” I could say. “Now that that’s out of the way, I can do a better job on those sales projections.”

+++

What’s the deal with all the stuff in the dirt behind the pitcher’s mound these days?

It used to be there was a resin bag and that was it. Now I see there’s the bag, there’s a towel, there’s an access panel to the sprinkler controls, there’s even a coffeemaker for the pitcher.

It looks like a yard sale out there.

+++

We’ve benefitted from a lot of behind-the-scenes insight into the game of baseball with recent technology advances. You can now see the speed of each pitch displayed, super-slow-motion replays, and statistical analyses that break down a hitter’s on-base percentage by lunar phase.

And yet still, we aren’t privy to what’s being said in the meeting on the mound, where a struggling pitcher is advised by his manager, his pitching coach, his catcher, most of the infield and the guy selling popcorn on how to get out of a jam. We’re left with only our imagination to guess about the topic of discussion.

Manager: “Have you considered throwing a few strikes?”

Pitcher: “My control … it’s just not there today. I need to bear down.”

Catcher: “You need to stop throwing stuff at me.”

Pitching coach: “Alright, guys, let’s not make this personal. We’re all on the same team here.”

Third baseman: “Why can’t I play some? Those guys play catch all afternoon and no one every throws it to me. I’m gonna tell my mom you won’t play with me.”

Manager: “This next guy, let’s pitch him down and in.”

Second baseman: “Se me olvido mi cuaderno. Donde esta la biblioteca?”

Pitcher: “Would it be okay if I lay down for a while?”

Shortstop: “Did anybody see the new ‘Hawaii Five-O’ last night?”

Popcorn guy: “Popcorn! Get your fresh hot popcorn!”

+++

Those memorial patches the Yankees are wearing to honor their late owner are a nice touch. Right above the breast pocket of each uniform, it reads “GWS — The Boss,” in remembrance of George Steinbrenner who died earlier this year.

The only comparable show of compassion you see in other sports would be NASCAR, where drivers and pit crews honor the memory of car companies, detergent manufacturers and erectile dysfunction medicines that used to be profitable before the recession.

Rest in peace, Tide Ultra Liquid Clean Breeze Scent. You will be sorely missed.

+++

Have you noticed that fewer baseball players are wearing necklaces and gold chains around their necks during the game? Maybe some high-kicking flame-thrower finally got his foot caught in one of these and the neckwear was officially banned.

Some of the flashier players still sport earrings, but that’s hardly the fashion sense we had come to expect from our national pastime. I had been hoping the jewelry trend would continue, beyond chains and ear studs, into brooches, pendants, charm bracelets and delicate cameos. Eventually, we might’ve even seen some clothing statements, such as veils, bustiers and cinched waists. Then perhaps on to high heels.

If you think a speeding base-stealer bearing down on the second-baseman with cleats up is a riveting sight, imagine the same scenario with stilettos.

+++

Lots of pretty stupid TV commercials during the playoff games so far. There’s the Liberty Mutual ad, where everyday citizens watch each other being responsible and become inspired to help the mom with a baby carriage to avoid being run over by a bus. “When it’s people doing the right thing, they call it responsibility,” reads the tag line. “When it’s a company doing the right thing, they call it Liberty Mutual.” They also call it protecting the bottom line by not paying out so many financial settlements.

There’s the ad with a bunch of happy animals gathered around a watering hole, enjoying each other’s company instead of preying on each other’s entrails. Wouldn’t it be nice if the world was so safe that the butterflies could ride on the horns of the Cape buffalo, that a squirrel could ride on the back of a crocodile, that a lion and wildebeest could romp together in carefree abandon? Never answered is the question, so then what would they eat for dinner?

Finally, there’s the E*Trade baby, dispensing his usual slacker-inflected advice while standing in his crib. Mom comes in and takes away the toddler’s laptop and he makes some typical wise-beyond-his-years comment. Then up flashes the logo, the website address, and some fine print that stops Investor Babies in their tracks: “You must be 18 to open an account.”

Stylish but otherwise pointless picture of a baseball

Fake News: Democrats court Jackass vote

WASHINGTON, D.C. (Oct. 18) — Trying to regain political momentum from the young voters who carried them to electoral victory in 2008, Democratic leaders announced yesterday they will stage a “Jackass”-style nationwide tour in the final weeks leading up to midterm elections.

“We’re calling it ‘Jackass 2010-D,’” said party chairman Tim Kaine. “With the donkey as the Democrats’ mascot and so many dumb-ass Tea Partiers as our opponents, it seemed like the logical connection.”

All the leading stars in the majority party will spend the next three weeks traveling to states where key races for Congress are taking place. There, they’ll risk their lives performing dangerous and ridiculous stunts to draw notice to their candidates.

“You look at our record and you can see we’ve accomplished quite a bit in the last two years,” Kaine said. “Unfortunately, most voters don’t have the time or the reading skills to comprehend what we’ve done, so we’ll go out and risk a grisly death to try to get their attention.”

President Barack “Bam” Obama will spend the next ten days aboard Air Force One criss-crossing the Midwest to drum up support for Democrats in that region. Among the feats he’ll perform will be the “Bam Can’t Fly” jump, where he’ll attempt to descend from the presidential 747 using only a huge umbrella. He’ll also stick a chicken in his underwear and walk a tightrope over a pool of alligators.

“Some might say this stunt is beneath the dignity of the nation’s highest office,” Obama told reporters at the White House. “I say, bring on the chicken!”

Vice President Joe “Joe-O” Biden will be responsible for the mid-Atlantic states. He’ll appear Thursday at a fund-raiser for Delaware Senate candidate Chris Coons, who’s waging a tough battle against Republican Christine O’Donnell. Biden will use a 120,000-volt stun gun and a 50,000-volt Taser on himself to demonstrate how O’Donnell’s right-wing values are “outside the mainstream.” Then he’ll stuff wasabi up his nose.

“She’s called evolution a ‘myth’ and she opposes masturbation, despite being pretty cute,” Biden said. “That’s much more shocking than what I’m going to attempt.”

House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, who’s become a target of many Republicans running for Congress, will tour the West Coast, performing a stunt in which she’s launched in the air while inside a port-a-potty filled with excrement.

“Since I’m likely out as speaker of the house, it seemed almost poetic that I’d be campaigning from an outhouse,” Pelosi said. “I’m already comfortable being showered with dung in the work I’ve done in Congress, so this one seemed like a natural for me.”

Elsewhere on the “Jackass 2010-D” trail, former vice president Al “Johnny Nashville” Gore will head up a tour around the Southeast. At each stop, he’ll tie one of his teeth to his battery-powered bus and have it extracted as the motorcoach pulls away at high speed. In the Southwest, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid will attend rallies in Arizona, New Mexico and Colorado at which he’ll play tetherball using a hive filled with Africanized bees. In the Northeast, Massachusetts Rep. Barney Frank will have his chest hair removed by super glue, though it’s not clear whether this is part of the campaign or simply part of Frank’s daily grooming regimen.

Elsewhere, House Majority Leader Steny Hoyer will make several appearances with House Majority Whip Jim Clyburn in which they’ll jump on trampolines until their hair becomes entangled in a ceiling fan, undergo a tattoo procedure in the back of an off-road pickup truck, and be blind-folded and rammed by a charging yak.

Even the Clintons and some members of the former president’s cabinet will be getting into the act. Bill and Hillary will lace each other’s morning coffee with industrial-strength poisons, a seemingly deadly feat made possible by the immunity each has built up to the toxins administered over the last 30 years of marriage. Former secretary of labor Robert “Wee Man” Reich will serve as human bait in an attempt to fish for sharks, and will later try to milk a male horse. Former secretary of state Madeleine Albright and former secretary of energy Bill Richardson will reach out to women and Hispanics by surgically removing each other’s appendix without anesthesia.

“You hear a lot of talk about an ‘enthusiasm gap’ in this election, and this effort is designed to overcome that gap,” said chairman Kaine. “You can’t get much more excited than having high doses of electricity charging through your body.”

Democrats hurtle toward victory, and possible death

In search of online customer service

There was a time not that long ago when we harbored the quaint notion that we could control healthcare costs if we just threw enough three-letter acronyms at them.

So we had the HMO, the PPO and the PCP (which stood for “primary care physician,” though it didn’t hurt your perception of how much you saved if you also used the psychotropic drug). We had the HSA, the HRA and the FSA, accounts that gave us pre-tax healthcare dollars we could always use to buy a boxcar of Tylenol if the year ended before we could spend it all legitimately.

In the end, though, the only initials that fully addressed out-of-control insurance expenses were DOA and RIP.

I gave up trying to work toward sensible costs several years back, opting instead for the top-of-the-line Preferred Premium package and just hoping that I’d get really, really sick. Sure, it’s expensive. In fact, as I review the enrollment options my employer is offering for next year, it looks like I’ll have to pay them to work there and get health insurance. Still, it’s easier than jumping through hoops to eke out every penny of savings. A person could get hurt on those hoops.

I did have a health savings account (HSA) about six years ago, and it worked okay as long as you dedicated half of your waking life to managing it. My company put in $1,500 on January 1, and I could write checks on the account for any medical expenses not covered by other parts of my insurance. When the next year rolled around and the company match fell from $1,500 to $200, I dropped out.

I managed to get the balance in the account down to $2.69 before I forgot about it. Financial giant BNY Mellon still sent me statements every 90 days, and I did consider writing a check for a couple of value menu burritos just to zero it out, but I didn’t want the IRS on my case. I could try to convince the Feds that Taco Bell could contribute to a person’s health, if you counted negative contributions as well as positive ones, however that seemed like a lot of trouble.

I called BNY Mellon in mid-2008 to close the account, telling them they could put the balance in their coffee fund for all I cared, as long as I stopped getting the statements. Still they continued to arrive, never-changing in their columns of data: $0.00 in deposits, $0.00 in withdrawals, $0.00 in interest paid, 0.00% annual percentage yield earned, 0.00% year-to-date interest, and that incessant $2.69 balance.

When the quarterly statement arrived about a week ago, it included an “important message.” It read, “Go green! Elect electronic statement delivery. Log on to the website listed below and select ‘update account profile’. A $0.25 charge for receiving paper statements will begin September 30.”

I wasn’t about to see my $2.69 nest egg whittled away until it disappeared completely in 2013. And who doesn’t want to help the environment by not cutting down the old-growth hardwood it takes to create my mailing? I went straight to the website. I was finally going to shut these people down for good.

Except that the site wasn’t exactly user-friendly, and I spent a good half-hour there flopping around trying to get security clearance for such a high-stakes transaction. I clicked on the “First Time User” button, which asked me to create a user ID. I found an acceptable name, typed it in, and hit the “Log In” button. This took me to a page with a group of smiling generic faces at the top and an ominous stop sign below them.

“You cannot proceed without a security code,” read the bold type. “We need to verify your identity before you log in.”

I was directed to check the email address they had on file for me where I would find the code. I logged into Gmail and, sure enough, there it was. I wrote down the code, went back to the HSA log-in screen, and carefully typed in the letters they had sent me: “ekcyyp”. (Scammers, please help yourself to my $2.69, if you have any better luck getting to it than I did.)

“The security code you have entered is incorrect,” I was told. “Please try again.”

When I tried again and it still wouldn’t take, I logged out completely and came back around for another shot. This triggered another e-mailed security code to Gmail, and “du52eq” didn’t work either, and when I went through the whole process again, neither did “hy4jmo”. I was going to have to give up and attempt to call the customer service center. I put in a vacation request at work to take my remaining six days off so I could dedicate myself fully to the voicemail nightmare I’d now be forced to navigate.

Will Davis try again to change his account profile online? Does he really have any hope of remembering a password issued in 2004 that he hasn’t used since? Is there a hidden meaning in “hy4jmo”? Or will he instead telephonically scour the Indian subcontinent, looking for that special individual who can walk him the maze of user names and security codes? Tune in tomorrow for the thrilling conclusion.

A descent into voicemail hell

Yesterday, we followed along as Davis attempted to close a dormant health savings account and stop quarterly statements from being mailed to his home. First, he tried going to the HSA website and met with nothing but frustration. Today, in search of even more exasperation, he attempts to negotiate with voicemail and offshore customer service reps. We join him now as he makes the call to the toll-free help line.

I was greeted by that pre-recorded woman’s voice we’ve all come to know and hate. She mixes a tone of delight, casualness and enthusiasm that lets you know right away she’s not a real person. She welcomed me to the “Solution Contact Center” (SCC) and ran through the options she thought I might want to select from: I could press one for account information, two for frequently asked questions, three if I was an employer, four if I was a broker, five if I was not yet an account holder, and six if I wanted marketing support. Already, I longed for an option seven, which would send a high-pitched screeching tone into an SCC operator’s ear.

None of the six choices seemed quite right for what I wanted to do, so I tried pressing zero. Sometimes this gets you directly to a live customer service representative.

“We’re sorry but your menu selection is not available,” the fake woman said patiently. “For more information, you can visit our website at HSAmember.com.”

Yeah, well I already tried that and it didn’t work. Why do you think I’m calling you?

I listened to the menu options again and figured number one, account information, would be my best bet. I was informed that due to the current load of callers, it would be five minutes before I could talk to someone. I was encouraged to stay on the line, because calls would be answered in the order they were received, if at all. The “hold music” began — at first, a thumping bass that seemed more appropriate as house music at a gay disco, then quickly replaced by a tune that could only be described as “lilting”.

I settled in for what I hoped would be a short wait, playing the game I always play in similar situations – trying to write lyrics for that gentle instrumental designed by psychologists to soothe the angry customer.

A real human being will be with you soon
If you’re lucky at all, it’ll be before noon
Try to relax as you sit there and wait
Do a sudoku, don’t ponder your fate

Within about 90 seconds, the music paused and my heart leapt at the prospect of being served.

“Your call is important to us,” said a new woman’s voice.

“Well, that’s good to know,” I said. “I just have a question about how I can stop getting –”

“Please continue to hold,” I was interrupted. “A representative will be with you shortly.”

And a return to the hold music. I tried to relax, imagining a green meadow, a cloudless sky, gentle breezes, perhaps a fawn and its mother romping in the distance. My thoughts slowly turned away from my worldly problems, and I was transported to another place in time, a soothing, idyllic setting where insurance and healthcare and service charges didn’t exist, a place where a pair of white-tailed deer could halt the mailing of unwanted statements to my home with a magical twitch of their noses.

The music paused again, and I was jolted out of my repose. “Thank you for holding. We look forward to talking with you soon. Please hold the line and we’ll be right back with you.”

These slightly different, alternating messages of unfulfilled encouragement continued on and off for at least ten minutes. Around the sixth or seventh time, the woman’s voice was replaced by a man’s, which I gathered to be an attempt to establish some higher level of authority, lest the caller was becoming agitated with the nice lady. Once he had re-established who was in charge here, the man’s voice left and the woman’s voice returned for several more pre-recorded assurances that they’d get to me whenever the hell they felt like it.

I was fully prepared to ignore the guy as just another pre-recorded voice when “George” finally came on the line. He was as much of a “George” as I am a “Harish,” but I wasn’t about to let any cultural preconceptions interfere with my glee at finally talking to a real human, even if he was oceans away and reading from answer tree while dreaming of the day his country would take its rightful place in the world, deposing those lazy Americans and their petty annoyances to the scrap heap of history.

“For security purposes, can you verify your address for me?” he asked in an accent-free voice.

I read off my address, then proceeded to tell me tale of woe, how I had closed the account and didn’t care about the lousy $2.69 and didn’t want to get any more paper statements because of the 25-cent service charge and — oh, yeah — I cared about the environment too.

“Do you still have the checkbook?” he asked. “You could write yourself a check.”

“I probably have it somewhere but it would take forever for me to find it,” I answered.

During the brief pause that followed, I could sense him thinking about my embarrassment of plenty and being disgusted by it. Not only did I have $2.69 that I didn’t care about – probably enough to feed his entire family for a year — but I had mounds and mounds of paper records documenting my (comparatively) enormous wealth. It was too much trouble for the decadent American to exert himself a little.

“I think I’ll join al-Qaeda,” is what he thought of responding, but instead came up with exactly the offer I was hoping for: “Can we zero out your balance?”

“Yes,” I answered. “And that will also stop the statements from coming?”

“It will take one billing cycle for that to happen,” he said.

“Wonderful,” I responded. “Thank you so much.”

“Can we help you with anything else at all today?” he asked. I thought of mentioning I was having some trouble with the transmission in my car, and that I needed someone to fix a warped board on my back deck, but decided he had helped enough already. Then, oddly, he asked me to do something for him.

“Do you have a moment to take our automated survey?”

“If I have to press one for English, two if I want Spanish and three if I want Hindi, I don’t think I’ll have time for that today,” I thought of responding, but left him instead with a “No, thanks.”

Now, all I have to do is sit back, wait for about 100 days, and hope that I haven’t killed any more trees.

Answering the rhetorical questions

Have you noticed how many television commercials these days start with a question?

(And blogs too, for that matter.)

Maybe it’s an attempt to open your subconscious to the possibilities of life, including the possibility you might be interested in buying not one but two new sport utility vehicles during a single commercial break. Maybe it’s a subtle way of drawing you into the unfolding scenario, making you care about the hundreds of characters holding arrow signs over their heads while dodging midtown traffic and riding unicycles. Maybe it reflects marketing experts’ puzzlement at why anybody would buy their product, a roundabout way of asking “you don’t seriously want to buy this stuff, do you?”

Whatever the reason, I think the idea of opening with a question originated with the short teaser ads that local news operations inject into prime-time programming. They want to lure you into staying up late with the promise of some sensational breaking story, when all they really have for a lead is the new garbage pickup schedule.

“Is that someone I hear trying to jimmy the lock to your front door?” asks the inevitably blond anchoress. “Details at 11.”

“Did you know that poisonous fumes could be suffocating your children at this very moment, while you think they’re peacefully sleeping?” counters her competitor’s recently promoted sports reporter. “Don’t miss our eyewitness report later tonight. Unless you’re the type of parent who likes poisonous fumes. You’re not that kind of parent. Are you?”

Then, Fox News recognized that its viewers might wander off into the woods during even the briefest commercial message. So they started tantalizing their audience with an upcoming whiff of scandal to make sure they hang around during the break.

“Is Obama space alien, Hitler and LeBron all in one?” reads the bumper graphic leading into the ads. Then, when the news returns, it’s a story about a gerbil who paints landscapes while drumming out in Morse Code with his tiny gerbil claws that no, Obama is not these things. “At least,” taps the gerbil, “not that we know for sure.”

Now, I know these commercial queries are rhetorical questions, not designed to be answered. Playful copywriters have discovered a new way to grab your attention, and they’re just having fun with it. If you’re not smart enough to figure how to use a digital video recorder to zap through the ads, you’re certainly not smart enough to answer a rhetorical question.

Are you?

This past weekend, I kept track of this latest advertising trend, and present below a sampling of these questions. And, foolishly perhaps, I try to answer them.

The financial headlines can be unsettling, but what if there were a different story, of one financial company who grew stronger?
It would make the fact that I lost my job and that my house is in foreclosure so much more bearable to know that a giant bank is feeling better now.

Can a smart phone be its own guardian angel? Can it keep an eye out for itself? And tell you where it is, when you don’t even know yourself?
I think my mind is officially blown. Are they saying that if you lose your phone you can use your phone to find it?

What if a moment standing still could be just as beautiful when it breathes? What if photography moved us, and we moved photography?
Well, then you’d have that commercial with the little girl with the hair being blown all over the place as she looks at a flower. I don’t know why her father doesn’t roll up that window for her, considering how taken she is with the begonia. Isn’t this a form of child abuse? Admittedly, not as bad as where that insurance guy offers one kid a pony and tells the other kid he can’t have one because he doesn’t have the special “equine rider” in his homeowner’s policy. But it’s certainly right up there with the ad where a skinny boy angers the local bullies, then runs and jumps in the back of his mom’s minivan, and she backs over the bullies.

What makes a Hershey bar pure?
This is only a guess but I’m hoping — fervently — it’s because it’s never had sex.

Smooth skin?
Heh, heh — no. No thanks, but I appreciate the offer. I can smooth it myself.

The best thing about the Arby’s value menu?
That there’s not an Arby’s located in my home town.

Who says all birth control pills have to be the same?
I do. My name is Rick Lawrence, and I’m head of the Food and Drug Administration’s Task Force on Birth Control Sameness.

What’s the difference between Tylenol and Advil?
With Tylenol you take two, while with Advil you take one and wait for a while to see if it works and it usually doesn’t so you take another one. That’s why they have the “1-2″ imprinted on the pill. Or does that mean you’re supposed to take only one-half? Oh, God, I think I just OD’d on Advil.

Are you trying to sleep with someone who sounds like a chain saw?
That’s kind of a personal question, don’t you think? I’ll only say that it’s not the sound of a chain saw I like as much as it is the vibration.

Hey Troy — have you been using my shampoo? Because it’s for guys who want thicker-looking hair
Yes, I’ve been using your shampoo, and everybody is noticing. This stringy mullet part that comes out the back of my helmet and obscures my name to make it look like “POL[hair]ALU” would be so unmanageable without it. If I didn’t have that built-in moisturizer and those seven essential botanicals, I’d frizz up so much there’d be no domed stadium that could hold me.

What’s in your wallet?
Well, I used to have a Capital One credit card. Now I leave it at home because, after seeing the newest contract terms you’ve sent me, I’m afraid to use it. I tried for a while carrying around the contract in my shirt pocket but it weighed down my upper body so much that I developed scoliosis. After that, I dragged it in a red wagon behind me in case I needed to consult the fine print while purchasing a bagel. Eventually, I just gave up and decided to pay for everything with cash. That piece of plastic still in my wallet that I use when I want to get screwed? That’s a condom, not a credit card.

An editorial: Who do these people think they are?

You would think a person could run a few chores around town on a Thursday afternoon without being inconvenienced at every turn by half-wits, lame-brains and lunk-heads. Unfortunately, such is not the case.

I had several errands I needed to tackle yesterday after work. Nothing too complicated — a quick stop at the grocery store and the bank, maybe get some gas, maybe pick up a cup of coffee. Shouldn’t take more than an hour, tops.

Two and a half hours later, I’m almost incoherent with frustration. Nobody seems to be paying attention to what they’re doing today.

Who do these people think they are?

I pull up to the stop sign at the exit of our subdivision with plans to make a simple right turn. In front of me, trying to turn left, is a large SUV, piloted by a woman talking on her cell phone. She’s positioned her vehicle just enough to the right of where it should be so as to block me from getting out.

As cars whiz by from the right and left, she’s paralyzed by indecision. I can see her occasionally swiveling her head, trying to find an opening, but she seems much more focused on her conversation than she is on her driving. If she would inch forward just a bit, I could get by on the right and go on about my business. No, she wouldn’t want to do that. It would be too considerate. If she shows any awareness at all of motorists around her, next thing you know she’ll have to start using a turn signal.

I hereby call on this lady to move it already. Let’s go, let’s go. If you must turn left, pull into the center turn lane and gradually merge your way into traffic. Or, you could turn right, circumnavigate the globe, and still get to your destination with the next month. I don’t care which option you choose, just please let me pass.

Once out of the neighborhood, I’m able to make my way to the supermarket. All I need is a half-gallon of ice cream and a pack of hamburger buns. I quickly locate the items and make my way to the self-checkout area.

There are four U-Scan stations, two on the left and two on the right, with a sign centered in the entrance area indicating this is the place to line up for the next available opening. Another person is already standing there, and I dutifully take my place behind her. Meanwhile, a guy saunters over from the adjacent produce department, arms loaded with bananas and pineapples, and goes directly behind a shopper finishing up at one of the terminals.

That’s not how it’s supposed to work, mister. We all line up at the entrance, and as a station opens, the first person in line gets to advance to the checkout. We don’t each pick the U-Scan we like best, and stand in front of it. What are we, animals?

I implore Fruit Man to be more considerate and learn more about the etiquette of modern shopping techniques. I think they have a course at the local community college that he might be wise to take. In any case, you need to wait your turn.

My next stop is at the bank. My plan is to pull up to the drive-through ATM and make a “fast cash” withdrawal of $50 for weekend money. There’s only one car in front of me, which is good luck this late in the afternoon.

But wait a minute — what’s this? The driver ahead is climbing out of his car and bending over to look quizzically at the cash machine. I don’t know if he can’t see because of the bright sun, or if his car window is broken, or if he just feels the need to stand erect in order to transact business. He’s an older gentleman, so I’m guessing he’s a little flummoxed by the technology. Now, out of the passenger side of the car, here comes what looks to be his wife. She joins him in pointing at the machine and looking skyward.

I urge you in the strongest language possible to figure this out and move along so somebody else can play with the nice bank buttons. Pick a slot, shove in your card, and randomly start poking at the keys. With any luck at all, the ATM will keep your card and you’ll be forced to go inside. There are people here waiting who have used a computer before.

I don’t want to stop for gas at 5 in the morning on my way to work, so I pull into a station just down the street from the bank. I swipe my card at pump number 12 (my personal favorite), and the inquisition begins.

What is my zip code? Do I want a car wash? If so, standard, deluxe or premium? Do I want a receipt? Which grade of gasoline do I want? Am I sure I don’t want a car wash?

It’s not the meddling I mind so much as it is all the time these questions are taking. It’s just gasoline, for crying out loud. It’s not like I’m trying to check out the Constitution from the National Archives.

I insist that gas companies get back to their core business model of providing fuel to the motoring public. You’re supposed to be involved in the mining of energy resources, not the mining of data. Quit asking me so many questions. You can have my zip code when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.

Finally, I’m ready to swing by the Starbucks for a quick cup of coffee to settle my nerves. No one waiting in front of me here — the combination of increased competition from fast-food outlets and the caffeine-fueled pace of the baristas keep the lines down inside the shop. I place my order for a small black coffee, no room, and give the cashier my name. Within moments, my order is ready. I think.

“Tall black no room for David,” calls out the barista.

Several issues here: (1) I know “small” in the Starbucksian language translates to “tall,” but using the phrase “tall black” makes me look around for the African-American basketball player whose order is apparently up. (2) “No room for David” sounds very inhospitable. (3) My name is Davis, not David.

I beseech the corporate decision-makers at Starbucks to simplify their ordering process. Have customers tell you in simple terms (small, medium, large, etc.) what they want, take their money and give them their coffee. There’s no need for a separate pedestal halfway across the room where you pick up your order, there’s no need for you to know my name, and there’s no need for the whole concept of “room.” If the cup is too full to put in creamer, I’ll just pour some onto the floor.

In conclusion, the editorial board here at DavisW’s Blog urges the world around me to get its act together and stop throwing so many impediments in my path to happiness and fulfillment. Why does it seem that everyone is out to get me? Does no one have even the smallest shred of decency and common sense?

Who do these people think they are?

Revisited: No more eulogies

The last truly decent person who always had a kind word for everyone and would light up any room they entered, died yesterday.

Ernest Hebert was described by friends and family as someone you could always count on in a time of need. He never let hard times get him down, and children always flocked to hear him tell stories about his youth. He’d give you his last dime if you were short of money, and was always available to do whatever favor you needed him to.

“He was truly a very special man,” said long-time friend Ken Cash. “There won’t be another one like him for a long time.”

In fact, experts believe there may never be another one like him. It is likely that Hebert could be the last honest, hard-working, conscientious, caring human being on the planet. Virtually every individual who has died in the previous decade was described by surviving friends and family in glowing, positive eulogies following their passing. If mathematical models for good versus evil are correct, Hebert represented the last upstanding person alive. Everybody left is either a jerk-off or a lame-o.

“We’ve been aware of this trend for quite some time,” said Marie Andrews, chief demographer at the U.S. Census Bureau. “Whether it’s a celebrity or sweet old Mr. Johnson from the post office, people just can’t say an unkind word about the dead.”

Andrews pointed to two recent examples to illustrate her hypothesis. Pop star Michael Jackson, hounded for years as a washed-up singer, plastic surgery addict and probable sex offender, was instead found to be a loving father, loyal friend and brilliant artist during investigations begun immediately after his death last June. Also, Harriet Taylor, Andrews’ 78-year-old neighbor who constantly complained about kids making too much noise and the oak tree that wasn’t planted on her property but still dropped leaves and acorns on her side, turned out in death to be a kindly soul who left $10,000 to the local library.

“It’s pretty certain we’ve now reached the point that all the good people are gone,” said Andrews, who admitted that she herself was a shrewish harpy, a dangerous driver, a bad tipper and a full-on bitch. “You can expect obituaries to start taking an ugly turn as more awful, awful individuals begin passing away.”

Revisited: Death to the fire ants!

Now I am become Shiva — destroyer of worlds.

I did what I thought would be the last bit of lawn maintenance for the season this past weekend — a little mowing, a little raking, then free Sundays for the next six months. Instead, I came to find that my back yard was infested with fire ants, and that they have plans that differ significantly from mine.

The fire ant, an invasive pest found primarily in the South, came to the U.S. in the early 1900s. It is one of a variety of stinging ants found worldwide. The queen and her colony form reddish mounds of dirt that can reach heights up to 15 inches. The venom of the sting causes a burning pain, pustules and can even lead to anaphylactic shock in sensitive individuals. They have a pedicel with two nodes and an unarmed propodium, both of which sound really handy. They often attack small animals, and can kill then.

Fortunately, I’m a large animal, so for me they represented more of a nuisance than anything. As I pushed my mower up and down the yard, I had to be on guard for the domed hills that each housed hundreds of thousands of the insects, any one of which could scramble onto my shoe and threaten my life. I could run over the smaller mounds with the mower, though I doubted it would inflict much damage beyond a lacerated thorax or two. The bigger piles would clog the cutting mechanism and had to be avoided.

When I finished the mowing, I was left with a yard dotted with uncut clumps of grass and dirt. I looked closely at one, to learn a little more about the ants and their culture, so I’d be better equipped to return later and obliterate their carefully planned society.

Ants have long been admired for their strength, their work ethic and their intelligence. Americans could learn a lot from their industrious nature (specifically, how to overrun a country, then sting and consume the locals). The pie-sized circle of dirt I examined was quiet at first glance, at least till I jabbed it with a stick, and then it came to life. Teeming thousands of the tiny beasts instantly began looking for the intruder. When they saw it was a human, I noticed a look on their comically small faces that combined both fear and loathing. They were scared of what I might do, but also resented the fact that I resided in a comfortable brick home while they lived in dirt.

I knew I had to remove them from the property, and individually transporting each one to some distant ant farm just didn’t seem practical. I would have to rain death down upon them. But what form should the execution take?

A few years ago, I had a similar problem, and had limited success putting my teenage son and his best friend on the case. They had just helped me finish clearing leaves with the new high-powered blower I had purchased, and came up with what in hindsight was a poorly conceived plan: aiming a jet of compressed air directly at the anthill. True, it excavated a deep, ant-less hole where the colony had previously been. However, in the process, it flung countless drones and workers all over them, which none of the parties involved appreciated. I had heard that toothpaste could be a good makeshift antidote, but the boys were too agitated to consider how they would brush each individual ant mandible, not to mention the difficulties of flossing.

So if mowing them doesn’t work, and blowing them doesn’t work, I figured my next best option was poison. I found an insecticide formulated specifically for fire ants, and set out to wreak my vengeance. The instructions called for sprinkling four tablespoons of the product in a circle around each mound, but that just didn’t make sense, especially the part about the four tablespoons (I’m killing ants, not baking a cake). So I took a styrofoam coffee cup, filled it with the yellow flakes and poured it directly on the ants. I then added some water, either to soothe their pain or soak the poison deeper into the nest, I’m not sure which.

You could tell they weren’t happy about this turn of events, but too bad for them. At least it’s more humane than what they would face from their only natural predator, the phoridae. This is a small, hump-backed fly that doesn’t so much prey on fire ants as it does mock them in a merciless and fatal fashion. These flies lay eggs in the thorax of the ant, then the larvae migrate to the head and eat it from the inside out. After about two weeks, they dissolve the membrane that attaches the head to the ant’s body, causing the head to fall off. (Ouch!) The young fly then lives in the head for another two weeks before emerging. In the NFL, that would be called taunting, and would merit a personal foul penalty.

By the time I made my way all around the yard, I began to feel a twinge of remorse. I’ve never been one to callously destroy inconvenient forms of life. I’m not into karma or anything like that; it’s just that I’d rather trap a stray spider between a piece of mail and a cup and move him outside than risk a nasty stain in the carpet. So when I came to the last colony, instead of poison I decided to give them the core of the apple I had just finished. I’m not sure that fruit is part of their diet, though fiber is good for almost everybody. I did read that they like plants, seeds and sometimes crickets, and an apple seemed better than the only other thing I had, a cough drop.

The poison is supposed to work within 48 hours of application, so I’ll be checking back later this week to see how many millions of God’s beloved creatures I have successfully terminated. I also want to see what happens to the apple.

Eat death, ants. Or have an apple instead

NFL still full of injuries, commercials and penalties

Week Seven of the NFL season saw some front-runners solidify their position in the standings, other teams starting to look toward next year, and a few even working in a little football amidst the injuries, commercials and penalties.

Highlights include:

A swarming Pittsburgh scheme left the Miami backfield looking more like a battlefield, as Dolphin after Dolphin fell to the turf seriously injured by the onslaught of the league’s best defense.

“The president is Martin Van Buren,” said Miami coach Tony Sparano, who was among those suffering concussions, following the defeat. “The year is 1967. My name is Fernando Lamas.”

The Steelers’ dominance of the line of scrimmage was so overpowering that Miami gave up carting off the wounded by the third quarter, instead leaving players laying about the field where they fell. Some were covered with sheets to allow them to suffer in privacy, while others were simply marked with a spray-painted orange “X” on their uniforms. An effort to enlist the help of cheerleaders to fill vacant positions on the roster did little to stem the attrition, with many of the women suffering broken midriffs and sprained cleavages.

“That’s the kind of effort we’re going to need if we’re going to make the playoffs,” said Steelers coach Mike Tomlin. “Our pass patterns worked much more smoothly when the entire defensive side of the field was empty of upright players. You gotta give the Miami team credit, though; the spastic twitching of those with life-threatening spinal injuries nearly tripped us up a couple of times.”

The league’s announcement last week that it was cracking down on overly aggressive play seemed to have little impact on Pittsburgh. While helmet-on-helmet hits seemed to decrease, and fewer defensive backs were seen “launching” themselves head-first into defenseless receivers, many Steelers did carry heavy oak clubs that they used to bludgeon opponents to the ground.

“There’s nothing in the rules — yet, anyway — that says we can’t carry blunt instruments,” said defensive standout James Henderson.

A Miami assistant coach promised his team would be back in action next week. “They may have broken a lot of limbs, but most of them they didn’t break off,” said Harold Carmichael. “We hope to reunite those arms and legs that did become separated with their rightful owners once we get it sorted out what belongs to who.”

Listed as “probable” for next Sunday’s contest against Cincinnati was Miami quarterback Chad Henne (broken hip, dislocated jaw, missing foot), while running back Ricky Williams was described as “questionable” because the top of his head was ripped off, and linebacker Channing Crowder was listed as “day-to-day” because he had died.

In Chicago, the Bears took on the Washington Redskins in a contest that saw heavy-duty pick-up trucks climbing up rocky inclines and having steel girders dropped into them. Also featured were middle-aged men wondering if their retirement plans would permit them a comfortable lifestyle in their later years.

Concerns about the cost and service level of various car insurance offerings dominated the first half, while the Bears worked to establish a ground game that could counter Washington’s plans to order three Domino’s pizzas for only $15. Following adjustments made at halftime, the Redskins instead got Whoppers and Gatorade sports drinks, which they intend to consume during Wednesday’s night’s Game One of the World Series, shown exclusively on Fox.

Washington staged a stirring fourth-quarter comeback, keyed by Flo from Progressive Insurance’s structuring of a homeowner’s package that allowed the Redskins to name their premiums, something that no other insurer is offering. Washington eventually prevailed with a cell phone data usage plan that caused the Bears to stop in mid-play and check the fine print of their contracts, only to discover that they were often paying for unused minutes. The guy from the “Dirty Jobs” show talked about how much he liked Fords and his new jeans, and a mom manipulated a family photo session to make her kids seem less like jerks and more like Photoshop victims before the whole clan was embarrassed on Facebook.

“That definitely proved to be a distraction to our guys,” said Bears coach Lovie Smith. “We were already thrown off our game by the thought of making stock trades for as little as $7.95 per transaction.”

The Sunday night contest matching the Vikings and the Packers promised to be filled with the drama of Brett Favre’s return to Green Bay. That was overshadowed, however, by an error-plagued game that saw Minnesota penalized 23 times for 1.2 miles, while the Packers were flagged on every play except two.

The Vikings scored an early touchdown but were hit with an “excessive celebration” call when they donned party hats, grabbed fists full of colorful balloons from a nearby clown, and jumped up and down squealing like little girls in an inflatable bouncy house following the eight-yard screen pass. On the ensuing kickoff, Packers’ return specialist Deshaun Wilson was cited for unsportsmanlike conduct as he ran from the field and into the stands while being chased by the Vikings’ kick coverage team.

The Pack recovered with a 57-yard pass play that was nullified by an interference call, a holding call and a clipping call, as well as having too many men on the field (83). Green Bay running back Brandon Jackson eventually made a one-yard plunge for an apparent touchdown, though it too was called back for a “personal fowl” when it was discovered Jackson had stuffed a chicken in his jersey.

Favre had his typically hot-and-cold performance, brilliantly reckless one moment and turnover-prone the next. He appeared to shake off the commotion surrounding allegations that he had “sexted” a female coworker while he was with the New York Jets in 2008, though he was flagged twice for an illegal forwarded pass and once for an intentional johnson.

“We simply made too many mistakes today,” said Vikings coach Brad Childress. “We need to get back to basics and pay more attention to the rulebook. I didn’t even know that kicking someone in the face was illegal.”

Everybody goes to India

MUMBAI, India (Oct. 25) — India’s minister of cultural affairs blasted American pop singer Katy Perry and British comedian Russell Brand for taking over a national park in his country this weekend so they could have a fancy, schmancy, oh-so-quirky wedding in a wildlife reserve.

Perry and Brand were married Saturday in Ranthambhore National Park in a traditional Hindu ceremony, probably because they thought it would be cool. Inhabitants of the park, including tigers, leopards and wild boars, were protected from the inevitable racket that is Katy Perry by a four-member committee charged with monitoring noise pollution. Living amongst dozens of hyenas apparently was not enough to inure the beasts to Perry’s song stylings.

Other animals weren’t so lucky. Brand’s wedding procession included 21 camels, elephants and horses, and one very unfortunate, very soiled flower girl.

“We are tired of providing an exotic setting for Westerners who have no interest in us aside from our bejeweled saris, our rare and dangerous animals, and our palak paneer,” said minister Harish Kumar. “If you really love India, as you claim, you should stay the hell away and just send us money.”

A Hindu priest conducted the ceremony, which was the culmination of a six-day celebration among family and close friends. The wedding venue was lit with lamps, colorful lights illuminated the trees and flower garlands festooned luxury tents. Perry, like a traditional Indian bride, had henna designs applied on her palms and hands. Meanwhile, only 35 miles away in India’s largest city, half the 20 million residents lived in slums and would’ve killed for a flower garland to feed to their family.

“It all started with your Beatles, coming here 40 years ago to seek ‘enlightenment’ with a ‘yogi’ and listening to that horrid Ravi Shankar ‘music,’” Kumar said. “‘Hare Krishna Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna Hare Hare,’ they sang. And you thought ‘Hello Goodbye’ was reductive.”

Kumar said his subcontinent was able to live in relative peace for the next quarter century, if you don’t count two wars with Pakistan, a 1993 earthquake that killed 10,000 people, and tropical cyclones too numerous to tally. Then, in 1997, came the “Seinfeld” episode entitled “The Betrayal.” Scripted in a backward chronology, it told the story of Jerry, George and Elaine all flying to India to attend another traditional Hindi wedding, that of candy bar heiress Sue Ellen Mischke.

“The whole episode is filled with jokes about how George won’t use the bathroom here. Our nation has a proud history of going to the bathroom,” Kumar said. “Then, they have the nerve to leave Kramer — my favorite character — back in the U.S. It was an affront to all of South Asia, or would’ve been if any of our billion people were aware of the show.”

In 2003 and 2004, Kumar noted, an American financial printing company sent a trainer to Mumbai and Chennai, ostensibly to teach outsourcing teams to proofread proxy statements and annual reports. He smiled and was polite during his stay, even though the nicest comments he could make had to do with Indian food and “what’s with all the cows?”, Kumar said.

“We pretended to like and respect him because we knew that was necessary in order to keep those jobs,” Kumar said. “In reality, we despised him and his patronizing attitude. ‘Good catch,’ he would say every time we found a typo. We don’t need the approval of a pudgy middle-aged American.”

Hey, wait a minute. Are you talking about me? That’s when I went to India.

“Yes,” Kumar said. “We are talking about you.”

Kumar said he would work with the government’s travel bureau to put a halt to campy tourism like that undertaken by Perry and Brand. He said only authentic followers of Hinduism will be allowed to have a Hindi wedding in the future, and that his nation’s 3,000-year-old culture wouldn’t be hijacked by a drug-addled actor and a doe-eyed songstress.

“She admitted it herself – she kissed a girl. We don’t even allow boys to do that over here,” Kumar said. “The next time she wants a genuine Indian experience, might I suggest she be consumed by a tiger.”

Protecting the last stand

As you might guess from the name of my neighborhood, Shadebrook has a brook and it has trees. The brook may be more like a babbling drainage ditch, but the trees really are magnificent.

The people who planned this subdivision some 20 years ago had a lot of respect for the woods that their homes were largely supplanting. From the hardwood canopy road at the entrance to the giant cedars that line the main drag, this place is a nature lover’s dream.

However, it could become the city arborist’s worst nightmare. A couple of weeks ago, the municipal authorities surveyed the area’s older-growth trees and decided that some were so sick they needed to be euthanized. No twilight sleep and potassium chloride for the doomed oaks and elms; they would be assaulted with chain saws wielded by government officials. Talk about a Tea Party fantasy.

When I was coming back from my afternoon run earlier this week, I noticed that a particular pine had suddenly sprouted a bright green patch of spray paint. I remembered the newspaper article about the upcoming pogrom said that the dying trees would be marked with green. It said that city planners originally wanted to use a dark brown marking, to better symbolize the sad but necessary task of culling the deadwood, until they realized that work crews would have trouble seeing it. Ultimately, they switched to the green, thinking it might signify the fresh new life the tree was about to experience as someone’s coffee table.

As you can see, the pine isn’t an especially handsome specimen. In fact, you could probably go so far as to say it’s about as dead as it can get.

Still, I have an obligation as an ardent eco-nut to protect this old gal from the lumberjack’s axe. And so, even though I’ve got a ton of stuff to do this week and next week’s going to be even crazier with a filing deadline approaching at work, I guess I have to chain myself to the tree.

It’s going to be really inconvenient. I’ll have to reschedule Friday’s dental appointment, and the weekend’s planned yardwork is definitely out of the question, unless I can find myself a long enough chain.

It’s supposed to turn much colder by Monday, so I guess I’ll have to dress in layers to accommodate the sunny days and chilly nights. Wardrobe selection is shaping up to be quite the challenge. What exactly is proper attire to set just the right tone of civil disobedience while balancing that against the conservative fashion sense of the suburban South?

I’ll need something that’s easy care, because this is a pine and, though I don’t consider myself prejudiced against the common softwoods, some of their kind have been known to ooze sap. This tree probably doesn’t have a whole lot of lifeblood left in it but whatever remains, you can be sure it’ll make its way onto my slacks.

I don’t know how extended a protest this might turn out to be. I’m ready for the long haul if that’s what’s required. I will admit to concerns, however, about how the work crew will respond. Rock Hill is not familiar with the kind of strident and committed stand I’m prepared to take, and I’m a little worried their standard procedures won’t include removing a doughy guy from the base of the tree before chopping it down. I have my own lifeblood to consider, you know.

Maybe it’d be safer if I constructed a tree stand for myself, and conducted my effort to save the Earth from about 30 feet in the air. Nah. For one thing, I’m not that handy with tools, so treehouse construction would not play to my strengths of Excel and middle management. For another thing, I don’t care to plummet to my death.

I think if I switch a few things around, maybe ask my wife to cover for me at Tuesday’s board meeting of the credit union, maybe use a rope instead of a chain so I can duck out for a few minutes if I have an essential errand, I can pull enough strings to make this stand for ecology.

Defend our environment! End the rape of our Mother Earth! Don’t get any sap on me!

Tomorrow: A look at where my diminishing tribe known as the Liberals stands on other issues of the day.

What liberals believe

First, our conservative opponents transformed “liberal” into a dirty word. Then, they started attacking “progressives” for a political philosophy that advocated enlightenment and advancement, something you definitely don’t want too much of. Next thing you know, they’ll be turning “pointy-headed elitist ivory-tower-dwelling namby-pamby tax-and-spend bleeding-heart weenie” into something negative.

Blowhards on the right have not only hijacked labels that those of us on the left once wore proudly, they’ve turned what everyone can agree are reasonable positions into something that is their idea alone. I don’t know about other parts of the country, but around here, you’d think conservatives were the only ones who cared about jobs, families, responsibility and an honest living. No one is claiming on their yard signs or in their TV commercials to be an advocate for liberal causes. They’d have about as much chance of winning as if their campaign slogan was “America sucks.”

In fact, liberals are so feared here in the South that I’m thinking of dressing up as Al Gore for Halloween and scaring a pantload of carbon emissions out of my neighbors.

As possibly the only white, middle-class, middle-aged male in my entire state of South Carolina who considers himself a liberal, I feel compelled to explain myself. How is it that, in this day and age, a man can believe that applying intelligence and reason to an issue is preferable to formulating a worldview using your gut, your bile and other areas of your gastrointestinal tract? Thinking is so hard. Feeling is where it’s at in today’s political climate.

Next week is the midterm congressional elections. Everyone is predicting a Republican landslide in which Old Whitey will be taking his country back (to, at the latest, the 19th century). Before that happens, I wanted to explain a little about where we liberals stand on the topics of the day.

We have very rational opinions that simply need to be clearly enunciated. Once you understand what we believe, you’ll see we’re not so frightening after all. You may even be tempted to give Al Gore the good candy when he shows up at your door Sunday night. Not that he needs the candy.

Let’s take this issue by issue:

Jobs — We think Jobs has done an excellent job during his tenure at Apple, and we liberals will continue to buy from his company whatever he thinks we need to buy.

Immigration – We want to give the entire southwestern portion of the country back to Mexico, rectifying the error of the Mexican War. Then, all the illegals will be their problem.

The Wars — We’re pacifist by nature, as we proved by being scared to death of the draft during the Vietnam War. We really do want to help the dispossessed peoples of Iraq and Afghanistan, but we’re just not sure that shooting them is the best way to show it.

Healthcare – Free healthcare for everyone, whether they want it or not. A liberal regime would require you to go to the doctor every week until you get sick.

Financial reform – We want to dismantle the banking system and its usurious credit policies and replace the dollar with beads and dreamcatchers.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell – Not only do we want gays in the military to tell, but we want to hear the graphic details.

Education – Like conservatives, we believe that nothing is more important than education because children are our future. We need to acknowledge, however, that children are also a very important part of our present, particularly in their roles as sex slaves and food. We would expand, rather than dismantle, the Department of Education, to include an office of the undersecretary of education for condiments and tenderizers.

Infrastructure improvements – Roads, bridges and airports must be upgraded to handle the demands of the 21st century, or else they must be plowed over and turned into farmland. We’re not quite sure which just yet, but hope to have a definitive answer by the election on Tuesday.

Race – We all belong to the human race so there’s no reason to see color. At least, that’s what my domestic partner says about what I think is a hideous shade of aqua on the new divan he bought.

Guns – We would require that everyone turn in their guns to the government before your fingers turn cold and dead.

Abortion – You’re gonna get one whether you want it or not when we take over.

Gay marriage – Anyone should be allowed to marry anyone else regardless of their sexual orientation or gender. Anyone who can’t be tolerant of alternative lifestyles should be dismembered.

Evolution – Before there was science, we relied on mysticism and myth to explain the structure of the world. Now that we’ve figured out how everything works, we need to acknowledge that science is king, and make sure that Darwin’s theory of evolution is taught as fact in public schools. But don’t require any tests; we wouldn’t want to damage the fragile students’ self-esteem.

Terrorism – We believe that the terrorists are mostly just misunderstood and misguided young people who didn’t get the supportive family environment necessary to make a well-rounded adult. But we still agree with conservatives that they should all be killed.

The national debt – In a time of economic stagnation, government spending is critical in turning the tide toward a more robust recovery. In the interest of promoting this belief, let’s give not only all of our money to China, but also all of our personal possessions.

Trade imbalance and globalization – Instead of concepts like “third world,” “developing world” and “developed world,” let’s work toward a day when there’s just One World. And I will be the King of that World.

Foreclosures – Let the people keep their houses, regardless of whether or not they want to pay for them. Just require that they rent out their bonus room to a homeless person for next to nothing.

Drugs – Liberals agree with libertarians on the right wing that all drugs should be legalized. Where we part company with them, however, is on the question of how stiff a fine can be assessed to citizens who refuse to become junkies.

Energy – Renewable sources of power will lead to a greener world, as any petroleum company advertisement will tell you.

Social Security and an aging population — We need true reform of a system that won’t be sustainable by the middle of this century and this could require things like a higher retirement age, means testing and — oops, wait a minute, I just turned 65. Bring on the government checks!

Net neutrality – Liberals use computers a lot because we’re so much wealthier and better educated than everybody else so, whatever net neutrality is, we think it sounds cool.

Crime – Criminals should be educated and trained for an occupation while they’re incarcerated. Then, when they return to society, they can be like everyone else in explaining how their Microsoft Word skills and familiarity with CompuServe make them an ideal candidate for that Midwest sales position they saw advertised on Monster.com.

Dancing With the Stars — Contrary to what you might expect of us, we actually want Bristol Palin to win, but only because she was a pregnant teen.

Revisited: Haven’t I heard this news before?

WASHINGTON, D.C. (Oct. 21) — A bomb blast ripped through a crowded street market in Pakistan’s capital today, injuring more than 50 bystanders and damaging storefronts in a three-block area of central Islamabad.

“You don’t mean today, you mean yesterday, right?” said U.S. Ambassador Anne Patterson. “You’re talking about the attack out by the airport. No? There was another explosion today? Damn.”

Patterson said the American government had already regretted the casualties from yesterday’s airport bombing, and already hoped that Pakistan’s anti-insurgency forces would continue to fight the terrorist threat from al-Qaida and its allies. She imagined she’d have roughly the same thing to say about this most recent attack, assuming it really was different from the one she had already heard about, which she was pretty sure was near the airport, not downtown.

Meanwhile, over in the State Department, reports were emerging of a renewed series of missile tests in North Korea, signaling that nation’s continued unwillingness to halt its development of nuclear weapons. Three medium-range missiles capable of carrying a small warhead were fired into the Sea of Japan, according to televised reports in Tokyo.

“Are you sure you’re not thinking of those tests about a week ago?” asked undersecretary of state for East Asia Ron Allen. “They said they were going to stop after that, and we have every reason to believe they are complying with the wishes of the international community. What channel did you see that on again? NTV — that’s channel 435 on the satellite, I think. I’ll be right back after I check the TiVo.”

Allen said that while he was at it, he would also check on a news flash coming out of Jakarta that there had been an earthquake in Indonesia. The temblor, measuring a preliminary 6.7 on the Richter scale, rocked the island of Java shortly before dawn local time. It’s definitely different from the earthquake reported in the same area last week, and also completely different from the one on Oct. 12 that briefly triggered tsunami warnings in the western Pacific.

“You’re sure you’re not thinking of that one that was centered right off the coast?” Allen said. “Because I heard about that one and we’ve already dispatched several cargo planes full of relief supplies. Maybe I should get another batch of blankets and drinking water together. You think?”

In other international news, the prime minister of Italy or France or one of those countries denied reports late yesterday that he had attended a wild sex party at his villa outside Rome or maybe it was Paris. The brewing controversy, documented with photos in the local tabloids, could undermine efforts of the Obama Administration to reach a troop reduction agreement with the European Union, since this guy was scheduled to become the next president of the EU.

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not at all what it looked like,” said Defense Department liaison Daniel Maple. “He already settled that issue with his wife and the electorate seems willing to forgive. Wait, this was yesterday?”

Finally, a report from Hollywood confirmed by both TMZ and Us magazine indicated that Octomom Nadya Suleman definitely has the hots for Jon Gosselin, the father of sextuplets who recently quit his marriage and his TLC show “John and Kate Plus Eight.”

“Finally, some real news,” said one observer familiar with the scene. “At last, someone is telling me something I don’t already know.”

Revisited: Stalin says ‘I’m just an entertainer’

MOSCOW (Oct. 26) — Documents uncovered this month in a museum near here reveal that Josef Stalin, the Soviet dictator widely viewed as architect of the Cold War and butcher of millions of his own people, had considered himself “just an entertainer.”

“People take me way too seriously,” the tyrant responsible for the Iron Curtain and purges that destroyed Russian society for decades told an interviewer from Access Stalingrad shortly before his death in 1953. “Especially my opponents, or at least those who are still alive.”

Stalin ruled the Soviet Union with unchecked cruelty from 1924 until he died some 30 years later. Though his nation helped defeat Nazi Germany in World War II, he is more remembered among historians for the ruthless elimination of all political adversaries, and purges that killed as many as 20 million of his own citizens and exiled untold millions more to Siberian work camps.

“What I wish people would remember me for instead is my love of the ‘old soft shoe,’” Stalin said of the dance form closely related to tap, but performed in soft-soled shoes with no metallic heels. “I’ll take an old Gershwin standard over the pogroms and the forced collectivization of farms any day.”

Stalin defended much of his record of terror and at the same time downplayed its significance. Even as far back as the civil war that followed the Russian Revolution of 1917, the hated autocrat said his role in the rise of Communism was frequently misinterpreted. He pointed specifically to his backing of the Red Army of Vladimir Lenin against the White Army.

“I’ve shown over and over again that I have a deep-seated hatred of the White Army, and of White culture,” Stalin said. “I’m not saying I don’t like the White Army. I’m saying they have a problem.”

He dismissed widespread impressions that he was a racist by saying “of course I prefer Caucasians. I am, after all, from the region of the Caucasus mountains.”

Stalin also told the interviewer that other famous despots of the mid-twentieth century were equally misunderstood, and that all of them “just wanted to put a smile on the face and a spring in the step” of their peoples, even though that effort sometimes also included a knife between the shoulder blades.

“Adolf Hitler — I knew him as Glenn — he was a magnificent ventriloquist,” the late General Secretary of the Soviet Union’s Central Committee said. “Even without the moustache, you could barely see his lips move. And Benito Mussolini (his friends called him Sean), he could amuse thousands of his fellow Italian Fascists with a magic act that was, quite simply, marvelous.”

Stalin said that even Imperial Japan’s wartime leader, Prime Minister Hideki Tojo, was a simple performer who liked nothing better than staging his hypnosis act, during which he could make a volunteer from the audience cluck like a chicken while the rest of the crowd left to wage kamikaze warfare against the Allies’ Pacific Fleet in defense of the emperor.

“In private, he was just a regular guy, a real goofball,” Stalin said. “Mao called him a maniac, though he was technically more of a megalomaniac.”

Assorted stuff for a Monday

Remember all the nice things I had to say about trees in last Thursday’s post? I take it all back.

While they might be majestic, beautiful, life-giving and a great source of toothpicks, they are also incredibly irresponsible.

I spent the better part of three hours Saturday afternoon chasing fallen leaves around my yard with a leaf blower. I was trying to clean up the grounds in anticipation of last night’s trick-or-treaters, and I suppose I accomplished that. What is so painful, in addition to my right forearm, is the fact that I’ll have to do it all over again next weekend, and each subsequent weekend until at least Thanksgiving.

What other living creature can you think of that discards so much biomass so capriciously? Snakes may shed a thin sheath of skin, cats and dogs will drop small quantities of fur, even we humans have to cut our toenails every year or so. But no other organism simply drops so much stuff where it stands as a tree does in the autumn. There were leaves and twigs and small branches and acorns everywhere.

We praise these mighty giants for being such paragons of the environment, a key source of oxygen and all that. But nobody mentions the littering.

+++

Speaking of dropping a limb, I’ve started a new weight-loss effort.

I signed up last week with the LiveStrong website to track my daily caloric intake as well as my workouts. You enter how much weight you want to lose per week, your age and current weight, how willing you are to pass out from malnutrition and other key data, and it comes back with a daily maximum of how many calories you should consume. You key in your food and physical activity throughout the day, and it keeps an online record of your efforts.

What I like best about it so far is how it allows you to add calories back onto your daily maximum every time you exercise. I’m permitted to consume 2,554 calories a day, but if I take a brisk walk or go for a jog around the neighborhood, I can eat more than that amount.

This has allowed me to calculate the exact distance I need to run each afternoon in order to qualify for one of those chocolate turnovers from Arby’s. I can think of no other diet that allows me to waste over 400 calories on a single portion of fast food junk, and still claim that I’m watching my figure.

I plan to walk to Chicago later this month so I can pig out at Thanksgiving.

I hope to write more about this effort in the coming weeks. I may even post a link to my own personal weight loss records on this blog, for those readers interested in following which days I have a granola bar for breakfast and which days I opt for cereal.

+++

Some of you may remember the tale of the elderly woman who fell and couldn’t get up.

“I’ve fallen,” she told viewers of her classic 1980s TV commercial. “And I can’t get up.”

The story line followed the challenges that confront seniors who are living alone and suddenly find themselves sprawled on the floor. We never learned if this particular heroine was eventually rescued, or whether she lies to this day next to her kitchen table, her cat close by, unable to help but looking on and wondering if this is the new face of cat food.

The larger message, however, does live on: if you or a loved one have an accident while home alone, you’ll wish you had signed up for LifeAlert, a service that offers its clients an electronic necklace that can contact the proper authorities and tell them how clumsy you are.

Inexplicably, in this day of cellphones and global positioning satellites and an uncaring attitude toward the welfare of the nation’s elderly, LifeAlert is still in business. I saw one of their commercials just the other day, featuring a new generation of the fallen.

The new ads have been sexed up a bit for the twenty-first century audience. This time the aged woman is nude, having toppled to the floor of her shower stall. She struggles to the edge, crying out for help, but there’s no one there to hear her plea. Finally, she’s lucky enough to have her daughter walk in the front door and rescue her from a pruny fate.

If only she’d had a LifeAlert necklace, that daughter could’ve been a team of burly firemen, barely able to contain themselves.

The last ten seconds of the ad show a slide with the company’s now-famous catchphrase followed by a trademark symbol, which means I guess I have to pay them a royalty for mentioning it here. We also see a picture of former surgeon general C. Everett Koop, who apparently is some kind of deity for the nation’s elderly though, in this particular setting, he’s a compensated god.

+++

No more descriptive surname can exist for a man than exists for Hugh Munn.

Munn retired in 2002 after 26 years as chief spokesperson for the South Carolina division of law enforcement. Since his retirement, he has served as a guest lecturer in journalism courses at the University of South Carolina and at Sam Houston State University. He is also a consultant for the U.S. Justice Department’s office of juvenile justice, and for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

And, among many other accomplishments achieved during a long career in police work and communications, Hugh Munn is a human.

Hugh Munn, human

+++

I was in an unfamiliar restaurant the other day and found myself in need of a restroom. I located the room that had a “MEN” sign on the door and went in. As I looked about the facilities, I spotted something that threw me into a panic.

Flowers!

I thought I had been paying attention, but somehow I must have inadvertently wandered into the women’s room. Nobody else was in the small space as near as I could tell. The cubicle door was mostly closed but I could see no skirt-draped shoes peeking out underneath. Though there could’ve been some nice lady standing on the toilet hiding from the man who had invaded this sacred realm.

I moved quickly to get out. Just as I reached for the door handle, I spotted something that sent waves of relief over me.

A urinal!

It was a men’s room after all, just a more nicely appointed one than I’m used to seeing.

+++

I know Friday was the last workday before Halloween. I still can’t get over the sight of a nun, dressed head to toe in the full black habit, driving a front-end loader in the warehouse at my work.

I know God’s plans for His children are cloaked in mystery. But for the life of me, I couldn’t comprehend how a divine scheme might involve moving a pallet of proxy statements from aisle J, level 3, compartment J3-17 across the warehouse floor and over to the loading dock.

Just another one of those unknowable mysteries, I guess.

+++

Does anyone know if that’s Rob Corddry dressed as “583″ in the FreeCreditScore.com TV commercial?

Fake News: More bombs could be headed our way

LONDON (Nov. 1) — Western security officials continued to be on guard for suspicious cargo packages yesterday after several bombs were shipped from Yemen to Europe via FedEx and UPS aircraft.

A spokesman for the terrorist group Netflix on the Arabian Peninsula (NAP) promised that more bad movies would soon be delivered to targets in the U.S., some as quickly as within 24 hours.

“We will not stop our attack on the American infidels until they stop their assault on our intelligence by producing films of such awful quality,” warned NAP founder Reed Hastings in a recording shown on Al-Jazeera. “You can look for more copies of Did You Hear About the Morgans? and Confessions of a Shopaholic to be aimed at your transportation system.”

A tip from the Saudi intelligence service led to the discovery over the weekend of the two critically panned movies packed secretly inside a pair of printers that were destined for Chicago. Both films were removed from the cargo hold before anybody could watch them, but the incident brought to light a weakness in global anti-terrorism security that could cause officials to reassess current systems.

“I think it’s safe to say that a major attack is in our queue,” said security analyst Louis Mayo. “Even though we avoided a bombing this time, it’s probably inevitable. As the delivery methods continue to expand, more and more copies of films like Old Dogs and The Love Guru are going to make their way to innocent victims.”

The NAP’s Hastings seemed ready to admit as much, saying “if you liked the Madrid train bombings and attacks on U.S. embassies in Africa, you might also like Fred: The Movie.”

In a separate incident involving domestic attackers apparently operating a sleeper cell in Michigan, a man was arrested at a Dearborn Best Buy trying to slip a copy of Year One he had obtained from Netflix into the DVD player that fed all the TVs in the store. Witnesses reported that he shouted “Allah akbar! God is great! And Jack Black is usually great too, but he wasn’t given much to work with in this tired romp through prehistory!” before being subdued by an off-duty policeman.

No one was injured in the thwarted attack because the suspect, Abdul Rullah, had put the disc into the player upside down.

“It’s only due to the inept efforts of guys like Rullah, the guy who set his underwear on fire, and the guy who locked his keys in the car in Times Square, that we have been spared,” said Homeland Security secretary Janet Napolitano. “Eventually one of these horrid rom-coms are going to show up on somebody’s home theatre screen, and it won’t be a pretty picture.”

Officials are particularly concerned about a move by Netflix away from home delivery of DVD mailings toward a new business model that streams video and movies directly to a customer’s game system or computer. Airliners would be safer, since these bombs wouldn’t take a physical form, but mass casualties will still be possible, especially if everyone tries to download The Break-Up Artist all at the same time.

Other jihadist factions in the Arab world are also thought to be working on delivery of potentially catastrophic cinematic flops to the American public. Redbox is reportedly involved in a plot to booby-trap vending machines located outside convenience stores. A man in Boulder, Col., recently had his hand blown off while trying to rent When in Rome at a BP station near his home.

And the original major player in the video rental field, Blockbuster, is continuing its corporate strategy of operating bricks-and-mortar storefronts around the country, hoping that viewers are still willing to make a special trip across town just so they can rent a Reese Witherspoon release capable of destruction on an unprecedented scale.

“Welcome to Blockbuster,” said store manager Amy Gerald when reporters asked if her outlet was storing any bombs. “You really think you might want to rent a movie? Because, we haven’t seen anybody in here doing that for quite a while. If not a movie, maybe you’d like to buy a copy of Rolling Stone, or perhaps a Nutty Buddy ice cream cone.”

“You know, we have games too,” she added.

Security official inspects suspicious package

Practicing my sacred democratic right

For months now, the low-slung Bulgemobile known as America has sputtered down the highway, blocking speedier traffic from passing.

The driver, an elderly man wearing a hat and peering through the steering wheel at the baffling traffic pattern before him, switched on his right-turn signal late last year and finally seems poised this election day to make the maneuver. The problem is, he’s turning right from the center lane, endangering himself and fellow motorists in his search for an idealized past, as symbolized by the abandoned Sears he’s pulling into.

Slowly, to the sound of honking horns and cursing onlookers, he hauls the full-size, gas-gulping behemoth off the main road. The car climbs a small curb, knocks down a shrub and a street sign, and comes to rest straddling the sidewalk. A pedestrian rushes over to the driver’s window to make sure the old man is okay.

“Get out of my face, Jose,” the man tells the young Hispanic who wanted to assist. “I don’t need your help. I think I know how to take my own country back.”

As I write this reflection on the democratic process, it’s Tuesday and the polls are still open. I know as many details about the predicted Republican rout today as I’ll know tomorrow. That’s because I plan to spend the next 24 hours (and possibly the next 24 months) with cotton stuffed in my ears, covered by a heavy canvas tarp, and humming loudly to block any incoming sounds. I already know the news is going to be bad; I’m not ready yet to hear how bad.

Like the conscientious citizen I am, I’ll still vote. On my way home from work this afternoon, I’ll swing by the local elementary school — likely to be closed and converted into a small business by the incoming Congress — to cast my ballot and make my voice heard. I’ll emerge moments later, proudly displaying a purple finger, not because we vote like a bunch of primitive Iraqis but because I always get my pinky bruised by a defective lever.

As I return to my car, I’ll remind myself that every vote counts, despite the busload of white Republicans from the nearby assisted living center unloading to cancel my Democratic choices a hundred times over.

I’ll vote for John Spratt, my district’s congressman for over 20 years. Spratt has been the only white Democratic representative from South Carolina for quite a while now, making him a highly endangered species. He’s lived in this area his entire life and knows its constituents and their needs intimately. At best, he’s moderate to conservative on the political spectrum, which makes him a wide-eyed radical who’d probably share one of those Snuggies-for-two with Nancy Pelosi in the view of his opponents. He’s intelligent, thoughtful, a member of the House leadership, and a man who works well with both sides of the aisle. In other words, he’s a loser. He’s widely expected to be defeated by Mick Mulvaney, a real estate developer who just recently moved to South Carolina so he could be closer to various disastrous land deals he’s managed.

I’ll vote for Vincent Sheheen, a Democrat, for governor. I don’t know much about Sheheen, except that he’s not his Republican opponent, Nikki Haley. Haley is the daughter of Indian parents, a member of the State House, a small business owner, and a sort of Sarah Palin for the South Asian set. Her conservative credentials are only slightly tarnished by the fact that her dry-cleaning business has largely failed under her mismanagement, so now she’s working as a fund-raiser for a hospital and receiving whopping campaign contributions from the pharmaceutical industry. The married mother of two has also been accused by two Republican lobbyists of having had sex with them, though fidelity isn’t something we take too seriously in the South Carolina governor’s mansion.

I’ll even vote for Alvin Greene. Greene, you may recall, was the surprise winner of the S.C. Democratic Senate primary who defeated a veteran state legislator despite having no campaign, no website, no stump speech, and no clue as to what he had gotten himself into. He did have name recognition, however, as some have speculated he won in part because people thought they were voting for soul singer Al Green. Others have postulated he was a Republican plant, put up to run in an effort to embarrass Democrats. While his speaking style did reveal that he was indeed a plant (a type of hydrangea, according to botanists), an investigation revealed that he ran of his own volition. If you can call stumbling your way through TV interviews and wearing suits that are three sizes too large “running”.

Though he’ll doubtless lose to incumbent Sen. Jim DeMint (campaign slogan: “He brings da mint to da Tea Party”) by at least a 4-to-1 margin, Greene gets my vote because he truly reflects the average South Carolinian. He’s slow-witted, unemployed, an accused felon and his name is “Alvin,” traits shared by many of the fellow citizens he hopes to represent.

Other ballot questions don’t interest me quite as much as these high-profile races, though I’ll vote anyway. I’ll record a “nay” on the amendment to enshrine hunting and fishing into the state constitution as an innate right of all people in the state. I’ll vote against another three constitutional amendments as well, not because I understand them but because I can’t imagine our state officials proposing something that’s a good idea, at least not since that whole messy secession business a while back. I’ll vote for Bennie T. Copeland for the Soil and Water District Commission over opponent C.W. Senn, because I liked Elton John’s “Bennie and the Jets” better than I liked C.W. McCoy’s “Convoy”.

Eventually, I’ll check the news to see if 2010 represented a true Republican Revolution, or merely an evolution of the electorate’s political outlook (assuming “evolution” is still a word we can say). Maybe I’ll record the news on my DVR and play it back in super slo-mo, to draw out the dramatic tension of the gradual reveal, much like I do with critical field goal attempts in a close football game. Or maybe I’ll just wait to hear the jackboots in the streets as a signal that America has made a hard turn right.

We’re all going to be confronted with some new realities in the coming weeks and months. Whether or not we choose to meet them head on, or instead to retreat into a cocoon of ice cream, TVLand reruns and strong hallucinogenics, is the choice we have to make. It’s our right as Americans. Almost — but not quite — as sacred as voting.

I won't be swayed by the admittedly compelling arguments on campaign yard signs

Long-time worker presented with award

CHARLOTTE, N.C. (Nov. 3) — DavisW was awarded the prestigious Certificate of Achievement Award, marking ten years of service with his company, in a gala ceremony held right after the 10:45 coffee break at work on Tuesday.

Supervisors called on all of Davis’s co-workers to put their projects aside for a moment and join them in the corner of the room where we keep the refrigerator. Only moments before, a tray of muffins and fresh fruit had been put out on the condiments table, hinting at the festivities to come. An envelope, a portfolio folder and a framed certificate were also on display as the employees shuffled reluctantly from their cubicles to the site of the observance.

“Come on, Kate, you can finish that up in a minute,” said general manager Eric Taylor to one lingering worker who was wrestling with an urgent deadline.

“I have to get this PDF emailed before 11,” Kate responded.

“Okay,” said Eric, “we’ll wait for you. Hey, did anybody watch the World Series last night?”

Several people said they caught a few minutes of the early action, but most chuckled that it was “way past my bedtime” and didn’t really like baseball that much anyway. At last, Kate joined the group.

“I’ve called you all together so we can honor one of our own for his service to the company,” Taylor began. “We want to recognize Davis today on the occasion of his tenth anniversary.”

A smattering of hesitant applause rose from the crowd of about 20 people.

“I want to read from a letter sent to Davis by Hubert J. Moore, president and chief executive officer of the company,” Taylor continued. “He writes, ‘While businesses frequently talk about their experience in glossy brochures and during sales presentations, the truth is that companies do not have experience. People do.’”

According to Taylor, President Moore went on to tell Davis “thank you for the important contributions you have made during your ten years of service.”

Taylor shook Davis’s hand while presenting him with the beautifully framed certificate and the portfolio. The certificate echoed Moore’s praise, citing Davis’s “commitment and dedication,” while an instruction sheet in the folder telling Davis how to order his anniversary gift online pointed to Davis’s “dedication and contributions to the company.”

Asked to say a few words, an obviously emotional Davis could only say “thanks, everybody” and that it “seemed like only yesterday that I started here.” He considered joking that a certificate of achievement was really nothing special, since an “achievement” is just something that somebody has succeeded in doing, and not necessarily positive. He thought better of it at the last moment, however, offering instead a “thanks again.”

At that point, another manager stepped forward and gave Davis a $2.50 greeting card ($3.25 in Canada) that had been passed around the office for everyone to sign. On the front, the card showed fireworks explosions and said “Congrats” and on the inside were scrawled several personal messages.

“Best wishes,” offered one of the Karens. “Enjoy many more,” wrote Andy. “Hope you stick around for a few more,” said Robin. “Congrats,” inscribed Joyce, while Cheryl D. noted “congrats and many more.”

“Now let’s enjoy some of these snacks,” said Taylor, indicating it was time for everyone to get back to work. A few people took apples and oranges. Davis, however, exhibiting some of the traits that made him so successful over the past decade, picked several grapes and wrapped a blueberry muffin in a napkin that he would save for breakfast the following morning.

Among the online recognition awards Davis is considering are #267, a telescope; #419, a watch; and #577, a museum-quality fine art print on canvas, truly every color of the rainbow, no detail has been overlooked in this great painting of the reef and its wonderful residents. He’s leaning toward the print, considering he already has a frame that he’s not using.

A proud, proud Davis

An editorial: Jets shouldn’t explode or fall apart

Air travelers have come to expect a host of inconveniences and affronts as they fly around the globe. Security x-ray machines strip them naked. Airline counter clerks nickel-and-dime them with petty surcharges. On the plane itself, seating is tight, boredom is epidemic and that guy across the aisle is wearing a disturbing amount of facial hair and turbans.

But you would expect, at a minimum, not to be troubled by parts of the airplane falling off. Especially when you’re pretty sure you had to pay an extra $50 to upgrade to an intact plane.

Passengers aboard a Qantas flight from Singapore to Sydney were forced into an emergency landing Thursday after one of their Airbus A380′s engines experienced an “uncontained failure” and parts of it fell onto hapless Indonesians below. The plane landed safely and no one was injured.

Still, the incident represents what could be a new low in how travelers are being treated by the airline industry. Herded onto these new “super jumbo” jets that can seat close to a thousand people, passengers apparently now have to add aircraft disintegration to their list of concerns. This should not be.

“There has never been a fatal accident with this new generation of jetliners,” said Airbus spokesperson Justin Dubon of the A380s that have been in service for just over two years. “Therefore, it logically follows that there never will be one. We are studying this particular incident to see what kind of technical issues might be involved with similar aircraft, and how we can come up with a way to find that it was the passengers’ fault.”

It’s true that, in general, aviation safety has never been better. Millions of miles are flown each year without incident. Built-in redundancies all but guarantee that catastrophic mechanical failures will be kept to an absolute minimum. For example, a four-engine jet like the Qantas plane can still fly with only one engine functioning, though admittedly you’d be flying in circles.

What is usually the larger issue for the flying public are the minor annoyances that combine to make air travel a major hassle. Especially with long-haul transcontinental flights, passengers are faced with hours of boredom during which the highlight is having to climb over two sleeping fat ladies to go to the bathroom.

We applaud the efforts made by airlines like Qantas to make the in-flight experience more entertaining, with features like oxygen masks that contain scented gases and a closed-circuit network broadcasting movies, music, flight data and live video feeds of stuff falling off the plane.

But we don’t think a constructive way to fight tedium is by sending 433 passengers and a crew of 26 into a gut-wrenching panic with exploding jet engines.

“My whole body just went to jelly,” Tyler Wooster told Australia’s Nine Network. “We heard like a bang, like a shotgun going off, like a big loud gun.”

Even though most of the victims would’ve been Australian, we condemn the possibility that all aboard could’ve been killed in a fiery crash into the sea. The remote possibility that they might instead survive to spawn a gripping TV drama that incorporated time travel, flash-forward story lines and Evangeline Lilly in a sweaty T-shirt does little to mitigate what had the very real chance of becoming a major disaster.

The only thing we condone falling from the underbelly of a jetliner is flash-frozen excrement. Engines, wings, pieces of the fuselage and, most importantly, the confidence of the flying public that they’ll arrive safely at their intended destination, must remain a part of the airplane.

Revisited: My trip to the Fiber Arts Festival

Pretty. Lovely. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Pretty. Cute. Pretty.

These are some of the words that were used to describe the goods on display at the sixteenth annual Southeastern Animal Fiber Fair (SAFF) in Asheville, N.C. They were used mostly by me, repeatedly, as I ran out of ways to characterize the knitwear and other yarn creations about two hours into the day trip my wife and I took this past weekend.

SAFF staged the three-day event for knitting enthusiasts interested in seeing animal-sourced fibers transformed from simple coverings for goats, llamas and alpacas into elaborate shawls, wraps and socks for humans. It doesn’t seem fair for those of us who already have so many options in clothing to be denuding innocent farm animals. Organizers at least provided capes for the shorn sheep but it seemed like a poor substitute for natural wool, as you can tell by the perturbed look on the face of the ewe below.

“IT’S NOT A CAPE IF IT DOESN’T ALLOW YOU TO FLY,” GRUMBLED ONE SHEEP.

My wife has recently taken up the fiber arts as a hobby and, I must say (really, I must), she’s produced some excellent samples of woven accessories, two of which I wear on my feet as I write this. The least I can do in return is to be a supportive husband and accompany her to this huge gathering of thread-heads at the Western North Carolina Agricultural Center on a gorgeous (lovely, beautiful) fall Saturday.

The fiber fair shared the fairgrounds with the Antique Farm Equipment and Engines Show. When we walked into the immense hall, I halfway hoped I’d see some cross-pollination between the two events — maybe a nice vicuna tractor cozy, or perhaps a diesel-powered loom — but the separate groups each stayed in their own separate worlds.

As we walked the circuit on the upper level of the main exhibition hall, I was astonished by the number of vendors who had travelled here from all over the South. Most sold items I hardly even knew existed, and my ignorance quickly showed through. “Look at the size of those number one needles,” my wife exclaimed at one point. “Wow, those are really big,” I responded, though in fact they were really small.

Amidst the tools of the trade, I’d spot an occasional item I was familiar with, and latched onto it with a carefully crafted enthusiasm. One merchant had dozens of scented soaps, many of which were made with extracts from some of the animals in attendance. Another one offered a goat-flavored fudge. One booth had a bank of caged rabbits, which I recognized primarily because they had carrots sitting next to them, not because they looked anything like rabbits under their heavy coat of angora fur.

“Can I pet him?” I asked, pointing at one of the open cages, and the owner said I could. “Kitty, kitty, kitty,” I cooed.

YOU CAN TELL BY THE CARROT THERE’S A RABBIT UNDER THERE SOMEWHERE

After completing the upper loop, we headed downstairs to the floor of the arena, where many of the higher-end exhibitors had set up shop. I saw a nice mohair coat for $700 that I bet I would’ve enjoyed wearing, were it not for the steep price and my uncertainty about what kind of animal a “mo” was. Another lady sold cleverly inscribed t-shirts, including the popular “Yarn It All” model and the classic “I Knit … Do Ewe?” There was a dyeing demonstration off in one corner that disappointingly did not include any death. And everywhere you turned there was skeins and skeins of yarn which, despite a tremendous variety of unnerving, completely unnatural colors, still made me hungry for spaghetti.

The ground level was also home for the workshops and classes held in conjunction with the fair. Actual course names from the catalog included “The Perennial Indigo Vat,” “Nuno Felting: Unleashed,” “The Oops Workshop,” “All This Equipment” and “Fecal Testing.” (I’m hoping that last one had something to do with the healthcare of the fiber-encased animals, not a how-to on knitted toilet paper). For some reason, all the classes were held in a central holding area, behind bars. I don’t think they were trying to keep participants from escaping; I think these were probably used as stock pens when the state fair came to town.

CRAFTERS BEHIND BARS AT THE “FABULOUS FELTED HATS!” WORKSHOP

After a lunch of lamb casserole, goat-head soup and llama beans (just kidding), we headed outside to see the live animal displays. I was becoming weary of all the polite women and soft fabrics inside, and yearned for a little action, maybe some sheep-fighting. A tired boy trudging along behind his parents probably had much the same idea as I did — when told by his mom that they were going to the “competition” in barn #3, he asked “are they going to race?” Unfortunately, it was a judged 4-H-style competition, with teenagers showing that you can become good at animal grooming even though it’s not taught in a videogame format.

SHEEPS COMPETE IN THE “BEST PEAK-A-BOO MIDRIFF” COMPETITION. I KNOW WHO GETS MY VOTE.

At the end of the day, I was tired and ready to leave the world of knitting and pearling in the rear-view mirror as we drove back home. I’m reluctant to admit how good a time I actually had day-tripping like this with my wife. I built up a lot of spousal capital by being such a good sport as to accompany Beth to something as drenched in lanolin and estrogen as this event was. And yet I can’t deny that the chance to get away like that, to an exquisite mountain setting at the peak of leaf season with my lovely wife, turned out to be a “SAFF-tastic” time.

I’m looking forward to the next event on the professional fiber arts tour. Hope to see you at the Carolina Alpaca Celebration on Feb. 13, 2010 in Concord, N.C. Be sure to bring your party hats, preferably crocheted from organic wool.

Revisited: Fake International Briefs

Maybe running, maybe not

KABUL, Afghanistan (Nov. 2) — The leading opposition candidate for the Afghan presidency was reportedly reconsidering his decision late yesterday to drop out of the run-off against current president Hamid Karzai.

“If my assassination or the murder of my every living relative were the only things to worry about, that’d be no problem,” challenger Abdullah Abdullah told reporters at his compound. “But the Americans were telling me I might have to be interviewed on ‘Fox and Friends’ or have my character questioned by the Tweeters on CNN. That is something I could not stand.”

Abdullah said he initially misunderstood the perils involved in continuing his campaign after the August vote put him in second place. International observers feared security concerns caused by a resurgent Taliban would make another round of voting difficult. Abdullah said he was more concerned about media scrutiny than he was about having his hands cut off, or his feet cut off, or both his hands and his feet cut off.

“I am a shy man who just wants to pursue his life’s work in peace, with all my appendages,” Abdullah said. “I don’t need the aggravation of being the head of a failed state, but if my people call, I will serve. Fortunately, we have no land lines in my country and virtually no wireless, so I’m not expecting too many calls.”

Abdullah said he would reach a final decision on whether or not to pursue the presidency in the next 24 hours. He characterized his “life’s work” as efforts to reform the nation’s corruption-riddled judicial system. Even the simplest administrative task tends to get caught up in a web of bribes and kickbacks, and Abdullah has worked tirelessly behind the scenes trying to repair the courts. He is also trying to have his first name legally changed to Jason.

“That whole ‘Abdullah Abdullah’ thing was just too confusing,” he said. “Everybody wants to make joke.”

The former doctor may find he has some unexpected competition if he does decide to return to the political arena. His vice-presidential running mate from the first round may also be joining the race.

Saradullah Saradullah, who describes herself as “just an everyday hockey imam,” may decide to challenge both Karzai and Abdullah. The former governor of Badakhshan province, that squiggly part in the far north of the country, said her knowledge of local tribes and customs would allow her connect with the common man. She said she could also help advance the issues of women, assuming that’s what’s scurrying around the marketplace under those burkahs.

“Plus, I have advantages I can bring in the area of foreign affairs,” Saradullah said during a satellite conference call with potential supporters. “I can see Osama bin Laden from my front porch. In fact, he’s mowing his lawn right now. Oh how I wish he would put a shirt on.”

North Korea blames WordPress

SEOUL, South Korea (Nov. 3) — The North Korean government denied charges yesterday that it was behind a series of high-profile cyberattacks last July that caused Internet outages in the U.S. and South Korea.

“The people’s glorious republic was simply trying to put up a new post on its WordPress blog, and things got a little out of hand,” said communications ministry spokesperson Joong Kim. “That HTML editor is almost as unstable as we are.”

Kim said his nation’s efforts to compose the post in a word processing program, then copy and paste it into the blog host’s upload/insert field, resulted in the first and second paragraphs running together with no break. When they tried to edit the tags, it caused U.S. Defense Department computers to crash in what’s called a denial-of-service attack.

Later, attempts by the regime’s personnel to correct their spelling of “acommodate” by adding the second “c” ended unsuccessfully when the cursor jumped one character to the right and the misspelling “acocmmodate” triggered further outages in both Washington and Seoul. Then they tried to add an image from their desktop to the end of the post, and somehow it showed up at the beginning. Then they accidentally posted a draft before it was reviewed by Premier Kim Il Sung and run through spell check.

“We meant no harm to the Social Security Administration’s check-printing programs,” Kim said. “We just wanted to tell the world about that funny thing our uncle did at the big family dinner Sunday night.”

Kim said further errors of this sort were unlikely, since the North Korean military had attached the nation’s lone laptop to a medium-range ballistic missile and launched it into the Sea of Japan in frustration.

“We’re more comfortable using giant colorful posters and banners carried by hundreds of happy schoolchildren to get our message out,” Kim said. “WordPress might be better than Blogspot, but that’s like saying our agricultural sector is better than our industrial sector. It’s no great triumph.”

Time to wonder if I’m an old man

On Saturday, I turned 57. I used to think that 57 was pretty old but, with the wisdom and perspective that over a half-century of living has brought me, I realize now you’re not really “old” till you’re well past a hundred. And if I live to reach 100, I’ll adjust that definition further back to 150.

If I can’t admit that I’m old, I do at least have to acknowledge that I’m a “senior.” Being a senior is kind of cool, though, like you’re back in your final year of high school where you can date the teachers and pick on all the underclassmen. I’ll even take a “senior skip day” every now and then, calling in sick to work so I can prance around the neighborhood in a syncopated hop.

It’s hard to say exactly when one becomes a senior citizen these days. It used to be you could count AARP eligibility as a criteria, but I think they’ve moved that age down to something like 35 now as they attempt to increase their membership. Grey hair was once a pretty good indicator, until anyone with any sense of pride colored the grey away. Wandering off into the woods looking for your childhood pet, calling “Here, Augie! Where are you, boy? Where’s Augie?”, can be another symptom of advanced age. I’ve definitely got the AARP solicitations and the grey hair, but I haven’t yet mastered the meandering.

I guess what it really boils down to is the age that you act, and how other people treat you. If you’re one of these types you see in TV commercials – running a marathon at age 60, climbing Mt. Everest at age 70, falling down and yet still being able to get up at age 80 — those around you will view you as young at heart, even if you’re rocking an advanced case of hypertensive cardiomyopathy. I don’t personally know many of these vibrant seniors myself, and if I did I would resent them terribly.

What I increasingly rely on to know that I’m approaching decrepitude are the interactions I have with merchants and store clerks. I was dealing with one particularly chipper cashier not long ago who asked “and how are you today, young man?” I looked around to make sure I didn’t have a teenager hanging on my back before I realized he was addressing me. I guess he was trying to be kind, though it came off as more than a little patronizing, much like how they introduce the newly minted centenarians given birthday wishes on The Today Show for being “100 years young.”

I do appreciate the various discounts offered to seniors. I’m just never sure I properly qualify. Some stores use 50, some use 55 and some use 60 as the threshold for getting a dollar cup of coffee on Tuesdays from 10 to 11 a.m. At my favorite grocery store, they offer a 5% senior discount on all purchases but it’s store policy that the check-out people are not allowed to ask if you meet the minimum age requirement (in this case, 60), lest they offend any wizened-beyond-their-years customers. One creative employee who regularly waits on my wife came up with what I thought was a novel way to circumvent this well-intended rule.

“Oh, and let me be sure to apply the wisdom discount,” he said as he rang up her purchase. I’d be tempted to counter, “Why, thank you. In my wisdom, I also feel I should be given a cartful of free groceries and have your assistant manager serve as my personal slave.”

Restaurants often offer a senior menu that includes both reduced prices and smaller portions, but they rarely list the minimum age for ordering such a dish. I would happily pay less for my meal, yet I’m afraid I’ll be “carded” like some 19-year-old trying to buy beer. I can imagine nothing more humiliating than being challenged to prove my minimum age to a minimum-wage waitress, then rousted out of the establishment like some common grifter or, worse,  held inside the freezer locker until police can be called.

There is a certain measure of respect that comes with advanced age that I do enjoy, particularly in my work place. As the veteran proofreader at my location, I used to be the go-to guy for answers about style details of the assorted financial documents that we produce. After years of dispensing advice to my younger coworkers, many of them finally mastered for themselves most of the knowledge I had. Now, I’m called on only rarely, when there’s a particularly esoteric dispute, like I’m some mountaintop-based elder whose mystical omniscience is dispensed with cryptic parables.

“The spacing above a second-level subhead should always be greater than the spacing below,” I might rule. “It should be sufficient that a bird on the wing can easily pass through, yet not so much as to allow an angel to dance in the margin above the text.”

In the end, I guess, it all comes down to how good your health is. I’ve been pretty lucky to avoid any major illnesses so far in my life, and I continue to maintain an active lifestyle that includes jogging, travel and not getting into car accidents. I know some fields of medical research are attempting to make the case that aging is simply another malady that can ultimately be cured. You already see some of the early fruits of this effort being advertised during Sunday afternoon football games.

It’s not just the erectile dysfunction crowd I’m thinking of here. Now, middle-aged men who show symptoms like fatigue and loss of energy can wonder if such symptoms are due to a curable medical condition rather than the fact they just finished an 80-hour work week. We know there’s a pharmaceutical cure for just about everything these days (except, perhaps, for being a fan of the Carolina Panthers), so we’re tempted to investigate further when a commercial spokesman asks if our lethargy might be due to adequate testosterone.

“Do you have low T? Take the test at our website — IsItLowT.com — to find out,” we’re advised.

I went to this site and took the test, hoping for confirmation that I’m not a senior after all but simply need to spend $1,000 a week on a new medicine not covered by my insurance. It only took ten questions to reach a diagnosis. “Yes,” I’ve noticed a decrease in strength; “yes,” I’m falling asleep after dinner; “yes,” I’m sometimes grumpy, and “none of your business” if my erections are less strong. I should discuss with my doctor if various testosterone gels, patches, injections, pellets or a “buccal tablet” applied twice daily to my gums (!) are right for me and will restore my vitality.

I’d bring it up with my personal physician, but he’s a no-nonsense fifty-something man just like me, and I suspect he’d suggest not the IsItLowT.com website but one called NoYouAreJustGettingOld.com.

Like me, he’s a wise guy.

Old guys hang their heads in shame at the IsItLowT? website

Fake News: Obama finds answers in India

MUMBAI, India (Nov. 9) — Licking his political wounds as he flew to India late last week, President Obama came to realize it was unemployment more than any other issue that was the Democrats’ undoing in the midterm elections. If his party was to recover in time for a better showing in 2012, he’d have to act fast. Getting people back to work had to be priority number one.

A steady recovery of the nation’s finances seemed to be under way. But where were all the jobs?

Shortly after his arrival in this economic powerhouse of South Asia, he found his answer.

“Oh, here they are,” said Obama of the millions of American jobs lost to outsourcing since the Bush Administration. “I’ve been looking for these everywhere.”

Eager to repair his image and rebuild his presidency after last week’s self-described “shellacking,” the president was intent on remaking his week-long trip across the Far East into an effort to fix the so-called “jobless recovery.” His four-day visit to India would be just the place to start.

“I wish my opponents could see how these hard-working Native Americans are propelling themselves toward the middle class,” Obama told reporters outside a customer service call center he visited near Mumbai.

Reminded that Indians are not citizens of the United States, the president said he didn’t like using the term “Indian” and preferred instead to say “Native Americans.”

“A lot of the people I met in that office today traveled a long way from their homes in America to earn a living for their families,” the president said. “They realize that you have to mobile and flexible in a world where globalization is now the way of doing business.”

Obama talked of some of the workers he had seen inside the sprawling InfoSys headquarters, and said he was moved by their stories.

“I met a fellow named Harry from a town called Clevesland, and all he could talk about was ‘how about that Browns football group and that Rocking Roll hall of fames?’” the president recounted. “He was so proud of his hometown. He made such an impression on me that I signed up for the credit protection plan he was offering for only $9.95 a month, deducted directly from my credit card.”

Later in the day, the president made the short walk from his hotel to the historic Gateway of India monument. He was swarmed by well-wishers who wanted to welcome the American president to their country. Many waved open palms and chanted “please, sir” in a traditional gesture of greeting. One woman “gave” him a small flower, then insisted on being paid a dollar.

In a tour of the city, known for its fabulous wealth as a financial and entertainment center as well as the site of some of the world’s largest slums, the president complimented municipal officials on their advanced infrastructure.

“I see now what will be the future of an America increasingly controlled by fiscal conservatism,” Obama remarked. “Your broken pavement, your stalled traffic, your sewage running into the streets, this is how we will live in the twenty-first century. I look forward to the day we’ll see commuters riding the tops of trains into American cities.”

The president was also quick to comment on the prevalence of sacred Brahman cattle roaming the city.

“It lends a nice agrarian touch to the urban landscape,” Obama said. “On my return home, I will seek passage of a bill to promote free-range cattle throughout the U.S. It’s true that everything goes better with cows.”

The president was scheduled to leave India today for a stop in Indonesia. However, those plans may change because of safety concerns surrounding the eruption of the Mt. Merapi volcano.

“Frankly, the president is scared of volcanoes,” said White House spokesman Robert Gibbs. “The boiling orange lava, the poisonous gases, the hot steam are all a little too reminiscent of (incoming Republican House Speaker) John Boehner.”

Indian guide points out several jobs to the Obamas

Helping out at the grocery store

Self-service in the retail world has come a long way in recent years.

I still remember when it required a partially toothed half-wit to pump gas into your car. Now, we dispense it into our own tank, and all over our clothes, with no assistance at all.

Fast-food restaurants used to pour drinks for us. Now, we do it ourselves at a free-standing fountain, and come away with a bonus application of industrial-strength adhesive on the soles of our shoes. If Earth’s gravity ever fails, you won’t see McDonald’s customers floating off into space, because they have sugary soft drinks all over the bottom of their feet.

Most of these advances represent a measure of progress for humanity. Businesses are able to save money by deploying workers to more cost-effective tasks, like sitting at home unemployed and watching TV. Store patrons can take better command of their time, moving swiftly to complete their transactions or, in the case of the woman always in front of me at Texaco, talking into the gas nozzle like it was a telephone, trying to tell the clerk inside that she forgot her purse.

One place where I think the jury is still out on the issue of convenience is the grocery store self-checkout. No longer do you have to stand in line to have a cashier wave your purchases over a scanner. You can do it yourself at U-Scan stations. On-screen prompts and pre-programmed voice commands guide you through the steps necessary to complete your transaction and, when this fails, a store employee descends from her centrally located turret to explain how wrong it was of you to jam your credit card into the receipt printer.

I don’t mind pitching in with the operation of my local supermarket. My sore back prevents me from going to the loading dock to help unpack their trucks, but I’d be more than happy to sneeze on the produce as I’m arranging it on the shelves. It takes a lot of effort to run that large a business and I’ll gladly do my part.

If only I can figure how the U-Scan is supposed to work.

It’s a bit daunting when you first step up to one of these hulking machines. There’s a large touch screen where you start by selecting your language (English is my personal favorite). If you’re in the frequent customer program and can find the appropriate card to prove as much, you swipe that past the laser reader and hear something like “welcome BiLo Bonus Card customer.” If you’re just an average citizen looking to buy a pound of coffee, I think there are provisions allowing you to proceed, though you may need a special dispensation from the regional manager.

Once you’ve been identified as friend or stranger, you begin passing your items over the scanner, turning them every which way until the barcode is detected and a reassuring beep is issued from the machine. (If you’ve turned a carton of eggs upside down to find the code and the eggs come tumbling out onto the floor, don’t worry. The customer in line behind you is taking the job of “cleanup at U-Scan station four” this week).

After each beep, the pre-recorded voice instructs you to “please place the item in the bag.” Plastic sack dispensers sit off to the side, and scales beneath these detect whether or not you’ve complied. If you’re buying something too big to fit in a flimsy plastic bag, too bad. Just cram that lawn rake in there as best you can, or prepare to explain yourself to the authorities.

You repeat this procedure for as many items as you intend to buy. (Fujitsu, the makers of U-Scan, claim to be developing a new generation of machines that will scan your whole shopping cart in one fell swoop, though I suspect we’ll see a man on Mars first). When you think you’re finished, the machine wants to make sure, because it still remembers that time you bought $150 worth of groceries, then drove off and left them at the curb.

“Do you have any items under the cart?” it asks helpfully.

“I don’t even have a cart,” I answer because, on this occasion, I’m buying only three things.

Now comes the hard part: the paying. The touch screen shows an overwhelming number of options — credit card, debit card, check, food stamps, gift card, cash, voucher. I’m trying to find “barter” because I want to trade a box of old Beanie Babies for my two frozen dinners and a bag of chips, but it’s not there. Finally, I choose credit card, as I don’t want to go through the ordeal I once endured of trying to use cash. (“Please enter coins first, from smallest to largest denomination. If you enter more than one coin of the same denomination, tender these by the date on the coin, with the oldest coins first. When entering bills, do so in chronological order by the birthdate of the historical figure portrayed on the bill. And good luck finding either the coin or the bill slot.”)

I swipe my credit card at yet another monitor to the side of the touch screen.

“Is $12.37 the correct amount?” reads a new display. I want to say that it seems a little high, that I thought prices would come down a little now that I’m doing all this work for them. But I’m given no such option.

Past experience tells me that I now have to find a third pad to record my signature, using the specially designed stylus provided for the occasion. Or maybe not. Some stores no longer require you to sign for purchases under $25 while others want not only your John Hancock (born 1737, featured on the rare $30 bill) but also several forms of identification to prove yourself. I stand by waiting to be told what to do next, ready to obey any command short of “kill”.

Finally, a couple of printers kick into action, indicating my receipt is ready as is the raft of coupons for products the computer knows I’ll want on my next visit. This is where you see another advantage of today’s obsessive data collection by scanners and customer-loyalty programs. Because I bought a bag of nonfat potato chips, shown in tests to promote frequent diarrhea, the computer suggests I may want to benefit from a coupon on Pepto-Bismol in a few days. Very impressive.

I do a little scanning myself, checking each portal and terminal in the array before me to confirm that I’m indeed done and can now leave the store. I glance over at the attendant, and she gives me a reassuring nod, and I think I’m finished.

However, the bag boy at the cashier-staffed line next to the U-Scan area has a temporary lull in his workload, and thinks he sees an opportunity for being tipped by an aging gentleman unable to carry his parcel to his car. He approaches with an offer to help.

I politely decline, wondering how much longer his job is secure with the eventual development of Roomba-style robots to automatically carry me to my car.

A typical self-checkout machine, or possibly the controls to a nuclear reactor.

Fake News: Dolphins and whales behind mystery

LOS ANGELES (Oct. 11) — Dolphins and whales are now believed to be behind the mysterious missile launch off the coast of southern California Monday night that sparked rumors of everything from a North Korean warning shot to an alien invasion.

That’s right. Dolphins and whales.

“We’ve long known that sea mammals such as these are highly intelligent creatures. We just didn’t know exactly how intelligent,” said marine biologist Laurence Bailey. “Apparently, they’ve developed a strategic nuclear strike force.”

The contrail captured by a TV news helicopter and flashed around the nation had been investigated by both Pentagon and national security officials, who were initially stumped as to the cause. It was only after a video was posted on YouTube late Wednesday claiming responsibility for the incident that officials acknowledged that dolphins and whales were behind the intercontinental ballistic missile firing.

“Hear us, America, and fear us too,” said an orca who identified himself as Osama bin-Willie, self-proclaimed leader of the so-called Cetacean Liberation Army. “We will no longer be patronized in the popular culture for our cuteness. We demand to be respected as the fierce ocean predators that we are. Oh, and also, stop messing up the environment.”

Shortly after the video was released, Navy submarines in the eastern Pacific spotted an elaborate military base on the seabed about 1,000 feet below the surface. Work crews of dolphins and whales swarmed about the site, maintaining launch silos and performing training exercises.

“We were going to release a hail of torpedoes and destroy the threat,” said Navy Adm. Andrew Ronald. “But they’re such appealing creatures, we just couldn’t do it. How could I tell my grandchildren I was involved in the massacre of hundreds of Flippers and Shamus?”

Bin-Willie, who spoke with reporters via satellite link from an undisclosed location early Thursday, responded “that is exactly my point. I’m a killer whale, for Christ’s sake. ‘Killer’ is right there in my name. How could you regard me as cute? How can you kidnap us from the wild and make us perform tricks throughout the greater Orlando area? We will not stand for this any longer.”

Bin-Willie said that if all performing dolphins and whales are not released by midnight Sunday, “a full-scale nuclear attack will be unleashed on the U.S.”

“Fwee, fwee,” he added.

It is now believed that dolphins and whales may also be involved in the incident that left a Carnival cruise ship crippled off the coast of Mexico following a mysterious fire and power outage earlier this week. Over 4,000 passengers and crew members aboard the Splendor were stranded for three days before being towed to San Diego.

“It appears that a suicide beluga intentionally thrust himself into the propulsion system of the ship, shorting out electricity and disabling the vessel,” said Al Hanson, a spokesman for Carnival Cruise Lines. “They may have been planning to board the liner to seize control of hostages but couldn’t quite figure how to wriggle their slippery armless bodies up the side of the ship.”

“Yeah, we’re responsible for that one,” said bin-Willie. “You narrowly escaped our clutches. If we could clutch stuff.”

Bin-Willie said the ship seizure would’ve represented a protest against whale-watching and against the seafoods served on board. Even after power was lost and passengers had to resort to emergency food rations, “they continued to eat products like Spam and Pop-Tarts that are not certified ‘dolphin-safe’,” bin-Willie said.

“I’m not even sure Pop-Tarts are people-safe, but at least you get to choose what you put in your own maw,” he said. “In captivity, we have to eat mostly chum, with only the occasional trainer thrown in as a rare treat.”

Defense Secretary Robert Gates said he was working closely with President Obama to deal with the cetacean threat. Tuna producers like Star-Kist and Bumble Bee may be brought in as military contractors, and the Japanese fishing industry may also be enlisted as consultants.

“We will not be terrorized into submitting to the dolphins and the whales,” Gates told reporters at a Pentagon briefing. “We’re at least as smart as they are. Plus, we have hands, which should be a big advantage in the epic battle that lies before us.”

An editorial: Time for totalitarianism

Much was made by some conservatives during recent elections of the fact that President Obama is actually a communist, a would-be dictator along the lines of Josef Stalin except with a better three-point shot.

While it might be true that the state apparatus has necessarily grown during his tenure as a response to the economic crisis, most regard this charge as an exaggeration. Bailouts and stimuli have worked to restart the economy but, at best, it’s only lumbering along. Liberals call for even more intervention, while the right wing counters with claims that the poor could learn better grooming techniques in unused prisons and that masturbation is a sin.

If an activist federal government is the answer to our current malaise, maybe we just haven’t taken it far enough. Instead of heeding calls to move to the political center, perhaps what is needed is even more control by the feds.

With this editorial, I’m calling for the institution of a complete and brutal autocracy here in the U.S. We’ve tried just about everything else; let’s give totalitarian tyranny a shot.

Total control of all aspects of society by the government has been attempted in the past with limited success. The French monarchs of the late 18th century tried it, but few people could take them seriously, what with their immense powdered wigs and totally gay wardrobes. Hitler eliminated the bad fashion sense and gave it another go in the 1940s, yet he too failed. Stalin in Russia and Mao in China staged purges and cultural revolutions to force their personality cults into every aspect of every citizen’s life, and ultimately all it got them was a lot of headaches.

So why might authoritarian rule suddenly be effective at rebuilding America’s fortunes and getting its people back to work? What is it that we have now that we didn’t have in the past that will suddenly make despotism a practical alternative to democracy?

The answer lies, as it usually does, in computers and online social networking.

Smart phones and Facebook and Twitter and interactive video gaming have given us the infrastructure that will make a dictatorial one-party state work more effectively than it ever could before. Mussolini had to stand on a balcony and rant for hours to get his point across to fascist Italy. President Obama would merely have to post a daily video on YouTube, maybe send out a few threatening tweets and organize the occasional flash mob to inject his agenda into every corner of our daily life.

Imagine, if you can, a utopian paradise where you didn’t have to make any personal decisions for yourself, where you were told what to eat for breakfast, how to get to work and when meet in the central square to worship our mighty leader. You don’t have to decide what shirt to wear today; there’s an email waiting each morning describing which jumpsuit is prescribed for that day. You don’t have to debate the merits of Burger King versus Wendy’s at lunch time; an order has already been placed by a government bureaucrat for your required combo meal. If you need to take a leak, simply consult the appropriate website (WhenToPee.gov) about your appointed schedule in the john.

And it could all be monitored with existing webcams, security cameras, Skype and the awesome new Kinect for Xbox 360.

Unemployment would be a thing of the past, as the government at all levels went on a hiring spree to find enough people to monitor everybody’s every move. Foreign threats would be neutralized when the likes of al-Qaida got an eyeful of what the all-powerful state does to crush its own citizenry. The baser elements of popular culture would be eliminated by fiat. Real Housewives are herded into federally run re-education compounds and entertainers like Lady Gaga and Lil Wayne are given new jobs in the propaganda ministry, writing dancebeat-heavy regulations on the operation of the heavy construction equipment.

True, there might be some opposition to my plan from the more libertarian elements in the new Republican congressional majority. I can imagine the objections they might raise to the perceived assault on certain basic liberties we’ve enjoyed for over two centuries. Too bad for them. They’ll all be rounded up and sent off to the gulag, where they can do all the complaining they want as long as they do it in solitary.

This might seem like a radical proposal to some, but I would counter that it’s the kind of fundamental change needed for desperate times. We might not like it when Big Brother is constantly borrowing our stuff and always getting to sit in the front seat and punching us in the shoulder and holding his hand two inches from our faces while claiming “I’m not touching you”. Yet deep down inside, we know he cares for us and will provide us everything we need, as long as we submit to his authority.

Now that we have the technology to put the total in totalitarianism, let’s give it a try.

Revisited: I’ll circle the building only if I want to

Signs, signs, everywhere are signs

Blocking out the scenery, breaking my mind,

Do this, don’t do that,

Can’t you read the signs?

I don’t respond well to direct requests made by giant multinational corporations. For example, when the McDonald’s drive-through pre-recording asks me to “try our new Angus Third Pounder,” or the receipt implores me to “have a nice day,” I tend to resist. I have no problem following their subliminal requests to get fat and clog up my coronary arteries. I just don’t like the hard sell.

So when I drove into the newly redesigned Mickie D’s not far from my house several weeks ago, and saw that they were redirecting traffic to make the best use of their tiny piece of property, I wasn’t playing along. The entrance I chose was only a couple dozen feet from the speakerbox where you place your order, yet the sign next to the lane demanded that I “circle building to enter drive-thru.” At this time of the mid-afternoon, there were virtually no other cars in sight, so I swung my car around a small curb and went directly to the order board. I’ll show those corporate bigwigs who’s boss.

However, this past Saturday morning it was a lot busier when I stopped by to get my son an Egg McMuffin. Cars were already backed up almost to the front of the store, and it actually made sense to drive the short loop around to position myself in the proper sequence. (I’m not such an anti-establishment rebel that I’m going to avoid breathing just because “The Man” says that air is good for me.)

By the time I made the circle, a large pickup from a local sign company had come in the same entrance and angled directly to a position behind the car that would otherwise be in front of me. I pulled up tight in back of the same car, and it started to look like things could get tense. I know McDonald’s is no stranger to provoking explosions from the lower half of the body, but this potential eruption of emotions from the upper half was different.

I could see the face of the guy who was trying to cut me off. He was giving me the no-look defense, staring straight ahead to avoid eye contact. I adopted a strained facial expression that should have gotten his attention, but he continued to avoid turning in my direction.

So now I had to figure out if I should honk my horn at him. I made a quick assessment of where each of us stood in the two social hierarchies that most influence interaction among strangers. I was obviously superior on the socioeconomic scale, since he worked for a billboard company and I didn’t, but it was somewhat less clear that I could beat him up if it came to a physical confrontation. He was a good 15 or 20 years younger than I, and had a significant number of hardened tools in the back of his truck. I think I had a blanket and an old pair of work gloves in the trunk of my Civic, and maybe a box of cat litter, though unfortunately it wasn’t soiled.

He inched forward and I inched forward and we were rapidly running out of inches. Horn-honking was increasingly out of the question, since there was no escape if things turned ugly, unlike on the interstate where you can always cross the median and start driving wrong-way into oncoming traffic. I considered my other options, because increased grimacing didn’t seem to be working. There was the phone number of his home office plastered across the back panel of the truck, and I supposed I could call and complain to them. Though what were they going to do, fire him? He’d probably welcome the unemployment insurance, as opposed to teetering 60 feet off the ground and looking up at a giant Hugh Laurie face. I could complain to the McDonald’s management, except that they probably had surveillance video of that first time I violated their rules, and would likely be aghast at my hypocrisy, if they cared at all.

The two majestic bucks facing off in the forest for dominance over the herd had head-butted and reared and twisted their horns together, and it had become clear who had won, and who was going to have to settle for that homely doe with the bad teeth. I gathered up what was left of my dignity, gave in, and let him proceed to the ordering position. He asks for a dollar-menu egg biscuit and a large, no make that a medium, coffee. If he had added a side order of lichen, my defeat would’ve been total.

Now I look off to the right and here comes another intruder trying to wedge in front of me. This is a much younger woman, probably college-age, and she makes the mistake of catching my eye. This time, it’s a clear case that I’m the superior human being, so I assert myself immediately. I raise my index finger in the air next to my head, then move my hand in a rotating motion to indicate that she needs to circle the building before lining up to place her order. The look on her face is blank — she thinks I’m either signaling that she hit a home run, or I’m asking her if she has a lasso. I mouth “you have to go around” so now she’s convinced I’m a crazy menace and zips out of the way.

I place my own order without further incident and pay at the first window. The guy who butted is still in front of me, though there’s little left I can do, except maybe hope that they screw up his order. If it were one of those complicated ones — can I substitute a freshly killed groundling for the cheese?, for example — they might make him pull off to the side, and I can swoop past triumphantly and beat him to the exit. Instead, we both move swiftly through the last step and turn out of the parking lot and back into city traffic.

When I’m sure he’s far enough ahead that he can’t see me, I raise my fist in a sign of contempt.

The scene of Saturday’s humiliation

Revisited: Live-blogging from a ditch near my house

My daily jog through the neighborhood takes me past a deep culvert just off one of the main roads heading into town. It’s not a drainage ditch or a creek bed; it’s more like a steep embankment probably built as part of the road construction. At this time of year, the thick grass lining the sides is dry and slick and matted and brown. It looks like a very slippery 30 feet from the sidewalk down to the deepest point.

It would be so cool if I fell in and couldn’t get out.

Maybe “cool” isn’t the right word, but it would be an interesting experience. You read occasionally about well-respected citizens who go out for a drive and are never heard from again, except perhaps 20 years later when their desiccated corpse is found by a utility crew. They veered off the road to avoid a deer and seemingly vanished from the planet. Every now and then they’ll survive on rainwater and gum for several days before gaining enough strength to haul their injured bodies up to the roadside. Then after all that, they get run over. Too bad, but it does make a great story. And the family is usually relieved to have some respectable resolution.

I’ve often wondered what it would be like down there in the ditch, pondering whether you’ll live or die, close enough to civilization to hear it passing by, and yet stuck in a world that is wild and primitive. If this ever happens to me and I happen to have my laptop along (and there’s a decent wi-fi hotspot within range), I’d love to live-blog about the experience.

It might go like this:

4:07 p.m. — Oops … oh no … sheesh … owww! … oof …

4:08 p.m. — Wha’ happened? What … ? Oh, shoot, my leg really hurts. Yow! Oh, hell, I don’t think I can get back up there. Oh, jeez …

4:13 p.m. — Well, that’s just great. I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. I’m like an old LifeAlert commercial. Great. How am I going to get back up to the sidewalk? Ow, my leg really hurts … I think it might be broken. What am I going to do?

4:15 p.m. — OK, try not to panic. I can still hear cars going by so I can’t be stuck here long. If I can just pull myself up this bank, I can signal for help. Guess I’ll have to crawl … ouch! Wow, I’m really up the creek. Heh, heh, that’s funny. Maybe I could blog about this!

4:47 p.m. — I’ve tried just about every way I can think to get myself out of here, but I’m not having any luck. Surely another jogger or walker will be by soon — I’ll yell out to them and maybe they can call for help. If I can find one not wearing headphones, like that’ll happen.

5:13 p.m. — This is definitely becoming a cause for concern. It’s starting to get dark. I know my wife and son are starting to wonder about me by now, but I don’t think I told them which way I was running. I need to focus, I need to think clearly, I need to concentrate on my … hey look — a squirrel with one leg missing!

5:58 p.m. — Wow, this sure does put any other problems I might have in perspective. Worrying about that dental hygienist appointment next week isn’t such a priority any more, is it? I’m going to start throwing rocks at the cars.

6:04 p.m. — Somebody stopped! Hey … help! Help!

6:05 p.m. — No, no, I didn’t mean to hit your 350Z. I was just … Yes, sir, I know I’m too old to be throwing rocks, but if you could just … Mister! Don’t leave, please!

7:50 p.m. — What are people going to think about this? They’ll probably think I’ve left the country, that I’ve got a secret second family somewhere. Jeez, I’m lucky to have one that will put up with me.

8:46 p.m. — Man, I’m really starting to get cold. I remember seeing a glove lying over there. At least I can keep my left hand warm. And … a sock!

11:31 p.m. — Getting so sleepy … What am I going to do without my Ambien tonight?

6:14 a.m. — Wow, I can’t believe I’ve been here all night. Unbelievable.

6:58 a.m. — It sure is beautiful out here early in the morning. The air smells so clean. Really makes you appreciate how nature can be close to home, and yet still exotic and wild. I think it was Henry David Thoreau who said it best, while he spent two years living in the wilderness on Walden Pond. He was fond of saying … Hey — jogger! Down here! Down here! Help!

7:26 a.m. — At least it’s getting light enough to see. Maybe I can look around and find something to eat. Is that a can of potted meat product? Maybe there’s a little left inside … nope, just ants. How can they eat that stuff? Hey, there’s a mayonnaise packet and I think I saw — yes, a grape jam packet from Bojangles. I can make dip!

7:44 a.m. — I think I smell pineapple or coconut. Oh, shoot, it’s just a discarded air freshener. I’ll hang it from this tree branch. Might as well make it things home-y if I’m going to be here a while.

8:22 a.m. — So thirsty… If I take this old sippy cup lid, and stuff a bunch of cigarette filters in it, maybe I can strain some water from that puddle over there and get a drink.

11:14 a.m. — Starting to get dizzy. Sure wish I could find something real to eat. You know, this would make a really great weight-loss plan. I’m going to try to sell something like it on the Internet when I get out of here. Wonder if ditchdiet.com is taken?

3:44 p.m. — Must keep my mind alert. Maybe if I found something to read. Here’s a cash register receipt from the grocery store. Wonder what is “FL BKD BEAN HMSTYL”? Sounds good.

4:33 p.m. — Not sure I can last another night. Thoughts turning weird … wonder if that raccoon over there would be interested in joining me in a provisional government. Man and beast, together at last, creating a just and peaceful society. Or I could club him with this stick and eat him.

4:53 p.m. — Hey, doggie! Here, boy. Come here, boy. Yeah, you’re a good boy. Here, let me attach this grocery receipt to your collar and you go tell your owner that there’s an MVP customer stuck in a gully. There’s some rewards points in it for you if you’re a good boy. Maybe even a free half-gallon of milk.

5:06 p.m. — Officer, officer! Thank you so much for finding me. I’m rescued at last! Thank God! Please, call my wife immediately and tell her I’m okay. And if you get the chance later, please check out my blog — davisw.wordpress.com.

THAT’S ME, OVER ON THE RIGHT

Images for a Monday

What do you say when you walk into a vacant office at work, and find one of your coworkers hula-hooping inside?

This is the question I had to ask myself last week. We have a training room down the hall that’s rarely used, so people will occasionally duck in to make a personal phone call or steal a quiet moment of reflection. I needed to retrieve some training materials from the room, and opened the door to find a female employee gyrating in what she thought was privacy. We were both startled.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” I said lamely, though I wasn’t at all certain what I was sorry for, considering it was she who was doing the hooping.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I’m almost done.”

Incredibly, I believe she continued the exercise, though I had to look away (at least one of us had to be embarrassed) so I’m not sure.

I’m fine with people using the hula-hoop in a playground, a school yard, or even on their front lawn. And they don’t necessarily have to be kids, either. I’m open-minded enough to realize that there may be full-grown adults among us who also like to hula-hoop, as is their God-given right.

But there’s a time and a place for everything. And I’m not sure swinging your hips wildly while trying to keep a circular piece of plastic from inching to the ground is the right thing to be doing at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning, standing between a whiteboard and an overhead projector at the office.

+++

A handmade roadside sign not far from my house advertises autumn lawn services. It’s a simple sign, containing the word “AERATION” in large type, a phone number, and in both the upper left and upper right corners, there’s an ichthys, more commonly known as a “Jesus fish.”

Certain businesses, especially here in the South, find it advantageous to advertise to potential customers that their belief in Christ will make them a more reliable plumber, contractor, gutter-cleaner, dog-walker, or whatever. So they include the outline of a fish in their ads.

I can see how many of the qualities espoused by the Christian church are valuable not only in the spiritual world but also in the world of commerce. Though, personally, I’d want to see a solid list of references rather than simply have a strong faith that they’re going to eventually return with my dog.

Aeration, as I understand it, is the process of gouging holes into the soil so that grass planted in the fall will grow better in the spring. I’m not sure how Christian aeration is different. Perhaps the lawn tractor is consecrated before the work begins. Maybe a holy chalice is used as a poking instrument. I certainly hope they don’t use the same post hole digger as is used to implant a cross, as I think grass seed needs only an inch or two.

I considered calling to ask for more details, but I can’t remember any of the phone number except the last four numbers, which spelled out the word “LIME”. My familiarity with the Bible is a little sketchy these days, though I do seem to recall that Christ’s favorite mixed drink was gin and tonic, so perhaps that’s the point of the lime reference.

In any event, in case it makes you think better of me as a blogger, consider this:

+++

They just put out the sign-up sheet at work for our annual Thanksgiving luncheon. Each year, on the Friday before the big holiday, management provides a turkey (fitting, somehow) and everybody else registers to bring a side dish.

I signed up for bagels. Do you think that’s kosher for Thanksgiving?

+++

Though I’m not much of a photographer, I understand the importance of adding a visual element to my posts. So when I wrote a piece last Wednesday about U-Scan self-checkout machines at the grocery store, I knew I’d need a picture.

I had a feeling, however, that taking photos in the supermarket is something you don’t do. Think about it: when was the last time you saw a group posing for a family portrait in the frozen-food aisle? Is it because most people don’t think it’s a nice enough setting, or is it that these large grocery chains have a corporate policy against still photography in their stores?

I didn’t want any trouble, but I felt I needed a picture of the machine I was writing about. So I’d have to shoot something surreptitiously.

I felt like every store employee had their eye on me as I maneuvered into position to take my shot. CIA agents doing reconnaissance work in Afghanistan aren’t as nervous as I was. I pulled the small digital camera out of my jacket, aiming in the general direction of my subject. I couldn’t afford to be concerned about framing or composition; holding the viewer up to where I could preview the picture would be too obvious, so I kept everything at waist level.

If focus were important to me, I’d be disappointed in the results. Since I was going instead for a more impressionistic portrayal, I was actually pretty happy with how it came out.

+++

Have you ever noticed how people in passing cars are so good-looking?

Whether you’re jogging down the street or barely missing a head-on collision with an oncoming vehicle, you typically only get a brief view of other drivers and, for some reason, their facial features crystallize into a handsome image during that nanosecond of recognition.

Maybe my brain is editing out any apparent defects, leaving behind only movie stars and top models motoring through the streets of my small South Carolina town.

Organizers of beauty pageants would be wise to recognize this phenomenon. I’m envisioning some kind of drive-through Miss America competition.

+++

If a woman using a hula-hoop at work gives me pause, what am I to make of this picture?

I hope my production coordinator is simply trying to unjam a printer but, quite frankly, I fear for his life. It appears he’s being eaten by the legal-size paper tray.

Fake News: New Congressmen doing it their way

WASHINGTON (Nov. 15) — Nearly 100 new members of Congress arrived on Capitol Hill this week for the first time since winning election, and immediately began the process of remaking the federal government into a slimmer and wackier version of its former self.

Freshman orientation sessions for the class of 2010 were meant to show newly minted representatives how to handle the basics of being a member of the House — where to live, how voting works, where the bathrooms and dining rooms are located, etc. But many of the Tea Party-inspired Republicans are already showing their extremely conservative tendencies and are resisting the conventional ideas of what it means to be a congressperson.

“We’re not about to listen to the Old Guard tell us how things work around here,” said Rep.-elect Tim Scott, R-S.C. “The people who elected us want to see a new way of governing, and we intend to start with the basics.”

Scott said he would set an example of fiscal restraint by foregoing an office in the Capitol complex and instead would set up shop in a trench he’s having dug in the lawn just outside.

“Fighting against the tax-and-spend status quo is going to be much like trench warfare, so it seemed appropriate that my office is in a ditch,” Scott said. “I’ve seen some good-sized rocks unearthed so far, and these will serve me well as furniture.”

Scott has hired a number of ousted Democratic congressmen who would otherwise be out of work to dig the trench for him.

“I need the work so I’m happy to do what I can,” said soon-to-be-former Rep. John Spratt. “We’re just hoping he doesn’t shoot us in the head when we’re done and kick our lifeless bodies into the trough. I don’t think this is a dig-your-own-grave scenario but you never know with these rebels.”

Rep.-elect Adam Kinzinger, R-Ill., has objected to the elaborate food spreads put out by lobbyists at the various orientation events, and has vowed he will not accept any free meals. Instead, he intends to stand outside in the sun in hopes of generating enough chlorophyll to survive.

“If the evolutionists are right, I should be developing leaves and turning into a plant by supper time,” Kinzinger said. “If they aren’t, I trust in God to sustain me. This PowerBar and can of Red Bull I have here stand ready to be transformed into enough bread and fish and wine to last my entire first term.”

Rep.-elect Nan Hayworth, R-N.Y., was seen walking out in protest from a class on how the electronic voting system works on the House floor.

“I just don’t trust those sneaky electrons,” Hayworth said. “They have a pro-science, anti-faith bias, and I can just imagine them changing my vote on a key bit of legislation. I’ll be casting my votes the old-fashioned way: writing ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ on a piece of paper and depositing it in that round bin on the floor right next to the speaker’s podium.”

When told by a reporter that she was referring to the trash can, she covered her ears and said she’s “had it with listening to the lamestream media.”

Rep.-elect Allen West, R-Fla., interrupted a page’s tour of the hallway outside the House chamber when West’s group was being shown where the restrooms were located.

“I intend to do the people’s business as I would do my own business, and it’s not in some fancy-shmancy bathroom with golden urinals and taxpayer’s money being used as toilet paper,” West said. “I’ll hold it in as long as I can, and then it’s adult diapers. If they’re good enough for my constituents, they’re good enough for me.”

Expanding uses of the coupon

One evening in 1803, Thomas Jefferson came home from his job as president of the United States with exciting news. He had negotiated the Louisiana Purchase, a $15-million transaction in which France handed over nearly a million square miles of territory to his fledgling nation. All lands from the Mississippi River to the Rocky Mountains would now be American.

“Soon we will span the continent,” Jefferson told his wife Martha. “Our manifest destiny to stretch from sea to sea has been set in motion by my presidency. We have purchased the future of America.”

“Did you use the coupon on the refrigerator?” a skeptical Martha asked. “Because, you know, Napoleon is having a special, and with any purchase over $10 million, they’ll throw in the French West Indies.”

“This is the best deal since we bought the island of Manhattan for $24,” Jefferson answered. “The size of our land has been doubled.”

“You didn’t use the coupon, did you?” Martha continued. “Oh, well.”

The coupon may not trace its origins quite that far back, but the hope of getting a better deal has always been with us. In mankind’s earliest history, hunters and gatherers would return to the cave with what they thought was an impressive array of roots, berries and elk chunks, only to have their pride deflated by the well-intentioned spouse who’d been hoping for a free order of tree bark as well.

Americans save billions of dollars a year with just a little foresight and a pair of scissors. The coupon (pronounced “kew-pahn” by the unwashed and “coo-pohn” by those of us with a continental flair) has made its way into our everyday retail buying habits. For almost every product or service you can name, there is the opportunity to save substantial amounts on your purchase by handing over a thin slip of printed paper with your cash.

To her credit, my wife does a fantastic job of watching out for bargains that benefit the bottom line of our family’s budget. The picture below shows just a part of our collection, hanging in plain sight on the refrigerator where only a blind moron such as me could miss them.

I frequently neglect to use these coupons despite repeated reminders. A silly sense of pride is part of this — I see myself casually accepting of any price announced by the cashier with the noble proclamation that I’m willing to pay “whatever the cost” — though it’s primarily a memory issue. I’m lucky to remember my car keys and my clothing before leaving the house on a buying errand.

I’m trying to do better. Even though the 1/20th of a cent in cash value doesn’t go as far today as it used to, it still pays to shop wisely. The image of the Coupon Queen hauling a file cabinet full of paperwork up to the checkout so she can save $3.67 is now little more than a stereotype. Even urbane men of the world are regularly seen these days pulling a wad of vouchers out of their finely tailored suits to save a few bucks on the business lunch that will seal the upcoming merger.

Keeping this in mind has helped me do a better job of using coupons. I’ve now become enough of a veteran bargain-hunter that I understand slight variations in how the coupon economy works. Once you’ve steeled yourself to the humiliation of a transaction that announces to the world how cheap you are, there are subtleties at work in different settings that are worth knowing.

The coupon is most commonplace in the supermarket. Some stores even have special double- or even triple-coupon Tuesdays, where essentially they pay you to cart their stuff away. It’s not at all unusual to see every one of your fellow shoppers racking up big savings, buying one and getting one free, earning a quarter off here and free bag-of-chips-they-don’t-even-like there as they stretch their grocery dollar to extraordinary lengths.

A casual attitude toward the coupon also exists in the fast-food industry. As long as you declare your intention at the drive-through speakerbox to use it (in addition to “I have a coupon,” also acceptable is “I had a suit on” and “I’d like some Grey Poupon”), they’ll often ring up your discount without even taking the thing from you. The deals are usually not that great, and often involve some leftover, failed promotional item, like the McSquid sandwich or the Whopper Super Extreme, an all-beef patty topped with battery acid.

It’s in finer dining establishments where things tend to get dicey. You’ll want to keep the coupon hidden until you’ve finished your meal, unless you want smaller portions and/or spittle in your salad. Produce the discount as you ask for your check, and have confidence in your right to use it. I usually say something like “I have this coupon I was hoping to use if it’s something you accept and you promise we’ll never meet again.” Beware of hidden details in the fine print that may disrupt your plans. My wife and I once had a coupon rejected because we tried to use it on Veteran’s Day Eve, because holidays were specifically excluded from the offer. (In the end, we were just happy to have found a reservation on a night as crowded with celebrating couples as Veteran’s Day Eve).

Finally, there are opportunities to use coupons to purchase services as well as goods. I’m frequently able to take advantage of an offer for $8.99 haircuts at Great Clips (regular price: $11). The good thing about this set-up is that you don’t pay until after the cut is done, and by then there’s not much your stylist can do to mess you up on purpose, short of holding you down and gluing your floor trimmings back onto your scalp. The bad thing, for me anyway, is that I usually feel so guilty about gypping a struggling single mom out of a few dollars that I leave an excessive tip that negates any savings.

Harking back to the Jeffersons, it seems the time is right to expand coupon usage to other kinds of transactions, like those involving the government. Maybe we consider additional incentives to sympathetic Afghan warlords to accompany their direct cash payments, maybe a coupon for half-off the latest ground-to-air missile technology. How about offering the Chinese a deal on Treasury bills, in which a piece of an American monument is thrown in for every $100 billion sold? They could be given Teddy Roosevelt’s eyebrow off of Mt. Rushmore and hardly anybody would notice. Or the Statue of Liberty’s exposed armpit, which could then be covered up with a Band-Aid. You could say she nicked herself shaving. It’d make her more human.

Regardless of what the nation chooses to do, I’ll keep trying to remember to use my coupons. Frugality and thrift are valuable traits in these bad economic times, and I shouldn’t be ashamed to show them. Our third president would’ve been wise to heed the encouragement of his wife. Imagine Martinique as our 51st state.

An interview with the prince

On Tuesday, Great Britain’s heir to the throne, Prince William, announced he was engaged to be married. His bride-to-be, Kate Middleton, will be the first commoner in over 300 years to be married to the man who will one day be king. The news sent the royalty-obsessed Brits into spasms of joy, despite the fact that they continue to live in England.

The Prince has kept a relatively low profile as he has grown up. The son of Prince Charles and the late Princess Diana has led a relatively normal life, thanks in large part to his late mum. It was she who taught the boys to behave like average citizens, not like the inbred horsefaces they are destined to become.

The Prince has remained relatively unknown outside of Britain, but now he seems to be reaching out to establish an image for himself overseas. As part of that effort, he contacted the writer of this blog Wednesday with a request to be interviewed. I know — I’m as surprised as you are. But you don’t say “no” to the future King of England, so I said “yes” instead. What follows are the highlights from an hour-long online conservation I had with what seemed like a regular guy.

DavisW’s Blog: This is really quite the honor. I’m not sure how I should address you …

Prince William: Technically, my name is William Wales, though my friends call me “Prince Of”. They called me “Will” back at university, and quite a few other names behind my back. But it won’t be long, baby, before you can call me Billy England.

DB: Okay … Billy. What made you want to seek out a little-known American blogger to introduce yourself and your fiancée to the U.S.?

PW: I really relate to you Americans. I’m a bit of a rebel myself. One time, at St. Andrews, I was five minutes late to an economics class.

DB: That’s not much of a rebellion …

PW: Yeah, well, unfortunately it was the part where they cover how to use figurehead royalty to help restructure a European post-socialist economy. Have a feeling I could’ve used that one.

DB: So you’re talking online with me from, where? Buckingham Palace? Big Ben? The Beatles’ house?

PW: No, I’m at Kate’s flat right now. Just swung by to let the dog out and figured I could get this interview out of the way while I was … shit. Damn dog. BAD, QUEENIE, BAD DOG!

DB: Uh, we don’t like to use that kind of language here at DavisW’s Blog. Please keep it PG, if you don’t mind.

PW: Pardon. A bit tense with all the attention we’ve been getting. So sorry.

DB: Well, let’s talk about that if we can. You and Kate Middleton have announced your intentions to be married next year …

PW: Or the year after.

DB: … yes, or the year after. Why such the long engagement?

PW: The schedulers had to work us in between the 2012 London Olympics, another one of those silly jubilees in 2011, and the complete financial collapse of the United Kingdom later this year.

DB: That still seems like a long time to wait. It’s not related to the troubles you two had a few years ago when you separated for a while, is it?

PW: No, no, not at all. We’re very much in love and look forward to spending the rest of our lives together. (Did I say that right, honey?)

DB: Billy, you know that we’re texting this interview, and you can’t keep the audience from hearing something by typing it in parentheses.

PW: (Shit).

DB: Moving along, your fiancée seems like a lovely girl.

PW: First time we met, she was a little shy, with me being a prince and all. But I was like royally ready to tap that thang.

DB: Much has been made of the fact that you two have already lived together, and that she won’t be required to undergo a physical exam to confirm her virginity. Very modern — sounds like you’re dragging the Windsors into the 21st century. Do you plan to tweet during your wedding ceremony?

PW: Sorry, but I don’t use Twitter. It’s not that popular over here in England, what with our problems with the ethnic Twits and all. The only social network I’m active on is TotallyLinkedIn.

DB: How will your lives be different after the wedding?

PW: Well, hopefully, they’ll give us a palace so we can move out of this grotty flat. Horses and a carriage would be cool too, but not for everyday running around town. I’d like a Ford Edge for that. One with Bluetooth and a video camera instead of a rearview mirror.

DB: Do you get much say in how the ceremony will be staged? Does it have to be in a cathedral with thousands of dignitaries in attendance, or could you do it under a trellis, barefoot, on the beach if you wanted to?

PW: I’m the Prince, so I guess I could do whatever I wanted, as long as it didn’t require super powers. But I think I’m going to leave the details to all the gals. Grandmum might even stand untethered at the ceremony, she’s so stoked about this.

DB: And your father, he’s heavily involved too?

PW: What do you think? Last I heard, he said he’d try to make the wedding. There’s a whole story with him that I’m not sure I want to get into.

DB: It must be difficult to know he’s potentially standing between you and the throne…

PW: Well, you’ve hit it exactly on the head, haven’t you? My future career as head of an empire that spans the globe is pending the timely demise of both my father and my grandmother. Sounds like I’m going to be waiting around for a while, the way those two are going. I keep telling them they need to take up parasailing, but they’re not getting the hint.

DB: Sounds like an all-too-familiar situation. We have a lot of recent college graduates here in the States who are having trouble starting their careers. Some, probably like you, may even end up moving back in with their parents.

PW: You work so hard getting good grades in school — well, some people do, anyway — and you put in that mandatory face time in the military, and then you end up waiting like 50 years for the current line to finish dying.

DB: You do, however, have another job, is that right?

PW: Yeah, believe it or not, I’m a search-and-rescue helicopter pilot operating in the North Sea. You think a person lasts 50 years in a job like that?

DB: Let’s talk a little bit about Kate, if we can.

PW: I’d love to, but I see you’re about ready to run out of space. Why don’t we make this a two-parter?

DB: Why, yes. How very thoughtful of you to notice. We will continue the interview on Friday.

PW: Stay tuned, everybody.

Interview with a prince of a guy, part two

Yesterday, this blog posted the first part of an interview with Prince William, the future king of England. He was eager to establish an image for himself with the American public, now that he’s officially engaged to be married and looking forward to bigger things in the royalty business.

Today, we conclude that post with the second part of the interview.

DavisW’s Blog: Yes, when we left off, we were about to talk about your fiancée, Kate. How did you two meet?

Prince William: We were in the same history class at university. We had to work together for a report about King George VI and the role his stammer played in the Battle of Britain. Her view maintained that he had pro-German tendencies that kept him from mustering the Royal Air Force more quickly, while mine contended that he wanted to say that he hated Hitler, but just couldn’t get the words out. Her research was extremely thorough, straight out of the British Museum. I just asked my grandmother about him.

DB: So you’d say Kate was the better student of the two of you?

PW: If you mean did she go to class, did she do the assignments, did she take the exams, then, yes, she was a better student than me. Better than I? Sorry, I’m not really up on the Queen’s English. I really have no excuse, you know.

DB: So did the two of you hit it off immediately?

PW: No, no, she gave me the whole “just friends” treatment for the longest time. Every now and then I’d elbow her, give her a wink and ask “benefits?” but she kept thinking I was asking how she liked the welfare state. So we got to just liking each other as people before our first “horizontal hula,” about a year into the relationship.

DB: Is that when you knew for sure she’d be your future queen?

PW: I was hoping that was the case but we were careful not to rush things too much. I had to get over the whole thing about her being a commoner first. Royal blood was very important to me at that point, as long as I didn’t get any of it on my clothes.

DB: So you don’t mind that her father is a retired airline pilot and her mother a former flight attendant?

PW: Well, it was a little awkward the first time I met them. He stayed locked in this small room at the front of their house, and would only talk to his family over their intercom system. And even then, it was only to comment about land formations passing by outside the home, nothing at all personal. Her mother kept trying to sell me overpriced drinks and insisting that their sofa could be used as a flotation device in the event of a water landing. It was a little weird.

DB: Now, I understand they’ve made a fortune in their retirement years by selling party supplies on the internet…

PW: Yeah, “party supplies”, that’s what they call them. But the emails I keep getting from them say they’re “V!cod!n” and “A m B i E n” and they’re available without a prescription.

DB: And I haven’t read much about what kind of job Kate has now. What is she doing again?

PW: She’s a professional jeans-wearer.

DB: Professional? You can do that for a living?

PW: She can. Haven’t you seen the pictures on the internet?

DB: Yes. I see what you’re talking about.

PW: And those are her fat jeans, so you can understand why I’ve got this big stupid smile on my face.

DB: Do you think the two of you will continue working once you ascend to the throne?

PW: Well, I think we’ll pretty much have to, with this whole “Austerity Britain” thing going on. You saw where the Cameron government’s budget cuts are also affecting the money given to the royal household? I’m not sure we can get by on £23 million a year. I thought I could continue doing search-and-rescue helicopter piloting, maybe on a free-lance basis. And Kate could always take in ironing or do piecework in our home or something like that.

DB: And what about children?

PW: I suppose we could hire some to take care of the tedious hand-stitching, since she’ll be a little slow with that ginormous ring on her finger.

DB: No, I meant children for the two of you. You think you’ll be having some?

PW: Oh, tons, I’m sure. We still have that hemophilia gene running through my side of the family, so we’ll need to aim high even if we only want to end up with one or two.

DB: The whole British Empire is eagerly waiting for some new heirs. You think you might start your family soon?

PW: I don’t know, let me check. HEY, KATE, THIS GUY WANTS TO KNOW IF YOU WANT TO DO IT. [pause] NO, I THINK HE MEANS WITH ME. [pause] Well, she’s getting ready to wash her hair right now, though she said maybe later.

DB: So do you see yourself being a hands-on kind of king when you finally get the call?

PW: Well, I believe a good manager knows how to delegate authority, so I’m going to focus on the duties that have to be mine, and let others deal with the overseas trips and the meetings with prime ministers. That’ll let me focus on signing the palace employees’ timecards, scheduling their vacations, doing their annual reviews, real middle-management kinds of stuff. That’s my strength, I think.

DB: How about the throne-sitting. You’ll have to do that, right?

PW: I guess, if they make me. I’ve got real bad Restless Leg Syndrome so sitting still is not one of my strengths. Fortunately, I know where I can find some Ambien.

DB: Well, thanks again for taking time to talk with me, so I can introduce you to my readers here in the U.S. That was quite the coup for my blog, you know.

PW: Don’t say “coup,” if you don’t mind.

DB: Right. I understand. Thanks again, and hopefully I’ll see you around.

PW: Yeah, we’ll be sure to look you up if we ever make it to Rock Hill, South Carolina. I understand the Museum of York County has the world’s largest collection of stuffed African hooved mammals, and I’ve always been a sucker for hooved mammals, so you just might see me sometime. You have a spare couch or two if we need a place to stay?

DB: Sure. You’re welcome any time.

I believe a good manager knows how to delegate authority, so I can focus on signing the palace employees' timecards

 

Revisited: Thanksgiving comes early to 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.

Revisited: Thank you for just about everything

I don’t know about you but I’m already just about thanked out.

The wellspring of gratitude and appreciation flowing from our guilty consciences today is enough to put anybody flat on their back. There’s just something about being a grateful person that makes you incredibly sleepy, seeking the nearest couch on Thanksgiving night for a much-deserved nap.

Scientists tell us that certain chemicals flood our bloodstream when we thank and honor those to whom we are indebted. The same hormones that prompt us to choke up when football commentator Howie Long thanks the troops eventually start to back up in the brain, prompting an overall feeling of fullness and, ultimately, coma.

Showing genuine emotion toward loved ones as we count our blessings tends to wear a person out. That’s why I audit my assets only twice a year — at Thanksgiving and on Tax Day, April 15.

Tomorrow, I’ll be ready to go back to the old way of doing business, living in a whirlwind of meaningless, pre-scripted “thank-you’s” offered solely as a way to evoke a certain behavior, usually getting you to leave the premises. These are the devalued, distorted expressions we encounter a hundred times a day, the ones that have so removed the true meaning of gratitude that when we feel the real thing, it gives us a very bad stomachache.

My son and I made a drive around the neighborhood last Thanksgiving, because we always get a kick out of seeing roads emptied and businesses shuttered on major holidays. It’s kind of a fun preview of what he might expect when he drives around with his son some bleak day in our dismal economic future.

“Your grandpa and I used to exchange script for services in these burned-out storefronts,” he’ll tell young Davis the Sixth. “It’s a lot like how you buy roots and berries to eat, except you do it online and we had this thing called bricks-and-mortar.”

Even McDonald’s was closed. As we circled the parking lot to get a closer look at this rare sight, we saw the signs that direct customers through the take-out operation. The first stop, at the big board of burger pictures, simply says “Order Here.” The second stop has a sign which reads “Thank You For Having Your Payment Ready,” a directive poorly disguised as a polite request. Finally, when you pick up your order at the last window, the sign reads simply “Thank You.” What they really mean at this point in the transaction is “Be Gone!”

I get the same feeling at the automated car wash. There’s a large electronic sign that guides you through the steps in the process as you pull your car into the contraption. There’s “Please Enter,” a clear enough signal that you drive into the bay. There’s “Drive Slowly,” “Stop” and even “Back Up” for those who have moved beyond the proper position. When the wash begins, you see a different series of signals, such as “Wash,” “Rinse,” “Underwash,” etc., apprising you of the progress of the operation. Finally, there’s a brief moment of silent inactivity, at which point the sign flashes “Thank You.” This is their friendly way of saying you’re done, though I imagine some dimwits may sit there a while awaiting further instructions. I have a feeling that if you don’t move it within ten seconds, that you get one which reads “You’re Through, Now Drive Away by Pressing your Foot on that Narrow Pedal on the Floorboard.”

Another insincere use of the “Thank You” comes at the large warehouse shopping club. Some of the purchases come in containers too large to put in a bag, which is the traditional way of showing that you’ve paid for the product. So instead, a bright orange sticker gets affixed to the box saying “Thank You,” which is secret code for “This Item is Not Being Shoplifted.” Innocent enough at the time, perhaps, but a little disconcerting when you face several weeks of having a tub of cat litter thanking you every time you go in the utility room.

Finally, I’ll mention the forced gratitude you’ll often see in sports. I used to play a lot of tennis when I was younger and, though far from good, I was generally skilled enough to keep the ball within the court. Occasionally, you’d encounter a twosome on the next court over that had difficulty controlling the trajectory of their shots, probably due in part to the fact they were wearing jeans, street shoes and half-drunk expressions. As their tennis balls trickled from their court onto mine, they’d call out “thank you” as a signal for me to stop what I was doing and retrieve their miscue. Once, a young girl was so wild that she put her ball over the ten-foot fence surrounding the court.

“Thank you,” she called out to me. “No, no,” I responded, “thank you.”

She had obviously been well-trained by her parents to express appreciation when someone did something nice for her. I’m always amused by the teaching technique most parents use when socializing their kids on this critical component of human interaction. The nice man in the sunglasses offers you candy if you’ll join him in his windowless van to help him look for his missing puppy, and your mom stands there and asks “What do you say?” Most children learn pretty quickly to offer a shy “thank you,” though a fortunate few respond “shouldn’t I be wary of strangers?”

By the way, thank you for not noticing that I don’t do Website Reviews any more. However, I did recently check out several sites on the subject of thanks.

There’s one called thanks.com, whose home page reads “The spontaneous thank you: Such power it wields. To awe. To rally. To cheer. And to motivate. But well-timed spontaneity takes planning. We’ve done that part so you can do the fun part.” As you might guess, this is a business set up to take the annoying element of sincerity completely out of the act of an employer showing gratitude to an employee. For a minimal fee, you can generate the “instant certificate, a quick and easy way to turn your heartfelt sentiment into a frame-worthy expression of gratitude.” This can even be customized with a personal message (like the person’s name, typed in all caps), then printed out in your own office in seconds.

You can also buy tangible gifts to show Ingrid in accounting how much you appreciate her overlooking that Spectravision charge on your last expense report. For $12, there’s an origami goose, contorted in much the same way as the actress in that PayTV movie. Or, for a little more, you can get caramel candy apples dressed up in tuxedo packaging, or a customized footstool imprinted with inspirational urgings to “Reach Higher.” Or, you can stock up for any number of future needs with an $18 cache of “appreciation buttons,” including “Wizard of Awe,” “Wow Factor,” “Big Kahuna,” “Grand Poobah of Great Ideas” and “Hello, My Name is Fran Tastic.”

The site thank.com offers thank-you cards, notes, letters and gifts. They include convenient templates – for example, the proper way to express appreciation for a recent job interview, where you simply print out a sheet and hope that your potential boss’s name is “Mr. or Mrs. Blank.” They offer other sample letters as well, though this part of the site was temporarily unavailable when I tried to look (thanks for nothing). You can also order funeral cards and memorial plaques from thank.com, though I’ve always thought it a little impolite to thank someone for dying.

At thankyou.com, there’s a rewards program where you can earn points toward future purchases. What stood out for me here was the Testimonials section, letters written by satisfied customers who bought tires, rented a Cadillac for their Nashville vacation or “finally got that meat slicer I’ve wanted for some time.”

Lastly, just for fun, I checked out nothanks.com. It bills itself as a “lifestyle resource” and includes such features as Christian dating, where I imagine “no thanks” gets said quite a lot.

Revisited: My suggestions for Thanksgiving carols

It’s Thanksgiving this week, and I think I know the reason it’s snuck up on us again. There are no warning songs, like you tend to get for weeks before Christmas. As much as I love the Thanksgiving holiday, it’s difficult to get in the spirit without appropriate musical accompaniment. (I think that’s why I always forget to buy everybody Labor Day presents).

To remedy this sad lack of audio cheer, I’m hereby submitting my ideas for new Thanksgiving carols. I’m suggesting existing holiday melodies, so once the turkey is done, we can easily transition into already familiar tunes for the rest of December.

[To the tune of "Joy to the World"]

Joy to the world

The bird has come

Let us remove his wings

Take out the heart,

Take out the lungs,

But leave the gizzards in

But leave the gizzards in

But leave … but leave the gizzards in

 

[To the tune of "Silent Night"]

Silent night, holy night

Hours until the first light

Time to hit the malls and stores

Time to start the busting of doors

TVs for $499

Xbox for $299

 

[To the tune of "Good King Wenceslas"]

Uncle Wenceslas looked down

On the feast from mama

Said she did a bang-up job

Then started on Obama

“He’s really Hitler in disguise, his policies are failin’”

Then the poor man gave us fright, said he’s reading Palin.

 

[To the tune of "What Child is This?"]

What time is dinner?

I need to know

Should I skip lunch

Or pick up “to go”

I’ll gladly starve

If we’ll eat at 3

By 4 though I’ll be crabby

 

[To the tune of "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus"]

I watched stupid TV marathons

Nothing else was on Thanksgiving Day

“Dirty Jobs” will make you sick

“Real Housewives” makes you thick

“Hell’s Kitchen” makes you want to bludgeon Ramsey with a stick

 

[To the tune of "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire"]

Lions stinking in the Silverdome

Cowboys rarely scoring ten

Watching football on Thanksgiving Day

It makes you want to leave the den

Go to the kitchen and help the people cleaning plates

Here there’s fellowship to see

While in Dallas they’re imploding again

As Romo blows another third and three

 

[To the tune of "Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer"]

Rudolf the Grey Tofurkey

Had a very shiny glow

Made up of roots and veggies

Making your digestion slow

All of the other families

Eat a real bird of meat

However your hippie grandma

Likes to mix her food with peat

Then one foggy afternoon

Grandpa rose to say

“I refuse to eat this crap

That’s not gravy, that’s tree sap”

All of the other relatives

Jumped and shouted out with glee

“Let’s all run out to Wendy’s

For a burger and large Frostie”

 

[To the tune of "White Christmas"]

I’m dreaming of a Black Friday

Just like the one they had last year

Where the guy at Wal-Mart

Was torn apart

Because low prices started here

 

[To the tune of "Home for the Holidays"]

Oh, there’s no place for you in the dining room

Looks like you’ll have to sit back with the kids

Though they yell and they spit and they smell real bad

Now you know your life has really hit the skids

You met a girl from Tennessee

She looks just like your aunt

But you’re 21 and she is only eight

All she talks about is SpongeBob

While you like Gothic bands

They should have left her with a sitter

Man, you really want to hit her

Revisited: Thanksgiving week 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 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 joke 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.

Revisited: Church calendar confusing to many

The wave of fresh converts to evangelical Christianity appears to contain many who are confused about certain details of this, their first holiday season.

“I’m still learning my way around,” admitted Sonya Bennett. “I mean, I believe in Jesus and all that stuff; I’m just a little hazy on the reasons for some of these celebrations.”

Much of the bewilderment became apparent during yesterday’s so-called “Black Friday.” Large numbers of newly minted Christians showed up at post-Thanksgiving sales at Wal-Mart, Target and other retailers, thinking they were observing the day Jesus was crucified at Calgary.

“I guess I was thinking of — what is it? — Good Friday,” said Heather Thompson. “I thought Black Friday was the day the altar was draped in black cloth, and a somber service acknowledged our Lord’s ultimate sacrifice for mankind. Turns out, it’s more about low, low prices.”

Thompson said many of her friends were also confused about the day. She said she felt that the Church of Christ, of which she became a member earlier this year, and the nation’s retail sector were “just asking” for there to be such widespread misunderstanding.

“I mean, think about it: Good Friday marks an occasion when something bad happened, and Black Friday marks a good day, a day of door-busting bargains. That’s just plain screwy,” Thompson said. “You’d think it would be the other way around. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t the only one expecting up to 60% off the cost of my salvation.”

Bennett, a recent convert to the Evangelical Lutheran Synod, said the church calendar at first didn’t make sense to her. She said she had time to meditate and reflect on her faith while waiting in line from midnight till 4 a.m. outside the Valley Hills Mall in Seattle.

“I finally puzzled through it,” Bennett said. “It just wasn’t possible that Jesus was crucified in late November, then born in late December, and then ascended into heaven in March or April. I know He can do some amazing things, but this just seemed totally whack.”

Similar puzzlement was expected during next week’s “Cyber Monday,” which has become the day on which close to a third of on-line Christmas gift sales are made. Either that, or it’s something to do with Simon Peter, or maybe the Immaculate Conception, or maybe Zhu Zhu pets.

“The one that always messes me up is Maundy Thursday,” said Oscar Bennett, who joined the Southern Baptist denomination in February. “I mean, is it a Monday or is it a Thursday? I’m all for talking in tongues, but come on. How can we have effective outreach to non-believers with this kind of double-talk?”

Raymond Price, a new member of the fundamentalist Mercy Schmercy Catholic Church in suburban Atlanta, defended Christianity’s elaborate calendar as something that novices should study and become comfortable with.

“It’s really not that complicated when you put your mind to it,” Price said. “Ash Wednesday is the day we remember volcano victims. Palm Sunday celebrates the day Jesus rode into Jerusalem in triumph after inventing the handheld personal digital assistant. Corpus Christi, in mid-June, marks the beginning of beach season on the south Texas coast.”

Price said his personal favorite day on the liturgical calendar was Ruby Tuesday.

“Any day that honors both the Rolling Stones and the Seaside Sensations combo platter is truly a holy day in my book,” Price said. “Ruby Tuesday — Fresh Taste, Fresh Price.”

Our thoughts turn to food

Ah, there’s nothing like the bustle of the neighborhood Panera on a late Sunday morning.

Families going out for a once-a-week breakfast together, with youngsters running to and fro, dads gingerly balancing the Sunday paper and two trays of bagels, moms herding the kids to their seats. Older couples stand studying the extensive menu, carefully deliberating their decision. Soccer teams flush with recent victory in the 8-and-under league, celebrating their teamwork with a cookie and some hot chocolate.

MAKE UP YOUR MIND WHAT YOU WANT, ALREADY! PLACE YOUR ORDER AND GET OUT OF THE WAY! THERE ARE OTHERS WAITING IN LINE THAT HAVE THINGS TO DO TODAY!

+++

The popular soft drink known as Dr Pepper was once described by David Letterman as “liquid manure,” but it’s not really that bad.

Otherwise, why would there be so many imitators?

Generic supermarket versions of the cherry- or pepper- or whatever-the-hell-flavored cola include Dr. Perky, Dr. Bob, Dr. Sparkle, Dr. Thunder, Dr. Pop, Dr. Skipper, Dr. Bold and, missing the industry theme entirely, Dr. Publix.

(There was a popular rival for a while called Mr. Pibb, but the lack of a medical degree led to his downfall. He tried to go back to school to regain market share but had significant difficulty with the chemistry requirement and eventually dropped out. For a while, he simply lied on his resume that he was a doctor. When this deceit was uncovered, he changed his name to “Pibb Xtra”. Apparently, spelling wasn’t his strength either.)

There are still some names available out there to those interested in addressing our national need for yet another sugary drink. I’m looking forward to the introduction of courtesy-titled sodas such as Dr. Raper, Rev. Pooper and Assistant Vice President for Human Resources and Corporate Governance Pepster.

Not to be confused with Dr Pepper, or any other medically trained soft drinks

+++

Inadvertently caught the last half-hour of The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian last night, and I have several observations.

Despite the obvious advantages of being the half-man, half-horse Centaur, the half-bull, half-man Minotaur, and the half-man, half-goat Satyr (you could hack of flanks of yourself for dinner if you got desperate), there would seem to be few other benefits.

The Centaur (man from the waist up, horse from the waist down) could still go on job interviews and take skills tests like typing and Excel, but he’d have to be careful about leaving any road apples behind, as that could ruin an otherwise good impression.

The Minotaur (bull from the waist up, man from the waist down) will probably have his employment opportunities limited to the rodeo and the bullfighting ring. Both office work and retail would seem to be out of the question, what with the hooves and all.

The Satyr (goat from the waist up, man from the waist down) might be well advised to look for work in the goat-oriented economies of Africa and Asia, since he’d be limited in the West to providing the key ingredient in a certain exotic soup, and he’d have to give up his head for that.

+++

As you make plans for this week’s Thanksgiving dinner, don’t forget to consider the fine broth products made by the folks at College Inn.

They offer superior stocks made from chicken, beef, turkey and vegetables. Healthful variations like low-sodium, fat-free and gluten-free options are also available.

Surprisingly, College Inn offers no collagen broths, as connective tissue, fibrous ligaments and cartilage tend to make for mostly inedible soups and gravies.

+++

Speaking of near-food products, what used to be called “high-fructose corn syrup” has been officially rebranded by its industry as either “corn sugar” or “corn nectar.”

Please take note in all your future communications on the subject.

+++

When Donald Trump awards “Apprentice” winners with a job in his company, I wonder what it is exactly that they end up doing.

Is there a “department of apprentices” in the Trump organizational flowchart, where narcissistic go-getters spend their days re-typing phonebooks until they get bored and quit?

Does Poison lead singer and “Celebrity Apprentice” winner Bret Michaels serve as supervisor and chief proofreader, between brain hemorrhages? And can you take sick days for a stroke, or do you have to dip into your vacation days?

+++

With news of the hardships faced by the stranded cruise ship passengers who had to subsist on canned pig fragments rather than lavish buffets last week, I became curious about the potted meat product known as Spam.

I had eaten Spam as a child, when my mother used to fry and then impale it on toothpicks next to chunks of pineapple. “Hawaiian kabobs” she called them, and we all thought she was joking until I read that our 50th state, along with other far Pacific outposts like Guam and Samoa, are America’s largest consumers of Spam. And not because they’re stuck in the middle of the ocean, but because they like its taste.

There’s a Hawaiian restaurant not far from where I work, and their menu advertised a dish called “spam musubi”. Pictures of the item showed a sushi-like concoction, with the Spam slab snuggled tight against a block of compressed, congealed white rice, both surrounded by a thick wrap of “nori,” a Japanese seaweed. I bought one for myself and another for a friend from work who also thought it would be ironic to enjoy a spam-themed lunch so close to Thanksgiving.

Usually, where a story like this proceeds next is with the food critic being pleasantly surprised by an item they thought they’d dislike. “For all its sordid reputation as the lowest form of protein, the Spam was surprisingly bright, offering a not-unpleasant texture and a subtle meatiness not unlike your finer paté,” they might write.

I, however, would write “It’s hard to imagine that in a trio including cold tasteless rice and over-salted kelp that Spam would not rank in at least the top two. But, as usual, Spam defies expectations, finishing a weak third.”

I choked down about half a musubi before giving up. My friend, Eat Anything Andy, thoroughly enjoyed his exotic bolus and was kind enough to finish mine off as well.

In the end, I was glad for the first time in my life not to be a resident of Hawaii. If I were, I’d introduce a referendum asking that the state be mercifully towed into San Diego, so we would eat some real food.

Incredibly, Spam loses out to rice and seaweed

A prayer for the workplace

The food for the office Thanksgiving luncheon was all set up and ready to be eaten. Workers summoned for the feast from different departments stood about awkwardly, hungry but mindful of the need to wait for some kind of “GO!” command.

First, the district manager had a few words to say. He welcomed the 50 or so white-collar staffers, and spoke of an old tradition that he greatly admired. He’d heard of a family that asked everyone in attendance at their holiday dinners to talk briefly of something they were thankful for in the past year.

A few sidelong glances were exchanged among the famished professionals — “at this rate, we’re never going to eat” seemed to be the unspoken consensus. The manager sensed the crowd’s reluctance to talk about home and family matters at work.

“Anybody have anything they’d like to share?” he asked.

There was some lame muttering from the back about being thankful for friends. Another person said they had suffered a lot in the last year while recovering from a serious motorcycle accident, then realized this wasn’t much of a reason for thanks and instead turned it into a “deep gratitude” that another accident hasn’t happened again.

I felt embarrassed by the silence and sorry for the well-intentioned manager, and almost spoke up myself. I was going to say I was just thankful to have a job in these difficult times, then realized it might prompt him to wonder “why is he still working here?” and decided to hold my tongue. When it became apparent that no one else was going to speak — unless we wanted to ask the people ringing our phones off the hook while the receptionist was away microwaving the green bean casserole — he moved on.

After a pause, he again looked around the room and asked if anybody wanted to say “a word” before we began eating.

Were this any other region of the country besides the South, the word people might’ve offered would be something like “c’mon” or “let’s go, already.” Down here, though, “a word,” especially when requested immediately prior to the consumption of food, means a prayer. Finally someone accepted the challenge, and asked everyone to bow their heads. I used the opportunity to study what a nice pair of running shoes the person next to me recently purchased, and how well their color coordinated with the office carpet.

The prayer (prayist?) proceeded through an acknowledgement of the usual litany of Christian superheroes. He thanked an unseen timekeeper who granted us the opportunity to join together. He gave a brief preview of the available entrees, specifically mentioning both turkey and ham. He said he did all this “in Jesus’ name” (though I bet he’d be resuming his usual role as Bobby in just a minute), then everybody said “amen.”

I’m really glad that I, an agnostic, have never been forced to deliver an impromptu invocation at a company function. I’ve had years of Lutheran training and could probably recall a doxology or two if pressed. I think I could fake my way through it.

Actually, I’ve been known to invoke the various names of the Almighty and His Posse on numerous occasions throughout the average workday. I’m not sure how good a prayer it would make, but I could improvise something like the following.

Good God
I can’t believe the last person to use the copier didn’t hit the reset button when they were through.
Now I have 50 copies when I only wanted two.
And they left blue paper in the legal tray.
Christ Almighty
Those people on the night shift have been using our creamer again.
And doesn’t that guy over in Legal realize that you’re supposed to pay to be in the coffee fund?
Mary, Mother of God
Why have these maintenance people vacuuming while I’m on this important call?
They now wear portable motors and bags on their backs.
I wish those were jetpacks and they’d fly the hell away.
Sweet Jesus
I’m out of sticky notes again.
And I think someone slid a different chair over here, because this one just doesn’t feel right.
Is there no respect for personal property in this place?
Holy Cow
They’re cranking up the thermostat again even though it’s already 150 degrees in here.
These women need to ditch the sleeveless tops already or else bring their Snuggies to work.
God Damn It
It looks like there’s another network outage coming in five minutes.
Tech says it’ll only take about thirty seconds, but by the time you have to restart and bring all your programs back up, you might as well call it a day.
They’re probably doing some upgrade that blocks even more websites.
Jesus H. Christ
Those new paper towels in the men’s room are so thin, they’re practically toilet paper.
I’m sure it’s cheaper than the old stuff, but don’t they realize we’re using twice as much?
I am sick of tiny disintegrated shreds of saturated paper sticking to my hands.
God Almighty, what is wrong with these people?

 

Sweet Lord

Lives of the Dead: The turkey

As part of my occasional series titled “Lives of the Dead,” today’s post will look at the turkey.

This fabled American bird takes its place at the table with the likes of Christopher Columbus, Caesar Augustus, St. Patrick and Martin Luther as subjects of a DavisW’s blog profile. Not dead as a species but with plenty of specific casualties by this time tomorrow, the turkey becomes the first to be a living topic in this space. Let’s take a brief look at its history before we examine its innards over pumpkin pie and coffee at dinner Thursday.

In a way, it’s fitting the turkey be granted this exceptional treatment. As much as his species is appreciated as both a symbol of gratitude and a meat product, there have been no individual turkeys to rise above the rest and distinguish themselves. Other animals at least have had animated anthropomorphs to speak out on their behalf — Donald Duck, Porky Pigg, Sylvester the Cat, Fernando Lamas, the late Senator Robert Byrd (D-W.Va.). There’s never been a single famous turkey.

It’s probably due in part to what’s come to be known in zoology circles as the “K Factor”. The K Factor is that rule which says any animal with a “K” in its name is automatically funny and disrespected. Your monkeys, your donkeys, your yaks and your kangaroos all suffer from this syndrome and can’t get anyone to take them seriously. We laugh at the poor dumb turkey even as we enjoy his succulent thighs simply because it’s fun to say anything that rhymes with “jerky” or “quirky”.

The turkey first came to the attention of an increasingly hungry Western Civilization when 16th-century Europeans exploring America encountered a bird similar to their familiar guineafowl. Since their larger poultry were imported into continental markets through Central Europe from Turkey, they thought of calling the wild Meleagris gallopavo a “Serbian” but eventually settled instead on “turkey”. (That’s why we also get the word “grease” from Greece, and the word “chili” from Chile).

The wild turkey can weigh up to 100 pounds and has a wingspan of almost six feet. They can fly for short distances, mainly when they’re being pursued by predators. Turkeys have a distinctive fleshy wattle that hangs from the underside of their beak which, when combined with their huge breasts, make them resemble actress Pamela Anderson. (You can tell the two apart because the birds have too much sense to go anywhere near Kid Rock). They also have another protuberance growing off the top of their beaks and dangling off to the side called a “snood”. Links to recipes for these appendages, including the famous Wattle Supreme and the underappreciated Stewed Snood, will follow this article.

There’s a fairly extensive fossil record of the early turkeys, starting from the Miocene Epoch over 20 million years ago. Ancient remains have been found throughout the Western Hemisphere and, when they are, inevitably the wishbone is broken in two. The Aztecs called the creature huexolotl, and it was associated with their “trickster god” Tezcatlipoca when it wasn’t being killed and eaten. (Even then, the turkey was laughed at. Aztecs would’ve told each other “that wacky huexolotl and his pal Tezcatlipoca are at it again” if they could’ve pronounced either of the words.)

It’s only been in the last century or so that turkeys became a popular form of poultry. Though it’s likely the meat was served at the first Thanksgiving attended by the Pilgrims and the Indians, that’s probably only because they kept running around the food preparation area. It was actually too expensive to become a staple at holiday meals until just recently. Before World War II, goose or beef was more likely to comprise the common holiday dinner.

When the wild turkey was domesticated, its life became both easier and harder. Today’s birds could live to be ten years old if they weren’t slaughtered at about 16 weeks. They grow up on a factory farm, bred to have magnificent white feathers to make their carcasses more appealing. The male is the tom, the female is the hen, and the baby is a poult, though they don’t spend near enough time together as a family. Mature toms are too large to “achieve natural fertilization,” as Wikipedia delicately puts it, so their semen is manually collected and hens are inseminated artificially. Neither much care for this arrangement, but what are they going to do? Break out on their own and find a nice apartment they could afford on a turkey salary?

Turkeys are popularly believed to be unintelligent. Claims are made that during a rainstorm, they’ll look up at the falling precipitation until they drown. Recent research has shown, however, that many aren’t simply stupid but instead suffer from a genetic nervous disorder known as “tetanic torticollar spasms” that causes them to look skyward. Like human parents embarrassed by the poor performance of their offspring, turkey parents can point to a disorder similar to ADHD as the reason their brats are running around like madmen, toppling lamps and unable to stay focused for more than a few moments.

The turkey is now solidly a part of American lore, especially at this time of the year. Schoolchildren trace outstretched hands to create likenesses of the animal for fall craft projects. Coworkers abandon casual conversation in the breakroom and opt instead to gobble at each other. The turkey lobby brings one lucky tom to Washington so it can receive the traditional presidential pardon, though in an attempt to be seen as moving toward the political center after recent election losses, President Obama is considering slitting its throat this year.

By Wednesday of Thanksgiving week, all we really care about is how to prepare the bird for dinner. Available in the market as either fresh or frozen, the meat typically requires several hours baking or roasting in the oven to become fully cooked. A recent trend has seen the rise of a new method, deep-frying the turkey in an outdoor vat of hot oil for 45 minutes or until the entire set-up explodes and is next seen on YouTube under the title “Butterball goes fireball.”

Ultimately, the dish is surrounded by cranberry sauce, stuffing, sweet potatoes, corn, and whatever that awful casserole is that your sister-in-law keeps bringing year after year. Extended families come together to share an all-too-brief moment of togetherness before heading back to their separate lives watching televised images of Dallas Cowboys and Detroit Lions facing their own slaughter. Soon, the notorious “tryptophan coma” descends on the gathering like a cloud of carbon monoxide until participants awake to find themselves waiting in line for Walmart to open at 2 in the morning.

As we pause during the next 24 hours to give thanks for all the bounty we share, let’s not forget to express appreciation to the noble turkey for his contribution. If Ben Franklin had his way, the creature would be our national bird, seen all over our money and other national emblems instead of all over our shirts and tablecloths. And we’d be eating bald eagles for dinner, arguing over who gets the bald spot rather than who gets the drumstick.

I’ve had deep-fried eagle before and, trust me, it’s not something you’d want to eat.

Note: To read more about Lives of the Dead, please visit the following posts:

http://davisw.wordpress.com/2010/10/11/happy-columbus-day-sort-of/

http://davisw.wordpress.com/2010/08/13/lives-of-the-dead-augustus-father-of-august/

http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/03/16/lives-of-the-dead-st-patrick/

http://davisw.wordpress.com/2009/01/19/lives-of-the-dead-martin-luther/

He'd say "Happy Thanksgiving," but the snood keeps getting in the way

Last-minute shopping for Thanksgiving

We don’t have any nearby family to entertain and my wife had to work past midnight the evening before, so our Thanksgiving dinner plans yesterday were fairly simple. We ordered a pre-made meal from the local grocery store and simply stuck it in the oven. Maybe we had to remove everything from the cardboard box first — I’d leave that detail for my wife to figure out — but it was certainly going to be much easier than making everything from scratch.

While Beth caught up on her sleep, my assignment was to pick up this meal, as well as several ingredients for a specialty cranberry dish she wanted to make. She’d left a list on the kitchen counter carefully detailing what she needed: one orange (juicy), one lemon (juicy), one Granny Smith apple (juiciness not specified), waxed paper, and three-fourths cups of chopped walnuts. Instructions so simple even a husband could follow them.

I used to enjoy making trips to the grocery store, as long as there was no pressure to buy anything. I’d stroll up and down the aisles, admiring the colorful packaging, enjoying the piped-in music, pretending my shopping cart was a racecar, enjoying a mini-vacation. The sites weren’t quite as awe-inspiring as the Eiffel Tower or the Grand Canyon, though one shouldn’t discount the awesomeness of a Great Pyramid of canned soups.

Everything is so bright and contemporary, it’s almost like a visit to a museum of modern art. Except that not only can you touch the displays, you can actually eat them. Try that at the Louvre.

Lately, I’ve tended to experience a little anxiety around grocery shopping when there are specific things I need to locate and purchase. The variety of offerings at the modern supermarket makes the visit feel like you’re involved in the Human Genome Project, trying to find the one bit of DNA (or low-fat blueberry breakfast bar) amongst the tens of thousands of options that will cure leukemia (or provide me with a quick morning snack). I clutched Beth’s list tightly in my fist, grateful for the focus it would provide.

My first stop was at the deli where I would pick up the dinner. Once I’d felt the confidence from accomplishing this initial task, I’d be much better equipped to succeed with the rest of the chores. I told the lady behind the counter the name the turkey was reserved under. She disappeared briefly into a back room and emerged with a large white box, putting it directly into my cart. That’s all there was to it. I thought there was a lot of work involved in preparing a Thanksgiving meal. This was easy!

Next, I headed for the produce section to pick up the fruits. The apples were no problem. Though they were large and green and shiny enough to use as a mirror, they were clearly apples, as the “Granny Smith” sign hanging above them confirmed.

The citrus selection was a little harder. There were only a few loose lemons available, and all the oranges were bagged. I examined the three or four lemons left, trying to ascertain their juiciness without crushing them under my shoe. I shook one, hoping to hear a sloshing sound similar to that made by the milk inside a coconut. That didn’t work. I tried squeezing, thinking that excessive squishiness might indicate something. But they all felt about the same. Since they weren’t that expensive, I just bought ‘em all. I finally found some loose oranges in the organic section, and selected one of these with a little more abandon, figuring their organicity would more than offset any lack of succulence.

Next it was on to the waxed paper. I found the aisle displaying paper towels and food containers and figured I was at least in the right neighborhood. There were plenty of sandwich bags and plastic wraps. There were foils of the finest aluminum. There were many papery items though few seemed to be coated in wax. I felt the anxiety starting to rise up the back of my neck as I stood perplexed before a sea of choices. Finally, I just grabbed the nearest roll of paper towels and figured we could drip a candle onto it later.

Now it was time to seek out the nuts, and I had a feeling this was going to be the hard part. I checked the store directory attached to the cart for a clue as to where one might find them, but got little help there. They weren’t under “N” for nuts nor “W” for walnuts nor “T” for things measuring three-fourths of a cup. I’d be reduced to walking up and down every single aisle. Great exercise, perhaps, but fruitless if I couldn’t find my nuts.

Finally, in a section called “baking needs,” I located the walnuts. They had been conveniently shelled, placed in packaging and hung from dozens of different tiny racks. Beth had clearly requested “chopped” walnuts, so I scanned the offerings looking specifically for that descript0r. I found “slivers,” “slices,” “pieces,” “chunks” and “bits,” but nothing called “chopped.” One bag described itself as “recipe-ready” which I imagined could be the same thing as “chopped.” I definitely didn’t want the large container of “walnut meat,” primarily because it cost $9.99.

At last, in an obscure corner of the display, I found two different bag sizes of chopped walnuts. One was 2 ounces, or 56 grams, and the other was 6 ounces, or 168 grams. Neither offered a clue on how many fourths of a cup that translated into. DAMN THAT METRIC SYSTEM TO HELL! I’d rather have been told to get 497 pieces and have to count them out individually than deal with conversions. Finally, I grabbed two of the two-ouncers and decided that if they weren’t enough, I’d pick up a few acorns from around our yard and hope that nobody’d be the wiser.

Having fully completed the list, I now felt free enough for a little impromptu shopping, and celebratory enough to head to the alcohol aisle. I’d round off what was looking to be a lovely, nut-and-waxed-paper-chocked Thanksgiving feast with a bit of the bubbly. In a canyon of wine bottles, I searched for the champagne. There were hundreds of Merlots, all with cute names like “Rancid Dog” and “Runover Coon,” and equal numbers of Zins, Burgundies, Syrahs and Chardonnays. It wasn’t until I stumbled onto a small refrigerated section of the aisle that I found three “California Champagnes” to choose from. One had a Wine Spectator rating of $8.99, one was rated $10.49 and one was $14. I sprung for the deluxe offering and headed to the checkout.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?” asked the cashier.

“Yeah, I guess,” I responded. “But I seem to have dropped my self-esteem in here somewhere. If anybody locates it, will they return it to lost and found?”

Chopped walnuts: The key to a Happy Thanksgiving

Getting rid of some old photos

I’m told our home computer is getting too full, that it has memory problems. Since I can relate to both of these issues on a personal level, I told my wife and son — the two resident computer experts in my home — that I’d do what I can to help.

I haven’t noticed any performance concerns myself. I looked behind the monitor to see if any bits or gigs had overflowed out the back and, unless they look exactly like common household dust or small dead spiders, I didn’t see anything. I have noticed a slight bulging in the tower but attribute that to the Reuben sandwich I accidentally inserted into CD-writer slot when I got confused at lunch one day.

Response times still seem quick enough for the programs I use, even a little too fast sometimes: I barely have enough time to feel triumphant about laying down a ”VULVA” in Scrabble before my computer opponent counters with a “QUIXOTIC”. Not only am I suddenly down 87 points, but I’m reminded of my own quixotic quest for the vulva.

As far as I can tell, the system’s memory is fine. I tell it to save a file in subfolder “STUFF” inside subfolder “BLOG” inside subfolder “DAVIS” inside subfolder “MY DOCUMENTS”, and it’s I who can’t remember where to find it, not the computer.

Beth said she needed to “de-frag” or “de-frog” or “de-something” the system to consolidate files and free up more storage capacity. I told her to go for it, as long as she wore one of those bomb suits like in The Hurt Locker in case shrapnel suddenly erupted from the keyboard. Or frogs.

What I could do to help, I was told, was to get rid of all the photos I’ve taken over the past two years for use in my blog. There were also some other pictures that might be worth saving that I could offload onto a ”thumb drive,” though somebody’s going to have to tell me which slot I need to stick my thumb in to make this happen.

It was kind of fun going through all the pictures I’ve collected. Many can be easily deleted, as soon as I figure out what I was thinking when I took a picture of a featureless patch of grass. Others represent fond memories of family life: a wedding picture of me and my wife, my son’s graduation from elementary school, the time our cat thought it would be fun to go for a swim in the toilet. Still others are from my business trips overseas.

There were a few I felt deserved one more chance in the light of day before they were consigned to the trash bin icon of history. And so, I present those here.

Then, I right-click and select “delete.”

When I brought home our prepared Thanksgiving dinner last week, I first removed the turkey from the box and put it in the refrigerator. I turn around and there sits our cat Taylor, in the box next to the squash casserole (Taylor, left; casserole, right). I'm told that cats are among the cleanest of creatures but I still don't want them sitting on my food. In Taylor's mind, however, it was a simple equation: box + turkey = Heaven.

This is a bunch of garbage. You might immediately recognize the soiled mattress and the rolled-up carpet, but it takes a discerning eye to pick out the broken office chair in the back. Why I would take a picture of garbage, I don't recall.

That's me, enjoying a 2007 vacation to New York City. You can tell what a wonderful time I'm having by the crossed arms and the sidelong grimace. When the city workers to my left finishes painting the fire hydrant, he'll begin work on my gigantic walking shorts.

This is the office where I worked in Sri Lanka training a team of outsource proofreaders. I still recall my first lesson with this group of eager young office workers: "DOITRIGHTTHE" is four separate words, not one.

This is a mountain bike my wife won in a drawing. We thought it was a regular bike, so we don't use it, except to take up space in our sunroom. I'd like to donate it to some deserving youngster who lives in a mountainous region -- perhaps in wartorn Afghanistan -- but I have no idea how to do that. I suppose I could sell it on eBay, but I don't know how to do that either.

During one trip to an Asian nation that will remain anonymous, I encountered this sign in the men's room. Note the mortification on the face of the worker who peed himself, and the stern condemnation from the supervisor who points out his error. It's management techniques like these that have catapulted the powerhouse economies of the East right past the U.S.

In Hong Kong, a street vendor of meats and meat byproducts proudly displays his inventory. "How are the pig colons today?" I ask. "Only average," he replies. "The elk diaphragm, however, is most excellent." In the end, I opted instead to vomit on a side street.

Speaking of disgusting masses of sagging flesh, enjoy this world's worst self-portrait as I wade in the waters of Subic Bay, near Manila. Moments after this shot was taken, we were hit by a simultaneous volcano and civil insurrection.

Fake News: WikiLeaks show inside story

WASHINGTON (Nov. 29) — Almost as shocking as the contemptuous attitude that American diplomats conveyed toward our allies in the latest WikiLeaks release was the pettiness and immaturity shown in the wording of their communications.

In fact, both friend and foe alike are studying the first of a quarter-million confidential cables to learn what those phony-baloney Americans really thought about them behind their back.

State Department officials are seeking to minimize the impact of the leaks, collected over several decades from embassies all over the world. A White House spokesman downplayed the content of the reports, saying they included “often incomplete information.” Analysts were quick to point out, however, that calling British Prime Minister David Cameron a “douchebag” and Afghan President Hamid Karzai “a dweeb and a douchebag” seemed pretty thorough.

In addition to the personal slurs, the release contains more substantive details about how major foreign policy initiatives were apparently drawn up during Foggy Bottom keggers. Carefully gathered intelligence collected from often-hostile nations around the world was evaluated by Washington diplomats who reduced international relations to the level of high school politics.

Among the more startling revelations in yesterday’s publications:

• Americans mounted a secret effort to remove highly enriched uranium from Pakistan in a trade that would bring three tons of fuel rods to the U.S. in exchange for Yankee shortstop Derek Jeter. “They like cricket over there, and he plays baseball, which is sort of the same thing,” said an official in one communiqué. “If that’s not enough, we’ll throw in coupons for 15% off a future purchase of sophisticated military hardware.”
• When attendees at a Fourth of July picnic at an American consulate in India were served vegetarian hotdogs and coconuts painted to look like watermelons, a historic nuclear cooperation deal between those two countries was nearly scuttled. “I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY SERVED US TOFU DOGS!” read the cable. “TOFU DOGS! THESE PEOPLE CAN’T BE TRUSTED.”
• German Chancellor Angela Merkel was characterized as a “CILF” (“Chancellor I’d Like to …”) and the “hottest piece in the Bundestag since Hitler.”
• Efforts to relocate Guantanamo detainees to other countries often involved questionable incentives. The island nation of Kiribati was offered millions of dollars to take several Chinese Muslims. Belgian officials were told that if they took some, it would be a “low-cost way for Belgium to attain a prominence in Europe that didn’t involve waffles.” Slovenia said they would take up to a dozen suspected terrorists if the U.S. would throw in actress Rachel McAdams and comedy ventriloquist Jeff Dunham and his sidekick Walter.
• During a meeting with Gen. David Petraeus, Yemeni President Ali Abdullah Saleh said his country would take credit for attacking itself with missiles rather than expose the U.S.-led strike. “Get a load of this … he also wants credit for inventing rock-and-roll and self-defrosting refrigerators,” wrote a Petraeus aide. “He’s such a tool.”
• Libyan leader Muammar Gaddafi has a number of peccadilloes, including traveling with “voluptuous blonde” Ukrainian nurse who, according to one diplomat, ”knows his routine, if you know what I mean.” He is also reportedly afraid of flying over water, refuses to stay in the upper floors of a hotel, and will have any Libyan summarily executed for speaking the name of seventies singer-songwriter Carole King.
• Russian President Vladimir Putin and Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi “really, really like each other and, in all probability, are homos,” according to an American posted in Rome.
• A plot to get Iranian President Malmoud Ahmadinejad to put on a tie was hatched by CIA operatives in Teheran in the belief he would be discredited for acknowledging Western fashion sensibilities. “ADDED PLUS,” read the cable, “WE CAN GRAB IT AND CHOKE HIM.”
• Somalia narrowly averted a cruise missile attack in September of 2009 when their Office of American Interests in the French Embassy offered awful-tasting mints in the reception area during a visit by an American trade mission.
• During Google’s feud with the Chinese government, the Communist Politburo hacked into the company’s computers. Prime Minister Wen Jiabao took personal responsibility for turning the corporate logo on Google’s home page into unidentifiable psychedelic train wreck during major holidays. When the American Embassy in Beijing was informed of the sabotage, an assistant manager responded to the State Department with the message “WHATEVER”.

Less substantive but potentially even more damaging to the U.S. reputation were the personal characterizations by veteran diplomats of past and current foreign leaders. French President Nicolas Sarkozy is officially referred to as a “retard,” Japanese Prime Minister Naoto Kan is a “doofus,” South Korean President Lee Myung-back is a “dickwad,” King Abdullah of Saudi Arabia is a “knob” and Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh is a “wanker or spaz, depending on his mood.”

Secretary of State Hillary Clinton issued a statement late Monday to address the growing controversy over the WikiLeaks disclosures.

“We are so screwed,” Clinton told reporters. “So very, very screwed.”

Conquering the new cell phone

Often I’ll write about being flummoxed by new technology.

When I first started this blog over two years ago, I wrote that one of the slots on the side of my laptop must be malfunctioning because twenties were not flowing out, like is supposed to happen when you have a blog.

When I discovered Wikipedia, I thought it was an online shopping site. I tried to buy three Christmas presents for my uncles there: Flucindole, a never-marketed antipsychotic drug; an Australian Wood Duck; and a Chartered Economic Analyst (ChEA).

I’ve told of the time I mistakenly recited my fast-food order into a trash can that I thought was the speakerbox interface to the order-taker.

“Ha, ha,” as we say in the humor business. “Very funny.”

Today, that is not my theme, although you’d think it would be considering that I bought a new cell phone on Monday. Today, I get to describe my mastery over at least a small sliver of the Digital World.

My old phone was so ancient that Motorola was still a respected producer of handheld sets at the time it was made. I had the Razr, a state-of-the-art device for about a month back in 2005. It had all the latest features, including a camera, internet access and text messaging. Some telecommunications analysts were even reporting you could make phone calls on it.

What I fell in love with was the text messaging. No more phone calls. No more “Hi, how are you?”, “Fine, how are you?”, “Fine. How’s the wife and kids?”, “They’re fine. How about your family?”. Now, telephonic communication could be done in a direct, efficient, soulless manner.

And the bonus was, you got to typeset. I love typesetting, as my 35-year career in the business can attest. Now I could do it anywhere.

The problem with the Razr is that it has one of those old-fashioned keypads with three or four letters to a key, so to type something like the word “feces,” you had to punch different buttons 35 times, complete with occasional pauses. I might like typing and I might like the word “feces,” but that amount of time and effort was ridiculous. The more I got into text messaging, the more I realized I needed one of those slide-out QWERTY keyboards.

When we went to the local wireless provider, my wife and son helped me consider the dozens of sets on display. My primary criteria were that my new phone have a user-friendly keyboard and be less than $100, after mail-in rebate, with a two-year contract renewal, today only. Because I have a heavy swipe finger, I also would’ve chosen to avoid touch-screen technology if that were possible, but apparently it is not.

We settled pretty quickly on the Pantech Ease. Pantech is a South Korean company that has a long tradition in the telecommunications industry, going back to at least April. The Ease is one of their most popular models.

I cracked open both the phone and the Quick Start Guide as soon as I got home, and started noodling around with the features. A certain long-tenured female in my family believed that I should read the 200-page User Guide cover-to-cover (including the last half, which was upside down and written in Spanish) to figure out how it worked. I made a different choice, and basically just started pushing random buttons.

I looked occasionally at the one-sheet overview and for some reason, a certain phrase caught my eye.

“Ease is about options. You can get quick access to the features you need in easy-to-use, easy-to-read Easy Mode,” read one paragraph. My son noticed all these “easy” references too, and made a succinct observation.

“What you’ve got there, Dad, is one step up from a Jitterbug,” he said. I think he’s probably right.

Reading further, we saw other clues that confirmed this suspicion. In a segment on mobile email, the sample address is “silverfox2″. The Cool Tools section describes how to use the “pill reminder,” a kind of alarm to prompt you to remember your heart medicine. This feature even comes with a “snooze feature” to give you an extra 15 minutes in case you’ve already passed out from your bout with angina. A box describing the available accessories called the Velcro belt-attached carrying case “fashionable.”

That doesn’t mean it didn’t take me a while to master the Ease’s rather limited offerings. I’ve spent the last 24 hours puzzling through the different screens and have figured out how to send a text, how to text a picture, how to shoot video and how to send an email from my phone to my office. With an attachment. I think that’s pretty impressive.

My studies haven’t come without some trial and error. I wanted to see if I could receive video, so I asked my son to make a short film of what our three cats were up to yesterday morning and send it to me at work. It came through loud and clear. Too loud, in fact, as I couldn’t find the volume button and when I did it wasn’t very responsive.

“Kitty, kitty, kitty,” rang a high-pitched chant audible throughout the department.

“What’s that?” snapped Regina over in customer service. “There better not be a cat in here.”

When I woke up at 4 a.m. earlier that morning to get ready for work, I grabbed the phone from my dresser and apparently hit the “Say A Command” button on the side of the device.

“Say a command,” instructed a woman’s voice in a stern but friendly tone.

I was only half awake during all this after maybe five hours sleep, and you can probably imagine how aback I was taken with this middle-of-the-night directive. I thought I was caught in the midst of some S&M-themed dream. Fortunately, the Ease’s voice-recognition software didn’t know what to make of the command “Wuh? Huh? Shit! Ouch!” as I stumbled through the dark. I’ll have to come back to this feature later.

I really think I’m going to like this cell phone. There’s still a lot to be learned, so I am starting to make my way through the large User Guide. I’ve already learned you can toggle over from the Easy Mode home screen to an Advanced Mode display with three pages of apps icons if you want to attempt things like mobile social net, mobile banking and mobile web. Frankly, though, I have enough trouble doing those things standing still.

The only thing I miss so far about my old Motorola Razr was the resounding metallic thunk it made when you were done with your telecommunications business. It made me feel important and plugged-in to the larger world. People standing nearby would look admiringly at me, whispering to their friends “Hey, that guy’s got a cell phone!”

Sliding the QWERTY keyboard soundlessly back into position after firing off a text doesn’t draw anybody’s attention. But maybe, if I keep studying hard, I’ll find there’s a feature to record everyday sounds, and I can capture the sound of my slammin’ Razr for use as a ringtone.

Out with the old ...

 

... In with the new

Finally the year we cancel Christmas: An editorial

It’s becoming as clear as the nose on Rudolph the Reindeer’s face. The Christmas season is here.

Never mind what happened in Bethlehem over 2,000 years ago, let’s talk about what happened in Des Moines, Iowa, last weekend. Sculptor Sarah Pratt carved a full Nativity scene out of giant blocks of butter. Created for a local charity, Pratt said she wanted to show the Holy Family “desperate and lost,” like many troubled families today. She called it her “most reflective work yet,” at least until it starts to melt.

This seemingly obscure event may just have been the tipping point in a debate America has been having for a while now. The time may finally have come that everyone agrees: we have to cancel Christmas.

People have long complained about the commercialization of Christmas (and the pasteurization of butter, for that matter) and how it was perverting the true meaning of the holiday. But we continued the orgy of excess anyway, even expanding it so that decorations start appearing in the stores in October. During eight weeks of build-up to the big day, we spend a few minutes here and there appreciating our families and worshiping our Lord, but the rest of the time we’re standing in line at Target or falling-down drunk.

Every year, we say “next year will be different,” and so finally, this year it is. There will be no Christmas.

What’s the big loss? Some may point to the struggling economy, and say that all those retail sales are needed to stave off a double-dip recession. Don’t think God doesn’t agree that the unemployment rate is too high, though He is confident the November numbers being released this week will show upwards of 95,000 private-sector jobs created last month. Think, however, of all the extra productivity America’s work force can create when it isn’t stuffed full of holiday treats. It more than makes up for the positive economic impact of having Dad the Temp work two months of five-hour shifts dressed up as Santa.

This would be a good year to start the end of Christmas because Dec. 25 falls on a Saturday. People who still wanted to celebrate could do so in silence behind blackout curtains since they’d still have the day off from work. But they’re going to be much less likely to spend three straight days in church (Christmas Eve through Sunday). After that much time in prayer, they’d be way too good for the rest of us anyway.

There should be positive effects on the environment. Mountains of waste that only days before represented the excitement of gift-giving — and I’m talking here about not only the discarded wrapping paper and bows but also the useless crap inside — won’t be clogging our landfills. There’ll be no holiday travel burning up trillions of tons of gasoline. The accelerated global warming seen in large areas of the Arctic will be lessened when Santa and his factory elves are put out of work and forced into refugee camps in Finland’s federally-administered tribal areas.

Children will probably be hurt the most, at least those in the U.S. receiving their manufactured trinkets if not those in China who are assembling them. We can still give our kids something to set their hearts soaring as they race to where the Christmas tree would’ve been on that magical morning. Give them a book to read. Your local library has thousands of these they’re willing to give away.

Let it be noted that this decree does not cover New Year’s Eve, which can be celebrated as usual as long as I’m invited to the party.

As for the giant buttery Nativity scene, it’s already been made so we might as well let the people of Iowa enjoy looking at it. It’s on display in a cooler at the headquarters of the Des Moines Catholic Diocese, and could conceivably be kept edible and vaguely reminiscent of a jaundiced Joseph, Mary and Jesus until Easter. If someone will then cook a giant cross-shaped pancake, we won’t have to consider the Christmas season a complete loss.

Mary, the Mother of God, is surprisingly low in cholesterol

Introducing “Ask Mr. Ethiquette”

I was pulling into a parking spot at Panera’s Cafe the other day when I encountered a moral dilemma. And it had nothing to do with the poaching of free wi-fi.

Rather, it involved a businesswoman loading her car with what looked to be just-purchased bags full of sandwiches, probably for a lunch meeting back at her office. She accidentally left one large parcel on the curb as she got in to drive away.

I faced a choice that would say a lot about the kind of person I am: I could either toot my horn at her and point to the bag, or I could let her drive cluelessly away and have myself a dozen free ham-and-cheese sandwiches. I suppose there was also a third choice which involved running over the bag just to see what kind of squishy mess I could make, but that seemed like a grey area on the spectrum of right versus wrong.

I’m proud to say that I was getting ready to do the right thing when she happened to notice her own mistake and pulled back into the parking space to retrieve the bag. I was so glad I hadn’t decided to snatch the thing up for myself just as she returned. I’d have some fancy explaining to do.

What this incident showed me is that I have the gift of understanding moral nuance, and ought to share my gift with others. What is the proper way for one to act when placed in a situation where you have to combine the desire to assist a fellow human with knowing how to react when you inevitably fail? What do you say to your neighbor when you meant to wave “hi” but instead almost run him over? Should you hold the door open for a coworker who has to jog across the parking lot to keep you from waiting for them? If you’re an executioner in Iran, do you apologize to your prisoner for the inconvenience of beheading him?

This is the intersection of ethics and etiquette, and it can be a dangerous crossroads to negotiate, even when I’m not chasing down neighbors with my car. Most people want to adhere to a system of moral principles governing appropriate conduct, and at the same time don’t want to embarrass themselves by behaving foolishly. Etiquette — the rules and conventions governing correct or polite behavior in society — should also be proper. And I can tell you how to accomplish both.

This is the premiere of a season of Friday blog installments where I take questions on ethics and etiquette and try to give an answer appropriate for both dimensions. If you want to do the right thing but choose to do the wrong thing, how do you handle the whole situation with grace when you’re exposed for the animal you are?

Ask the man they rather awkwardly call “Mr. Ethiquette.”

Dear Mr. Ethiquette,
It is okay to pick your nose while driving even if you don’t have tinted windows? Do I have to care if someone sees me? Where else am I supposed to do it — during a staff meeting? What are the proper venues for the manual extraction of bodily fluids, other than locked in the handicapped stall? Or am I supposed to just let the obstructions build up in there until I get a massive infection and the whole center of my face has to be surgically removed? — P.F., in Dallas

Dear P.F.,
Let me guess — P.F. stands for “pinky finger,” right?

Studies quoted by Dr. Oz on Tuesday’s Oprah indicate that the average person “picks or touches” their nose about five times an hour. Of course, there’s a big difference between picking and touching, as coke addicts, I Dream of Jeannie and Santa headed up the chimney can attest.

The human olfactory organ is incredibly effective in most regards. It allowed our primitive ancestors to sense the presence of danger in the form of foul-breathed predators. Later predecessors may have encountered beauty for the first time through the smell of a flower. When our pioneer forefathers got into an Old West barroom brawl, the nose provided something convenient to punch.

The internal workings of the nasal passages are efficient and repulsive at the same time. Mucus combines with tiny hairs (at least they’re tiny until you reach your fifties, when they begin to grow luxuriant) to form a sticky surface that captures dust and dirt, keeping foreign matter out of the lungs. As air rushes over these coagulated particulates with every breath, they dry out and become what are technically known as “boogers”.

In its smaller form, the booger is harmless, but as it becomes larger, a certain discomfort grows within the nose that will eventually culminate in suffocation if you don’t get those disgusting things out of there. Fortunately, evolution saw fit not only to give us fingers with the exact same diameter as our nose holes, but also with fingernails attached at the end to help with the occasional need for nasal excavation. Natural selection weeded out the thick-fingered until only the modern nose-picker survived.

Where this unearthing exercise takes place depends on your culture. Among certain tribes of the western Pacific, there’s a whole ritual involved where the village elders gather around and chant celebratory songs as the booger is removed, then held high for all to see. In more civilized societies, the extraction is done in private.

Being in your car counts as privacy in my book. Just as most motorists feel free to apply makeup, sing along with Lady Gaga and engage in sexual relations with their front-seat passenger while paused at a traffic light, so too should you feel free to go elbow-deep if necessary to do what needs to be done. If any onlookers object, it’s their problem, not yours.

I would advise you to take care and be conscientious about your disposal methods while working out in the car. Most people keep a small pack of tissues or the underside of their seat handy to serve as a repository for their prize. What you do in the privacy of your car may be your own business, but when you start flicking stuff out the window and onto the windshield of the guy pulled up behind you, then you’ve stepped over the bounds of propriety.

I say, continue to go for it as you wish. A blocked-up nose “snot” other people’s problem; it’s yours.

Always wash your hands after any facial maintenance -- you never know who you're going to meet

Revisited: Knock it off, you peckers

My Aunt Dora has a wonderful way with verbs. When she talks about a particular action, she’s usually close enough to the intended word that you get the idea, but the way she gets there is marvelous. “I saw that on NPR,” she’ll say about a news story she heard on the radio. “Did you eat the last beer?” she’ll ask her husband.

When I was getting ready to leave after a recent visit to her home, she asked me to do her a favor as I left. Her wooded home on a tree-covered lot draws many neighborhood woodpeckers, and she could hear one banging away on the siding outside her bedroom window. The bird had obviously confused her home with a nearby maple, an understandable mistake considering how concussed the poor animal must be.

Dora wanted me to shoo the bird off. “Tell him to go away,” she said.

I wasn’t sure how well the woodpecker would respond to a well-reasoned argument about the relative disadvantages of looking for grubs in a processed plank. I figured that throwing a pinecone at it would be more compelling. Still, I like the idea of reasoning with nature, and thought seriously about her proposal for dispatching the pest.

I knew that the Southeastern species of the Picidae Picumnus was notoriously poor at understanding spoken English. Along with its cousins the piculet and the wryneck, the woodpecker has evolved a number of adaptations to protect its head from repetitive motion syndrome. Among these, it’s developed an incredibly small brain. However, its widely acknowledged pecking skills made me think it might be pretty good at finding and reading something on the Internet, as long as it didn’t have to hold down the shift key.

So I’m laying out my case in this Open Letter to the Woodpecking Community of the Brookshadow Subdivision.

Dear Peckers,

(I hope that’s not considered pejorative.)

First of all, let me say that we all appreciate the ambience that the wildlife population lends to our neighborhood. The birds are particularly welcome. They bring color and song to our days and always seem to be able to get out of the way of oncoming cars, unlike some squirrels and chipmunks I could mention. Your droppings are few. Your appetite for bugs surpasses any plague of death that the exterminators could bring.

You generally have a good idea of where to find your meals without guidance from your human hosts. In fact, I imagine you could teach us a thing or two about the benefits of an all-natural diet, considering how rarely I see you inside a McDonald’s (except that one time your sparrow friend was trapped by the automatic door).

But let me explain a thing or two about our homes. We have constructed these to provide us shelter from the elements. We can’t protect ourselves with the ingenious feather covering you’ve devised, despite what you may have seen peeking in the window when we’re watching Lady Gaga on the American Music Awards. We have to rely on burly men, heavy equipment and expensive construction materials to make ourselves a place of comfort. Twigs and straw don’t cut it for most of us.

We spend a lot of time and a lot of money to maintain our homes. We paint and we stain and we reshingle the roof. We deal with deranged-looking transients who stop by periodically to clean our gutters and do any other odd jobs we can think of that we hope will distract them from killing us. We meet with equally unhinged insurance agents, purchasing their various riders and attachments simply because we’re told that’s what responsible adults do.

When you come along and mistake the surface of our house for the trees, it tends to create holes in our security. If these get big enough, the openings can admit bats into our living rooms, and we hate bats almost as much as you hate knots. The other bad thing for you is that a lot of the grubs can escape the outdoor environment and find their way indoors, where it’s much harder for you to get them. You can knock on our door and ask us to let you in but, I’ve got to be honest, that’s probably not going to happen.

I also might mention that we’re currently preparing to roast a very large bird in our oven. I’m not saying that could happen to you. I’m just saying…

So let me ask you to stick to the oaks and elms and pines when you feel the need to peck for a meal. We’re not thrilled with the idea that you’re bothering our landscaping like this, but we recognize that nature can be inconvenient. Some of those spindlier trees are starting to look a little diseased anyway, and I’m pretty sure they’ll be coming down in the first ice storm of the season.

So please stay away from our siding and stick to the trees. In fact, knock yourself out.

Sincerely,

The Guy Who Threw the Pinecone at You

Revisited: Holiday season at the gun store

Once again, my adopted home state of South Carolina is in the news and, once again, it’s not in a good way.

Our primary claim to fame on the national stage has been oafish politicians (Rep. Joe “You Lie” Wilson and Gov. Mark “I Lie” Sanford), brain-damaged beauty queens (such as Miss Teen South Carolina) and weird news briefs (armed robbers brandishing a banana, Waffle House waitresses shooting patrons, etc.). Oh yeah, and we also started the Civil War.

Now, we’re once again the laughing stock for offering a Christmas season tax holiday on the purchase of firearms. For two days, gun buyers enjoyed a 9% tax break, a so-called “Second Amendment Weekend” voted into law by a state legislature that still can’t decide if Gov. Sanford should be impeached.

Originally part of a bill that offered similar breaks on energy-efficient appliances, that measure was vetoed by the governor. The veto was over-ridden by the legislature, then the law was struck down by the Supreme Court because it violated the “one subject” provision of the state constitution, which bars multiple issues in a single bill. So they got rid of the appliance part and kept the gun part (though I guess you could make the argument that firearms do reduce energy use, especially when they render previously vital creatures lifeless).

“The great state of South Carolina is putting its own sick twist on Black Friday” with the state-sponsored sales incentive, wrote the New York Daily News last week. “Not cars. Not clothes. Certainly not books. Just guns.”

I decided to check out the event for myself with a visit to my area’s largest purveyor of weapons, Nichols Gun Store. Located in a rural area just outside of town and serving primarily hunters, Nichols provides a number of offerings besides fiery fusillades of death.

Out back is a deer processing service, which I recognized by the strung-up, skinned carcass being displayed to the delight of several young children as I pulled into the parking lot. There’s a collection of 30-foot-tall hunting stands (or as those at the Daily News might characterize them, third-floor walk-ups), where outdoorsmen can lie in wait high above the forest floor for their victims to appear. There are Bad Boy buggies, all-terrain vehicles that minimize the chance someone might get some exercise while hunting.

Inside the front door, you see what looks like a typical convenience store off to the left, featuring snacks, sundries and a huge refrigerated case of beer, just waiting to cloud the judgment of armed bands. To the right is a small cooking grill to feed hungry hunters who choose not to eat their kills fresh off the ground for lunch. A gift shop sells bumper stickers (“If you can read this, I’m aiming at you”) and cute camouflage outfits for children (“Serious gear for serious babies,” reads one package). There’s also an area for incidentals like deer bait, backpacks, turkey calls and urine, the scent of which is supposed to lure or repel something.

Dead ahead is the core of the business, a showroom featuring literally thousands of handguns, shotguns, rifles, pistols, crossbows and assault weaponry. The store is filled with shoppers, almost all male, almost all eager to take advantage of this tax holiday, and almost all looking at the blogger who has never before set foot in such a death-dealing establishment. A large counter wraps around the edge of the store, backed by eager salesmen waiting on small clusters of customers.

Looking around at the inventory, I recognize a few product names, such as a Luger, Glock and Remington, and I can vaguely tell there’s a difference between them, though my exposure is limited mostly to what I’ve seen in television and movies. There are James Bond-style guns, cowboy-movie-style guns and Sopranos-style guns. There are even a few firearms you might imagine seeing on Charlie’s Angels. These have been painted pink, in a pathetic attempt to appeal to the extremely limited female market (I guess trimming a semi-automatic in lace just isn’t practical in the field).

LOOKING OUT OF PLACE AT THE GUN SHOP

As the overhead intercom booms out strange-sounding announcements like “guns, line two” and “blood cleanup, aisle five,” I’m debating how I’ll respond if I’m offered service by one of the guys behind the counters. On the drive over, I was thinking how it might be funny to say I was looking for a flamethrower to give my aunt who’s checking into a nursing home known for its rough crowd, or a grenade launcher for the nephew headed to Harvard. Maybe I’d actually buy something, certainly not the high-priced weapons themselves, but maybe a box of bullets, or even a single cartridge if they were willing to break up a matched set.

“I don’t believe in private gun ownership so I don’t actually have one myself,” I might joke. “But if I’m ever faced with a home intruder, maybe I could throw a bullet and try to hit him in the eye.”

Somehow, though, this doesn’t strike me as the right atmosphere for such a put-on. I think back to the Daily News article, and the reporter’s attempt to get a quote from Chad Holman, owner of Woody’s Pawn and Jewelry in Orangeburg.

“I don’t care to comment to anyone from New York,” he said.

When I am finally offered help, I tell the counter clerk I’m still “just browsing” and comment awkwardly about how the inventory is “nice.” I can tell that he can tell I’m not a legitimate customer, so I motion toward the back of the store and suggest to my wife that we go “check out the arrows.” We head in that direction, but make a quick left at the decapitated razorback boar and make for the exit.

It feels like every eye in the place is watching me as we walk out the door and into the pickup-packed parking lot. I just hope that none of the eyes are attached to a telescopic sight.

Happy holidays to all, and to all a good hunt.

Just another photo Monday

The main drag in my hometown is a six-mile stretch called Cherry Road. Running from the Catawba River in the north to the edge of downtown in the south, it’s long been the city’s primary commercial district, so long in fact that it’s starting to show its age.

The souring economy and flight of jobs overseas haven’t helped matters. Many businesses along the street have been shuttered, and those that remain tend toward fast-food establishments, half-rented strip malls, payday loan firms and dilapidated hobo havens. The city has tried to turn Cherry Road back into a Cheery Road with an ambitious redevelopment effort that includes the planting of flowers on traffic islands, but success so far has been limited.

On Saturday, I drove the road from north to south, taking pictures of some of the notable landmarks. I hope you enjoy the following portrait of America in decay.

Known locally as “Murder Motel,” Porter’s used to be one of Rock Hill’s finest lodging establishments. Though still in the top five among clientele looking for the ideal place to die of a drug overdose, Porter's has fallen on hard times in recent years. Its location as the first motel you encounter over the river used to be a big selling point, until the arrival of the interstate and travelers' increasing demands for sheets on their beds took business away. Transients still appreciate the proximity of the river, however, as the Catawba's waters run a bit more reliably (and cleanly) than what can be found coming out of Porter's shower heads. Construction of a new sewer line now underway should revitalize the area, but probably won't.

As recently as ten years ago, the county's largest employer was Celanese Fibers, a producer of both synthetic textiles and an overpowering chemical smell you could detect ten miles away. As worldwide demand for polyester ebbed with the decline of the plastic pantsuit, the workforce gradually shrunk from a high of 1,400 to the zero people that work there today. The mill itself was razed about a year ago, leaving only a deserted parking lot gradually reverting to grassland. Just beyond the water tower in the background, developers are building the new RiverWalk Village on the old industrial site. The planned community will be marketed toward seniors with a still-active lifestyle but largely inactive reproductive systems, a good thing considering the melted Fortrell in the groundwater.

Before the 2008 collapse of the nation's financial system, people would use "banks" as a place to deposit and withdraw money. Now, when they need a few bucks to buy a carton of cigarettes, Rock Hill residents can turn over their car titles for quick cash at any number of brightly painted establishments lining Cherry Road. This building actually used to be a bank, as you can tell from the deserted drive-through lanes to the right. Car title loans have taken the place of home equity instruments among that growing segment of the population who now live in their vehicles. With North American's convenient location right next to a grocery store, you can leave your car here, collect a quick $200, walk next door to do your shopping and return an hour later to pay the $50 in interest that accrued on the loan while you were gone.

Despite the dreary economy, there is still the occasional hint of happier times that come with the holiday season. This gingerbread house on wheels (or "gingerbread trailer," as some call it) is parked in front of a strip mall. Children giggle with glee as they scamper up the adjacent viewing platform and try to eat the plywood decorations. Meanwhile, their parents are checking the sturdiness of the towing hitch to see if the colorful delight could possibly be stolen and turned into an apartment for grandma.

Dilapidated storefronts have unfortunately become the norm on long stretches of Cherry Road, so customers are used to pretty low standards. Cherry Discount Tire might be mistaken for just another business in disrepair without this helpful sign. Owners of the store, which burned to the ground in a recent fire, felt compelled to tell potential patrons not to enter the premises as it is considered an active crime scene, not to mention a stinking mess. Still, they offer a great deal on used tires -- that pile to the right is hardly scorched at all and virtually free for the taking.

When government, the economy, schools and virtually every other institution has failed them, local residents can still turn to their faith for comfort during difficult times. Woodland Methodist Church uses a "tough love" approach with its congregation, reminding them that God helps only those who are willing to help themselves. This week's sermon, "Go Get Your Own Dirt," is a reminder to the faithful that if they expect to be completely buried after they die, they'd better make provisions in advance to have enough soil handy to cover their coffins fully. "Dead or alive, you shouldn't expect charity from others," preaches Rev. Parker. "I'm holding onto all my dirt for spring planting."

At the far southern end of Cherry Road, there are signs of hope in this just-opened business right across from the college. Brightly colored pennants and the 10% student discount virtually guarantee success of the latest eatery to occupy this site next door to the city's busiest McDonald's. Just because a Church's Fried Chicken, a Taco Bueno, a Panda Express, a grilled chicken place, a coffee shop, a Taco Loco, a pizza joint and a sub shop have all failed in this same location over the past three years, that's no reason to dampen an entrepreneur's dreams. "College students love the sushi, right?" asked owner Lee Tang. "How many other places did you say have failed here?"

Fake News: Commission ignored innovative debt-reduction ideas

WASHINGTON (Dec. 6) — Early drafts of the report by the president’s debt-reduction commission contained some radical proposals to stem the tide of red ink in the federal government.

The so-called Simpson-Bowles group heard suggestions at the beginning of its seven-month study that relied on questionable ethics and misleading the public to reduce deficits.

“We should stop saying over and over that we’re leaving this tremendous financial obligation to our children and our grandchildren,” said co-chair Alan Simpson in one hearing. “If we stop mentioning it so much, maybe they won’t notice. They’re very young and distracted at that age, you know.”

Simpson floated the idea that children be bombarded from an early age with the notion that it is they who owe their parents a debt, not the other way around. When they grow up, the kids will be more than eager to have 70% of their income taxed just to pay interest to the Chinese holders of U.S. treasury bonds.

One of the former Wyoming senator’s aides detailed how the deception might be played out.

“As one example, we could tell them for every new level they achieve during a video game, they’d have the opportunity to earn credit toward a valuable prize,” explained the assistant. “This credit is earned performing piecework on electronics and appliances that need assembly. The factories of Shanghai will ship components to the U.S. and kids will learn early to work for virtually nothing to pay for their parents’ profligacy.”

The estimated $800 trillion this country will owe to China by 2030 could be chipped away five cents at a time until it is completely paid off around the time the Earth plunges into the sun, the aide predicted.

Social security and Medicare reductions have always been considered the “third rail” in American politics, with any officeholder who proposed such a thing likely to face a political death. But substantial reductions could be accomplished if such monthly entitlements were made by placing the elderly’s payments on the tracks of urban subway and light-rail transportation systems.

“Seal off one station and only let people over 65 come in,” one source suggested. “Then, just throw their cash out onto the tracks and let them collect as much as they can. Some will end up being able to afford basic health care, some will be crushed by trains, some will be electrocuted by the third rail. But the pool of recipients will be reduced, and money will be saved.”

“Most of them don’t understand direct deposit anyway,” he added.

Defense spending could be slashed by up to 25% if the Army stopped offering up its troops to appear in a mass martial arts pit stop on NBC’s hit reality show The Amazing Race, like happened in last year’s season finale. Over 300 troops stationed in South Korea spent an entire day filming a stunt in which Race contestants dodged among soldiers’ flying fists as they practiced their jiu jitsu moves for the cameras.

“Meanwhile, 20 miles down the road, just over the DMZ, Kim Il Jung is preparing a massive assault on the south,” said Erskine Bowles, White House chief of staff under President Clinton. “More innovative thinking about funding military operations might suggest we disband that battalion, take about 10% of its cost and pay NBC executives to include Kim and his son as a team on next season’s show.”

Other ideas that didn’t make the final cut were equally intriguing. The final draft released last week included a provision to cut the federal work force by 10%, but the original suggestion was to have all the workers stay on the payroll but simply do 10% less work. Commission member Andy Stern, a former labor union president, scuttled that idea as impractical, since in many cases it was impossible for government employees to do less work than they were already doing.

“The workforce is already being stretched to its capacity when it comes to loafing and goofing off,” Stern told fellow commissioners. “To ask them to do more would be asking them to take on an unfair burden.”

Alice Rivlin of the Brookings Institution wanted to “team up” some of the recommendations into joint efforts at cost reduction. A decrease in farm subsidies and in student loans could be combined into one program that trained college applicants to instead become migrant farmworkers.

“Do we really need so many students studying music and English?” she asked in one early session. “What if we could offer a major in Agriculture Collection with double minors in Bending Over and Getting Sweaty? Students could get training in the field, so to speak, and be ready to hire full-time upon graduation.”

In the end, few of these innovative proposals were adopted by the commission. Members admitted in their report that additional hard choices would have to be made by the next commission, scheduled to start work after the first of the year before its recommendations are completely ignored toward the end of 2011.

“Eventually, someone is going to have to admit we have to deal with the 800-pound gorilla in the room, which is that we are being held prisoner to our own selfish interests and our desire to spend incessantly,” said Bowles. “Hey, maybe we could get the gorilla to be the one to tell people they’re losing the home mortgage interest deduction. They might take it better when it’s coming from a giant ape. I’m going to write that one down. Where’s the suggestion box?”

We interrupt this blog to report that it’s cold

I was checking those site stats that WordPress claims I’ll “drool over” the other day, and nearly shorted out my keyboard with the excess sputum. A record 8,853 readers viewed my blog during the month of November, an average of almost 300 people daily. Looks like I’m finally developing a nice level of steady readership, I thought.

Then I looked more closely at the details.

On virtually each separate day, my most-read post was one I wrote over six months ago. The piece was a Website Review of a site that sells the “no!no!” hair removal system, often advertised on late-night infomercials. It was a fine bit of writing, I’ll admit, but hardly worthy of such continued viewing by what on some days amounted to half my readers.

I decided to Google “no no hair removal reviews” and discovered that my post was on the first page of searches returned, only a few entries down from the sponsored links by the makers of the electronic tweezers. My blog was becoming a go-to location for no!no! customers wishing to praise or vent their anger at the wisdom of their purchase.

“My senior citizen mother looks like a man who hasn’t shaved for a day after trying to make this jerky piece of very difficult equipment work properly,” wrote one commenter.

“On commercials, I did not see nor hear any guarantees of permanent hair removal, just the promise of no!no!-ing less often than shaving or chemical hair removal,” said another. “Trying to shape your own eyebrows is a fool’s errand if you’re using a handheld machine.”

“The machine burnt some hair to shorten it but I would get a much better result with a razor,” offered yet another reader.

“After fighting for a few months with the company, thank God I got ALL my money back,” noted Sharzie McMahem of the website nospamcomcast.

My dreams for the success of this blog didn’t rest on cornering the market on discussions about questionably effective hair-removal products. I aimed to cover a multitude of life’s topics from a humorous angle, commenting from the perspective of a fifty-something guy just trying to bring a little digital excitement into his life (I don’t count my annual prostate exam). I didn’t intend to become a message board for overly hirsute women unhappy with their mail-order purchases.

But you should be flexible in this new era of online communications, so I think I need to go with the flow. Today’s post will be the first in a series of articles that examine the challenges and delights that come with being a mammal. Having hair cover parts of our body that we may not want to be covered is a problem that perhaps I can do something to alleviate. Since information is power, I will from now on use this site as a virtual meeting place for those who want to learn and tell about all matters hairy.

Today’s installment: a brief social history of hair.

Hair has great social significance for human beings. It can grow on most external areas of the human body, except on the palms of the hands and the soles of the feet. Hair is most noticeable on most people in a small number of areas, which are also the ones most commonly trimmed, plucked or shaved.

Hairstyle may be an indicator of group membership. During the English Civil War, the followers of Oliver Cromwell decided to crop their hair close to the head, as an act of defiance to the curls and ringlets of the king’s men…

WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG POST TO BRING YOU A MATTER OF URGENT IMPORTANCE. THE FOLLOWING IS A REPORT OF FAKING BREAKING NEWS

EASTERN HALF OF U.S. ( Dec. 8 ) – Employees arriving at offices in large swathes of the country report this morning that it’s “really, really cold” or “freezing out there.”

The deep and prolonged cold snap follows the arrival of an Arctic Clipper earlier this week that left locations from Maine to Wisconsin to Georgia with record low temperatures. Cars had trouble starting, heavy coats had to be located from rarely used closets, and cups of coffee had to be reheated once people arrived at their work. In a related inconvenience, some homeless people died.

“I can’t believe how cold it is this morning,” Jim Hooper, a financial analyst, told workers in his Towson, Md., firm just moments ago. “It’s incredible.”

“Man, I thought I would freeze my butt off,” said Allen Moyer, a bank employee in suburban Cincinnati. “I had to scrape the windshield on my car for a good ten minutes to get all the ice off.”

“I can’t stop shivering,” reported Amy Binder to her fellow cashiers at a grocery store in Charlotte, N.C. “Look at my hands. Really, just stop what you’re doing for a minute and look at my hands.”

Meteorologists speculate the annual arrival of winter late in the year was responsible for the icy blast that left millions of people jabbering endlessly about the weather. It seems the Earth’s annual rotation around the sun causes different parts of the globe to heat up or cool down for months at a time.

“I don’t remember it being cold last year,” said Dalton Stern, a salesman at an Atlanta car dealership. “I almost slipped on an icy patch out where they watered the grass yesterday afternoon. It’s definitely colder than it’s ever been before.”

“I don’t know about all that scientific stuff,” commented Alyce Bishop as she sat shivering at her desk, still wearing her hat and scarf despite the fact that the thermostat on the wall right in front of her recorded a balmy 71 degrees. “I think it’s God opening His refrigerator to get a snack and the cold air just rolls out from heaven down to us.”

Many also interrupted fellow employees who were obviously working on deadline with tales of children and pets who were also feeling the effects of a plunging thermometer.

“My daughter finally got a chance to wear that cute scarf I made for her,” said Angela Royston, a loan officer at a Lexington, Ky., bank. “You know the one I was showing you a picture of? The one I spent all summer crocheting? You remember, you said you liked the parts that were red? You know the one.”

“I tried to let the dogs out and they just stood at the door, sniffing the air,” reported Gerald Hawkey, a copy editor at a rural Pennsylvania newspaper. “I said, ‘go on, it’s not going to kill you,’ and they finally went but you could tell they didn’t like it.”

“And they say global warming is melting the ice caps and raising the sea levels,” observed Staten Island attorney Eric Newsome. “I could go for some of that global warming right about now.”

“It is so cold,” added his secretary. “Very, very cold.”

I’m ready for the office reorganization (sort of): An editorial

My boss asked to see me in her office Tuesday. This is far from an everyday request so – considering the state of the economy and particularly concerns about the so-called “jobless recovery” we’re experiencing in which the unemployment rate still hovers near 10% and new job creation is at a virtual standstill – I was, like, freaking out.

A manager who wants to discuss potentially bad news with an underling is at a distinct advantage if they play their cards right. In this environment, the employee automatically assumes the worst is about to happen. Anything less than a pink slip, a box to collect your personal effects and a security-guard-escorted walk to the parking lot becomes welcome news.

If they put enough drama into the meeting, closing the door behind you as you enter and remaining grim-faced as you settle into your chair, you’ll accept almost anything else they have to say with enthusiasm.

“Dave, I’ve called you in here today to discuss some new directions we see your career here taking,” they can say.

“New directions,” you hear. As in, make a left as you leave the building, then a right at the second light, and you’ll see the unemployment office on the left? you wonder.

“We’ve got some new duties we want you to add to your current skill set,” they can continue.

“New duties,” you hear. A sign of hope?

“We need someone to scrub the floor of the men’s room each day using only their tongue,” they can offer. “And we think you’re just the man for the job.”

“I still have a job!” you think. Relief floods your mind. “That sounds like something I can handle,” you answer. “I’m all salivated up and ready to go. When can I start?”

So when my boss started talking about the reorganization our department is about to undertake, and how it will affect the hours I work and the place where I sit, I was more than happy to listen respectfully and nod my head in an affirmative motion at all the right places. I was not losing my job after all. That was what they call in the corporate world my “key takeaway.”

But now that I’ve had a few days to think about what she said, in the context of not having to trade my comfortable suburban house for a homeless shelter, I have some concerns about a few of these changes.

I’m not going to have to get used to a new chair, am I?

We all have the same type of chairs in my office, but after several years of use, not all of the features still work on every chair. I need more than just a flat horizontal surface to place my can. I need a certain level of lumbar support. I don’t like the armrests to be so high as to interfere with my typing, or too low to provide rest for my arms when I’m reading. The wheels need to work properly so I can scoot to the coffeemaker with a single thrust of my legs.

What about mousepads? Can we keep the ones we currently have?

I like the kind that has the little mound of gel you can rest your wrist on. I don’t like the kind that advertises Office Depot or the pharmaceutical industry’s latest anti-depressant. My wrist tends to get tired after a long day of clicking and dragging, and I’m not sure I can put in a full eight hours with a weary forearm.

The carousel of supplies at my current desk is organized just as I like it. Can I take it with me to my new desk?

A few years ago, in the throes of another reorganization that saw us sticking labels on everything that didn’t move, the different storage slots on my carousel got signs for what goes into each area: “staple remover” reads one, “red pens and pencils” reads another, “black/blue pens” reads a third. This seemed silly at the time, but I’ve grown used to it since then. When I’m through using a rubber band or a paper clip, I want to know where it should be returned to. These labels are the lifeblood of my sanity, and my whole worldview will be affected if I don’t know where to put the medium-sized sticky notes when I’m through with them.

Will I have a stapler and scissors at my new desk?

Right now, I don’t have ready access to these seemingly essential tools of office work. I don’t know whether we just have a shortage, or whether there might be some safety issue involved. I feel I’ve demonstrated a level of responsibility during my 30-plus years with the company to show I can be trusted to handle sharp instruments. If there is some training involved in how to properly attach one piece of paper to another, I’d be eager to learn. I believe learning is a lifelong pursuit and am always eager to gain new skills.

Can I be positioned directly beneath an air-conditioning vent?

Most people in my office seem to be suffering a chronic hypothermia that requires them to constantly fiddle with the thermostat until the room becomes a sauna. I’m originally from Miami, and grew up there in the days before air-conditioning. I appreciate a nice draft as welcome refreshment. You can even put me near the door if you want to; it’ll make it that much easier to slip out five minutes early at the end of the day.

Please don’t make me sit next to Kelly. Please. I beg of you. Have some basic human compassion.

Kelly is our office loudmouth. She chatters endlessly about every detail of her personal life. I don’t want to constantly be hearing about how her son has done at soccer practice, how she has a new cat, how her husband is going back to school again instead of getting a job, how she has this lump on her side that she needs to get checked out. If I want to know these things, I’ll sign up for her online newsletter.

Finally, I need both a recycling bin and a trash can at my new desk.

I’ll often work through lunch, eating a sandwich at my work station. When I’m done, I’ll usually save the Zip-Lock bag I packed it in, unless it’s been stained by mayonnaise dripping out the side of my turkey sandwich. When this happens, I’d like to be able to throw it away without getting up. I don’t want to put it into recycling, because that would destroy the Earth.

Oh yeah, and one more thing: Don’t make me share a desk with Edwin on second shift.

Edwin is notorious for eating three-fourths of an onion-packed Subway sandwich and tossing the rest in his desk-side garbage can instead of — as we were specifically instructed in an email dated September 27, 2003 — putting any smelly trash in the breakroom receptacle. The maintenance people usually empty the office trash cans at mid-morning, so whoever shares a desk with Edwin has to smell old onions for half the day. This, I will not abide.

Somebody in management needs to have a talk with Edwin. Let him think he’s getting the ax, and he’ll be more than grateful to stop putting his onions in the regular trash.

Ask Mr. Ethiquette: Dealing with the condemned

This is the second installment of my new advice series, “Ask Mr. Ethiquette.” I’ll offer guidance on that uncomfortable nexus of ethics and etiquette, the place where we’re conflicted about how to do the right thing or, if we can’t, at least how to do the wrong thing with grace. Polite society is important to maintain even as you go about your daily routine of stepping all over people. Mr. Ethiquette will tell you how to do it.

Dear Mr. Ethiquette,
I am the executioner for the Texas state prison system. (Hey — it’s a job). My state leads the nation in capital punishment so you’d think I’d be a busy man, tying people down, putting hoods on heads, closing curtains, etc. Actually, most of the time it’s pretty boring.

I’ve executed 17 different prisoners this year, which might sound like a lot, until you consider this is the 344th day of 2010, which means there were 327 days where I didn’t kill anyone. Sure, there are some weekends and holidays in there, plus I’m up to three weeks vacation now that I’ve completed my tenth year on the job (had a great time in Branson last July, and would recommend it to anyone, by the way). I usually don’t execute people on my days off — just that liquor store clerk in Missouri and a couple of freelance jobs in Florida — so that leaves many days where I mostly sit around.

Yes, I can practice. But hooking roaches and spiders and other household pests up to a lethal IV can hone your skills only so much. We have an official training manual that I review periodically. There are lots of standard procedures you have to know and, of course, this being state government, we have a ton of checklists to go through. I’ve read the manual cover-to-cover twice now but didn’t learn anything new. (I did find a few typos, though — yay me!) I’ve done all the mandatory safety training and diversity training and sexual harassment training, and now I mostly just sit around playing online Scrabble.

It gives me a lot of time to think about what I’m doing, and there’s something that’s starting to weigh heavy on my conscience: What is the proper etiquette for dealing with an individual that you’re getting ready to put to death?

The guards bring these poor suckers to my office, and it’s my job not only to execute them, but to make them fill out some forms first. We have a customer satisfaction survey that lets the prison system know if we’re meeting and (hopefully) exceeding their requirements. There’s an exit interview. There are questions about organ donation and which family member gets what’s left of the body. They have to sign about a dozen places and initial probably 30 or 40 others, so we’re spending a fair amount of time together.

How friendly should I be to these guys? Is casual conversation and everyday banter a good way to go (I always like to keep things as light as possible around here) or should I be more serious? Sometimes, they’re looking for someone to give them comfort that a better place awaits them in the afterlife, and other times it’s all I can do to keep them chained to the chair. I’ve tried saying as little as possible, to reflect the severity of their situation, but the silences are usually too awkward.

What is my responsibility to make these heinous criminals as socially comfortable as possible during their final moments of life? — K.L., San Antonio.

Dear K.L.,
First of all, let me say this: wow — what a cool job!

That being said, I have to admit you’re in a tough position there. Your only true obligation is to the criminal justice system, to carry out your duties in a professional manner. You want to concentrate on your work, so you don’t want to be distracted by needless chitchat. What if you accidentally administered an intravenous Sierra Mist instead of potassium chloride? What if you made them lie face-down on the gurney instead of face up? You’d be a laughingstock in the eyes of your coworkers, and probably a candidate for official reprimand.

Still, I understand how awkward such a situation could be, and there’s nothing wrong with breaking the ice with a little “gallows humor.” Make some comment about how you’re not going to bother sterilizing the needle. Get in a dig at the warden. Tell the press you’re available for part-time work, and that you’d be glad to handle the next round of layoffs at their newspapers.

Casual conversation directly with the condemned is probably not prudent. Even a simple “how’s it goin’?” is likely to be a sensitive topic, packed with unintended overtones. I’d keep your words brief and to the point, though you can certainly soften the harsh message you’re delivering in small ways. Adding a simple “if you please” to the command “extend your forearm” can be enough to change the whole experience into a more positive one for the prisoner.

As the lethal injection solution is making its way into their veins, I would refrain from asking too many questions, like “feel anything yet?” or “how about now?” If there are relatives of the convict present, a solemn nod in their direction is probably more appropriate than the vigorous wave and wide grin you’ll be offering the family of the convict’s victim. When you’ve detected that breathing has ceased and the condemned is likely dead, ask the doctor to make the official determination rather than trying to do so yourself by poking them with a stick.

When the execution is complete, I’d refrain from any elaborate goodbyes. “I’m outta here” or “see ya later” can come off as insensitive, as can observations like “sucks to be you.” Bow your head respectfully as the man is wheeled out of the room, then hit the timeclock and head outside for a well-deserved smoke break.

Revisited: Worst Christmas songs of all time

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 any time during his adulthood.) 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.

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.   

Wallowing in the gutter

I am not what you would call “handy.” I do have hands — two, I’m proud to say — but I use them primarily for eating, typing and pointing at ugly people, not for do-it-yourself jobs around the house. My idea of a home-improvement project is buying a big-screen TV or spraying a room with air freshener.

Somehow, I’ve still managed to be a homeowner for most of my adult life without having the structure collapse around me. I’ve accomplished this through a strategic combination of not caring when the small stuff breaks, and hiring a contractor to take care of the bigger repairs.

If the sliding glass door is permanently stuck or the lights don’t work above the vanity, I can adapt to the small inconvenience. The tile on the floor of our half-bath is warping from shower seepage that may eventually rot the flooring, but who can name the day I’ll slide nude and lathered into the crawlspace beneath our home? We might all be living under North Korean rule by the time, which would make a hole in my bathroom floor pale by comparison.

As long as the embarrassing demise of my residence is happening in private, I can look the other way. But when it is taking place outside in public view, there are certain covenants in our subdivision’s homeowners association agreement that require me to give a shit.

I’ve had to deal with two of these issues in recent weeks. First, a windstorm sheared a backyard hardwood in half, dropping about 25 feet of lumber into a stand of shrubs. We called a tree service to offer an estimate of what it would take to fix. In just a few minutes, the tree guy told us he could cut down the rest of the trunk and haul everything away for $350. He made it sound so simple that we hired him on the spot, and within a few days the tree was gone. Once again, we were in compliance with the provision that commercial logging of old-growth timber should be kept to a minimum in Brookshadow Acres.

While we were outside and looking up, we also noticed that the gutters meant to collect rainwater from our roof had become packed full of fallen autumn leaves. I could scale a ladder and waste a perfectly good Saturday afternoon digging decayed biomass out of the trough, or I could pay someone to do it. Much as I might enjoy the satisfaction of going elbow-deep into a 30-yard tube of acorns, mud and squirrel remains, I’d rather hire some poor bastard who does this for a living.

I noticed that our next-door neighbor recently had some gutter maintenance done on his home by a company called Guardian Gutters. I took down the phone number and set up an appointment for the next day to meet with a gutter professional.

Mike arrived promptly at 2 p.m. and barged into our sunroom with the breezy confidence of a well-polished salesman. He admired our decor, repeated my name frequently to show that he had remembered it, admired the decor again and remarked that — imagine the coincidence! — his wife was also named Beth. He had already launched into his carefully practiced sales pitch when I reminded him that the gutters were affixed to the exterior of the house, something you’d think a pro would know. I ushered him back outside, where I felt it’d be easier for me to run away if things got out of hand.

We stood shivering in a cold breeze as he began his presentation. The modern roof is the culmination of eons of trial-and-error by ancestors looking for the ideal way to shelter themselves from the elements, he said. Early dwellings were often covered only with twigs or animal hides, and did a poor job of protecting residents. The caves of the Neanderthal provided better protection, but since the collapse of the grotto bubble with the recession of 1 million B.C., these were generally outside the price range of most primitive families.

“If you look right up under here,” he directed, “you’ll see this long panel of wood stretching the length of your house. This is called the ‘eaves.’ Attached to the eaves is a strip that we call the ‘fascia,’ and it’s behind here that poor gutter work can lead to trouble.”

“And you can fix that?” I interrupted. “You can clean those things out for me?”

“Well, no,” he chuckled. “These gutters you currently have are going to require constant maintenance. We sell a far superior product called the Guardian Gutter, and we’re the only contractor in the area that offers this patented technology.”

While I had originally been interested only in having my gutter cleaned, I’d be open to the idea of getting a replacement that would free me from fascia-related worry. But I was getting cold, and he was getting nowhere near the bottom line of what his company’s work might cost me.

“If you notice that small bit of separation right there along the edge, you can see why the French aristocracy first used gutters in the early 18th century,” he continued. “Now, if we walk around to the front of the house…”

“Look,” I interrupted. “I’m kind of interested in wrapping this up pretty quickly. Is there any way you could hit just the high points for me in about 10 or 15 minutes?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I want to make sure you and your wife understand fully the value we offer with our product. We can finish this exterior inspection in probably 20 to 30 minutes, but then I’ll need another hour or so inside to lay out all the options we’re prepared to offer you.”

“Can you at least just tell me the price before we go any further?” I pressed.

“No, I can’t really do that without you knowing our features thoroughly,” he said. “If I told you right now that it would cost — say, $8,000 — you wouldn’t be able to appreciate all that your money would buy.”

Eight thousand dollars? I thought in italic. I’m not paying that kind of money to make sure rainwater is corralled down a drain spout unencumbered by putrefied leaves. I had obviously gotten in over my head, and needed to explain to this guy that I wasn’t prepared to make such a big investment, neither in thousands of dollars nor in hours of study about the history of modern roof drainage.

I would just have to explain that I misunderstood what his company offered, thank him for his time, and send him on his way.

“I’m sorry, we had an emergency visit to the hospital last night and I’m still a little distracted,” I lied. “My daughter was diagnosed with an immune-deficiency disorder, and I’m not going to be able to allow you in the house. Sorry.”

A salesman of this caliber, however, was not about to take “no” for an answer.

“Perhaps I could return at a more convenient time,” he offered. “While you’re thinking it over, let me show you this list of satisfied customers in the area. We have pages of names and phone numbers in here, and I would encourage you to call several of these folks to hear for yourself how they feel Guardian Gutters have made all the difference for them.”

“Okay, okay,” I relented. “Maybe we could have you back next week. Maybe Carla’s immunity will have returned by then, God willing.”

“Great,” he said, and dialed his home office to officially set up another appointment for 2 p.m. Monday.

Be sure to read tomorrow’s post, in which I describe how I call and cancel the appointment at the last minute.

My clogged gutter: A shame I may have to live with

Cancelling the gutter guy

Sometimes, voicemail can be a blessing. Other times, it only delays the inevitable.

Yesterday morning I had to call and cancel an appointment with a pushy salesman trying to get me to buy new gutters for my house. Under the mistaken impression that his firm would simply clean my gutters rather than propose a whole new installation, I made this poor man drive all the way from Charlotte to Rock Hill last week. I dashed his planned two-hour sales pitch about 15 minutes in, when I had decided that I (and he) urgently needed to be someplace else.

To peel him off of me, I had to promise he could come back Monday when I’d be better prepared to carve out a good eighth of my waking hours to learn about the advantages of Guardian Gutters (or perhaps it was Gutter Guardians). Now, only hours from the appointed time, I was going to back out.

I called his office and listened carefully to their voicemail options, as it seems they had changed recently. Patience paid off when I learned that option 6 was to cancel a sales presentation. It looked like my rejection could be done automatically.

Unfortunately, after a few rings on the other end of the line, a machine belonging to “Ed Reynolds” picked up and claimed he was out of the office but would return my call when he returned. I didn’t dare simply leave a message and hope that my salesman, some non-Ed Reynolds guy whose name I think was Mike Something, would get word in time to abort his 2 p.m. appointment. So I hung up and re-dialed the main number.

This time, I chose option 2, to speak with an office manager. I mentally rehearsed the reasons I would give for ditching a perfectly serviceable gutter guy on such late notice:

• My aunt’s recently diagnosed hair cancer looked like it was spreading to her eyebrows and mustache, and family had been advised to prepare for the worst, plus

• I was expecting an urgent call from Interior Secretary Ken Salazar, plus
• I damaged my hearing at a Mannheim Steamroller concert and couldn’t hear a word he was saying, plus
• It’s pretty hectic so close to the holidays, maybe we can reschedule after the new year.

The office manager was all business regarding my request and, to my relief, she didn’t demand an explanation. She did press for a January meeting, and I agreed, but didn’t settle on a year. When they do call back to remind me of that perceived commitment, I’ll deny all knowledge of gutters, eaves, fascia and soffits, and will adamantly insist that roofing in general is all a big hoax.

I did, however, want to make sure that the salesman was absolutely, positively not coming. I didn’t fancy the thought of again having to resist his sales superpowers and escort him off my property at the same time.

“You’ve definitely got the right appointment cancelled?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “You’re in Rock Hill, on Brookshadow Drive. The 2 p.m.”

That’s the one. I thanked her for her time, apologized for the inconvenience, and ended up pretty confident that the salesman wouldn’t return that afternoon.

I got off early from work so I could be home in time to lock all the doors, draw all the curtains and hide under the covers of my bed until at least 3:30. Just in case.

From this angle, the gutters don't look that bad after all.

I’ve been watching too many TV commercials lately

Open with exterior shot of long white limo driving down a country road. Graphic points to car’s “blacked-out windows”.

Announcer overdub: “A lot of people don’t think food companies are honest about the source of their ingredients.”

Cut to interior shot of focus group sitting around a conference room table. Facilitator asks: “Do you think Domino’s wants you to know where their ingredients come from?”

Hispanic woman: “You should be able to know.”

Anglo woman: “Yeah. With Domino’s you assume the worst, so it would be reassuring to at least believe the ingredients are carbon-based.”

Black man: “I don’t know about that crust, man. Kinda reminds me of chipboard.”

Walls of conference room fall away.

Asian man: “Oh, my god. It’s an earthquake! The building is collapsing! Hand me that pizza so its rock-hard shell can protect my head from falling debris!”

Collapsing walls reveal exterior shot of expansive paper mill. Focus group surprised to find it’s now inside a large warehouse. Safety-helmeted plant worker approaches group and speaks:

“No, it’s not chipboard. Domino’s crust is made of only the finest corrugated cardboard, formed right here in this mill from virgin stands of California hardwood.”

Hispanic woman: “What’s that horrible smell?”

Worker: “That’s the smell of raw wood pulp being boiled and processed to make the grade-A cardboard that forms the base of our famous pizza.”

Black man: “So that’s how I can now order two medium-sized two-topping pizzas for only $5.99 each. You save on production costs by cooking the packaging right into the pie.”

Worker: “That’s right. By eliminating the box and building the pizza out of triple-laminated paper products, we save you money while also offering you the best quality possible.”

Announcer overdub: “Be sure to visit behindthepizza.com to see what else we’re baking into our product that you wish you didn’t know.”

Anglo woman: “I had a friend who worked at a Domino’s once. She said it’s not what’s behind the pizza you should worry about, it’s what’s behind the ovens, behind the counter, in the bathroom, under the fingernails of the workers. But seeing this paper mill somehow makes me feel better. Or at least light-headed. What are those chemicals I’m smelling, anyway?”

Asian man: “I always thought Domino’s was only slightly better than the rise of Nazi Germany in the 1930s and the subsequent world war that killed over 60 million people. My opinion of them is now much higher, considering the paycheck I’ll be getting for this commercial.”

Announced overdub: “Order your all-natural Domino’s pizza today.”

Small disclaimer type at bottom of screen: “Not responsible if delivery man slays your family. Our drivers carry less than $20 in change and make less than $15 per day. Must purchase at least 50 pizzas to receive advertised price. Must specifically ask for ‘limited time offer’ and use a cartoonish high-pitched squeak to place your order. Prices, participation, delivery area and charges may vary. We reserve the right to substitute a picture of a pizza for a real pizza.”

Possible alternate ending for release later in current advertising campaign: Focus group questions quality of meat toppings, and conference room walls fall away to reveal a slaughterhouse. Panicked cows cry out as they’re stunned before butchering. Focus group participants comment favorably on freshness of meat. “You can almost taste the blood,” one says. “Or is that the tomato sauce?”

+++

Fed up with partisan bickering among the nation’s three branches of government, Americans appear ready to install a new regime headed by the three most prominent insurance pitchmen currently on commercial television.

An all-powerful triumverate consisting of Progressive’s “Flo,” Nationwide’s “The World’s Greatest Spokesperson in the World,” and State Farm’s “Vaguely Mexican-Looking Guy Outside a Coffee Shop” has agreed to rule the land with a sympathetic but iron fist.

“I’m ready for any change at all that will get the Republicans and Democrats out of Washington,” said Alyce Jones of Chicago. “Those insurance folks offer a goofy sincerity that seems right for these troubling times.”

“The World’s Greatest Spokesperson in the World has really come into his own since being lured out of his backwoods cabin and back into insurance sales,” said Rob Fallon of Las Vegas. “He’s convinced me that Nationwide wants to know everything about me so they can tailor a product that meets my needs. Have you seen the one where he’s dealing with a lady named ‘Pam,’ and he offers to change the name of the company to ‘Nationpam’? That’s the type of can-do spirit we need if we’re ever to convince the Chinese to allow their currency to float on the open market.”

“Like a good neighbor, that Mexican-looking guy is there, always hanging outside of cafes and introducing people to State Farm agents,” said Ronald Henderson of Atlanta. “He puts a real friendly face on the problem of illegal immigration. I’d rather see him outside a Starbucks than offering to do day labor outside a Home Depot.”

The trio would govern by fiat, announcing a new round of federal laws several times an hour on all the major networks. Viewers who don’t follow their every command will be banished to a world where modern insurance products don’t exist, and yet people somehow survive by simply being careful about how they live their lives.

Tentative plans call for Flo to head up the nation’s judiciary as a one-person replacement for the Supreme Court. The World’s Greatest Spokesperson will replace both houses of Congress, and the Mexican guy will become the nation’s first Hispanic president.

“Flo’s perky haircut and headband will look just darling accented by judicial robes,” said Jones. “And the Nationwide Guy, with that signature blue rotary phone hanging from his hip, should be able to reach across the aisle in both the House and Senate to compromise with himself. I’m finally excited about the direction our nation is headed.”

“I think the new president is hunky,” said Phyllis Lee of Oklahoma City. “That could carry some real weight in the START Treaty negotiations with the Russians.”

An editorial: Is gravity still necessary?

Getting ready for work the other morning, I dropped a knife while mayonnaising my sandwich. Moments later, in the bathroom, I dropped my hairbrush.

Maybe I’ve got a mild case of Lou Gehrig’s Disease and will feel better by the weekend. Maybe I’m just getting a little old.

Or maybe – in these days when we’re re-considering dozens of other societal institutions — it’s time to revisit the value of gravity. Has this fundamental interaction of nature lost its appeal? Do we still want to live in a universe in which objects with mass attract one another? Or is it time to shop around for other systems of physics?

I’m suggesting that we look at this issue with fresh eyes, especially since it hurts my back to be bending over so much.

Gravity was invented in 1687 by Sir Isaac Newton, who famously watched an apple fall from a tree to the ground and thought, “Huh – that’s weird.” Before this invention, people and objects would just drift off into space with nothing to hold them Earth-bound. Jesus ascended into heaven. Moses got the Red Sea to rise up so the Jews could escape from the pharaoh. Genghis Khan and his Mongol hordes were able to invade and defeat rival civilizations because they rode on flying horses.

After Newton’s Law of Universal Gravitation was published, the world started to settle down. Modern economies were able to develop because shopkeepers could put goods on a shelf and they’d stay still. Western culture and civilization flourished, at least until 2008 and the collapse of the world financial system.

Now, as we question other once-dear fundamentals of life, perhaps it’s time to consider at least a partial revocation of Newton’s law.

I’m not proposing such a radical change as to allow people to be floating off into the sky, never to return (though that might be nice to contemplate for certain pop singers, maniacal dictators and the loud woman with the twangy accent who sits next to me at work). I’ll leave it for the Tea Partiers and other radical thinkers to contemplate what that kind of world would be like. I acknowledge that there’s a need for at least some gravity — just not as much as we have now.

Think of the problems that less gravity might be able to solve:

–Illegal immigration would be a thing of the past, since undocumented Mexicans wouldn’t actually be walking on the soil of the United States, but instead hovering several feet above it
–Traffic congestion in major cities would be dramatically improved, as long-dreamed-of rocket cars that sail through highways in the sky become a reality
–Overpopulation in the poor nations of Asia and Africa would be mitigated when it becomes possible for whole families to live on top of one another’s shoulders
–War-torn regions of the world would put aside their conflicts so they could concentrate on not running into helicopters
–Global warming would no longer be a concern, as large parts of our atmosphere dissipated into the voids of space
–The American obesity epidemic would disappear overnight, as people who once weighed thousands of pounds are able to log in at a trim 185 pounds
–Everybody would be hopping about like those brave Apollo astronauts romping on the moon’s surface back in the 1970s, lending an air of childlike joy to everyday life

Yes, I admit there would be some disadvantages. This holiday season’s hottest gift idea, the Fushigi Magic Gravity Ball now on sale at Walgreen’s for only $19.99, would no longer “mesmerize the mind and confuse the senses.” (Well, it might continue to confuse the senses as to why people ever considered spending almost twenty bucks on a simple silver ball.) Suction shoes would become the new sensation.

I recommend that the president set up a national commission to study whether the laws of gravity are something that Congress might want to consider repealing. I know partisan divides are quite stark these days; yet I strangely have faith that this is one issue where the right and left might agree.

All it would take is to track down Sir Isaac’s descendants and ask them to revoke their famous ancestor’s lifetime of study. Singer-songwriter Juice Newton, whose 1981 smash “Queen of Hearts” hit number one on both pop and country charts, still tours and can currently be found playing at the municipal auditorium in Missoula, Montana. Recent Heisman Trophy winner Cam Newton of Auburn is busy in his Alabama dorm preparing for finals and the Jan. 10 BCS title game against second-ranked Oregon. I’m sure both would be amenable to refinements in the law that would give us all a good chuckle.

Let’s give reduced-gravity existence a try. We have nothing to lose, as long as we tie it all down.

Ask Mr. Ethiquette: Several questions today

Dear Mr. Ethiquette,

I’m a working-class white Southern male, except that I’m not technically working because I’ve been unemployed for over a year. My job in the textile industry was eliminated when the company moved production to China, and I can’t find anything new, especially with just a high-school education.

My wife lost her job in state government last month, just as my unemployment benefits were running out. Our 19-year-old son can only find work at McDonald’s and is thinking about joining the Army instead, except he’s a little concerned about the whole dying-in-Afghanistan thing. My 11-year-old daughter was doing well in school until funding was cut and her teacher was replaced with a mannequin.

Meanwhile, all around us, roads and bridges are crumbling, families are losing their homes and average Americans have given up all hope that the future is going to be any better.

Can you explain to me why I continue to support Republican policies that give more money to the wealthy and have virtually no regard for my situation? Why would I vote so consistently against my own self-interests? What is wrong with me?

– L.P., Columbia S.C.

Dear L.P.,

Gays are going to be allowed to marry each other!

Democrats want to take away your guns!

There’s a war against Christmas being waged by liberals who aren’t as God-loving as you!

Muslims are building a mosque near Ground Zero in New York!

African-Americans and Hispanics continue to walk among us!

Have you forgotten about all this?

– Mr. Ethiquette

Dear Mr. Ethiquette,

You’re right! I forgot all about that. Sorry, I guess I was distracted by trying to figure out how I was going to feed my family.

– L.P., Columbia, S.C.

Dear L.P.,

And don’t forget Congressional earmarks! And Nancy Pelosi! And the lamestream media!

– Mr. Ethiquette

Dear Mr. Ethiquette,

Right, right. So sorry to waste your time.

– L.P., Columbia, S.C.

Dear L.P.,

That’s OK. In stressful times like these, it’s easy to forget what’s important for America.

– Mr. Ethiquette

+++

Dear Mr. Ethiquette,

What is considered proper these days when holding open a door for someone? Is this only something a man does for a woman, or is it a common courtesy that should be extended to all?

What do you do when they’re coming up behind you, but they’re far enough away that you have to hold the door for a few additional seconds? They often break into a trot to keep you from waiting, which seems to defeat the whole purpose of why you’re trying to be nice to them. Especially when old people are involved — I hate to make grandma jog across the parking lot because she doesn’t want to inconvenience me by waiting for her.

And what about automatically opening doors? Should I stand in front of the sensor to keep the doors open for a straggler, or can I count on their own physical bulk to take care of this for them?

Modern life is so confusing for a person like me who wants to do right by their fellow human beings.

– H.R., Denver, Col.

Dear H.R.,

Truly you are a dying breed, but I’m glad there are some of you still out there who want to be nice to strangers.

If there is someone immediately behind you as you enter a door, it is proper to hold the door for them, regardless of their gender. Sometimes it can be difficult to tell if it’s a man or a woman anyway, what with all the trans-sexuals and trans-gendered and transvestites out there. And don’t even get me started on the gays.

If the straggler is more than a couple of feet behind you, do not hold the door. The whole idea of this exercise is to be polite, so you kind of defeat the purpose by making them sprint forward so you’re not holding the door so long. At that distance, you can’t really be sure they’re coming in the same door as you anyway. Maybe they plan instead to scale the wall to a second-floor window and enter that way. Maybe they have superhuman strength and prefer to bash a new entryway into the building. Maybe they’ve mastered teleportation and plan on reassembling their atoms inside, without ever even using a door. You don’t know.

As for automatic doors, I believe these are a scourge upon the land. They encourage weakness in our population, and have contributed immeasurably to the decline of Western Civilization. What’s next to be automated? Zippers? Car doors? Will we soon require attendants to bring a glass of water to our lips so that we may drink without effort? No wonder we have an obesity problem in this country.

I think I’ve answered your question in there somewhere. Thanks for asking.

– Mr. Ethiquette

+++

Dear Mr. Ethiquette,

So what exactly is the point of this advice column anyway? You’re trying to address that area where ethics and etiquette intersect? I can appreciate the need to apologize to a neighbor that you almost ran over with your car, or the prison inmate you’re about to execute. And you covered those two topics nicely in your first two installments.

I’m not sure what else is left. How are you going to make this a regular feature of this blog with such a shortage of issues?

– D.L., Toronto, Canada

Dear T.L.,

You know what? I hate to admit it, but you’re right. It was a stupid idea to begin with.

Today’s post therefore marks the end of the “Ask Mr. Ethiquette” feature. Like Larry King, I’ve enjoyed my tenure entertaining and informing America, even if he did it for 60 years and I just started earlier this month. But there comes a time for all things to end, so I’ll take my cue from Larry and Oprah and Barbara Walters and all the other retiring titans of infotainment, and I’ll say goodbye.

Thanks for reading.

– The Late Mr. Ethiquette

Revisited: Getting into the Christmas spirit

It’s the most wonderful time of the year, and I’m definitely starting to get into the Christmas spirit. But if being joyful and merry means I have to start being nice to people, I’m not sure I’m quite ready to make that commitment.

See, I have a problem with goodwill toward men. I’m usually too impatient going about my daily activities to take the time to stop, chat, and have something akin to normal social relationships. It seems that if you took every opportunity during the course of a day to “chew the fat” with every acquaintance you met, your arteries would be hopelessly clogged and you’d never get anything done, except perhaps an emergency balloon angioplasty, and you’d have to squeeze that in.

Take, for example, my almost-daily stop at a cafe near my house, where I’m working right now. There are several regulars that join me each afternoon, and by “join” I mean that we share approximately the same coordinates on the face of the globe. (Once, we shared exactly the same coordinates, but that’s only because they didn’t look behind themselves before sitting down). I’ll exchange at most a nod with these folks, because I’ve seen what happens when you do anything more.

This one guy in particular is also working on his blog, as well as a book about why African-Americans should be flocking to the Republican Party (talk about a Christmas miracle). I’m not sure how he gets any work done, as he’s constantly shooting the breeze with baristas, cashiers, and anybody else that comes within a six-foot radius.

“Are you on Facebook?” he asks the blood-spattered EMT tech who stopped for a quick double espresso. “What’s your email address again?” he inquires of a passing toddler.

The other day he sighed loudly and said, to no one in particular, “I’m so glad I’m almost finished writing this book.”

“Oh, you’re working on a book?” the friendly man sitting behind him might ask, though it’d probably be the last thing he says for the next half-hour.

I am not that friendly man. I’m the bitter curmudgeon who responds in one of two ways when I see a familiar face enter the store — I switch to the other side of the table to put my back toward the door, or I’m suddenly transported into ultra-focused concentration on my work, internally debating the merits of comma or semicolon, dashes or parenthetical aside, new paragraph or yet another run-on. (Oh, damn, here he comes anyway.)

However, it’s Christmastime, and even I am experiencing a buoyant spirit that pushes me beyond my normal inhibitions. I want to do something to reach out to others and share in the seasonal cheer, but I don’t want it to be mistaken for anything more than a limited-time offer. Don’t expect this kind of amity when January rolls around, because I’ve got the whole month penciled in for being dour.

Maybe I could just hand out twenty-dollar bills. I tried that once with the homeless guy off the interstate exit ramp, however I ended up beaten in a culvert three states over.

What I’m considering now is, for me, a radical step. I’m thinking of attending a holiday church service. This would allow me to kill two birds with one stone: devote a concentrated period to fellowship then get on with my life, and also soak up a little of the yuletide pageantry that I seem to be lacking in the broken 1989 Mannheim Steamroller cassette that continuously loops through the same song and a half. Three birds, actually, if you count saving my soul from eternal damnation.

I come from a Christian family tradition, and regularly attended church as a youth, until I was confirmed at age 15 and promptly found better things to do. I have extremely fond memories of those times, as they’ve now become a colorful blur that fortunately excludes those excruciating sermons about how it’s good to be good, and bad to be bad. The music and decorations and family warmth, though, were wonderful.

So I made a tentative recon sortie this past weekend, attending a “cookie walk” at the local Methodist church. Not exactly a formal date on the liturgical calendar, the annual sweets sale on the second weekend of December does provide a great opportunity to get a quick taste of the season with minimal human interaction. For $6, you get a small box from a friendly-but-distracted church lady, then walk down a row of decorated tables, pointing at the baked goods you want to be stuffed into your box. It’s a little like communion, only these dispensers handle the goods with sanitary gloves and don’t mumble quite as much.

I made my way down the aisle with limited conversation, mostly a mix of “that one,” “this looks good” and “are those chocolate chips or raisins?” I was friendly without being grating, sincere without being affected, and completely superficial, just as I like it.

When my box was full, I headed to a cake table where another slightly more eager Methodist stood watch. As I admired the Amish friendship bread, I heard the question I feared: “What church do you attend?”

“Uh, none locally,” I stammered, hoping she’d think I was from a land far away.

But now, I’m thinking I might be ready for a deeper experience that centers more on my eternal soul and less on my weakness for red-sprinkled shortbreads shaped like Santa. I’m looking at the church directory in our local newspaper for a house of worship that might possibly accommodate my belief that it’s possible a single small South Carolina parish is not the only group to have cornered the market on everlasting life. As you might imagine, there are many that don’t look particularly hopeful: the Real Life Assembly of God, the New Vision Freewill Baptist Church and the Calvary Ultimate Life Shield of Faith Evangelical Ministry, to mention a few.

These don’t sound especially flexible in their theology (though I bet all the jumping up and down they do makes them quite agile physically), so I harken back to my Lutheran heritage. There’s a Missouri Synod branch called Epiphany Lutheran, though I believe I read that this synod maintains a strict belief in bad pro football teams (the Kansas City Chiefs, the St. Louis Rams, etc., hardly what you’d call solid rocks on which to build a church, especially their offensive lines). There’s Emmanuel Lutheran on Main Street, probably the town’s old-school congregation with old-school parishioners.

I think I’m going to choose Grace Lutheran, not far from the local college. It offers both traditional and contemporary services and has a pastor named E. Ray Mohrmann, a great name for a Lutheran. They do claim to have communion at all services, not something I’d necessarily brag about but not a deal-breaker for me. Maybe there will also be communion in a larger sense, and I’ll get the chance to fraternize with cheerful, Christmas-addled types and consume wheat-based foodstuffs at the same time.

“Take and eat, for this is the Body of Christ,” I imagine E. Ray will ask me. And I’ll be ready to respond: “Thanks for the snack. Hope you’re ready for the holidays. Have you gotten all your shopping done? I can’t believe those lines at the post office. I hear we might get some snow next week. Give my best to your family.”

Revisited: Christo, the reason for the season

Only a few more days till the big day is here. Most of us have finished our shopping, finished our party-going, and are just about finished with being cheerful. The time has now come to settle back with loved ones, and let the true meaning of the holiday wash over us.

It’s time to put “Christo” back in Christmas.

The man whose birth we celebrate Saturday came from humble beginnings, only to emerge later in life as the transformative fabric artist we all know. Even if we don’t worship him as a God, virtually everyone acknowledges the positive impact he’s made on Western culture.

The performance/outdoor installation master we know today as Christo began life as Christo Vladimir Javacheff, born in a tiny Bulgarian town in 1935. His actual birth date was probably around June 13 (scholars have arrived at that date from contemporary descriptions of flocks in the field and from well-maintained birth records in the registrar’s office) though we now stage our celebration around the time of the pagans’ winter solstice.

His father, Vladimir Yavachev, was a scientist, yet he didn’t allow unblinking loyalty to the scientific method to cloud the metaphysical belief that his son was the Christo Child. Mother Tsveta Dimitrova worked two full-time jobs, as both a secretary at the Academy of Fine Arts and as a virgin (the latter position didn’t pay very well but had great benefits in a time when Europe was ravaged with venereal disease).

Young Christo displayed artistic talent at a very early age. Legend has it that once, when his mother experienced a chill, he picked up a throw rug and draped over Tsveta’s shivering shoulders, presaging a career that would see him wrap both natural and manmade objects in immense swaths of cloth and label it “environmental art.” He studied at the Sofia Academy and in Prague for four years, then spent the spring break of 1957 on a train trip to Austria after bribing a railway official to let him out of the Communist bloc.

In October 1958, he was commissioned to paint a portrait of Precilda de Guillebon, the mother of the woman who would become his wife and partner for the next fifty years, and known simply as Jeanne-Claude. Initially attracted to her half-sister, he got Jeanne-Claude pregnant instead (sounds like a tragically missed encasing opportunity). Already engaged to another man, she proceeded with the wedding at Christo’s insistence — it’s said he was intrigued by the prospect of seeing so many covered packages among the wedding gifts – but abandoned her new husband immediately after the honeymoon. Jeanne-Claude’s parents were displeased with the relationship because he was a refugee, even though they had plenty of other good reasons.

By 1961 Christo had become wealthy with the invention and patent of the cooking oil Crisco, allowing the two young artists to begin their first major work, covering barrels in the German port of Cologne. In 1962, without the consent of local authorities and as a statement against the Berlin Wall (?), they blocked off a small street near the river Seine with a different set of barrels, while Jeanne-Claude convinced approaching police to let the piece stand for several hours. Somehow, this made them famous in Paris, which convinced them to leave for the U.S.

Flying to New York on separate planes to ensure that both would not die in the same accident, unless of course the two planes crashed into each other, the duo began their American careers. Christo struggled with the English language (as he had struggled with French, and Bulgarian, for that matter), which led him to simplify the crediting of work done by both he and his wife. Even though Jeanne-Claude was the natural organizer, the extrovert and the one who dyed her hair bright red and smoked cigarettes, it was “Christo” who was famous artist. It wasn’t until 1994 that he retroactively gave her half-credit for the work.

Christo loved the freedom of America, and loved how many things it had to wrap. He had been “stateless” since his arrival in Austria years before, and decided to become a U.S. citizen in 1973. He studied hard to pass the citizenship exam, and had to take it several times until it finally sunk in that cotton, denim, acetate, acrylic, nylon, flannel and microfiber were neither presidents nor provisions in the Bill of Rights. One of his proudest moments would come in 2005 when New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg said it was okay with him if Christo wanted to erect his most famous project, “The Gates,” in Central Park, as long as he cleaned up after himself. It was that signature piece — 7,503 gates made of saffron-colored fabric and placed on paths throughout the park — which cemented Christo’s image in the public consciousness.

His other most notable works included “Documenta 4,” an inflated air package that hovered 280 feet over Europe for ten hours in 1968; “Running Fence,” a curtain of fabric that ran through the mountains and into the sea; “Surrounded Islands,” the wrapping of eleven islands in Florida’s Biscayne Bay in pink woven polypropylene in 1983; and the 1995 packaging of the German parliament building, the Reichstag, in fabric. He also installed thousands of umbrellas in Japan and California in a seven-year project appropriately called “The Umbrellas,” that ended colorfully (blue for Japan, yellow for the U.S.) but tragically (two people killed) in 1991.

Not all of Christo’s work was so serious as to be potentially fatal. An important part of Christmas is the fun and levity the season brings, and this is reflected in some of his most light-hearted work. After cartoonist Charles Schulz drew an episode of his comic strip “Peanuts” with Snoopy’s doghouse wrapped in fabric, Christo constructed a wrapped doghouse and presented it to the Schulz Museum in 2003. The artist is also considering ways to enrobe some other popular animated figures, including the Taunting Robot who jumps up and down in the corner of the screen during Fox TV football broadcasts, and Senator Mitch McConnell (R-Kent.).

Tragically, Christo’s life partner Jeanne-Claude died of a brain aneurysm last year, casting a pall over the current holiday season. But knowing Christo’s resilience and his central role in the seasonal theme of new life, he’ll probably take that pall and wrap it around something festive, much like he folded himself into sackcloth to create the Shroud of Turin during his early years in Europe.

So as you finalize your Christmas preparations, don’t forget to take time to remember the reason for the season. When you wrap up that last present and put it under the tree, don’t forget that it was Christo who was born into this world to save mankind and to offer the idea that gifts temporarily concealed by gaily colored swathing was a great way to celebrate the advent of a Savior.

Christo: He’s in there somewhere

I get a Snuggie! Then give it away!

It started innocently enough as a trip to Best Buy to pick up a few electronics gifts for my teenage son. By the time I left the store, I was equipped to conduct secretive raids on Taliban strongholds while enjoying hands-free comfort and warmth.

I impulse-bought a Snuggie while standing in line at the check-out. Not just any Snuggie, mind you, but one printed in a classic camouflage pattern.

Like the entire civilized world as well as several adjacent planets that get cable, I was familiar with “The Blanket That Has Sleeves!” from its ubiquitous and intentionally corny television advertisements. Long before I joined the trend Friday, more than 4 million Snuggies and another million or so “Slankets” — a bastard relative that you can wear without becoming dehydrated by excessive perspiration — had been sold. Marketing gurus who realized that combining a desire to stay toasty while making a kitschy fashion statement was a formula for success in these ironic times have made manufacturers millions of dollars since the product was introduced in 2008.

(It is important to note here that, while additional knock-offs go by the name “Snuggler,” “Toasty Wrap,” “Cuddlee” and “Freedom Blanket,” do not make the mistake of ordering a “Snugli.” This is a completely different product that also requires the purchase of an infant, who is hung on display from your chest. I suppose you could use the baby-hauling Snugli as a Snuggie for a small amount of warmth, but would not recommend vice-versa usage unless your baby is really tiny and can fit in the small Snuggie pocket reserved for the TV remote.)

For those of you trapped in a Chilean mine or holed up in an deep-woods lair for the past several years, the Snuggie is a body-length blanket with sleeves, usually made of fleece, and similar in design to a bathrobe except worn backwards. Models pictured on the box I bought show that you can enjoy a hand-held game, answer the phone or even play cards while wearing the Snuggie, tasks that would be otherwise impossible while wearing other cold-weather gear. More vigorous activity — rodeo events, scaling Mt. Everest, chairing the Federal Reserve’s Open Market Committee, or going to the kitchen for a drink — are not recommended, despite my above-stated desire to assist in the War on Terror.

Proclaimed the “ultimate kitsch gift” by the Associated Press, consumers have (wink-wink) fallen in love with the Snuggie. The cast and crew of NBC’s Today Show all donned the Snuggie for a segment in which they were described as looking like a gospel choir. Mass Snuggie-wearing has appeared in pub crawls and at large sporting events. Earlier this year, over 22,000 fans showed up at a Cleveland Cavaliers basketball game to claim the “world record for sleeved blanket wearing” (and they wonder why LeBron left), which was broken a month later when 40,000 spectators wore the outfit to a Los Angeles Angels baseball game. And just last week, the lame-duck session of Congress passed the massive tax-cut compromise while wearing Snuggies.

The display I selected my purchase from offered two designs: the camouflage print I chose and another version covered in pink and yellow peace signs. Seems both warmongers and peaceniks alike could make a statement about their politics and worldview, in addition to the statement that they are complete idiots for spending $19.99 on what is basically a slightly thicker, slightly furrier, slightly larger plastic dry-cleaning bag.

Later that evening, after I smuggled the Snuggie into my home past a spouse whose respect I had hoped to maintain, I began to feel a slight chill and wanted to try out my new purchase. I reminded Beth there were several items we needed at the grocery store and, as I watched her drive away, I broke open the box. The Snuggie was a massive swath of fleece (a.k.a. 100% polyester, according to the fine print in the corner of the box), measuring four-and-a-half-by-six-feet. I flung the piece about like a manic matador, trying to figure what was up, what was down, and what was that static crackling sound that was lighting up my bedroom like a late-summer thunderstorm?

I finally found the armholes and donned the garment. My first impulse was to break into a Gregorian chant, since I felt suddenly monk-y. The next impression I got was that I was in a military hospital and had just put on one of those backless hospital gowns. Drafts swirled up my back as I did my best to gather the voluminous drapery that hung from me on all sides. I cinched and tucked the fabric as best I could, and settled into a favorite TV-watching chair, just waiting for the bliss to kick in.

You may not be able to tell amidst all the camouflage, but it's me wearing a Snuggie!

What has made the Snuggie such a success is the fact that at first blush, it really is quite comfortable and warming. With just my head and hands protruding from the mound of camouflage I had become, I was a cozy camper, snug as a bug on a drug that gives you night sweats. But it only took a few minutes to realize the advantage of breathable fabrics versus the disadvantage of being virtually shrink-wrapped in plastic. What had started out as toasty comfort very quickly evolved into what I imagine yellow fever feels like.

I peeled the Snuggie off the front of my chest as it hissed in protest, and thought I might try wearing it like a conventional robe, with the opening in the front. Again, a few minutes of inviting comfort was quickly followed by a fast-forming prickly heat rash starting at the base of my neck and working its way toward my lower back. Pinning the synthetic fleece between my skin and a leatherette Barcalounger gave me a few ideas for possible  nuclear-fusion-inspired energy research but little in the way of relaxation.

By now on the verge of heat stroke, I stripped off the Snuggie, gasped for air and slung it over the back of a nearby chair, never to be worn by me again. I may keep it around in case I ever need to start a fire, as I imagine it’s as flammable as a pile of kindling. Or maybe I’ll toss it in the back of my car, in case I ever get that job as ice-road trucker I’ve always dreamed about. Or maybe I’ll hold onto it as an investment, in case world polyester prices spike and I can cash in on the ensuing bubble.

Or maybe I’ll give it to a friend at work. Arnie is an occasional hunter, and would probably appreciate the camouflage design. He’s also a big fan of taking advantage of recycled merchandise, from out-of-date foods at the local discount grocery store to half-disassembled hi-fi’s from the Goodwill shop. And, he told me once, he absolutely loves to sweat like a farm animal in the noon-time heat of a South Carolina August.

My Snuggie can provide all this and more …

These guys stay toasty while apparently joining each other on the can

You can also wear the camouflage version while fishing, though don't expect anyone to find your body if you slip off the bank and into the river

DADT to be repealed? Do tell!

Actual quote from Marine Pfc. Alex Tuck, as reported by The New York Times, on how he felt about the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”:
“Showers will be awkward. But as long as a guy can hold his own and protect his back, it won’t matter if [someone] is gay.”

As Congress scrambled through the final days before its holiday recess, the volume of legislation under consideration became almost unmanageable. Lame duck though it was — even lamer a duck than usual – the flurry of bipartisanship that only a looming vacation can inspire saw a record number of measures headed to the president’s desk.

Among the more groundbreaking was the repeal by the Senate Saturday of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” the military’s long-running game show in which losing participants see their careers reduced to ruin. After almost 20 years of a policy that allowed gays to serve in the armed forces as long as they marched instead of minced, homosexuals would be allowed to admit their sexual orientation — though they may want to think twice about doing it in a nation of Islamic fundamentalists.

Several Republicans broke party ranks and voted in favor of the repeal. And not just the gay ones. Meanwhile, Democrats in the House and Senate were nearly united in favoring the repeal, led by openly Democratic Rep. Barney Frank (Gay-Mass.).

But it was Republican Sen. Eric Newby of Wyoming who may have been the most surprising proponent of a new policy. He wants the enacting legislation called “Do Ask, Do Tell, Provide Video” (DADTPV).

“If there are men who actually participate in this kind of deviant behavior, I think they owe it to the public to be very openly gay,” Newby said. “I’d like to see videotape of just what’s going on here, so I can condemn it and condemn it until, well, who knows what will happen?”

With a full plate of bills to act on in just the few weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, Congress is wasting little time. Legislators have sometimes been criticized in the past for not even reading the details of a measure. Now, there are many who don’t even have the vaguest idea of what’s coming up for a vote.

Take, for example, the START Treaty, designed to reduce the number of nuclear missiles held by both the U.S. and Russia. About half the opponents think it’s a preschool program, similar to Head Start, that would trade many of our nation’s two- and three-year-olds to Moscow for oil and natural gas resources. Others plan to oppose the treaty with a revised bill they’re calling STOP.

“It stands for ‘Something to Oppose Proliferation’ or ‘Something to Offset Pyroclasty,’ something like that,” said Rep. Eric Cantor. “So far, all we really have is the acronym, and even that is a work in process.”

Another measure subject to widespread confusion is the so-called DREAM Act. It would provide a path to citizenship for children of illegal immigrants who go to college or serve in the military. But that’s not how Rep. Joe Hampton (R-Tex.) sees it.

“A law that requires American citizens to file a daily report with the government on what they dreamed about the night before is just plain intrusive,” Hampton said. “What if I start dreaming about DADTPV?”

Two other proposals that representatives had hoped to act upon were a bill strengthening food safety regulations, and a fund set up to help cover health insurance costs of first responders to the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001.

Perhaps inspired by the compromise that saw Democrats agree to temporary extension of the Bush-era tax cuts in return for an extension of unemployment benefits, legislators paired the seemingly unrelated plans together. It was Rep. Martin Mayo, D-Fla., who suggested combining the two issues and subjecting them to an up or down vote.

“Obviously, we’re in no position to fund a huge medical payout with the deficit so high,” Mayo said. “So how about if we instead offer a healthy snack to the brave firemen, policemen and EMTs who responded on that fateful day. We’ll overnight each of them a fruit basket from Harry and David’s. And we’ll bombard it with gamma radiation first to make sure it’s safe.”

My annual interview with the cats: Christmas edition

Every year or so, I step away from this blog’s human-centric perspective on the universe and check in with some of God’s lesser creatures. I interview my cats.

We have three — Harriet, 14; Taylor, 5; and Tom, 4 — and in the time I’ve “owned” them, we’ve established a certain language between us. They say meow, I feed them. They say meow, I clean their catbox. They say meow-meow-meow and I presume they’re sick and take them to the vet.

Deeper than any verbal communication, however, is the power of mental telepathy. Now, before you think I’m some kind of psycho pet lunatic, I’m not claiming I can read their minds. Actually, I am, but I don’t do it in a malevolent or intrusive sort of way. It’s just a manifestation of the bond that occasionally develops between one species and another species that sits on top of it. We stare at each other and can just tell what the other is thinking (most days, it’s Me: “You’re a good kitty, yes you are, yes you are”; Them: “This guy is both warmer and softer than any pillow.”)

In previous interviews, we discussed aspects of the relationship between man and his animal companion and, in a landmark December 2009 interview, a range of political issues and current affairs. Two of the three correctly predicted the Obama honeymoon was just about over, and that the GOP would become ascendant and sweep into Congress in 2010 (Harriet, instead, chose to lick herself). Though all three consider themselves Democrats, there’s just enough of an independent streak in them to give any halfway moderate Republican a chance to win their favor in 2012.

But this is the height of the Christmas season, and I was interested to hear what they think about how we humans celebrate our grandest of holidays. I wanted to hear their take on the religion behind Christmas, and whether there were any similar festivities in the cat world. I sat down with the panel near a window sill on a sunny afternoon recently to see what they think about Christmas.

Me: First, let me say Happy Holidays to you all. I won’t use “Merry Christmas” because I presume you’re not practicing Christians.

Tom: No, we’re not. I thought about converting a few months ago but it’s too much hassle, considering you won’t let me out of the house.

Me: Really? You thought about becoming a Christian?

Tom: "I thought about converting (to Christianity) but it's too much hassle."

Tom: Actually, you can do it online. My claws make it pretty hard for me to type, though. And, I needed to get a hold of your credit card, which isn’t easy either.

Me: My credit card? Why would you need that?

Tom: The Methodists had a nice no-money-down, no-payments-for-six-months offer that included a free toaster and I was really tempted. Then I realized, what am I going to do with toast? Probably just push it around the kitchen floor until it ended up under the refrigerator. No, mainstream Christianity is not for me.

Harriet: I toyed with Buddhism in my youth. I have a little Siamese in me, you know. But it’s way back on my mother’s side.

Me: Taylor, how about you? Agnostic, I presume?

Taylor: Yes, that’s right. I don’t believe it’s possible for the living to know for certain what heaven and hell and the afterlife are like. I presume it’s just vast, eternal nothingness, but what do I know? I thought that thread dangling from your shirt the other day was wild prey that I had to kill and eat, so I’m not even a real good judge of reality, much less the great beyond.

Me: Well, Christianity teaches that only humans have souls anyway, so you’ve all probably made the right choices for yourselves.

Taylor: Yeah, I’ve heard that too, and it bothers me. Makes it sound like God thinks you’re better than us.

Me: I think it’s just a matter of you being unable to accept Jesus Christ into your heart as your Lord, at least as a conscious choice.

Taylor: How do they know we can’t make conscious choices? Maybe not well-informed choices, but we can certainly act intentionally when we want to.

Me: I don’t know if that’s it, yet I can see … oww! What’s with the biting?

Taylor: Just wanted to prove I can do things on purpose.

Harriet: I think that’s why I was attracted to Eastern religion for a while. You might be a cat in this life but then you get reincarnated into something else in the next one. I was hoping I could make a kind of grand tour of all life forms, sort of shop around for one I liked and when I found it, stop being a believer and just remain what I had become. I was hoping for elephant but would’ve settled for rhino or hippo or really any large hooved mammal.

Tom: That’s not Buddhism, I don’t think. Isn’t that Hinduism?

Taylor: No, you’re thinking of Zoroastrianism.

Taylor: "I can do things on purpose, you know."

Harriet: No, that’s the one where they put your body in a tower when you die and the vultures pick your carcass clean. They do that instead of burial. I didn’t like the sound of that one.

Taylor: You’re an idiot. That’s not what they believe.

[Brief spat erupts between Taylor and Harriet, with much hissing and batting but no one gets hurt].

Me: Okay, okay, maybe I should change the topic away from something as contentious as religion.

Tom: I think you’re trying to make us fight amongst each other. Last time, it was all political questions and now we’re talking about what we believe spiritually. These are emotional questions and we all obviously have strong feelings about them.

Me: Well, let’s take it out of the spiritual realm and talk instead about the “reason for the season,” as we like to call it. You can at least acknowledge the birth of a very wise man, and how it’s probably a good thing that so many people structure their lives to emulate his good works and loving philosophy.

Taylor: Or pay lip service to it anyway.

Me: No, I don’t think that’s the right way to look at it at all. I’m a lapsed Christian myself, and yet you can’t help but admit that a lot of good gets done in Christ’s name.

Harriet: The only time I hear you mentioning “Jesus” or “Christ” is when you stub your toe on your way to pick up the TV remote.

Me: That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m referring to all the charity and the fellowship and the Golden Rule, doing unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Tom: So that’s why you make us get down from the kitchen table while it’s perfectly okay for you to eat your breakfast up there.

Me: I don’t think that’s quite the right analogy. I’m just trying to keep you from tracking cat litter into my cereal. I’m talking about the compassion for other living creatures that brought you guys into our home in the first place.

Taylor: Oh, here we go. The noble human plucks us from the wild, civilizes us, makes us eat that crappy Science Formula, and we’re supposed to be eternally grateful for your kindness. Did you ever stop to think maybe we liked being feral animals? Just because living on birds and squirrels and sleeping under the deck isn’t for you, don’t assume other species want your kind of life.

Tom: He’s right. You Western European descendants were always out to save the savages of the world, not stopping to think maybe the aboriginal lifestyle of American Indians and native Africans and the bushmen of Australia was something that worked just fine for them.

Me: The bushmen? You’re bringing our treatment of the bushmen into this?

Harriet: The bushmen are totally relevant to what we’re talking about.

Me: Alright, I think we’re losing focus here a little bit. Let me ask you this, then: Is there any equivalent myth in the feline world to the ones we have, about God’s son coming to earth to die for our sins so that we’ll have eternal life in Heaven?

Taylor: No, we couldn’t come up with anything that creative. Remember, we’re simple beasts driven only by hunger.

Tom: What about that story we all heard growing up about a glorious kitten being born to a virgin, growing up as a simple cat, assembling a core of disciples, then threatening the power of the human legions and ultimately being put to sleep at the Animal Shelter only to rise from the dead three days later?

Harriet: I believe your thinking about that zombie movie Beth was watching that time.

Harriet: "The bushmen are totally relevant."

Tom: No, no. You know the story I’m talking about. A group of Wise Tabbies come from the East bringing gifts to the young kitten, they follow a star to find him, he’s got a halo on his head …

Taylor: Again with the Wise Tabbies, huh? You made up that story yourself just to make you and your kind look good.

Harriet: Everybody knows Tabbies have a mean streak. That story doesn’t hold any water.

[Again, a fight ensues, this time with all three chasing each other up and down the hallway.]

Me: Look, it’s obvious you’re all a little out of sorts at the moment. Let me feed you your dinner and we’ll finish our discussion when saner heads can prevail. Kitty, kitty, kitty! Who wants some cat food? Kitty, kitty, kitty.

[All telepathy is temporarily halted as Harriet, Taylor and Tom rush to their food bowls, and wolf down their meals.]

Tomorrow’s installment: We discuss the secular side of Christmas.

The Christmas interview with my cats, part 2

Yesterday, I published the first of a two-part interview with my three cats. Harriet, 14, is a small white female with several black patches who has lived with us for over ten years. Taylor, 5, is a solid slate-grey male and as sweet-natured as they come. Tom, 4, is a huge tabby with anger management issues.

Like many pet owners, I’ve developed a certain rapport with this trio of felines. In fact, I’ve become able to communicate with them on a telepathic level that allows us to hold animated conversations. We sat down last week for a wide-ranging discussion, as I attempted to find out their take on this most-human of holidays, Christmas. What did another species think, I wondered, about all the fuss we make at this time every year? I asked them, and they answered in today’s second and final installment of the interview.

If you think that makes me sound like a crazy cat person, just listen to them:

Me: Everybody, thanks for pulling yourselves together. I’ll hope that the dinner break put everyone in a more reflective mood, so we can discuss a little about the secular side of Christmas.

Tom: Well, thank you, Davis, for the dinner. How innovative of you to offer us cat food.

Taylor: Yeah, you’d think that since we’re doing this as a formal sit-down interview that you might have considered some type of catering. We were hoping for heavy hors d’oeuvres, or at least a little finger food.

Me: But you don’t have fingers.

Tom: I’ve learned to use my claws prehensiley. I really could’ve gone for cocktail wieners or shrimp cocktail.

Taylor: Or those vultures you mentioned earlier that are used in the Zoroastrian faith to pick the bones of the dead so their souls can rise to heaven.

Tom: Mmm. Vulture.

I really could've gone for cocktail weiners or shrimp cocktail

Harriet: I’ve had my claws barbarically ripped from paws.

Me: Harriet, I’ve told you a thousand times we’re sorry about that whole declawing thing. We did it back in the ’90s when it was considered more acceptable.

Harriet: That’s always your excuse – it was the fashion. Big hair, shoulder pads for women, Garth Brooks and removing what is basically the top half of our fingers at the second knuckle. You had to follow the trends of the day and take out my claws. Now, I’m the fashion victim.

Me: Okay, okay, let’s not rehash the past. It can’t be undone.

Harriet: I hear there’s a way to surgically restore cat claws, kind of like undoing a vasectomy. It’s only a couple of thousand dollars.

Me: I’m not spending that kind of money …

Harriet: They’re made out of titanium. Like what Wolverine has. It’d make a great Christmas gift.

Me: We’re not putting your claws back for Christmas. Period. Now let’s get back on topic. Let’s talk a bit about all the hoopla we humans put into the holiday season. You probably think it’s silly, right?

Taylor: I don’t know. I like some of the music. “O Holy Night” is probably my favorite.

Tom: I like that one about the reindeer.

Harriet: Mmm. Reindeer.

Me: That’s interesting. I didn’t think cats could appreciate music.

Taylor: It’s one of the few so-called “fine arts” that we actually get. That, and avant garde painting, the kind where it looks like a cat was dipped in water colors, plopped on a canvas, and then hit with a taser.

Tom: Not the “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” one, but the one about Adolf — Adolf, the red-nosed reindeer.

Me: What else stands out to you as representative of the holiday season?

Taylor: Well, you gotta love the trees, of course. Lots of cats climb up in them, or maybe bat at the ornaments, or strangle by eating the tinsel. I myself prefer to decorate them. Last year I did a lovely lavender and lace theme, with soft turquoise lights and a ballerina on top instead of a star.

Me: Such detail …

Tom: Hey, I didn’t ask, and he shouldn’t tell, if you know what I mean.

Well, you gotta love the trees

Me: You know, we put a special cat stocking up on the mantle for you guys, so we feel like you’re part of the celebration. Does that mean anything to you?

Harriet: It would if you’d actually put something in the stocking.

Me: We intentionally have chosen not to anthropomorphize you by giving you gifts. We might give you a little turkey after dinner if we’re drunk enough, but that’s going to be it.

Tom: Yeah, ask us about the foods of Christmas. I want an excuse to tell you how often we secretly lick your food when you’re not looking.

Me: Well, just remember — chocolate is poisonous to cats so be sure to stay away from the desserts.

Taylor: Again, how very convenient for you to see it that way. Giving us gifts is bad. Giving us sweets is bad. You can understand why we don’t regard it as much of a celebration.

Harriet: As the elder of this group, I’ve seen at least a dozen of these Christmases, and I’m just not impressed. It’s all so materialistic and commercialized that any expressions of love or joy originally intended come off sounding phony. You know, “Peace on Earth” and all that crap.

It's all so materialistic and commercialized

Me: Do any of you have special plans for the holidays?

Harriet: Yeah, I’m going to fly to Pittsburgh to see my new niece. Oh, wait — that’s right, you won’t let us out of the house, so we can’t really go anywhere.

Tom: The only family I keep in touch with is Taylor, because he might possibly be my brother. And I pretty much hate him.

Taylor: Likewise, my tabby brethren. At least we can agree on that.

Me: Well, there you go. I think we just hit upon the true spirit of Christmas. It’s all about putting aside any stress or antagonism we may carry during the rest of the year so we can appreciate one another. Even if the feeling only lasts for a couple of days.

Tom: We have another two days of this to go? Jeez.

Me: Don’t forget — “Jeez” is the “reez” for the “seaz,” as they say.

Taylor: Don’t ever say that again.

Me: Well, I want to thank you all for taking time out of your schedules to have this chat. It helps all us humans put everything in a little more perspective to hear some outside opinions.

Harriet: We live to serve you. No, wait — it’s you who serves us. Now can we please have some more cat food?

Christo — The reason for the season

Only 24 hours till the big day is here. Most of us have finished our shopping, finished our party-going, and are just about finished with being cheerful. The time has now come to settle back with loved ones, and let the true meaning of the holiday wash over us.

It’s time to put “Christo” back in Christmas.

The man whose birth we celebrate tomorrow came from humble beginnings, only to emerge later in life as the transformative fabric artist we all know. Even if we don’t worship him as a God, virtually everyone acknowledges the positive impact he’s made on Western culture.

The performance/outdoor installation master we know today as Christo began life as Christo Vladimir Javacheff, born in a tiny Bulgarian town in 1935. His actual birth date was probably around June 13 (scholars have arrived at that date from contemporary descriptions of flocks in the field and from well-maintained birth records in the registrar’s office) though we now stage our celebration around the time of the pagans’ winter solstice.

His father, Vladimir Yavachev, was a scientist, yet he didn’t allow unblinking loyalty to the scientific method to cloud the metaphysical belief that his son was the Christo Child. Mother Tsveta Dimitrova worked two full-time jobs, as both a secretary at the Academy of Fine Arts and as a virgin (the latter position didn’t pay very well but had great benefits in a time when Europe was ravaged with venereal disease).

Young Christo displayed artistic talent at a very early age. Legend has it that once, when his mother experienced a chill, he picked up a throw rug and draped over Tsveta’s shivering shoulders, presaging a career that would see him wrap both natural and manmade objects in immense swaths of cloth and label it “environmental art.” He studied at the Sofia Academy and in Prague for four years, then spent the spring break of 1957 on a train trip to Austria after bribing a railway official to let him out of the Communist bloc.

In October 1958, he was commissioned to paint a portrait of Precilda de Guillebon, the mother of the woman who would become his wife and partner for the next fifty years, and known simply as Jeanne-Claude. Initially attracted to her half-sister, he got Jeanne-Claude pregnant instead (sounds like a tragically missed encasing opportunity). Already engaged to another man, she proceeded with the wedding at Christo’s insistence — it’s said he was intrigued by the prospect of seeing so many covered packages among the wedding gifts – but abandoned her new husband immediately after the honeymoon. Jeanne-Claude’s parents were displeased with the relationship because he was a refugee, even though they had plenty of other good reasons.

By 1961 Christo had become wealthy with the invention and patent of the cooking oil Crisco, allowing the two young artists to begin their first major work, covering barrels in the German port of Cologne. In 1962, without the consent of local authorities and as a statement against the Berlin Wall (?), they blocked off a small street near the river Seine with a different set of barrels, while Jeanne-Claude convinced approaching police to let the piece stand for several hours. Somehow, this made them famous in Paris, which convinced them to leave for the U.S.

Flying to New York on separate planes to ensure that both would not die in the same accident, unless of course the two planes crashed into each other, the duo began their American careers. Christo struggled with the English language (as he had struggled with French, and Bulgarian, for that matter), which led him to simplify the crediting of work done by both he and his wife. Even though Jeanne-Claude was the natural organizer, the extrovert and the one who dyed her hair bright red and smoked cigarettes, it was “Christo” who was famous artist. It wasn’t until 1994 that he retroactively gave her half-credit for the work.

Christo loved the freedom of America, and loved how many things it had to wrap. He had been “stateless” since his arrival in Austria years before, and decided to become a U.S. citizen in 1973. He studied hard to pass the citizenship exam, and had to take it several times until it finally sunk in that cotton, denim, acetate, acrylic, nylon, flannel and microfiber were neither presidents nor provisions in the Bill of Rights. One of his proudest moments would come in 2005 when New York Mayor Michael Bloomberg said it was okay with him if Christo wanted to erect his most famous project, “The Gates,” in Central Park, as long as he cleaned up after himself. It was that signature piece — 7,503 gates made of saffron-colored fabric and placed on paths throughout the park — which cemented Christo’s image in the public consciousness.

His other most notable works included “Documenta 4,” an inflated air package that hovered 280 feet over Europe for ten hours in 1968; “Running Fence,” a curtain of fabric that ran through the mountains and into the sea; “Surrounded Islands,” the wrapping of eleven islands in Florida’s Biscayne Bay in pink woven polypropylene in 1983; and the 1995 packaging of the German parliament building, the Reichstag, in fabric. He also installed thousands of umbrellas in Japan and California in a seven-year project appropriately called “The Umbrellas,” that ended colorfully (blue for Japan, yellow for the U.S.) but tragically (two people killed) in 1991.

Not all of Christo’s work was so serious as to be potentially fatal. An important part of Christmas is the fun and levity the season brings, and this is reflected in some of his most light-hearted work. After cartoonist Charles Schulz drew an episode of his comic strip “Peanuts” with Snoopy’s doghouse wrapped in fabric, Christo constructed a wrapped doghouse and presented it to the Schulz Museum in 2003. The artist is also considering ways to enrobe some other popular animated figures, including the Taunting Robot who jumps up and down in the corner of the screen during Fox TV football broadcasts, and Senator Mitch McConnell (R-Kent.).

Tragically, Christo’s life partner Jeanne-Claude died of a brain aneurysm last year, casting a pall over the current holiday season. But knowing Christo’s resilience and his central role in the seasonal theme of new life, he’ll probably take that pall and wrap it around something festive, much like he folded himself into sackcloth to create the Shroud of Turin during his early years in Europe.

So as you finalize your Christmas preparations today, don’t forget to take time to remember the reason for the season. When you wrap up that last present and put it under the tree, don’t forget that it was Christo who was born into this world to save mankind and to offer the idea that gifts temporarily concealed by gaily colored swathing was a great way to celebrate the advent of a Savior.

CHRISTO: HE’S IN THERE SOMEWHERE

And a Merry Christmas to all!

Merry Christmas to everyone!

(There’s an original start to a blog posting for today.)

That being said, I’m already starting to look forward and plan for next Christmas, and I need your help. Christmas Eve Day is usually my favorite part of Christmas, in part due to the air of expectation of what the next day will bring, but also because everything is still open for business and people are scurrying about in merry preparation.

I spent yesterday cleaning up my yard, then took a brisk walk to the grocery store, then headed up to the big regional mall to buy one last Christmas present for my son. It was simultaneously chaotic, reflective and cleansing, and may end up being my fondest memory of the holiday season (especially considering we have pouring rain forecast for the entire day today).

In the process of yesterday’s activities, I snapped a few photos with my cell phone, and it occurred to me how great it would be to capture yesterday’s mood for repackaging in next year’s Christmas cards. Personalized cards are easier to produce than ever. Usually, they show a happy family wearing their Christmas finery and gathered around their tree, or perhaps a new baby in the family, or maybe a cow. Mine is going to portray one of the following joyful scenes from yesterday.

Please review the pictures, read a little bit about the context, and send me a comment about which one you think might make the best cover for next year’s Christmas card.

I started Christmas Eve day leaf-blowing the final remnants of fall out of my yard and onto the curbside. See how nice my lawn looks and what a neat pile of leaves I’ve left in the gutter? This scene of blessed order amidst the randomness of nature could make a great representation of why this time of year is so special to so many people.

  

 

This is me, walking to the grocery store. I may not look particularly jolly on the face of it but, trust me, I’m literally bursting with good cheer. I think the light and shadow are nicely captured, as is the discount bridal barn I’m passing across the street. I don’t think anybody’s going to mistake me for Santa, but this shot does show I have the chunky old man part down pretty good.

  

 

This is the inside of the Apple store in Charlotte’s SouthPark Mall around 3 p.m. Christmas Eve. Notice the red-shirted elves helping all the customers decide how best to dispose of their life savings. (We opted for the hard-to-find “Magic Mouse” which had just arrived in the last shipment before Christmas). I was also wearing a red shirt, and would’ve enjoyed being mistaken for an Apple employee. “Yes, this model is just what you need,” I could say. “It even has a calculator and a clock!”

Revisited: ChristmasVille.com website review

The signs of Christmas are everywhere, 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 today’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

Recharging the ol’ batteries

Back in college at Florida State, I had several good friends who were studying music at the university. Though it may come as a surprise to many who tend to associate FSU more with football than any sort of artistry, the college at the time had one of the top music schools in the country, second only in some rankings to Juilliard.

Two of these guys excelled on keyboard instruments, one on piano and one on organ. So it came as no surprise for the latter of these, that a common joke was told.

“His major is organ,” his friends would tease, “and his organ is major.”

No matter how many times it was said, it was always funny.

+++

Some regular readers of these postings — I’m looking at you, Paul — have noted what they perceive to be a certain change in the quality of the blog.

Perhaps it shows itself in word choice. What I think of as a creative stretching of the rules of language may come across to some as simply awkward phrasing. So turning “mayonnaise” into the action word “mayonnaising” to describe the act of applying that eggy condiment to my sandwich is seen by some as questionable. Changing “prehensile” into the adverb “prehensiley” to tell how my cat picks up food bits with his claws is viewed as dubious.

What can I say? I love words and enjoy playing around with them. I’m still trying to figure out a way to work my two favorites — “jubilee” (a time or season of celebration) and “bolus” (a soft rounded ball, especially of chewed food) — into the same sentence. I’ve even considered staging an annual festival to honor gnawed, sodden masses of nutrition, just so I can promote the First Annual Bolus Jubilee.

Then there was the incident this past Friday, where I re-posted a biography of the artist Christo that had run only five days before.

“Wow, Davis,” wrote one commentator who claims to have roomed with me during my freshman year of college, though I recall no such living arrangement. ”You re-gifted your blog from Dec. 19th. This might be the first re-gifting in the brief history of blogging. I guess we can all count our blessings twice.”

Well, maybe I intended to republish the piece so quickly because there was such a demand. Maybe it’s like those “instant classics” they show on ESPN, when a particular athletic event is so enthralling that it demands to be watched again only several days after it originally aired. Maybe I intend to run the Christo post every day from now on. He is, after all, the preeminent fabric-draper of buildings and geographic features of our time, and would be thoroughly deserving of such recognition.

The reality, however, is that I probably need a break, or a “hiatus” as they call it in the broadcast television and hernia repair industries. Excluding the weekends, and the unfortunate incident Friday that ruined several people’s Christmas Eve, I have posted original content in this space every single weekday for almost two years. Regardless of whether or not I felt funny, whether or not I’d had a tough day at work, whether or not I’d had a root canal on the number 12 lateral incisor, I showed up every day on WordPress with a unique offering. Occasionally, it was even humorous.

Now, after an estimated 520 essays, I’m going to take this week between Christmas and New Year’s off. Starting tomorrow and continuing until January 3, I’ll be re-running classic Website Reviews and other works that first appeared in late 2009 and early 2010 in this blog. Think of it as something akin to the various TV marathons we’re seeing a lot on cable over the holidays, only (hopefully) a bit more entertaining than back-to-back-to-back-to-back-to-back episodes of Top Chef: Boiling Water.

Given the chance to recharge my batteries, I am confident that I can return in the New Year with fresh and amusing compositions, many of which will use real words. Look for other changes as well here at DavisW’s Blog, as I attempt to remain current and keep up with all the latest in online technology. For example, all new posts appearing in January will be dated in 2011, whereas I had only used 2010, 2009 and 2008 in the past. I’m also thinking of publishing a picture of myself in which I’m wearing something other than a T-shirt.

So hang in there, you 162.17 average daily readers. Enjoy the “revisitings,” as I’m calling them, for the next week. Or find something more constructive to do with your life, like getting up from your computer long enough to recall that you have loved ones living in the same house that you can say “hi” to.

I hope to see you back in January.

Revisited: Website Review of BillyGraham.com

The death last year of televangelist Oral Roberts leaves behind only one other elder statesman of Christianity, if you don’t count God. The Rev. Billy Graham has spent much of his 91 years ministering not only to his Southern Baptist base but to presidents, world leaders and millions of participants in his crusades around the globe. He even found time during the turbulent 1960s to run the Fillmore music venue in San Francisco, introducing the nation to seminal bands such as the Grateful Dead and Jefferson Airplane.

No, wait — that was Bill Graham, promoter and rock impresario.

See, I could keep these two straight if only I’d visit the Billy Graham Library, a Charlotte, N.C., site that houses memorabilia from the famous minister’s life. Built in 2007, the 40,000-square-foot “experience” allows visitors to discover the life and legacy of America’s pastor. The 20 landscaped acres include the “barn-shaped” library itself, a multimedia presentation about his dynamic journey from farm boy to international ambassador of God’s love, a prayer garden and the Graham Brothers Dairy Bar, featuring sandwiches, salads, cookies and ice cream (as it is in Heaven, no outside food allowed).

Billboards throughout the Carolinas promote the library with the tag line “No Books to Check Out … Just His Story,” lest potential visitors be scared off by the prospect of having to read something. However, the advertising is probably intended more for those who are just passing through, as those of us who live here are already well aware of the now-retired reverend’s impact on the area. Visitors to Charlotte are still alarmed to find that, in order to drive to the airport, you have to “take Billy Graham,” the parkway named in his honor, not the actual man, who is too frail to do much air travel these days. Locals take the influence for granted.

Now I’m not about to start making fun of an elderly, gentle man of God, even though he may have made some questionable political choices during his career. Despite early associations with right-wing nutcase Bob Jones and a well-known chumminess with Nixon, Reagan and assorted Bushes, Graham did oppose segregation in the South, even going so far as to bail Martin Luther King, Jr., out of jail at one point. So while I may be willing to give him a pass, I reserve no such restraint for the website promoting his library, which is the subject of today’s Website Review.

The home page includes some basic information about the library (obvious things like closed Sunday, no firearms or pets permitted, MasterCard and Visa accepted at the gift shop) and an overview of key features. There are re-creations of historic moments in Graham’s life, “amazing” films and more than 350 photographs, and an opportunity to “submerse yourself” in a special room dedicated to his late wife, Ruth. There’s also a brief video, slickly produced but a little lacking in audio quality, in particular the introduction that at first listen sounds like “experience the journey of one simple mind that impacted millions.” And there’s a description of the site’s centerpiece, the restored Graham Family Homeplace, which was rebuilt using 80 percent of the original materials and, presumably, 20 percent of stuff from Lowe’s.

The home page also includes news releases and testimonials about the power of God as exercised through Rev. Graham. There’s a statement in reaction to Oral Roberts’ death — Graham “loved him as a brother” and “looks forward to seeing him in Heaven” — and one from Billy’s son Franklin, who has taken over much of the day-to-day operations of the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association. Franklin, naturally, had spoken to Roberts’ son Richard, and judiciously avoided saying anything about how his father could now beat up Richard’s father.

The testimonials are mostly from average Christians who have visited the library recently. “I can’t think of a better place to spend my birthday other than Heaven,” notes Chrissy from Louisburg, N.C. “I lived across the street from the Smithsonian in Washington for many years and it has nothing on this library,” says Fred from Lexington, S.C. “My son is addicted to meth and was ready to commit suicide,” writes one father, a bit off-topic.

There’s also a long piece from a former atheist and alcoholic (there’s a difference?) who came to Christ after being told by her bartender she should attend the local crusade, then showing up and hyperventilating among 65,000 Christians, then fleeing to the sidewalk outside to catch her breath, then becoming “completely transformed” because the sermon could still be heard in the parking lot. Now she has a radio show and is available through the Captivating Women Speaker Bureau.

There’s a Reservations pulldown encouraging advance arrangements for parties larger than 15 people, so theoretically Jesus’ 12 disciples could just show up unannounced but will be advised to wear comfortable shoes, allow at least two hours for the visit, and need to provide their own strollers and wheelchairs. A Get Involved section solicits volunteer library workers who have prayerfully considered their ability to stand on their feet for four hours at a stretch (no mention of requiring familiarity with the Dewey Decimal system).

The Special Events area describes two recent happenings, a Teddy Bear Tea Party and something called “Bikers with Boxes,” and promotes the currently running “Christmas at the Library” festivities. The latter actually sounds like fun, with a live nativity, horse-drawn carriage rides through a beautiful lights display, strolling carolers and holiday goodies. If you can nudge the Joseph actor to break character and burst into a giggling fit, you might even qualify for a free plate of Mother Graham’s poundcake and hot apple cider, though that’s unlikely since I just made it up.

There’s an extensive Books and Gifts section with some great ideas for holiday giving, such as DVDs, festive cards and the library barn Christmas ornament. A daily prayer journal with insights from Billy Graham will help you keep track of which requests God has already granted and which are on back-order. And there’s a whole collection of resources “equipping tweens to live for Christ” called the “Dare to be a Daniel” series. I checked with my son, who is an actual Daniel,  and he hopes there’d be minimal emphasis on being eaten by a lion and more about going out to movies and Taco Bell with friends.

The pulldown about “Billy Graham, The Man,” is one I will respectfully decline to deride, other than to note that his answer to the question he hears everywhere he goes is that hope in the future is possible “through Jesus Christ,” and that he looks ridiculous in his white wedding  tuxedo.

Finally, I’ll mention a Special Announcement that will be of interest to anyone who plans to visit the library soon. It will be closed. Despite being in business for only two years since its construction, the facility will shut down for several months of extensive upgrades and improvements beginning Jan. 11 and continuing until spring. Local news reports at the time of the announcement indicated that there are significant issues with acoustics in many of the exhibits, allowing sound from adjacent rooms to bleed through the walls. So, for example, during quiet reflection in a chapel you may suddenly hear what seems to be the Lord Almighty ordering a tuna salad sandwich and a chocolate milkshake but is in fact bleed-through from bustle in the Dairy Bar.

But the website will continue to remain in service during construction, so you can virtually enjoy the glory of God as reflected in his humble servant Billy Graham from the comfort of your own personal family homeplace or barn.

The 2010 that could’ve been

“There are those who look at things the way they are, and ask why,” said Robert Kennedy not long before he was assassinated in 1968. ”I dream of things that never were, and ask why not?”

I may not have the same gift for oratory as the late senator, but I definitely catch his drift.

“I look at things that happened in 2010, and go, ‘hunh — I don’t remember that,’” I say. “Then I think of things that could’ve happened instead and ask — wouldn’t that have been cool?”

If the earth had spun just a little wobblier on its axis last year, all the notable events we’ve heard recounted in recent days could’ve transpired a bit differently. Rather than rehash recent history as others are fond of doing, I like instead to imagine an alternate history.

Jan. 1 — A suicide bombing takes place at a volleyball game in northwestern Pakistan, killing at least 95. The perpetrator is discovered to be Wilson, the discarded ball found by Tom Hanks on a desert island in the movie Cast Away. This attack, meant to heighten awareness of the mistreatment of not just volleyballs but footballs, basketballs and baseballs as well, backfires in the court of public opinion. Balls worldwide are abused more than ever.

Jan. 4 — The tallest building in the world, the Burj Kahlifa in Dubai, is officially opened. Unfortunately, the bursting of the real estate bubble only months before keeps occupancy rates unsustainably low. By year-end, the magnificent complex is converted into the Burj Dick’s Sporting Goods. Customers complain because women’s activewear is located on the 157th floor, and the elevator has been replaced with a climbing wall.

Feb. 12 — The Winter Olympics begin in Vancouver, Canada. During opening ceremonies, International Olympics Committee president Jacques Rogge apologizes to athletes and visitors alike for the complete lack of snow in and around the major venues. “Sorry,” he tells a worldwide television audience estimated at 1.5 billion. “We thought snow was automatic for Canada in the winter time. To compensate everyone for their understandable disappointment, let me announce the following: Free Slushies for all!”

Feb. 27 — An 8.8 magnitude earthquake rocks Chile, knocking the new Honey-Chipotle Baby Back Ribs and the Fire-Grilled Corn Guacamole all over the floor. Chile’s assistant manager gives food-splattered victims each a $20 gift card toward a future purchase. Most customers are satisfied until they are all killed by a tsunami of margaritas moments later.

March 19 — Sweeping healthcare reform is enacted by the Democrats and signed into law by President Obama. Republicans vow a campaign of not covering their mouths when they sneeze and not washing their hands after using the bathroom in an effort to overload the new system and bankrupt the plan.

April 7 — Kyrgyz President Kurmanbek Bakiyev flees the capital city of Bishkek amidst fierce rioting, and is replaced by foreign minister Roza Otunbayeva. “That’s not enough!” demand protesters. “Give us a leader whose name it’s easier to chant death to.”

April 14 — The Icelandic volcano Eyjafjallajokull begins a series of eruptions, scattering ash and disrupting air traffic across Europe. Only days later, on April 20, the geological imbalances this provoked deep within the Earth cause the Deepwater Horizon oil platform in the Gulf of Mexico to explode. At least, that’s BP’s explanation.

April 27 — Standard & Poor’s downgrades Greece’s sovereign credit rating to “junk” status. While they’re at it, they declare Greek food to be “garbage,” Greek architecture to be “rubbish,” and the entire Greek economy to be “debris.”

May 6 — Scientists announce they have sequenced enough of the Neanderthal genome to suggest that Neanderthals and humans may have interbred. The Geico Caveman immediately claims Newt Gingrich as his long-lost son.

May 7 — Arizona passes strict new anti-immigrant legislation. Challenged in the courts, the law is eventually interpreted to mean that only aboriginal Hopi Indians can live in the state, though on appeal members of the Arizona Cardinals NFL team are also allowed to stay.

May 20 — Scientists announce that they have created a functional synthetic genome. The public responds by telling the research community to “get back to us” when they create a magic pill that makes us fly and/or lose weight.

June 11 — The month-long FIFA World Cup is held in South Africa. Spectators are thrilled when a goal is scored at the beginning of the third week.

July 25 — The first WikiLeaks release is made, revealing over 90,000 internal reports about details of U.S. involvement in Afghanistan. Most documents point toward evidence that a wide-scale war is taking place there.

June 29 — A nest of Russian spies is uncovered in New York and Washington. Never mind the threat to national security — one of them is a hot babe!

July 30 — Plans to build a mosque near Ground Zero in New York are scuttled when protesters claim such construction would be a slap in the face to former patrons of the Burlington Coat Factory that used to reside on the site.

August 9 – The World Health Organization declares the H1N1 influenza pandemic is over. During the disease’s six-month rampage, millions suffered from the sniffles, tummy aches, scratchy throats and a slightly tired feeling.

August 10 — After a Jet Blue attendant curses out passengers and exits his plane on an evacuation chute, the Transportation Safety Administration begins new security screening procedures that forbids anyone named “Steven” or “Slater” from flying.

August 28 — At a Glenn Beck rally in Washington, Tea Partiers pat themselves on the backs for not carrying racist, hate-filled signs. Beck tells crowd he feels a spiritual calling so crowd tells Beck “go for it.”

Sept. 11 — Rev. Terry Jones of Gainesville, Fla., gains international attention when he threatens to burn a Koran. He withdraws the threat at the last minute but — known previously only to his congregation — he takes it inside and puts it inside a microwave, cooking on medium for 45 seconds, then removing the plastic cover, then microwaving another 30 seconds.

Oct. 13 — Thirty-three workers trapped for 69 days in a Chilean mine are rescued after a hole is drilled nearly a mile in the ground to rescue them. Within days, 46 curious newsmen fall into the hole while posing next to it for a picture. Massive efforts follow to permanently seal the well.

Oct. 25-26 — Indonesia is rocked by simultaneous earthquakes, tsunamis and volcanic eruptions, probably because God is mad at them for being so Muslim.

Nov. 2 — Led by a conservative backlash against the President’s policies, Republicans get a majority in the House and see big gains in the Senate. The most extreme fringes of the right wing suffer losses, however, as the ghost of Adolf Hitler narrowly loses in a recount for Alaska’s Senate seat and the recently discovered remains of Genghis Khan fail to prevail in the Delaware contest.

Nov. 13 — Burmese opposition politician Aung San Suu Kyi is released from house arrest. The joy of her supporters is short-lived when the government orders the human rights activist that now she has to live confined to her carport.

Nov. 17 — Researchers announce that they have trapped 38 atoms of antimatter for a sixth of a second. Public response is muted. “How nice for you,” comments a mom of one of the scientists.

Nov. 22 — Hundreds are killed in a stampede during Cambodia’s Khmer Water Festival. Extremely tasty funnel cakes and corn dogs are blamed for the disaster.

Nov. 23 — North Korea shells an island claimed by South Korea, killing four civilians. The United Nations declares it to be one of the most serious incidents since the end of the Korean War, but fails to substantively respond to North Korea’s taunt “yeah, so what’re you gonna do about it?”

Nov. 26 — Air travelers protest increasingly intrusive security measures by staging a flash mob dance to the tune of the Doors’ “Touch Me.” TSA officers are evenly split on joining in the dance or wrestling the mob to the ground.

Dec. 2 — NASA announces the discovery of a new arsenic-based life form in California. He is Allen Block, a gaffer on the hit TV series Desperate Housewives.

Dec. 5 — President Obama and Republican leaders reach a compromise on the Bush era tax cuts set to expire at the end of the year. Obama offers to the GOP “to do anything you want” while Republicans counter with “we’re glad you see it our way.”

Revisited: RefineInstitute.com website review

The billboard rising up in the distance along the interstate looks enticing at first. Hard to tell exactly what it’s advertising, but you can make out a great swath of bikini-clad flesh from a mile away. Your attention perks up in anticipation of some provocative treat amidst all the signs showing fast-food options and diesel prices at Truckland Truckstop ($2.93 a gallon; up a little from last week).

Soon you can see more detail on the billboard and there are actually two scantily clad torsos, the first trim and sexy and the second — whoa! — it’s got a huge sagging appendage where the abs should be. I’m repulsed, and that’s apparently the proper reaction, because it’s an ad for The Refine Institute, a Charlotte-area plastic surgery practice, trolling for patients along I-77.

The tagline reads “Changing the shape of Charlotte one person at a time,” which sounds like it’s going to take a while, if you’ve ever seen the line for biscuits at Bojangles. The “REFINE” logo is graphically intriguing too; the “R” is extra bold, the “E” a semibold, the “F” merely bold, the “I” roman, the “N” light and the “E” extra light, a progression from fat to thin type suggesting how you too could stand a little font change after all that cake you ate.

All of which makes me want to learn more about plastic surgery and leads me to the subject of today’s Website Review, RefineInstitute.com.

The home page is a simple affair, a black center square containing the company name and four shaded squares surrounding it, suggesting perhaps how the surgically improved will be the center of attention among her fading friends.

The box on the left tells about “Technical Expertise,” how the surgeons of the practice bring a “sharp” eye to their craft, using “cutting-edge” technologies, subconsciously setting you up for the scalpels that will inevitably follow. The bottom box, conversely, promotes the “High Tech/Less Invasive” nature of the work, including laser-assisted liposuction and something called “fractionated CO2 skin resurfacing,” in which I’m guessing they remove some fraction of your skin, probably using a carbonated beverage. The right box is “Core Consultation,” about holistic wellness and treating the “whole person,” not just the sagging parts.

It’s the top box that has the pulldowns going into more scintillating detail: body contouring, facial sculpting and “breast aesthetics” (hubba-hubba.)

But first, of course, we want to hear about the institute’s philosophy before we learn about the expensive fees, the pain and, ultimately, the slight enhancement of your frankly disgusting eyelids. Refine believes that cosmetic surgery is “rooted in gentle precision and polished elegance.” They offer a “unique 360° approach to restoring your image,” so much better than that earlier business model where only 180° of you was fixed, and you constantly had to triangulate and shift positions so people would only see your front.

We read about surgeon Dr. Ralph Cozart, who did much of his residency in Minnesota, where it seems the extreme cold would give any tightening efforts a nice boost. In his current practice, Dr. Cozart uses Vectra 3-D technology to take “before pictures” of your troublesome body part, then he does NOT — I repeat, NOT — put these on Flikr, then he creates a three-dimensional image of your projected outcome. It’s not mentioned whether your husband will have to wear Avatar glasses after your procedure, though you’ll probably have to go to an IMAX theatre to be fully appreciated.

This is also the area of the website that features “summer specials.” I was fully prepared to make a joke about buy-one-get-one-free, but Refine beat me to it with their SmartLipo offer for “50% of an additional area after first at regular price.” It really does say “of,” not “off.” I hope that’s just a typo and not a special to fix all of one breast and half of another.

Under the “Body Contouring” section, we learn about the various liposuction techniques. “LipoSculpture” is good for small stubborn areas of fat that resist exercise and diet. It’s laser-assisted and only requires “tumescent anesthesia,” which I hope isn’t what it sounds like. “SmartLipo” uses twenty-first century technology to remove fat and tighten skin, so much better than the eighteenth-century technique some surgeons use that involves lopping off as much as a flank. There’s also the “tummy tuck,” requiring your navel to be moved (can you put it on your forehead?) and the “minituck,” wherein your navel stays put.

Special mention is worthwhile here for the “Brazilian Butt Lift.” Developed deep in the Amazon and expected to be an exhibition sport in the 2016 Rio Olympics, the Brazilian Butt Lift takes fat from a part of your body where you don’t want it and transfers it to your bottom. The fat can be harvested “from any place” — I’d choose the Food Lion meat department — and can create a very natural look and feel. You can’t sit down for a week, not all the fat will “take” and it could require more than one visit, but an increase in gluteal volume is virtually assured.

Under “Facial Sculpting,” you can get a “blepharoplasty” to fix your eyelids, the “SmartXide DOT Laser” to resurface your skin with the help of the Department of Transportation, or the “FineLift,” using “fillers to restore lost facial volume.” There are also fat transfer options for the face. You can use that saggy neck to enhance your lips, or you could simply run into a door. Aesthetic services are mostly facials, massages and relaxing acid peels.

Obviously, it’s the “Breast Aesthetics” pulldown (ouch) that you’ve all been waiting to hear about. Augmentation uses silicone or saline implants that can be shaped, much like balloon animals, into any style you like. These are somehow “adjustable” and I’d be glad to volunteer for that. The Breast Lift doesn’t involve any insertion of foreign objects and instead focuses on tightening to create a youthful profile. The website’s use of terms like “droop,” “sagging” and “pendulous” struck me as a little insensitive but I guess it does get the point across (ha-ha). Breast Reduction services are also offered, including a special procedure for men suffering from what Dr. Cozart describes as an ”emotionally devastating” condition I’ve rarely thought about, though now that he mentions it, maybe I’m a candidate for “complete removal of the breasts.” On second thought, no.

The final section is “Patient Information” and contains some handy Q&A. You’re told to look for board certification in any doctor you choose, so as to avoid those amateurs in the mall kiosks. “Does this surgeon care about the rest of me or are they just selling a procedure?” you should ask, and if they don’t care, avoid them too. A forum writer asks if saline implants are subject to evaporation and it turns out they are, but usually not condensation or precipitation.

This is also the area that offers online consultation, in which you can chat with Dr. Cozart and send him your picture. Though he maintains a strict “no fatties” policy, the doctor will give you a free initial estimate of how much work you might need. Financing is also discussed in this part, including a gentle reminder that it’s standard to require payment up-front, and that you’d be better off turning to a firm called SurgeryLoans.com rather than waiting for Obamacare.

There’s also a list of products the practice sells that must be effective, or they wouldn’t have names like Skinceuticals and Glominerals. One of these is a skin lightener with the following explanation: “The enzyme tyrosinase converts the amino acid tyrosine into melanin. Hyperpigmentation can result. Ingredients such as arbutin, kojic acid and thymol can suppress tyrosinase.” The only part of that I understand is the “kojic acid,” which I believe Telly Savalas used in his TV cop show of the 1970s to maintain his smooth baldness, and is now available for home use to remove unwanted hair.

All kidding aside, RefineInstitute.com is a well-constructed website providing valuable information about a service for which there’s a legitimate need. It would be easy to make fun of plastic surgery and tummy tucks and boobies, and forget how many women and men are helped by these practices. I hate to be shallow or superficial and think of beauty as only skin deep.

But I did it anyway.

Kojak: “You mean I don’t have to look like this?”

Puttering (not piddling) my holiday vacation away

Last week, I had my longest vacation from work in some time. I scheduled eleven full days, from Christmas Eve until Jan. 4, with basically nothing to do except recharge my batteries.

We had chosen to hang around the house and avoid the stress of holiday travel for several reasons. One, most of my extended family lives in upstate Wisconsin, which you can visit only if you can find it under eight feet of snow. My wife’s mother lives closer, about 200 miles away in Charleston, S.C., but the Christmas Day storm that paralyzed much of the South made us consider how much cozier it was sitting by the home fires than behind an 18-wheeler spraying salt all over your car.

“I’ll just piddle around the house,” I told my wife and son. Beth pointed out that technically, “piddling” is defined as ”urinating,” and I had another think coming if that’s all I was planning to do with my vacation. So I quickly changed my plans and decided to “putter” around the house instead.

For most men my age, puttering implies a vaguely constructive activity, wherein you shuffle from room to room in your robe and slippers, stopping occasionally to repair an electrical outlet or clean out a shed. Somehow, though, I just couldn’t get motivated. Doing next to the nothing struck me as so much more appealing and, frankly, after a long and stressful year, I had earned the right to do little more than what my autonomic nervous system demanded.

Just try telling that to my Lutheran upbringing. By the day after Christmas, I was riddled with guilt about being so unproductive. Disrepair surrounded me at every turn, and yet trying to impose order on my decaying home by doing “chores” seemed so contrary to the holiday/vacation spirit. Sure, I might feel compelled to turn the tap off after getting a glass of water, or combing my hair every few days, but any more responsibility and civilization than that was too much trouble.

For several days, I followed an established routine that felt for a while like it was working. I’d sleep late, then get up for about an hour or so to eat a bowl of cereal, read the newspaper and watch SportsCenter highlights, then head back to bed. After waking from this first of many naps that would soon follow, I might run out to the store to pick up a few items, or possibly take out the garbage, or maybe even both. It wasn’t much, but it provided enough personal fulfillment that I could head back to bed again for some reading.

The book I’d chosen for this respite was Travels in Siberia, by Ian Frazier. The author spends close to 500 pages detailing the drive that he and two companions took across thousands of miles of wintry steppes. There was great satisfaction to be found in reading about the bitterly cold hardship being endured on the paper in front of me, while I snuggled deeper into my overstuffed comforter. He’s eating herring-and-black-bread sandwiches, camping along side mosquito-ravaged riverbeds, and tromping through swamps and tundra, while I’m pretty sure the toes on my left foot have somehow come out from under the blanket and are starting to feel a slight chill. We both face challenges and find ways to overcome them.

I plow ahead through the Russian-choked prose. I’m as determined to finish the travelogue before it’s due back at the library, as Frazier is determined to reach the Far East of Siberia where it butts up against the frozen Bering Straits.

“Khan Kuchum was from a noble family known as the Shaybanids, who traced their lineage back to Shaybani, a brother of Batu,” Frazier writes. “The Shaybanids often fought with the Taibugids, a non-Genghisite family also of western Siberia. Kuchum had killed the Taibugid khan, Edigei, and taken over the Siberian khanate not long before Yermak and his men arrived.”

And again, much like the doomed Tatars who are about to fall from centuries of power over half of Asia, I have fallen off to another nap.

By about the sixth day of this aimless routine, the guilt has morphed into a restlessness that is proving a little harder to choke down. I’m watching a recorded replay of the previous night’s Eagles-Vikings NFL game. I think it’s Wednesday but as the announcers keep describing the contest as a “special Tuesday night edition of Sunday Night Football,” I find myself rapidly losing touch with reality. When I’ve reached the point where I don’t even know what day it is, I’ve slipped pretty far off the grid.

Fortunately, it wasn’t long after this that my son dropped his cell phone into the toilet.

Normally, this would be cause for considerable consternation and more than a little plumbing repair, but we were able to rescue the sodden BlackBerry before it went the way of similar crap. We dried it off, and started pushing buttons to see which ones would work and which ones merely squished. I called the phone to see if it would still ring. It didn’t, but at least there was the hopeful message of “Incoming Call” displayed on the screen. On my end of the communication, all I could make out was my son’s voicemail prompt, gurgling that he was not with his phone right now but I could leave a message at a tone that sounded more like the song of the humpback whale.

Now, however, I had a mission to rouse me from my inertia. We would go to the office of our local wireless provider, we would wisely consider the sensible options priced within our budget, and then we would throw all prudence out the window and splurge on a new iPhone 4.

It may have cost me several hundred dollars, but I was stirred from my doldrums and began feeling much better. I was still doing little that was truly constructive, but I had reached such depths of dormancy that going to the Y for a session on the treadmill and playing a few rounds of online Scrabble now seemed pretty ambitious. I even called and checked in at the office, and volunteered to work a shift on New Year’s Monday, shortening my extended vacation by one day.

Maybe not the same as negotiating that endless trek from Novosibirsk through Ust-Manya and following the Baikal-Amur mainline of the Trans-Siberian Railroad all the way to Severobaikalsk. But it’s a new year and I have to save my energy for all the challenges of 2011.

Revisited: BabyNames.com website review

The year is 2050. Actress Dakota Fanning has been kidnapped by aliens. The extraterrestrials demand a ransom of Twizzlers (the cherry ones, not the licorice ones) in an amount that would cost nearly the entire GNP of the earth to produce and package.  

The Hollywood of the future springs into action the way it knows best: by staging a cheesy benefit to bring in donations to help fund the massive cost of Twizzler production. All the big names in show business are there to demonstrate their support, even though the captured actress’s most recent film work hasn’t been quite up to par.  

Mars Badu, daughter of singer Erykah Badu, is there, along with her brother from another father, Seven 3000, whose dad was Andre 3000 of OutKast. Audio Science Clayton, son of actress Shannyn Sossamon, is there. Moxie Crimefighter Jillette, daughter of magician Penn Jillette, and Speck Wildhorse Mellencamp, son of singer John Mellencamp, are a dating couple now, and have arrived together. Poet Goldberg, daughter of actress Soleil Moon Frye, and Elijah Bob Patricus Guggi Q Hewson, son of musician Bono Vox, are there, as are the daughters of singer Bob Geldof – Fifi-Trixibelle Geldof, Little Pixie Geldof and Peaches Honeyblossom Cheney (nee Geldof, and now the wife of reanimated former vice president Dick Cheney).

Even a few of the elders from previous generations make an appearance: Zowie Bowie and Diva Muffin Zappa join together in a duet written for the occasion, “It’s Not Our Fault Our Dads Were Rock Stars (Dakota Come Home).”  

Forty years ago, all the bizarre names in attendance might’ve taken focus away from the plight of Miss Fanning, now struggling so gamely to breathe in the thin atmosphere of East Pluto. But thanks to the creativity of parents everywhere, inspired by websites like babynames.com, virtually the entire world is now populated with goofily-named spawn. Today’s Website Review looks at this source of inspiration for parents and a lifetime of being bullied for their kids.  

Babynames.com is a darling site for prospective moms and dads looking to find just the right name for their bundle of Joiyieux, and not terribly concerned with the harmful effects that laptop radiation might pose for the unborn fetus. It has all kinds of helpful features to direct visitors to over 15,000 naming options, along with advice, games and shopping opportunities.  

The home page provides easy links to the top baby names of 2009, a search engine to allow you to browse for names by different categories, and a “Name of the Day.” Yesterday this was the two-star-rated “Verlee,” a combination of Vernon and Lee, and about as ugly as having two redneck dads might suggest. You can also buy an iPhone App to carry name ideas wherever you go, and can follow late-breaking names on both Facebook and Twitter. (If you sign up for these, you may want to consider not being pregnant quite so much).  

The most popular names for boys last year were Aidan/Aiden/Aden and Cayden/Caden/Kayden/Kaden, and for girls were Amelia/Emilia and Isabella/Izabella. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t saddle my child with all that slash drawing every time they had to sign their name, but I suppose it’s still better than plugging in a ∞ or a ∂ or a ‰. Other notable appellations to make the top 100 include Logan, Rhys and Xander for boys, and Isla, Esme and Aurora for girls. The once-popular John barely makes the list at the final spot.  

If you’re interested instead in a name that reflects a certain cultural background, there’s an option for you too. Most major nationalities are represented as well as some you’d think were long buried in ancient history. While there may be no Sumerian, Neanderthal or Australopithecus names, there is a nice list of Aztec names including Tlalli, Quetzalxochitl and the unfortunate Atl, who’s likely to spend a lifetime being constantly diverted to Hartsfield International Airport in Atlanta.  

If you’re not sure which of several names you’re considering are best for you and your baby, there’s a place to list your finalists and have site visitors vote on their favorites. Obviously, there’s no requirement that you go with majority rule, which is a good thing if you want to avoid Internet trends like Stephen Colbert, Megan Fox or LongerPenisCanNowBeYours.  

There’s an Info and Advice pulldown that features message boards, a celebrity baby blog (‘just barfed again,” reports Atlas Tupper, son of Anne Heche), and a name consulting service. “Tips for Writers” suggests romance authors steer clear of exotic names like Chesapeake Divine or Rod Remington, and that science fiction writers avoid unwieldy titles like Zyxnrid.  

The predictably named Jennifer hosts an “Ask Babynames.com” forum to answer specific reader questions. No, she tells Anna, you shouldn’t name your twin girls “Tara” and “Clara.” Danielle is concerned that her choice, “Akuji,” was copyrighted by a videogame of the same name, but turns out it’s not. Kimberly wants to name her son “Dresden,” but is concerned it will recall the German city firebombed into ashes during World War II; not great, Jennifer advises, yet still better than “Hiroshima” or “Pearl Harbor.” Tyler wants to know the derivation of the name “Stamatina” and is told its root is “stop” in Greek, and therefore a good name for a girl.  

In the Fun Stuff section, there’s a “Random Renamer” feature. I typed in my first and middle name and got options for the “wild” me (Juke Mason), the “stylish” me (Tempest Jareth), the “quiet” me (Jokull Seiko) and the “philosophical” me (Daytona Raul), all of which would also result in the m0rtified me. You can also guess the stage name of people who chose to change their birthname for show business. For example, R&B singer Akon was born Aliaune Damala Bouga Time Puru Nacka Lu Lu Lu Badara Akon Thiam. Audrey Hepburn was Edda Kathleen van Heemstra Hepburn-Ruston. Della Reese was Delloreese Early, Elle McPherson was Eleanor Gow and Laura Nyro was Laura Nigro.  

A list of games that can be played at baby showers starts out fun but trends toward the creepy and ultimately the ghastly. A game called “Baby Got Back” directs players to ”get five little plastic babies and put them in a cup, have guests shake up the cup and toss the babies onto a table. The player with the most babies with their ‘bottoms up’ wins.” The game “Dirty Diapers” involves putting eight different chocolate candy bars in eight different diapers, microwaving them, then having each guest guess what candy bars they were originally (no tasting allowed). “Ice-Ice-Baby” again uses miniature plastic babies, this time putting them in cups of water and freezing them. “Each guest receives one ice-baby,” the instructions read. “Whoever can make the water melt first and announces ‘my water broke’ wins a prize.”   

Of course, the obvious temptation at a site like this is to check out your own name to see how it rates, so you can know if you’re a worthwhile human being or not. I searched for “Davis” and found that it’s the 395th most popular name currently in use and is contained on the tentative name lists of 547 expectant parents. The origin of the name is English and it means, not surprisingly, “son of David.” Other notables with the name are Sammy Davis Jr. and Bette Davis, but they’re not really using it any more. Though not common, ”Davis” is rated four stars on a five-star scale for desirability. For comparison purposes, I checked the name “Adolf” (German in origin, it means “noble wolf”) and it only rated two stars, so me and my fellow Davis’s are at least twice as good as, for example, Hitler. 

Below the name facts is a place to upload photos of your own special namesake. Adolf had “no pix uploaded, yet” but there was one cute little Davis, shown below: 

This one looks like a wise guy

I enjoyed reading through this website, and can definitely recommend it to anyone in the market for baby names. Readers of all ages who don’t have a name will find a virtually endless supply of possible things they can call themselves. And if people are already referring to you by some kind of label, you can still enjoy a few fun facts and diversions. Just watch out for those diapers and those frozen plastic babies.

Revisited: Build-a-Bear.com website review

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 today’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.

Achievable resolutions for 2011

One of the disadvantages of being a blogger — aside from the incredible waste of time — is that written records exist where sometimes you’d prefer there were none. Such is the case with my resolutions from last New Year’s Day.

Others may have spouted lofty ambitions about weight loss, financial prudence or establishing a one-world government that they would rule as an iron-fisted autocrat. But if they only spoke of these goals, and then failed to achieve them, few would remember that failure a year later. Maybe the Department of Homeland Security would send you an email about U.S. laws against leading a global insurrection followed by a reign of tyranny. But, more than likely, your New Year’s Eve boast to a roomful of drunken acquaintances would go unreported, unless you’re unfortunate enough to be a Muslim.

I, on the other hand, have a post dated January 1, 2010, spelling out what I hoped to achieve in the year ahead. Looking back, I have failed miserably at just about every resolution.

I vowed to get taller as an attempt to improve my physical appearance. “No medieval racks or awkward orthopedic surgery for me, though,” I wrote. “I’m going to use those … adjustable Uncle Sam stilts” to increase my height a few inches a week until “I’m 8-foot-4 and nobody’s the wiser about how I did it.” Progress report: If anything, I’ve gotten shorter since I had those calluses sanded from the bottom of my feet.

I claimed I’d become more comfortable with my species choice, finally giving up on dreams of one day becoming a tiger. “When my parents and teachers told me my potential was unlimited, I took them literally,” I wrote. “I thought you could choose wild animal as a career option. Later I realized such a choice would offer very poor pay and benefits, as well as few opportunities for advancement (like promotion to lion).” Progress report: I’ve given up on the whole tiger dream, but would still like someday to be professionally invisible.

Another dream I said I’d abandon was to become world heavyweight boxing champion. “I look at the modern landscape of what sportswriters used to call the ‘sweet science’ and am dismayed at the fragmentation among the governing bodies of boxing.” Progress report: I thought I was doing really well at this until I bought myself a George Foreman grill for Christmas. Now, I have the itch again.

I also failed in 2010 to get hit by a car. Having never been seriously ill or injured, I’ve long yearned to be hospitalized. “To be hooked up to machines providing everything from pain medicine to automatic pee removal sounds like my kind of vacation,” I reported. “All the morphine and jello I can eat? Party!” Progress report: At least I had lunch in a hospital cafeteria one day because somebody told me the food was good, but actually it made me sick. Not sick enough, unfortunately.

Other unsuccessful goals included altering the numbers in the bloodwork from my annual physical “just for fun;” reaching the top of Mt. Everest by scooting “like a dog with anal worms;” and suppressing the internal monologue inside my head that labels everyone as “idiots, slacker-douchebags, morons or really hot.” Progress report: Failure all around, though I have signed up for a skipping expedition up the north face of K2 later this spring.

Finally, I vowed to eliminate the last vestiges of fun from my life. “Fun is for the young,” I blogged. “My priorities need to be responsibility, stewardship, sobriety, caution and cholesterol. By this time next year, I hope to report an existence that has finally captured the essence of drudgery.” Progress report: On Sept. 13 last year, I thrilled to hear an old song from the sixties that I hadn’t heard for years. So, in other words, failure again.

Looking back, it becomes apparent that I set my dreams unrealistically high. I still want to offer up some resolutions for 2011, but I’m going to scale these back into achievements I can reach by the end of this week. Then, I’ll have the rest of the year to allow my animal urges to run wild, even if I haven’t become an actual animal.

In 2011, I will:

• Write an entire paragraph in my blog that doesn’t include an adverb.
• Read the Bible more (there — took care of that one already).
• Take my shirts out of the dryer
• Lose at least a small amount of weight (cutting fingernails counts)
• Stop and smell the roses or, if that fails, stop and smell the Rosses, a new family that moved in next door
• Swallow
• Pretend to take up knitting by carrying chopsticks and a towel around with me
• Stop caring about dusty surfaces in my home, and think of fiber-based filth instead as a protective patina
• Create a secret language that only I can understand
• Erase less, white-out more.

Lastly, there is one other thing I want to try to accomplish in the year ahead. I aim to come off in my personal interactions with family, friends and coworkers as slightly deranged.

Despite recent trends toward de-institutionalizing the severely mentally ill, you still don’t encounter that many crazy people in everyday life. Most people speak coherently, act reasonably, and smile and say “thank you” when they’re done. These civilized citizens are little noticed and little respected.

What if, instead of living by the conventional script we’ve all grown a little tired of, I started dropping hints here and there that I might be a tad unhinged? I’m not talking about taking hostages or anything as troublesome as that. I will simply finish each conversation by looking over the person’s right shoulder and whispering “anhinga” (a fish-eating bird native to the wetlands of the South). I will look at a person’s mouth instead of their eyes while talking to them. I will perform deep-knee bends (with full arm extension) at work and in the aisles of grocery stores. I will grow the left half of a moustache.

None of these things alone, or even in combination, will be enough to cause others to seriously question my sanity. However, I will be setting myself apart as a unique individual worthy of attention and a kind of grudging respect. You may have literally hundreds of short conversations during the course of a typical day, and will forget virtually all of them by evening. But you won’t be able to get the image of that guy with all the weird tics out of your mind. Maybe you’ll even consider offering him cash payments just to leave you alone.

These, then, are my resolutions for the year ahead. We’ll check back in at the first of 2012 to see how I’ve done – if I’ve been confined to a group home or continue to roam freely.

Until then, “anhinga”.

Revisited: The decade in review

We never did come up with a definitive name for the first decade of the twenty-first century, though “the aughts” or the “oh-oh’s” seem appropriate. We ought to have done a better job managing our lives and our finances, we ought to have avoided a poorly conceived war in Iraq, we ought to have foreseen that a city built 12 feet below sea level would flood during a hurricane. Oh-oh, we accidentally elected George W. Bush president.

It was a mistake-filled decade, one I keep hoping some great replay official in the sky will declare as a “do-over.” What if that could happen? What if I tossed a red flag onto the field of life, the referees huddled around a monitor that displayed the passage of the years 2000 through 2009, and emerged to throw their arms in the air and wave off the last ten years?

“Upon further review, the last decade will not stand,” comes the announcement. “Let’s try that again.”

I’d like to imagine an alternate history that wasn’t as devastating as the reality turned out to be. How could that have transpired? Let’s check the timeline of what might have been.

January 1, 2000 — The Y2K bug turns out to exist after all, but its effect on computers and the Internet worldwide is that they can only be used for good. Productivity increases dramatically, education is available to everyone, and healthcare information is at our fingertips. Time-wasters like Facebook, YouTube, the blogosphere and Twitter are technically impossible to invent. Just to be on the safe side, a young computer geek from Massachusetts, would-be founder of Twitter “Biz” Stone, is accidentally electrocuted while trying to program a workaround.

Would-be Twitter founder “Biz” Stone

November 7, 2000 — Al Gore is elected forty-third president of the United States. Thousands of confused retirees in Arizona who thought they were voting for Wile E. Coyote accidentally selected Gore instead, putting him over the top in the Electoral College.

September 10, 2001 — Within a one-week period, three airline pilots are discovered to be drunk, another crew accidentally overshoots a destination by 150 miles while discussing their schedules, and a third squad falls asleep at the controls. The FAA orders the entire American fleet of passenger jets grounded for two days, demanding that airline personnel “shape up or go back to your jobs at the convenience store.” Flights resume on Sept. 12, including one that carries a frustrated contingent of Saudi travelers back to the Mideast.

September 4, 2002 — Kelly Clarkson narrowly defeats Justin Guarini for the title of first “American Idol.” However, results are overturned by the U.S. Supreme Court five weeks later, which declared in a 5-4 decision that the singing competition was “stupid” and installed Dick Cheney as the winner.

April 9, 2003 — President Al Gore, having completed his landmark negotiation of a final peace agreement between Israel and the Palestinians, thereby permanently settling the once-troubled region, travels to Baghdad for a well-deserved vacation. Long-time friends from his college fraternity days join the president for what they term a “shockingly awesome blast of massive proportions,” and paint the Iraqi capital red.

January 11, 2004 — The first legal marriage of a same-sex couple occurs in the U.S. It is totally gay.

May 1, 2004 — The largest expansion to date of the European Union takes place, extending the federation by ten member-states, including Slovakia, Slovenia, Slomotion, Sloeginia and Wal-mart.

April 2, 2005 — Pope John Paul II dies. The entire hierarchy of the Catholic Church goes into deep mourning for its loss, but then the Guy at the top remembers, “Hey, wait a minute, that’s him right over there.”

August 29, 2005 — The Katrina and the Waves Summer of Fun Tour stops in New Orleans, where concert-goers greet performance of the group’s hit “Walking on Sunshine (Tryin’ to Feel Good)” by staging a massive riot that guts the Louisiana Superdome. Survivors gather in the streets outside, spelling out “HELP US” with discarded souvenir tour t-shirts, but aren’t rescued by the National Guard until six days later.

Katrina and the Waves

October 9, 2006 — North Korea performs its first successful nuclear test, scoring an 86 and getting a “good point but remember that punct. counts” comment on the essay portion of the exam.

March 2, 2007 — Shiloh Jolie Pitt, daughter of actress Angelina Jolie and actor Brad Pitt, is introduced to the world. The world pretends to get an urgent cell phone call and has to step outside for just a minute, then sprints off across the parking lot.

May 2, 2008 — Cyclone Nargis makes landfall in Myanmar, causing massive flooding and widespread destruction. A butterfly displaced by the storm sneezes, causing a tiny atmospheric disruption that slightly raises the humidity half a world away. Presumptive Republican presidential nominee John McCain detects the change, and somehow interprets it as a sign that he should pick Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin to be his running mate.

September 14, 2008 — A collapse of Wall Street is narrowly averted when city engineers detect a faulty beam in the subway platform beneath the New York Stock Exchange and repair it just in time. Grateful investment banks thank the American taxpayers by subsidizing a nationwide “Merrill Lunch” on Sept. 30, during which anyone who buys a small order of fries from a fast-food outlet gets a free upgrade to a medium.

French fries, or perhaps President Joe Lieberman

November 4, 2008 — Following two successful terms working closely with President Gore, Vice President Joe Lieberman is elected forty-fourth president of the United States. That butterfly in Myanmar commits insecticide.

June 24, 2009 — South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford is the latest in a continuing parade of politicians who call a press conference to acknowledge loving their wife and family, and being unable to imagine life without them. Women nationwide ask their husbands why they can’t be more like that, while the men pretend to get an urgent cell phone call.

June 25, 2009 — Texas State Senator Mike Jackson (R-District 11), delivering a five-minute routine of jokes and other humorous stories to fellow legislators gathered with him at the Galveston Olive Garden, dies when nobody laughs.

Texas State Senator Mike Jackson

November 23, 2009 — Golfer Tiger Woods crashes his Buick into a Nike shoe outlet, apparently distracted by his AT&T phone and a bottle of Gatorade he had spilled in his lap. He checks his Tag Hauer watch to note the time of the accident for the police report, then calls Accenture to ask what the hell they do, so he can screw that up too. Fortunately, no endorsement deals are jeopardized.

December 30, 2009 — About 100 readers of an obscure, excessively wordy blog find something way better to do with their time.

Revisited: ChristianProphet.org website review

Normally, I wouldn’t lower myself to the level where I address a mere “dot-org” domain in my Website Review. I’m making an exception because in this particular case, I almost had to lower myself out of my crushed vehicle and into a “Jaws of Life” following a barely avoided collision with a large, colorfully decorated motor home at an intersection near my house.

The RV that nearly sent me to be with Jesus was, appropriately, owned by “bobgriffin.org” and presumably driven by that self-same Bob. Drawn to its huge decals of the burning World Trade Center towers and a Bob-penned book that purported to tell the “real story” of Sept. 11, I hurried home to go online and learn more about this RV of Death.

The website, which also operates under the name “7flames.org,” is a pretty minimalist affair, mostly spent promoting Griffin, his book called “Standing in the Shadows of 9/11: The Vision” and the hare-brained concept that Bob is a genuine Christian prophet. Anybody can predict The Rapture, but Bob takes his gift a step farther and can predict all types of future events, though apparently not the fact I was running a yellow light while he was making a right turn without first coming to a full stop.

Griffin’s story, described in the “About Bob Griffin” pulldown, is best told by the Living Bob himself.

He grew up in a rough neighborhood of Chicago and faced “many challenges” during his childhood (probably code for bullying and/or polio). “After a series of dramatic supernatural encounters, Bob surrendered his life to Jesus Christ … and discovered he had been given a keen prophetic gifting.” This allowed him to “give thousands of accurate words” during his 15-year ministry, words that apparently did not include “look,” “out,” “we’re” and “crashing” on a recent Tuesday afternoon.

Bob’s “gifting” has taken him to 25 nations where he claims to have met with presidents, prime ministers, senators and, most importantly, celebrities to spread his vision of what lies ahead for their various constituencies. Bob also consults with U.S. and international agencies on matters of national security, and “using his prophetic gifting he has located Al Qaeda terrorist cells.” My own guess is that such consultation takes place mostly in airport interrogation rooms after he’s been detained by TSA officers for fitting the profile of an unbalanced lunatic.

The biography concludes with a line that I bet is a real show-stopper on his resume: “Bob is sent with an apostic and prophetic anointing to break the yoke of bondage over individuals, regions and nation.” And he’s available for parties.

The rest of the website is not much to look at. The home page encourages viewers to join in a Thanksgiving conference being held on Nov. 25, 2009 and an assembling of the “armies of God” at a Yonkers, N.Y., church for a special New Year’s Eve service. (While Bob’s busy knocking around in the future, I guess his followers instead live in the past.) There’s an “Events” section, where “currently no events are available.”

The “Media” area is mostly links to YouTube videos of Bob and his wife Jayne and their five lovely but extremely embarrassed teenage daughters, featured in clips from his popular weekly internet television show. The video I sampled involved the Griffin family riding around New York City in their RV, talking earnestly to the camera while the wicked streets of Manhattan whiz by behind them.

Filmed the day of that brutal windstorm that took down hundreds of trees in Central Park last summer, the Griffin girls gleefully recount how Dad is interpreting the event as a preview of God’s plan to harvest enough wood to “build an ark in the park.” Other segments show the teens describing how a homeless man tried to break into the van but decided otherwise when divine intervention reared its head; how “demonic spirits” were driving the recipients of free copies of Bob’s book to toss it in the trash can; and how the youngest daughter encountered a Muslim who grilled her about her father’s ideas.

“Soon he will be a witness to scales being removed from his eyelids,” the tween-aged girl says uneasily, knowing how dead she will be when her middle-school friends get the chance to ridicule her on Facebook, while still delighting in the bright future that probably awaits her in the field of ophthamology.

But the whole reason for the website seems to be selling copies of the 9/11 book, the first chapter of which I was able to download for free. It tells, a bit cryptically, the story of how Bob got started in prophecy back in the mid-1990s. One day he was confronted by a “very large face” who told him that “landscapes are changing!” Most of us might simply think a close-talking itinerant gardener was offering to rake our yard. Bob, however, knew this was different.

“It was piercing the night just like traffic lights below were stabbing at the night with their melancholy rhythms, cars sailing through the night traversing the arteries that bring evidence of life to the darkness,” Bob writes. “And why so fast?”

(Again, I might point out the light was yellow.)

Next, Bob was pulled through time to witness the 1995 bombing of the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, then back to Sept. 10, 2001, in what he acknowledges was “a confusing moment for me.” In 2001, he sees the Statue of Liberty crying a single tear, “liquid light sliding down her face,” while twin towers standing next to her go up in flames.

It’s hard to tell if Bob was actually in Lower Manhattan on that fateful day. He talks about a “giant cloud of dust roaring toward me,” then turning to run toward a fire escape which he climbs with “supernatural strength.” A giant ball of choking grit engulfs his vision, then he hears a voice saying “I’ll be with you in a minute” (McDonald’s drive-thru?), then he’s flooded in the bright lights of a television studio and greeted by a producer who says “He is going to do for you what He did for us.”

Bob replied, “What was that?” The producer responded, “Worldwide web, worldwide radio, worldwide television. TELL-A-VISION!”

This is Bob’s cue that he needs to tell people about his visions because the “FUTURE is the place where FEW TOUR,” and now it seems this whole ministry of prophetic giving thing is descending into a play on words.

There’s one last scene from the first chapter that may give us a little more insight into Bob’s rare powers. He’s going out with the rest of the office to a staff lunch at a quaint restaurant near a lake. He’s preoccupied during the lunch with ducks and geese walking on the backs of carp, “the bubble-blowers and the water-walkers” he calls them. He asks the group “has anyone ever cried real tears in your dreams before? I have! I did last night!”

Bob writes:

“Pass the rolls,” I heard them say. I felt the stabbing pain of rejection again, along with the anger which always tries to rise up. I heard one of their thoughts. “Oh boy, here we go again with another dream.”

And you thought your co-workers were weird.

Reading over the website and the book excerpt again, I think I may have figured out the source behind the Griffin magic. The main heading across the home page reads “Let My Love Open the Door to Your Heart.” The book, again, is entitled “Standing in the Shadows of 9/11.”  Another line in the book reads “Here comes that tear again.”

I think Bob may have hit his head while the RV was making a sharp turn one evening, then fell into semi-consciousness while Z-93, playing ALL hits from the sixties and seventies ALL the time, blared from his radio. Fragments of song lyrics from the Who, the Four Tops and Jackson Browne coalesced in his concussed brain and he awoke to believe the future is past, the past is future, and that a fat carp was being lifted from the water and then was no more.

Do I remember a song by Neil Young called “The Fat Carp Was Lifted”? I think I do.

Taxes and weight loss tackled in same effort

As soon as the holidays pass, thoughts turn to the two major concerns of every New Year: weight loss and tax preparation. Now, there’s one company that can help you with both.

H&R Blob offers customers a unique combination of services that will help you shed pounds while pulling together all the various forms and statements needed to maximize your federal and state tax returns. You’ll be guaranteed compliance with most major features of the tax code and, at the same time, slim down that pudgy frame fast enough to be in compliance with this summer’s bathing-suit season.

“The common theme in both efforts has to do with deductions,” says H&R Blob President Jerry Moore in TV commercials hitting the airwaves this week. “We help you maximize the weight subtracted from your figure, and we help manipulate your financial figures to maximize the amount of taxes you avoid paying.”

H&R Blob’s business model is based on achieving a synergy between two daunting efforts. Pieces of both are cross-pollinated so that a pair of annoying headaches can instead become a single massive ischemic stroke that, when cured, leaves the customer both slimmer and wealthier. Though the process can be traumatic, many clients later report no memory of the effort itself, nor of loved ones or once-familiar pets.

Moore says H&R Blob takes pertinent numbers from your most recent health exam and plugs these into your tax form, doing away with artery-clogging W-2′s and 1099′s entirely.

“For example, we take your cholesterol numbers and use these as your tax credits. We take your triglyceride count and make this your number of dependents,” Moore said. “Your BMI (body mass index) translates as your withholding and your weight in grams becomes you adjusted gross income.”

Moore promises that the stress of pulling such a bold stunt on the Internal Revenue Service will provoke rapid weight loss as you lie awake sleepless at night, worried that you’ll be jailed for tax fraud.

“Our patented techniques will get you from a 1040 down to a weight in the low 900s in just a matter of weeks,” Moore claims. “Then, when the penalties and interest start kicking in around mid-May, your frame — and your pockets — will be further lightened. By June, you’ll be nearly skeletal. You’ll be the envy of the shore.”

Moore said the trick to getting a hefty refund is to carefully itemize all the food you’ve eaten in tax year 2010. Most officials at the IRS will be so confused to see “chocolate cake slice” and “banana cream pie” where normally home office supplies and business travel expenses are listed that you should expect at least double the amount you received in 2009. Since less than 1% of returns are subject to a formal audit, you have a 99% chance of avoiding a visit from a revenue agent coming to your home to weigh you.

“And if they do, it is our promise that we’ll stand behind you, and discreetly place a foot on the scales so it looks like you weigh more than you do,” Moore said. “Usually, they feel so sorry for your pathetic condition that the audit is dropped.”

H&R Blob also makes a special offer to the morbidly obese, arranging for them to qualify as a corporation or a partnership so that hundreds of pounds of excess flab can be disguised in the books as an off-shore venture, beyond the scope of U.S. income taxes.

“The bonus here is that you can take a tax-deductible trip to Bermuda or the Cayman Islands to set up your shell corporation,” Moore said. “Of course, the down side is that you may have to pay for as many as two or three airplane seats.”

Introducing an additional blog

Like I needed to waste more of my time, I’ve started a second blog. It’s called DavisOnTV, and sometimes it’s about stupid stuff on TV and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it’ll appear daily (usually around 5 p.m.) and sometimes it won’t appear at all. Who knows? I may eventually lose interest and give it up entirely.

Until then, I invite readers who enjoy DavisW’s Blog to check it out, especially when you’re not in the mood to wade through one of my 1200-word essays on supermarket U-Scan machines. Most posts on DavisOnTV will be much shorter and snappier, as I practice reining in my tendency toward logorrhea. Occasionally, I’ll even get a little experimental, though I’ll try not to go all Yoko Ono on you and post a single large exclamation point as my commentary on sensationalism in TV news.

What follows are a few highlights that have appeared since this blog started Jan. 1. Give a look and see what you think.

http://davisontv.wordpress.com/

Incidentally, I hope to have news of a third blog, appearing on the Charlotte Observer website, soon.

And, in case you’re wondering — no, I haven’t lost my regular job. I’ll find time to pursue these new efforts by giving up certain grooming rituals — shaving, flossing, bathing — that I’ve found in my experience to be significantly over-rated.

+++

Things that make new Speaker of the House John Boehner cry:

• being teased about his Orange-American ethnicity
• only getting a “sidehug” during handover of speaker’s gavel from Nancy Pelosi (had been hoping for the “full frontal”)
• Toy Story 3
• the “Let’s All Go to the Lobby” concession ad shown before Toy Story 3
• most petrochemicals
• cheap lobbyists
• collar too tight
• the American people
• children (they’re our future)
• ammonia
• hard work, liberty, the genocide of indigenous peoples, and other American values
• Toy Story 2
• Love Story
• onions
• Dancing With the Stars
• healthcare reform that wasn’t his idea
• smelling salts
• gluten (allergic)
• triple vodka martinis
• speaking in the House
• peanut butter (really, any nut butter)
• the natural beauty and wonder of Ohio’s 8th Congressional district
• when President Obama calls him “a big baby”

+++

Video transcript from the captain’s deck of the Enterprise:

Capt. Kirk: This evening, all of you bleeding hearts … why don’t just go ahead and hug yourself for the next 20 minutes or so, because there’s a really good chance you’re gonna be offended.

Science Officer Spock: Let’s get to my favorite topic — something foreign to the gay kid over there: chicks in the shower.

Kirk: Over the years, I’ve gotten several complaints about inappropriate materials in these videos, never to me personally but, gutlessly, through other channels.

Dr. Leonard “Bones” McCoy: Drop the F-Bomb! Drop the F-bomb!

Cut to shot of Montgomery “Scotty” Scott, who is feverishly simulating masturbation.

Scott: And when I’m done here, I’m going to eat some feces.

Cut to two women showering together, Communications Officer Lt. Uhuru and Captain’s Yeoman Janice Rand. They hold a life-size cutout of Capt. Kirk.

Kirk: Glad I could join you, ladies, at least in cardboard form.

Uhuru: We know that you’re no fag.

Kirk: Now, let’s move over to the men’s showering area.

Spock: Captain, I am not at all sure this is appropriate behavior as defined by Starfleet Command.

Kirk: You better be careful. With those ears, Spock, we may be simulating donkey sex with you.

Kirk pulls back another shower curtain, revealing Ensign Chekov and Lt. Sulu bathing together.

Kirk: Now Sulu, I kinda knew about you already. But Chekov, I’m surprised at you.

Checkov: I’ve been meaning to correct your, sir, for several years now. The name is Jackoff.

Fade to black.

+++

Cleatus, the sports robot who struts his stuff in the bottom corner of the screen during Fox NFL games, was not himself Sunday.

Instead of the usual playful antics like dancing, hopping and holding a guitar, Cleatus sat quietly on a stool during both nationally broadcast games yesterday. At one point, he appeared to be reading a book. At another, he seemed to be writing holiday “thank you” notes.

“Cleatus has been diagnosed with a Class B concussion, and has been instructed to limit his activity,” said an NFL spokesman.

The Transformer-like automaton was reportedly kicked in the head when another corner-screen promo, this one for Fox’s upcoming season of “So You Think You Can Dance,” sent an amateur dancer lurching across the bottom of the TV. Just as he executed a Rockettes-style kick, the robot ventured too close and was struck in the head.

“We think he’ll be ready for the playoffs,” said a Fox representative. “His activity may be limited to polite applause and the occasional formal bow, but he will be a part of our coverage.”

Cleatus is one game robot

+++

Ranking the most character-dense bowl games on TV this holiday season:

1. San Diego County Credit Union Poinsettia Bowl (39 letters)
2. Military Bowl Presented by Northrop Grumman (38 letters)
3. Franklin American Mortgage Music City Bowl (37 letters)
4. (tie) Bridgepoint Education Holiday Bowl (31 letters)
4. (tie) Tostitos BCS National Championship (31 letters)
6. Beef ‘O’ Brady’s St. Petersburg Bowl (30 letters)

Note: I know, I know, the inclusion of entry number six is bound to stir debate among purists. I did count the open single quote, the close single quote, the apostrophe and the period in “St.” as characters, even though they’re not letters. However, if we don’t count those at all, but instead spell out “Saint” to its full five-letter length, the name would still amount to 29 letters, outdistancing the seventh-ranked “Rose Bowl Game Presented by Vizio” (28 letters).

The NCAA really needs to get rid of this bowl system and go to a playoff, so disputes like this won’t arise in the future.

Revisited: Doing my (jury) duty

It’s said that justice deferred is justice denied. However, jury duty deferred, to paraphrase eminent American jurist Oliver Wendell Holmes, “totally rocks in a clear and present fashion.”  

Actually, I was kind of looking forward to my week-long service in the Court of General Sessions (though I’d obviously prefer the Court of the Crimson King). I had been summoned to the Moss Justice Center along with about 200 others to provide a pool of potential jurors for the first term of the new year. I was proud to be doing my service as an American citizen and, not inconsequentially, eager to avoid citation for contempt of court.  

I’ve always been something of a judgmental person, so this seemed like just the thing for me. I’d be spending four days away from the drudgery of the normal weekday, working the sensible hours of 9 a.m. till whenever we decided to convict somebody, then I’d still have half the day for napping. I’d be regally dispensing justice to all manner of York County miscreants and, in my occasional mercy, I might even decide to let a few of them live.  

I made the 11.7-mile drive — at 36 cents a mile I’d be pocketing a cool $8.42 for the round-trip alone — through frigid weather and farmland out to the western part of the county. I arrived at the sprawling government complex, looking for signs to indicate where I was to park, and ultimately deciding I was probably more of a “visitor” than someone interested in “prison parking.”  

I joined the others who were streaming into the modern facility, ready to do their part in maintaining law and order. We were supposed to be “petit” jurors, according to the green summons card we clutched in our hands, but it was obvious that holiday over-indulgence had boosted most of us to more of a plus-size range. I hoped the judge wouldn’t mind, because I could tell this was a bunch of people eager to dispense some serious justice.  

As we entered the lobby, a large man in a suit made sure we were herded in the right direction. “Jury duty,” he bellowed repeatedly. “No cell phones.” (There went my plans to phone a friend should I be stuck in particularly difficult deliberation). We lined up in the hallway for what I presumed to be a trip through the metal detector. Instead, it was simply a brief logjam to pick up official badges before entering the large waiting room. I was a little taken aback at the lack of security but soon came to see that the surprisingly welcoming juror lounge, complete with magazines, vending machines and comfortable chairs, would convince any potential terrorists to rethink their plans.  

The room was rapidly filling up, so I headed to the back and found a good spot next to the gum machine (gum is a very sober snack). Before I picked up Time magazine to learn more about the race between Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton for the Democratic nomination, I took a few minutes to check out those around me. The group seemed like a reasonable cross-section of South Carolinians, though maybe a little on the white side. The guy across from me, immersed in his Field and Stream, looked like a hunter, at least I hoped that’s why he was wearing camouflage. A friendly businesswoman chatted with a short guy. An Asian man sat right next to me, even though there’s another open seat next to no one right over there, buddy. A student was reading the first few pages of a huge Ayn Rand book, probably not a good sign for the accused.  

Finally, some official-looking folks came into the room and announced “please remove your hats.” Sounds like a judge or some other authority easily offended by headwear was about to appear. Instead, we get to meet David Hamilton, clerk of court, the personable young official who’d be telling us how soon we’d be raining down our guilty verdicts before heading back to our families.  

After a brief welcome and a description of how he got such a sweet job, Mr. Hamilton took a decidedly apologetic tone.  

“Looks like you’re getting a late Christmas present,” he said. “We got an email from the solicitor’s office late yesterday afternoon informing us that all the cases scheduled for this week’s docket have been resolved. You will all be dismissed for the week in just a few minutes.”  

The crowd remained quiet but you could tell there was a great wave of relief, followed almost immediately by the question of why the hell they couldn’t have told us this before now. “There are these devises called telephones,” I wanted to point out. “You can use them to talk to people without making them drive 11.7 miles through 25-degree temperatures. Even the guy bellowing in the hallway has heard of them.”  

Before he’d let us go, Mr. Hamilton had a few procedural issues he had to cover. We’d still be getting our $10 juror fee. Anyone needing a written excuse for work could see his assistant on the way out. Anyone whose summons had to be forwarded to a new address was warned their mileage reimbursement check could be delayed. Was there anyone who had really wanted to serve on a jury and would like to be considered for the next session? Surprisingly, about a dozen hands went up, though most were retracted when he added that they’d be paid only for the new session, not for today.  

Finally, he said he wanted to acknowledge his staff for their work in this tremendous waste of time and money. He started introducing his assistants, almost like you’d expect Bruce Springsteen to break mid-concert to recognize the talents of Little Steven on guitar and the “Big Man” Clarence Clemmons on sax. I don’t think we were supposed to applaud, and we certainly couldn’t hold our cell phones high over our heads in silent tribute to their talents. He didn’t end these introductions with a rousing “let’s here it!” so we quietly gathered up our coats and prepared to leave.  

I did regret in a fleeting way that I wouldn’t be getting an insider’s view of the American criminal justice system. I knew that would mean lots of waiting around and listening to boring judge talk and continuances and sidebars, but somewhere there’d be a nugget of justice to make me feel like I was making a difference. I’d be viewing the evidence, pondering the testimony, looking into the eyes of the accused, then deciding their fate based on the needs of the insistent juror who was really trying hard to make her 1:30 salon appointment.  

And the gum — don’t forget the gum.  

As I exited the parking lot and drove home, I passed a herd of cows and pronounced them guilty as charged, just to see how it felt. It was rewarding yet humbling to be sitting in judgment of others, even if they were only livestock.  

Now it’s back to real life, where I have to endure constant affronts with a smile and a shrug. No jury of her peers is going to deal with that woman in front of me at Starbucks who wants to use a check to pay for her coffee. No judge is going to take my recommendation that the driver who failed to signal his right turn is deserving of not less than five years detention at a state correctional facility.  

My only real reward comes to $18.42, which I’ll be receiving via mail in about three weeks.  

How they make sure each juror gets a fair amount of gum.

Live-Blogging the BBVA Compass Bowl

While most people look forward to tonight’s BCS championship contest, it’s easy to overlook some of the other post-season college bowls that have played out in recent weeks. For those who quickly grow weary of football played at the highest level, these lesser games offered something else: mediocre teams playing in contrived contests featuring players and coaches of questionable integrity.

One such match-up was staged this past weekend in Mobile, Ala. The storied BBVA Compass Bowl Game, with a long and distinguished history going back to last summer when it was first thought up, showcased the marginally successful Pitt Panthers (7 wins, 5 losses) versus the thoroughly average Kentucky Wildcats (6 wins, 6 losses).

Beyond the long-simmering rivalry between Pennsylvania and Kentucky over who has the best coal, there was another story line. Which side has the most suspected criminals? Fans of the blue-and-gold from Pitt would point to their recently fired coach, Mike Haywood, arrested on New Year’s Eve on domestic violence charges. Followers of the UK program could claim their team is equally sordid, arguing that the Dec. 10 arrest of starting quarterback Mike Hartline on charges of disorderly conduct and public intoxication was every bit as seedy as Haywood’s alleged sins.

Eager to see how both squads would respond to such challenges (and since I couldn’t work in the yard because it was raining), I tuned in to the ESPN broadcast at noon Saturday. Not only that, I live-blogged the back-and-forth action that continued right up to the final gun, when it was determined that Kentucky sucked 2.7 times more than Pitt.

For those of you who had something better to do on Saturday and missed it, I’m compiling the highlights here in today’s post. I hope you are able to pick up some sense of the pageantry and excitement that was the BBVA Compass Bowl Game.

First Quarter

15:00 — Kentucky kicks off to Pitt.

14:46 — Pitt cheerleaders begin the game-long chant “Let’s go Pitt!” Where it is they want the team to “go” is not specified. Players assume they’re being encouraged to continue hurtling through the cosmos on this fragile blue orb we call Earth.

14:30 — Pitt gains one yard on an off-tackle run.

12:20 — The growl of a big cat resounds from the public address system throughout the stadium. Whether it’s designed to strike fear into the Pitt Panthers or the Kentucky Wildcats is unclear, but neither team is noticeably frightened.

10:03 — Kentucky coach is named Joker Phillips. This will provide at least a small measure of amusement each time it is mentioned during the game.

9:17 – First three possessions result in turnovers. Sloppy play by both offenses continues throughout the first half and is characterized as a “defensive struggle” by game announcers, though it’s much more likely that both teams simply stink.

6:52 – Fan holds up sign for TV camera reading “SEC Stomps Pitt & OregoN“. ESPN appreciates the shout-out and broadcasts it nationally.

3:46 – At the end of a 6-yard draw play for Pitt, a player is apparently decapitated. Upon further review, it is determined that his helmet simply came off.

1:12 – Former Pitt coach is called a “real Pitt man” and, moments later, a “true Pittsburgher.” There must be a subtle difference, since sportscasters are known to never repeat themselves.

College-age men wearing football costumes frolic about the field, occasionally falling down.

Second Quarter

15:00 – It will only take me 15 minutes to find out if I can save 15% or more on my car insurance.

13:34 – I go to the bathroom for no more than six or seven minutes (think I got a bad omelet for breakfast) and when I return, the score has changed from 3-0 into a 3-3 tie. Fortunately, I’m recording the action on my DVR and can back up to see what I missed. (A guy kicked a football through the goalposts).

5:57 — A Kentucky receiver goes offsides, a penalty flag is thrown and the play is blown dead. On-rushing Pitt defensive lineman tackles Kentucky quarterback anyway, just for fun. A fight ensues as additional penalty flags fill the air. This is about the most action we’ll see in the first half.

2:22 – I’m told I can watch Sunday night’s Kraft Fight Hunger Bowl (Nevada vs. Boston College) on my smartphone. The promo displays some of Kraft’s most iconic brands, including Oreos, Miracle Whip, Ritz crackers, Maxwell House coffee, Kraft mayonnaise, and Kool-Aid. If those are the foods they plan to fight hunger with, I’m not sure the effort will succeed. But it’s a nice thought.

Halftime score: Pitt 13, Kentucky 3.

Halftime highlights:

ESPN’s “Sports Science” segment looks at the physics that make Auburn quarterback Cam Newton such a great player. The fact that he’s 6-foot-6, weighs 250 pounds and can run explains at least part of his success.

Remainder of halftime report is taken up with talk about the BCS Championship game scheduled for Monday night. Little mention is made of the current game, despite the fact that both schools have marching bands striding up and down the field. Might’ve appreciated at least a brief analysis of why that football kicked through the goalposts at xxx resulted in three points.

Brief interview with Kentucky coach Joker Phillips (“hee-hee”) reveals his second-half strategy. “There’s no question that we need to take the fight to Pitt,” he observes.

Third quarter

14:16 – Fan holds up sign for TV camera reading “KEntucky WinS Over Pitt — It’s iN the Cards”. Again, ESPN is appreciative.

13:02 – College-age men wearing football costumes continue their play, occasionally falling down as they do.

8:55 – I can’t find the remote! It was lying across my prone torso only moments before, and now it’s gone. I wanted to check the score of the Austin Peay vs. Murray State basketball game, now playing on ESPNU.

8:35 – Oh, there it is. It slipped down behind the couch cushion.

3:56 – Officials call for a booth review of a disputed play on the field. The head referee thinks that one cheerleader for Kentucky isn’t wearing any underwear, while the linesman thinks she is. After five minutes of examining the videotape replay, they rule that she was wearing underwear but that it was flesh-colored.

Fourth Quarter

13:58 – Fan holds up sign for TV camera reading “I’m wEaring a rainbow wig and have my cheSt and face Painted with bright, toxic colors. Will this be eNough for someone to notice me?” This time, ESPN recognizes the plea as a desperate cry for help and contacts the proper authorities.

8:22 – Trailing 27-10, Kentucky tries a field goal that will get them within 14 points. It’s, like, a million miles wide right.

6:57 – A blocked punt that set up a second-quarter Pitt touchdown is named the “H&R Block Never Settle Play of the Game”.

3:39 – A crawl across the bottom of the screen announces that the trophy ceremony following the game will be shown on ESPN3, rather than on plain ESPN. I don’t get ESPN3. I do get it as part of my cable package, but I don’t get why it exists.

1:07 — With the game’s outcome determined, Pitt’s acting head coach is doused by his players in a shower of ice water. The water is filling in for Gatorade, which is serving an academic suspension.

Final score: Pitt 27, Kentucky 10.

Revisited: South endures rare snowstorm

A rare snowstorm is marching across the South, 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 stayed 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 walk 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.”

Fake News: Constitution reading not easy

WASHINGTON, D.C. — Overlooked during the political theater in last week’s reading of the U.S. Constitution in the House of Representatives was another story: a story of courage and compassion and, ultimately, redemption.

Newly elected Republican Congressman Mick Mulroony was a Tea Party favorite during last fall’s election campaign. He ran on a platform of stridently conservative views that aimed to take America back to its roots. He opposed the rule of the intellectual elite. He wanted creationism taught alongside evolution in the public schools. He didn’t want the federal Department of Education deciding what two plus two equals — he wanted the poorly educated but good-hearted parents of his South Carolina district to decide what their children would learn.

He yearned for a simpler time, when simpletons ruled the land. He wanted a return to a strict interpretation of the Constitution though — okay, if you insist — blacks and women and those who weren’t property owners could maybe have a couple of rights too.

So when it was his turn to read the hallowed words of our nation’s founding document aloud, he was filled with a mixture of eagerness and trepidation. Eagerness, because this was his chance to stand tall for those fundamentals he and fellow conservatives held so dear. Trepidation, because he was a product of South Carolina schools, and barely knew how to read.

“The Cong–, uh, Congress,” he began in halting tones, ”when–, when–, whenever … two things … two thicks … two thirds of both Hou–, Houses shill … shall deem it nec–, nec–, uh, necessary?”

The usual bustle of the House floor ground to a halt. Fellow Congressmen of both parties became quiet, turning from their BlackBerrys and their papers to watch their new colleague gamely struggle with words that were somehow, at the same time, both meaningful and meaningless to him.

“…shall purpose, shall porpoise, shall … PROPOSE!” he continued. “Shall propose amend–, uh, amendments to this con–, this constipation, no, this consti–, constitution …”

House members, clerks, congressional aides, spectators in the gallery, everyone strained forward, hoping they could collectively will Rep. Mulroony to the fifth-grade reading level. Though some didn’t agree with his politics, all of them could sympathize with the shame and embarrassment that is illiteracy.

“On the apple, appli–, application of the leg–, the leg–, the legis– …”

Finally, one representative could stand it no longer. Massachusetts Democrat Barney Frank, one of the most liberal members of the House, strode quickly to Mulroony’s side, joining the right-wing whack-job at the podium. He whispered briefly in his ear — some who sat close by said they thought they heard “let me help you” — and the two men began reading together.

“… amendments to this constitution, or, on the application of the legislatures of two thirds of the several states,” they read as one, Mulroony gradually gaining confidence, Frank obviously taken with the boyish former real estate developer.

As their voices became even stronger, others in the chamber joined in the recitation.

“…. shall call a convention for proposing amendments which, in either case, shall be valid to all intents and purposes, as part of this constitution,” they recited, “when ratified by the legislatures of three fourths of the several states.”

By the time they had finished the clause, there was hardly a dry eye in the House.

“There should be no shame in illiteracy,” commented Rep. Michelle Bachmann (R-Minn.) after the emotional scene had played itself out. “Reading is both fun and fundamental. We need to step up our efforts in the field of adult education so that every American can possess this most basic of skills.”

“I commend Rep. Mulroony for his brave attempt,” said Minority Whip Rep. Jim Clyburn (D-S.C.). “Though a dimwit, he stood tall for his convictions.”

After the session had ended, Mulroony told reporters he appreciated the help of his fellow legislators, saying he would “dust off that old ‘Dick and Jane’ book and make my family proud.”

Mulroony then announced he would sponsor yet another symbolic gesture by the House, as soon as his reading skills improved.

“I think we should read aloud the names of each and every American citizen, right here in Congress,” he said. “They are the people that put us here, and we are responsible to them. I know we might not get much other business done on the floor, considering there are probably thousands of these names. But I think it’s the right thing to do.”

Mulroony said he “called dibs” when congressmen got to “all the Dick Janes.”

New break policy is spelled out

MEMO TO THE DEPARTMENT
SUBJECT: BREAKS

It has come to management’s attention that employees are not following the guidelines regarding meals and other breaks. Moving forward, we ask that you comply with the policy. Key provisions are as follows:
–You must clock in and out for every break.
–You do not need to clock out if you step away momentarily (to use a phone, bathroom or vending machine) and expect to return in 2-3 minutes, but you do need to notify your supervisor that you will be away briefly.
–Breaks will be taken at designated times during your shift, not whenever individual employees care to take them.
–Snacks at workstations are acceptable but meals are not. Please eat your meals in the breakroom.
–Remember that you are sharing a desk with employees working on other shifts. Please be considerate.
–As with any overtime, working through lunch must be approved by your supervisor.
–Employees may not combine smaller breaks into one large one.

Management has collected some Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs) about the policy, and answers these below:

The person I share my desk with gets out of the chair only as I arrive for my shift. Residual body heat left in the chair by this person disgusts me. Do I have to sit in their body heat, or can I log onto my computer while standing?

You may remember from your high school physics class that heat, or any kind of energy, is not inherently “clean” or “dirty”. We ask you to tolerate all co-workers’ body heat. Imagine that we’ve invested in office chairs that feature a heating pad if that helps. We do not advise that you log in while standing, as this is ergonomically incorrect. Anyone seen logging in while standing will have to re-take basic safety training.

So for bathroom breaks, basically we need to clock out for number two but not for number one?

Yes, defecation must be during an official break while urination can be on the clock.

On the clock? That seems really messy and unsanitary. Won’t the liquid mess up the electronics?

You know what we mean. Don’t be juvenile.

What if we think it’s only going to be number one but discover that number two becomes necessary while we’re gone?

You can send a text message to your supervisor with this update, if it occurs.

Can you suggest some acronym abbreviations for this message, so we won’t be embarrassed if our spouse gets ahold of our cell phone?

Yes. We suggest “HTP CMO” can stand for “had to poop, clock me out”.

If we’re taking 2-3 minutes to use a vending machine, do we have to tell our supervisor what we’re going to buy?

No. What you eat is covered by HIPAA privacy rules.

But elimination of waste is not?

HIPAA only prevents employers from asking about the physical characteristics of the waste (runny, foot-long, corn-flecked, etc.). Whether or not you have to go at all is an employer’s right to know.

What about smoke breaks?

These must be taken either during your two 15-minute breaks or your 30-minute lunch.

So we only get three, maybe four cigarettes a day?

You can smoke as many cigarettes as you can fit into your mouth at one time.

You say we can eat snacks at our desk but not meals. How do we tell the difference?

Anything on a stick (corn dog, lollipop, shish kabob) is considered a snack. Everything else is a meal and must be eaten in the break room.

How about a drink?

Fraternizing between supervisors and employees in an establishment that serves alcohol is forbidden.

No, I wasn’t asking you out for a drink. I was asking if we can have soft drinks and coffee at our desks.

Drinks at your work station are acceptable, as long as they are not spilled. First time one gets spilled, this privilege will be revoked.

What if we get thirsty? We’re not camels, you know.

Both “beer hats” and intravenous fluid infusion would still be allowed in this circumstance, though you couldn’t put actual beer in the hat. Or in the IV, for that matter.

My first break is scheduled for 90 minutes after I arrive. What if I’m not tired yet?

Regularly scheduled breaks are important for the safety and well-being of employees. Just stare at the wall in the breakroom if you can think of nothing better to do.

Some people seem to be using their cell phones all the time. Are you going to do anything about that?

Cell phone use at your work station is strictly prohibited. Emergency calls should be taken just outside the work area.

Julie gets calls from her daughter asking what time it is.

Don’t be a snitch. Nobody likes a tattle-tale.

You say we can’t combine smaller breaks into one large one. Does that mean we can’t eat our lunch in the toilet?

Is that what I’ve been smelling in the restroom? No, you can’t eat in the toilet.

Why not?

Because it’s disgusting. That’s why.

What if I’m not hungry at my pre-designated lunch half-hour?

Food is important for the safety and well-being of employees. You’ll eat when we tell you to.

So if we work through lunch by accident because we’re so busy, we won’t get paid overtime for that?

Not only will you not get overtime pay, but you will be cited on your next review for not following department procedures.

Because we’re trying to be creative in the way we satisfy customer demands?

Creativity is only allowed in the workplace when it is done in accordance with Standard Practice #4.36, as outlined on checklist EA-37.

Can we still leave the building for lunch breaks?

If you can be back in 30 minutes.

The only place that close is the awful diner next door.

Have you tried their “Mama’s Meat Loaf”? It’s really not bad, if you put some ketchup on it.

The person I share my desk with eats peanuts and I have a nut allergy. What should I do?

Die.

Who is responsible for cleaning crumbs out of the keyboard?

If you and your deskmates cannot agree on sharing that responsibility, we’ll leave it to the roaches and ants.

My deskmate uses a footstool to keep her legs and back comfortable, but I’m taller and don’t need one. What should I do?

All employees are required to be the same size. You should inform Human Resources of any issues related to this.

Remember, we outsourced the human resources department about a year ago and there’s only one guy left. And he refers all our questions to an internal website.

You should’ve thought of that before you planned to be a different height than your coworkers.

These rules are ridiculous and petty. What do you think we are, a bunch of children?

Yes.

Fake News: Superheroes aid in Southern clean-up

This week’s Southern snowstorm allowed us all to make our typical comments about the area’s chronic lack of preparedness for winter weather.

“I know I’ll be careful, I’m just worried about the other drivers.”

“Those snow boots and ice scraper are around here somewhere.”

“I wonder if it’d be safe to use this sharp-edged piece of tin as a makeshift sled.”

“Two inches? Let’s cancel school for the rest of the year.”

City officials may not be as confident as Northern mayors, who jet off to a Bermuda vacation, convinced their snow-removal procedures will work just fine even if they don’t personally man one of the salt trucks. But Southern cities are starting to use some creativity in how they approach the post-storm cleanup.

Mayors from Atlanta, Charlotte and Raleigh banded together in a common solution yesterday, turning to recently discovered real-life superheroes for help in the effort to clear their cities’ streets.

Reports earlier this month that a small group of everyday citizens in suburban Seattle have taken to wearing spandex suits and fighting crime caught the attention of Charlotte Mayor Anthony Foxx.

“There’s, like, ten of these guys. I heard about them on CNN,” Foxx told local reporters. “By day, they’re former military guys or mixed martial arts fighters. By night, they’re costumed crusaders, roaming the city and watching for car break-ins.”

Foxx referred to reports that a would-be Justice League, including characters like the Green Reaper, Captain Ozone, Thunder 88 and Phoenix Jones, were patrolling the streets of Lynnwood, Wash. Jones, for example, constructed a bullet-proof suit and a utility belt that includes a Taser and tear gas to enhance his efforts. Driven around by his girlfriend in her Kia, Jones had been working the beat for about nine months when he got the call from Foxx.

“He asked if I had ‘super hot breath’ or any other powers that might help melt the ice,” Jones said. “Not even Superman had that. What would be the point?”

Jones said he had talked with Mayor Foxx about his limitations, but the mayor insisted, even offering to pay the airfare to bring Jones and other members of the so-called Rain City Superhero Movement (RCSM) south.

“He first tried to contact us by shining a spotlight in the sky, but of course none of us could see that from 3,000 miles away,” Jones said. “Finally, he just called my cell.”

Foxx organized the effort that brought Jones and “Knight Owl” to Charlotte, “Thorn” and “Buster Doe” to Atlanta, and “Gemini” and “Penelope” to Raleigh.

“I figured, between the six of them, that at least one would have heat vision or super strength, or at least a sidekick that knew how to drive a plow,” Foxx said. “Turns out their powers are limited to stuff like kick-boxing and close-quarters combat. Still, they were definitely able to help us.”

Raleigh Mayor Charles Meeker was using Gemini and Penelope to help get cars started for city workers while Atlanta’s Kasim Reed put Thorn and Doe on a crew clearing restaurant parking lots.

“I wasn’t sure how much we’d be able to help but, hey, a free trip is a free trip,” Doe said during a break at the Buckhead Waffle House he was working. “I just wish I brought my backup costume because it doesn’t have a cape. That damn thing keeps getting tangled up in the wind.”

Doe said he hoped city officials would let the heroes stay a few days after their work here was completed.

“The Hampton Inn where I’m staying has a nice pool,” Doe said. “I’d love to do a little chillaxing there after we’re done.”

Charlotte Mayor Foxx thanked the RCSM for their average-human efforts, and noted that their can-do spirit was infectious.

“I’m heading out right now to clear some sidewalks outside the homeless shelter,” Foxx said. “I’m hoping I can make my lawnmower act like a snow-blower. That should work, right?”

Phoenix Jones: Perhaps not super, but willing to help however he can

More highlights from my new mini-blog

More highlights from my new mini-blog, http://davisontv.wordpress.com

+++

I’m all in favor of letting people die with the verb of their choosing.

If you want your obituary to say you “passed away,” that’s fine. If you prefer to have “gone to meet Jesus,” I still get the point. I’m even okay with you being “ingested by a chipper” if you and your family wish to be that specific.

But you need to make it clear that you have died, and I shouldn’t expect to run into you at the grocery store.

A recent obituary in our local paper claimed that Gus Johnson had “gone home.” To me, that’s a little vague. Has Gus taken a drive to New Jersey? Had he been playing in the park till his mom called him in for dinner? Had he scored a run from third base?

To say he had “gone home” implies a little more warmth and coziness than I’m guessing actually occurred.

When the time comes for me, as it must eventually come for us all, I plan to either “kick the bucket,” “buy the farm” or “head out to that big roundup in the sky.” I don’t plan on “going home” unless it’s to frighten ungrateful survivors as one of the living dead.

+++

Struggling to compete in the new low-cost niche of the fast-food market, Wendy’s began a series of nationwide ads yesterday promoting their new “9 cent menu”.

“We recognize that our customers are watching every penny they spend, and we’ve responded to that,” said Wendy’s vice-president Aaron Rubin. “Now, you can get a hearty meal at Wendy’s and not empty your wallet.”

Included on the new menu, called the “Niner Diner,” are the following, all available for only nine cents each:

• Three french fries
• Half a bun
• Pickles discarded into the trash by previous customers
• Ketchup packet
• A napkin
• Yesterday’s newspaper (mayonnaise stained)
• The cherry from the top of our ice cream parfait
• A visit to our restroom
• The words “we look forward to serving you at the next window”
• Grease from the burger grill
• An unidentified pill
• Some hair

+++

TRUE STORY:

Two newly elected Congressional Republicans missed the official swearing-in ceremonies last week while attending a party with supporters.

But they watched it on TV and, when the time came to take the formal oath, they recited the oath to the television, thinking that would suffice.

Unfortunately, the Constitution barely mentions TV, and instead requires members to be sworn in “within proximity of the Speaker.” So they met later in the week with new House leader John Boehner to clean up the procedural mess they had created.

A series of early votes cast by Rep. Pete Sessions of Texas and Rep. Mike Fitzpatrick of Pennsylvania had to be scratched from the record. However, their support for convening a committee to consider repeal of the new health care law, which they consider unconstitutional, will stand.

The misunderstanding occurred only one day after the new Republican majority in the House conducted a first-ever reading of the Constitution in the chamber. Republicans who swept to victory in November elections had made a strict interpretation of this nation’s founding document a basis for their campaigns.

+++

A man who lost his voice yet still resides in a beautiful home caught the nation’s imagination yesterday when a video of his story went viral on YouTube.

Only days after a similar case, in which a homeless man demonstrated his smooth broadcast voice to passing motorists, Ed Williams told of how he awoke Thursday morning in his suburban mansion with a bad case of laryngitis and had been unable to speak above a croak ever since.

“Help me please,” read a hand-lettered sign Williams held as he stood near a busy Cleveland intersection. “My throat is really sore and I’m almost out of cough drops. God bless you.”

Williams, no relation to Ted Williams, the so-called “Homeless Man With the Golden Voice,” recounted to reporters how he spent years using his voice to make casual conversation, speak with loved ones, and achieve a successful career in real estate. It’s through that career that he was able to afford a 4,000-square-foot Tudor home with four bathrooms and a three-car garage.

“Now, after all that talking, I can barely communicate above a squeak,” Ed Williams pantomimed at an impromptu press conference. “I lost it all. Well, not the house and the cars and the cash and the great job, but I can hardly talk thanks to this awful cold.”

When news of the story spread, donations of lozenges, gum and cough syrup began pouring in from around the country. By Friday afternoon, Williams said he was feeling better.

“My heart is warmed by this show of support,” Williams whispered with a still-fragile voice. “I think I’ll go home now and lie down for a while.”

Revisited: The life of 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 changed 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 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 wallboard installer.

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 to 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 apocryphal, 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.

Revisited: Humiliation at the Chick-fil-A

The taste of humiliation I have in my mouth doesn’t blend well with the chicken-y goodness of the golden-fried white-meat strips I’ve just eaten. I think I prefer honey mustard sauce to shame as a condiment.    

Recently I tried to pull a fast one on the fast-food industry, and had a decidedly “combo” experience. I got a free dinner but paid for it with embarrassment and disgrace that will cost me for a long time.    

Tuesdays, as cheapskates everywhere know, are better known as “Topper Tuesdays” at most Chick-fil-A outlets. Patrons at the drive-thru window may be treated to a pack of complementary chicken pieces with the purchase of a regular meal. So if, as my son and I did, you buy the tenders combo, it comes with three additional nuggets of chicken. (I think you can also get the meat formed into tetrahedrons or spheroids as well, and even droplets, if you can stomach what that suggests).    

All you have to do to qualify is have a promotional cow-headed antenna topper on your car. I didn’t have an antenna on the car I was driving at the time, so it didn’t make sense to have a topper either. I use an iPod rather than a car radio to get most of my musical entertainment while driving, and I can’t imagine affixing the cow to my earbuds — they’re uncomfortable enough as it is already.    

I didn’t think that someone making minimum wage working the headsets at Chick-fil-A would be conscientious (let alone conscious) enough, to enforce the topper requirement, so I figured I’d try to fake my way to a gratis appetizer. I didn’t exactly lie as we drove up to the order box; I figured a little creative deception would do the job.    

“What’s the deal on the ‘Topper Tuesday’ again?” I asked.    

“Dad! No!” objected my son, but I was intent on teaching him a lesson, in frugality if not honesty. He slumped deep into the seat as I continued our order.    

The voice explained the rules of the promotion. I placed an order for the number 6 combo, then added “and we’ll do that topper thing.”    

We pulled forward into a line of four or five cars waiting to pay and receive their food. It was only then that I noticed a security camera pointing mostly at the back door, where people come to rob the place, but also in our general direction. Uh-oh, I thought, we’re going to get caught, as soon as we spend the next ten minutes waiting our turn. Now I was learning the anxiety-filled anticipation Mr. Abdulmutallab must’ve felt flying over the Canadian Maritime Provinces on Christmas Day, except I had to stay in my seat and he got to use the bathroom.    

When we finally made it to the window, we were greeted by friendly young Amanda. She leaned out of her glass turret and examined the top of my car. Not even one of those stubby antennae, much less the livestock she was looking for.    

“Where’s your topper?” she asked.    

“Oh. Uh…it’s not up there?” I asked, craning my neck as if I could actually see the roof from the driver’s seat.    

She peered into my car, but said nothing.    

“Shoot,” I finally said. “It must’ve fallen off. Or maybe it’s on my other car. I think maybe I have the wrapper here in my glove my compartment — can I show you that?”    

“You know it came with an adapter, so it should snuggly fit any style antenna,” she said.    

How can they possibly afford to incent employees like this with all the giveaways they offer? The three-dollar holiday calendar alone has coupons good for at least triple that amount, including September’s offer of a free poultry farm. Only chumps pay for food at Chick-fil-A.    

“Well, I guess you can take the free part back,” I offered lamely. By now, my son was so deep into his seat I was afraid he’d pop through the undercarriage.    

“We’ll let you go this time,” she smiled at last, as she handed over the large white bag.    

“Thanks,” I mumbled, and drove quickly away.    

“You know, we can never go to any Chick-fil-A ever again, don’t you?” my son said.    

He was right. I might be able to swallow my free chicken shapes with enough vigorous chewing, but I’d never be able to swallow my pride enough to return, except perhaps in a full-body disguise.    

+++    

“Important Consumer Information” from the wrapper of the topper package:    

1) If Antenna Topper impairs your visibility while driving, remove Antenna Topper.    

2) If antenna behaves erratically with Antenna Topper attached, remove Antenna Topper.    

3) Works well with most retractable antennas    

Warning: Choking hazard.    

Antenna topper of shame

Zodiac changes provoke new ideas

Here’s a fun way to impress your friends and deeply trouble your acquaintances.

Next time you hear a news report on TV or radio that the world’s oldest person has died, make the following statement: “I bet they were 113 years old.”

Inevitably, you will be right. For some reason, the world’s oldest person is always dying at age 113. Maybe that’s truly the extreme that human life can endure. Maybe it’s because “13″ is an unlucky number. Maybe they become careless when they finally achieve the “world’s-oldest” status, and neglect to use a helmet while riding their motorcycles.

In any case, it’s very rare that anyone celebrates their 114th birthday.

+++

The world of astrology was rocked last week with news that the zodiac has shifted. A Minnesota astronomer has determined that wobbling of the Earth’s orbit meant that it was no longer aligned to the stars in the same way as when the zodiac was first conceived about 5,000 years ago. That means that when astrologers say the sun is in Pisces, for example, it’s really in Aquarius.

Stupid me. I thought the sun was in the sky.

In addition to shifting almost everybody up by one class, a new thirteenth constellation is joining the standard 12. Ophiuchus, the “serpent bearer,” was a mythical healer who killed a snake, then watched as another snake showed up with an herb in its mouth that revived the dead snake. Not much of a myth, if you ask me, especially compared to grand fables of dragon-slaying and water-bearing.

Still, we now need to be prepared to encounter someone at a party or bar who claims “I’m an ‘Ophiuchus,’” and not immediately presume they’re a citizen of some obscure former Soviet republic.

Many believers in astrology were not pleased with the news.

“I think it’s a scam,” said Jose Arce of New Jersey, speaking of the change, not the idea that our persona is determined by balls of fiery gas located millions of light years from Earth. “I’ve known myself to be a Pisces since I was born. So to come up now with some new sign? It’s unacceptable!”

“I’d just like to know what I’m supposed to be like now,” said Mary-Iris Taylor of St. Louis. “As a Sagittarius, I was supposed to be the life of the party.”

Taylor was one of the unfortunates born between Nov. 29 and Dec. 17, and would now become an Ophiuchus. She’s going to have abandon a personality she’s felt comfortable with for years, and wait quietly in a dark corner until astrologers figures out what her new traits will be.

News that the announcement was made by an astronomer stoked a long-simmering resentment in the astrology community toward those who use scientific methods to study the universe rather than mystical charts devised by the ancient Babylonians.

“This is an attempt to show ignorance on the part of astrologers,” said one California star-follower. Another one doubted the astrology community would “accept what an astronomer is trying to put on them.”

Whether you want your view of the cosmos informed by scientists using telescopes or by earth-mothers using dreamcatchers, it does make us feel like part of a larger community to think we share traits with others born at the same time we were. I’ve made it a birthday tradition each year to check the “born on this day” feature in the newspaper every Nov. 6 to see which celebrities share not just my zodiac sign but my actual birthday. Then I ponder which of them I could beat up, and use the assessment as a gauge to determine whether I’m getting too old.

Last November, I felt pretty spry after this exercise, despite celebrating my 57th birthday. Among the well-known listed on that day were actress Sally Field (could take her), California first lady Maria Shriver (could take her), and screenwriter Mike Nichols (could whip his 79-year-old butt with one hand tied behind my back). I’d probably fall to actors Ethan Hawke (age 40) and Emma Stone (the 22-year-old Lindsay Lohan lookalike with a mean left hook) and might manage a draw with Eagle Glenn Frey (age 62). But certain victories over basketball inventor James Naismith and march composer John Phillip Sousa (both dead for about 100 years and, therefore, easily whup-able) meant I could still defeat over half the population were we to come to blows.

Now, I believe I might be ready to expand the concept to reality TV. I’m thinking of approaching executives in the entertainment industry with the following treatment — a round-robin boxing tournament in which famous people who share the same birthday battle each other in a single-elimination format to determine who is the mightiest person born on that day. That’s 366 shows worth of material, enough to run for years and years during prime time.

Just ponder the intrigue of some of the potential birthday matchups.

From Jan. 1, we could watch actor Frank Langella take on the diminutive-but-dynamic Verne “Mini-Me” Troyer. Langella might struggle to overcome a 30-year age difference versus the 42-year-old Troyer, but with a reach of some 67 inches compared to his opponent’s wingspan of about a foot, the elderly Langella just might prevail.

From Jan. 2, stay tuned for what’s likely to be a vicious battle between former House Speaker Dennis Hastert and the beautiful actress Kate Bosworth. The 28-year-old Bosworth, despite a willowy physique, would likely hold her own against the aging Republican. But the blonde star of such films as “Blue Crush” and “The Horse Whisperer” shouldn’t take the former high school wrestler lightly. His background in parliamentary maneuvering could be enough to surprise a much-younger opponent.

From Jan. 3, a busy day for mothers of future A-listers, maybe we could mix things up with a tag-team match, or perhaps an all-out rumble. Imagine the entertainment of watching Beatles producer George Martin, actor Dabney Coleman, hockey great Bobby Hull, rocker Stephen Stills, actresses Victoria Principal and Joan Chen, the controversial Mel Gibson and New York Giants quarterback Eli Manning squaring off in a crowded ring. My money would probably be on Hull, despite his age (72), though you can’t count out the always-combative Gibson and the clutch-performing Manning from triumphing over this melee. On the undercard, fighting in the “passed-on” division, a battle between comedy pianist Victor Borge and author J.R.R. Tolkien would tap into an older audience.

These are the stars that I look to for predictions of a rollicking, entertaining future.

Jobs not the only one out sick

Shares of H.H. Haggerty fell dramatically in overseas trading last night, following news that one of its key employees — me — would be out sick today and possibly tomorrow unless I’m feeling a lot better by then.

Haggerty announced Monday that I would be taking this short-term leave of absence “so I can focus on my health.” I’ve appeared gaunt at several recent company events, and had taken extended medical absences twice in the recent past. In 2007, I was out for three days straight with what I claimed was “a little stomach virus, or maybe a bit of food poisoning,” and in early 2010, I stubbed my toe really bad after tripping over my cat and missed two days.

“I love Haggerty so much and hope to be back as soon as I can,” I told the third-shift supervisor who answered the phone when I called in. “I’ll use a vacation day for today but if I’m out tomorrow, I’ll probably take it without pay.”

Few details were released by Haggerty about my health, fueling speculation in stock markets that I might even be out the rest of the week. Share prices of company stock in both Asian and European markets tumbled as much as 20% with the news that a mid-level employee such as myself would be absent from the office.

“He may be the most vital assistant manager for customer service of our era,” said Michael Useem, a professor at the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School and director of its Center for Leadership and Change Management.

Haggerty said in a press release that Timothy D. Martin, a temp working on a 12-week contract who takes care of filing and emptying the recycling bins, would be answering my phone while I’m out and occasionally checking my email, giving me a call at home if he had any questions.

“I have great confidence that Tim will do a terrific job executing the exciting plans I had in place for Tuesday and possibly Wednesday,” I wrote in a letter released to the press. “I just have to remember to change my email password when I get back, because I’m not sure I trust that guy. He has a tattoo, and I may have seen a hole in his tongue that might represent a piercing.”

In other business news, Steve Jobs, the co-founder and chief executive at Apple, is also taking a leave of absence, a year and a half after his return from a liver transplant. The announcement raised questions about both his long-term prognosis and the future of the world’s most valuable technology company.

“Omigod, omigod, omigod!” said Toni Sacconaghi, an analyst with Sanford C. Bernstein & Company. “Will my iPad still work? What about my iPhone — is it going to malfunction and send streams of deadly radiation into my skull? And how about those music downloads I did last night? Am I still going to be able to listen to Britney’s new song ‘Hold It Against Me’?”

“Uh, I bought the song for my teenage daughter,” he added.

Some observers feared the Jobs absence could have an even wider impact beyond the technology market.

In Washington state, growers assured the public that both table and cooking apples would continue to be distributed to supermarkets across the country. The record company founded by the Beatles said it would still release their music under the Apple label, and might possibly dub the line “we hope Steve Jobs is feeling better” into the Sgt. Pepper classic “Getting Better”. The kids TV network Nickelodeon said broadcasts of its popular sitcom “iCarly” would be unaffected by the news, since this season’s episodes have already been filmed and most of its viewers are only eight years old and, though big fans of the iPod, could care less about the ailing Apple executive.

Even the White House chimed in with reaction to the Jobs report.

“We continue to be disappointed with figures showing the unemployment rate is still unacceptably high,” said press secretary Robert Gibbs. “Creating new jobs and getting America back to work remains the number-one priority of this administration.”

Some technology analysts suggested the Apple announcement could simply be a cover for development of yet another must-have product from the premier tech company of the twenty-first century. One industry insider, speaking confidentially to reporters, speculated the company is working on an “iLiver,” an artificial organ that could assume detoxification, protein synthesis and biochemical production duties if a user’s natural liver fails.

“I’ve seen a prototype and it’s really cool,” the source claimed. “It’s got a responsive touch screen that gives users a lot more options in their digestion functions. So it not only filters toxins from your blood, but you can put up to 10,000 songs on it. The earbuds are a little uncomfortable but the skin on your stomach eventually grows over the cord and after that it doesn’t hurt at all.”

He said current plans call for the iLiver to be unveiled at an electronics expo this summer, with sales to the public beginning in November, just in time for the Christmas gift-giving season.

“If I know Steve Jobs, he’ll want to be back for this one,” the insider said. “He’s got a flair for the dramatic at these types of events, and I can already imagine him lifting up his black turtleneck and proudly announcing ‘Today, I bring you the iLiver. As with all our products, you will be buying it whether you need it or not.’”

The ultimate synergy: Liver function plus live video streaming

More gun control? Maybe we need less

After a crazed gunman opened fire on a crowd in Tucson last week, killing 6 and wounding 13, the suspect was wrestled to the ground by two bystanders. One of the two happened to be carrying his own weapon and, as he brandished it above his head, another witness thought he was the shooter and came within seconds of firing at the hero, using yet another gun being legally carried at the event by Arizona citizens.

Apparently, Arizonans carry guns like the rest of us carry cell phones, though we all hope they don’t make the mistake of accidentally trying to make calls with them. I guarantee you, they work even worse than the iPhone 4.

In the wake of the tragedy, most reasonable people wanted to re-open the debate over gun control laws that have allowed such a proliferation of firepower on the streets of America. Predictably, however, conservatives continued to spout the counterintuitive acumen that garnered them so much attention in recent elections.

In the past, they’ve argued that the proper response to the BP oil spill was to “drill, baby, drill.” They want to cut the federal deficit by drastically reducing revenues with tax cut after tax cut. They want to regain a competitive advantage for students in U.S. schools by teaching them creation myths, that the wind is God breathing, that thunder is God bowling, and that science in general is the devil’s doing.

The way this horror could’ve been avoided, argues the National Rifle Association, is that more people should arm themselves for protection. Gun laws need to be even looser, not stricter. The more people that carry weapons, the safer we’ll all be. As if bearing out the validity of this assertion, it was noted that, sadly, neither the nine-year-old girl nor the trio of seventy-something retirees murdered by the obviously deranged killer were packing heat.

Adding their two cents to the argument, the National Association of Bat-Shit Lunatics (NABSL) defended the rights of accused psychopath Jared Loughner to own a 9-mm Glock with a 33-round magazine, claiming “there are alien spacemen — thousands and thousands of rabid, zombified spacemen — who walk among us. Get this giant spider off of me!”

It’s an interesting theory, that if everyone were armed, only the armless would be unprotected. (Maybe they could be taught to shoot using their teeth). But you have to wonder if, deep down inside this twisted logic, there might be a grain of sanity. What  if we could conduct all of our daily social interactions at gunpoint? Might this make for a safer America?

Imagine a day that begins when your alarm clock goes off, and you reach to your bedside stand to grab your glasses and your gun. You throw back the sheets and roll over to kiss your spouse good morning. You train your weapon on her as she blinks back the sleep.

“Any chance we’re feeling frisky this morning?” you ask with a twinkle in your eye. With a lightning-fast move, she reaches over for her own gun, aiming it squarely at your chest.

“I don’t think we have time this morning,” she smiles. “Maybe tonight.”

You head off to the bathroom to perform your morning ablutions, remaining armed in case a water snake appears in the toilet. The morning routine continues in an uneventful fashion. You’re careful not to make the mistake you made last week, when you picked up your CZ 75 SP-01 pistol and, thinking it was your electric razor, pointed it squarely at your neck and fired. Fortunately, the bullet only grazed your chin. That reminds you: you need to sign up for some practice time at the range.

Cleaning the weapon and making sure you have a full clip before heading out the door, you’ve lost precious moments and are now running too late to make your own coffee. You stop by the neighborhood Starbucks on the way to work.

“Give me a grande Americano with an extra shot and room,” you demand of the barista.

Already addled by several hours of heavy caffeine consumption, the scraggly young man’s hand is noticeably shaky as he stares at you down the barrel of his Smith & Wesson Sigma.

“That’ll be $4.67,” he says.

Normally, you might grumble at the inflated price, but you remember your barista is armed and dangerous. You’re glad to pay the price and escape with your life.

You arrive at work ten minutes late because traffic was a bear. You thought about squeezing off a few rounds at the jerk who edged ahead of you just before you would’ve made that last traffic light, but there was a school bus right behind him, and you weren’t about to risk a fusillade of return fire from several dozen high-schoolers. Just as you’re settling in at your workstation, your boss asks to see you.

“Just wanted to make sure we’re still on for tomorrow with your performance review,” he says. You notice his weapon sits on the tabletop behind him, and consider your temporary advantage and whether it’s too early in the day to blow his head off. Though these reviews are unpleasant, unproductive and frustrating, your better self reminds you it’s not worth killing someone over.

“Remember, I have my training session with those new hires today,” you tell him.

You head down the hall to the training room. Though standing in front of a class all day can be exhausting, you enjoy the refreshing enthusiasm of people who are glad to have finally landed a job in this tough employment market.

“Good morning, class,” you say.

“Good morning,” they reply. You’re glad to see that everyone has read and understood the company policy that requires them all to be gun-totting, though it’s a little disconcerting to realize how outnumbered you are. You wish you’d brought your semiautomatic, as the increased firepower might’ve leveled the playing field a bit.

The training proceeds briskly and without incident. By mid-afternoon, you’re tired but have a good feeling about this group. They seem to be absorbing the material well, they ask intelligent questions, and they haven’t wounded anybody yet. You call the session to an early end so you can make your 4 p.m. dentist appointment.

Rush hour hasn’t kicked in yet so the drive across town proceeds smoothly. You arrive at the medical building not far from your home and sign in with cheerful receptionist, her dazzling smile almost as bright and shiny as the Walther P22 handgun she holds in one hand while calling up your file with the other.

Within only minutes, you’re in the dentist’s chair. Dr. Anderson has been seeing you and your family for years, and you chat — as best you can with a mouth full of dental instruments — as he looks at your gums.

“I’m starting to see a little recession of the gumline here,” he tells you. “You might want to get a little deeper with the flossing.”

“What did you say?” you ask in your most menacing tone, patting the pocket of your jacket to indicate the presence of your trusty revolver.

“Nothing … uh, nothing … your gums look just fine,” says the dentist. Obviously, he’s left his weapon in his office and is therefore powerless to make his request more strongly.

With the appointment finished, you head on home, eager to spend a relaxing evening with the family. As you pull into the driveway, you notice your son and some of his playmates engaged in a game of touch football on the front lawn. You wave at the kids, inadvertently using your gun hand. A shot rings out, and the neighbor kid slumps to the turf.

“It’s alright, Dad,” your son calls out. “He wasn’t on my team.”

You walk in the door, noticing your wife must’ve gotten home just ahead of you and left the day’s mail on the desk in the foyer. As you leaf through the bills and junk mail, you notice a piece that’s addressed to the family next door. It looks like it might be something important, so you take a few minutes to walk it over to him.

“Hey, Bob, how’s it going?” you ask as he answers the door, an Uzi cradled in his arms. “I think I got some of your mail by accident. Oh yeah, and I just shot your son.”

“Hi, Dave. Thanks for bringing it over,” Bob responds. “And thanks for telling me about Ricky. I’ll get on 911 right away.”

Back at home, you enjoy a nice dinner with your wife and kids. You’re glad Sarah always made it a point for the family to gather like this each evening. She even insists on a tablecloth, flowers and a formal place setting, forks to the right of the plate, knives and spoons to the left, and guns at the top.

After dinner, the kids head to their rooms to do their homework, and you and the wife retire to the den for a quiet evening in front of the TV. You’re finally able to relax after a grueling day, putting your weapon on your lap, next to the remote. You doze off on the Barcalounger, only to awake with a start when the evening news comes on. The anchorman leads with a story about gun control activists holding a vigil for the 732 shooting victims in your town. He speaks earnestly to the camera, carefully aiming his Desert Eagle 50AE at the home audience as he reads from the teleprompter.

You know there are antiquated federal laws against shooting people over the public airwaves, so you’re not scared by his menace. What you are, instead, is angry; angry that he has the nerve to publicize those nutjobs and their peace-loving attitudes. You pick up the phone and call in a threat to the TV station. Moments later, the anchorman looks briefly off camera and dives under his desk. Satisfied that you’ve made your point, you head off to bed.

Sarah appears to already be asleep as you remove your glasses, set the safety on your gun, and lay both on the night stand. You’re just about to doze off when you feel a tap on your shoulder.

“I thought we had an appointment tonight,” she says coyly, holding her Springfield Armory XDM. Defenseless, you succumb to her advances. A loud report resounds through your bedroom.

“Oh, no, darling,” she says, reaching down to the bloodied, bony protuberance near your legs. “I think I shot you in the knee.”

“That’s not my knee,” you smile, and reach for your phone to call an ambulance.

Fake News: State dinner for Chinese ends up at nearby “takee-outee”

WASHINGTON (Jan 20) — An elaborate state dinner for visiting Chinese President Hu Jintao was derailed last night when the White House kitchen staff failed to show up to work because of a federal holiday.

“It was Inauguration Day Eve, and our contract specifically stipulates that we have that day off,” said chef Cristeta Comerford. “It doesn’t matter that there’s no inauguration in 2011. We still have a paid holiday.”

President Obama and his staff tried to roll with the punches, hastily relocating the elaborate dinner to a nearby storefront Chinese restaurant.

“It’s just like we’d do on Christmas, when all restaurants except the Chinese ones are closed,” Obama told reporters later. “Ha-ha, huh, Hu?”

The White House staff declined early suggestions to “do takee-outee” then take the 225 invited guests out to a movie. Instead, a lengthy motorcade was assembled to transport the entire group to a suburban Washington strip mall where Chinese officials and American dignitaries dined on numbers 13, 45, 83 and, for vegetarians in the group, number 97 but hold the chicken.

“And your sign out front says ‘no MSG’, so we don’t have to specify that, right?” the president asked of Harry Lee, owner/manager of the Number One Chinese Kitchen, formerly known as the Royal Panda, formerly known as the China Town Express.

Squeezing the group into the small restaurant proved to be quite a challenge. With only 12 booths and 10 tables, many diners had to stand throughout the meal. A small group decided to brave the 25-degree temperatures and eat outside at three additional tables, though they later complained they kept getting dirty looks from shoppers at the nearby Kroger who had to maneuver their carts past the chilled patrons.

As the crowd enjoyed their Happy Family, Seafood Wa Ba and House Special Sizzling, Obama rose to offer a toast to the peoples of both countries.

“May they grow together in friendship. May they prosper together in peace,” the president said as he raised his glass of Diet Coke. “And may they realize their dream of the future for themselves, for their children and for their grandchildren.”

“Hey, would you mind holding it down over there,” said Aaron Johnson, an Arlington, Va., construction worker dining with his family before the exclusive crowd arrived. “You don’t hear us talking loudly, do ya?”

After the president apologized for the disruption, President Hu stood to offer similar greetings.

“Yin yang tofu ping pong chow ching,” said the smiling Hu. A translator claimed the toast wished for “steady growth of China-U.S. relations,” but a Mandarin-speaking American reporter covering the event claimed that Hu told his diplomats they should “feel free to check out the Jersey Mike’s next door if you were hoping for real American food.”

As the dinner drew to a close, owner Lee distributed fortune cookies to the diners. Several read theirs aloud, laughing at sayings like “A secret admirer will soon send you a sign of affection” and “We are born naked, wet, and hungry, and get slapped on our butt … then things get worse.” Both presidents were urged to read their fortunes to the group. Obama said his read “beware of the tall dark stranger … never mind, it’s our president” while President Hu’s read “may your currency float freely on international money markets.”

Once the initial snafu of having no dinner prepared for a state dinner had been resolved, there were few of the mishaps that characterized earlier events held for the leaders of India and Mexico. Tight security ensured there were no gate-crashers, as happened with the Salahi couple last year. It appeared at first that Snooki, star of MTV’s reality show “Jersey Shore,” was trying to gain unauthorized admission, but it turned out that administration staffers thought her name was “Snoo-Ki” and that, as a prominent Chinese-American, she should be invited.

The only other gaffe involved the clothing choice of Vice President Joe Biden. While the president wore a classic tuxedo and Mrs. Obama sported a silk organza dress in the bright red symbolic of good luck in Chinese culture, Biden showed up at the White House wearing a sumo loincloth. He quickly changed to a business suit when told sumo wrestling was a Japanese custom, not a Chinese one.

The only major no-show was new Republican House Speaker John Boehner, who sources said declined the invitation because hot Chinese mustard makes him cry.

More highlights from my mini-blog

Hiring Manager
Disney-ABC TV

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am writing this cover letter because I would like to be considered for the position of Regis Philbin with your organization. I understand that Mr. Philbin will be retiring soon, and ask that you consider my qualifications to replace him.

I am a highly trained crotchety old man and that is why I was very pleased to learn of this opening. I believe I would make an excellent addition to your staff.

I believe my extensive background in Word Perfect, Excel, Microsoft Outlook and Quark Xpress would be a good fit on the Live with [Name to Come] and Kelly show. I have done some television advertising acting for local businesses such as car dealerships and clothing boutiques. During my past experience I have handled a wide range of creative services, collaborating with peers, subordinates and vendors to produce marketing and other print communications. I am also equipped with good communication and editing skills.

I am the 1971 winner of the “Most Likely To Be On Television” award from Miami Norland High School. In 2002, I appeared in the background on the Today Show, waving my arms wildly as I stood on the street outside their studio. In 2008, I was arrested for bank fraud and had my mug shot appear on all three local television newscasts.

I have watched your show for a number of years and believe I would be a good match with Kelly. I am able to dumb down my conversational skills, I am not annoyed by the way she constantly tugs at the shoulders of her blouse, and I am not overly repulsed by her spindly arms and legs. I am familiar with the animal kingdom and would not confuse Ms. Ripa with a marmoset or lemur when she widens her eyes in amazement.

If you think I would be the right candidate for this job, then please arrange an interview for me as soon as possible. I am even able to relocate for this position, though I would prefer to use Skype for my daily appearances on the show. (Another qualification: I know how to use Skype).

Thanks for taking the time to consider my application.

+++

The Situation Room, CNN’s early-evening news program, should not be confused with The Situation’s room, the sleeping quarters of Jersey Shore‘s breakout male star, The Situation.

The CNN show features Wolf Blitzer, moving quickly from subject to subject, never stopping long enough to consider depth or analysis, but constantly looking at conflicts, violence, weaknesses of the flesh and moral decline. We see mobs of dissatisfied citizens, their fists piercing the air in a call for justice. All around them, civilization teeters on the brink of collapse while people think only of themselves, forsaking the greater good of their community.

To the contrary, on MTV’s Jersey Shore, we see “The Sitch,” moving quickly from subject to subject, never stopping long enough to consider depth or analysis, but constantly looking at conflicts, violence, weaknesses of the flesh and moral decline. We see mobs of dissatisfied citizens, their fists piercing the air in a call for justice. All around them, civilization teeters on the brink of collapse while people think only of themselves, forsaking the greater good of their community.

Wolf

A wolf

+++

HOLLYWOOD (Jan. 17) — Reaction to Ricky Gervais’ scathing performance at last night’s Golden Globes ceremony continued to pour in today, as the entertainment industry’s elite licked their wounds following the British comedian’s comments.

“He’s mean,” said Johnny Depp. “I’m telling my mom.”

“They say that sticks and stones may break your bones but words will never hurt you,” offered Angelina Jolie. “Well, I’m hurt. I’m really hurt. And Brad, well, he’s ready to kick Ricky’s ass.”

Gervais used the annual awards ceremony to call out a number of celebrities he felt needed to be brought down a peg. He labelled Robert Downey Jr. a “poopy-head,” Tom Hanks “ugly,” Tim Allen “wretched and deformed” and Reese Witherspoon “Drew Barrymore.” He said Will Smith “should be beheaded” and that the family of Anne Hathaway “should be exiled to Siberia and their farmland laden with salt.”

“I don’t know why everyone is so upset. It was all in good fun,” Gervais said. “When I say that Bruce Willis is bald and untalented, or that the president of the Hollywood Foreign Press is not fit to walk among us, I’m just stating the facts.”

Insiders disagreed that the comments were all in fun, and doubted Gervais would be invited to return next year.

“That… that was so unfair,” said action star Sylvester Stallone between sobs. “How would he like it if we said the same things to him? He’d be crying too.”

+++

Do you think the young actor in the often-shown Advil Cold Formula commercial will be putting “Mucus Man” on his resume?

It might work for his next acting gig, but I’m not too sure how it would go over if he opts instead to enter the corporate world.

+++

As my college-age son plays Madden ’11 NFL on his Xbox, and I sit nearby feigning interest, I can’t help but marvel at all the options available to game players. Not only can you select the teams and manage run versus pass calls, you can even select less-critical factors like the weather and what holiday the game is being played on.

I’m already looking forward to Madden ’12 (I’m told I can pre-order now for August 12 delivery, if I care to pointlessly tie up $60 for the next seven months). Here are some new options I’m hoping they offer:

• type of celebratory bath given to coach (Gatorade, ice water, herbal tea, a nice ’06 Riesling, jet fuel)
• accuracy of spelling of players’ names on their jerseys (Ben Wrothlisburger, Michael Vik, Chad Ochosinquo)
• length of field (100 yards, 1 foot, 300 miles)
• type of player ambulation (running, walking, skipping, sauntering, ambling, staggering, marching)
• length of game (30 minutes, 1 hour, until Madden ’12 comes out)
• coaches (current NFL coaches, living former presidents, real housewives, Norse gods)
• player headwear (helmets, top hats, headbands, bad toupees)
• player size (Lilliputian, gargantuan, sub-microscopic)
• team nicknames (the Horsies, the Lemurs, the Squirrels, the GOP House Majority)
• announcer voices (Alvin the Chipmunk, James Earl Jones, Oprah, Stephen Hawking)
• types of player injuries (ACL strain, measles, third-degree burns, ileal colitis, boo-boo that really hurts)
• how injured players are removed from the field (motorized gurney, golf cart, Dale Earnhardt Jr.’s Number 88 car, Segway, dragged kicking and screaming)
• restroom availability for fans (plentiful, barely sufficient, entire stadium is jiggling their legs)
• types of concessions available (standard stadium food, roots and berries, glue, fingernails, Lean Cuisine Swedish meatballs)
• crowd enthusiasm level (spirited, sedated, meth-addled)
• holiday garb of fans (Christmas, Thanksgiving, Secretary’s Day)
• stadium naming rights (Heinz, Grey Poupon, Bob’s Big Boy, Martha Stewart)
• geological phenomena near stadium (lava flow, earthquake, sinkholes)
• atmosphere (a nitrogen/oxygen mix, methane, barbecue smell, cordial)

Revisited: A look back at high school writing

The 1960s were a great time to be in high school, as opposed to, say, fighting in Vietnam or dying in a race riot. Sure, we had the rumbles and shoulder-punch-outs that seemed earth-shattering to us, but it was mostly a time to try being free and creative in ways we were never allowed before.

My senior year at Miami Norland High School was when I first got interested in creative writing. Mrs. Massey taught a journalism class that seemed to cover everything but journalism. Inspired by the ground-breaking social upheaval of the times, she didn’t take attendance and she didn’t mind taking guff from her precocious students, most of whom were Jewish, upper-middle-class and looking for intellectual trouble.

She ran her class as something of an educational experiment, giving us the freedom to talk and write about whatever we wanted. My first essay for her was a call for America to give equal rights to broccoli. Later, I attacked a grading system that allowed me to get a 93 while my friend scored only a 79. “Does this make me 117.7% better a person than he?” I asked, quite the profound question when you stop to think in those pre-calculator days that I had to use long division

And then there was the horrible but creative (but, more than anything, horrible) poetry. A favorite stanza I wrote still lingers in my memory over 40 years later.

When I at last have breathed my final breath

And my remains are lowered in the ground

I wonder what will people think of me?

When I like them had walked upon the earth?

Heavy. And not at all like the man I’ve become, who doesn’t even care what people think while his remains are still up and walking around, cutting people off in traffic and sighing loudly as that lady in front of him pays with a check in the supermarket.

Little of that early writing has survived. However, I think I can create a replica, and thought it might be fun to try. What follows is the essay I might’ve written for one of her final assignments of that last year of high school: Pick a topic, any topic, and write a minimum of 500 words.

+++

Any topic, you say? ANY?

“Any” is such an expansive word and yet also so limiting, a mere three letters in a language replete with words of considerably greater length. There’s an “A”, and then there’s an “N”, and then there’s a “Y”. Why, indeed?

(I’m assuming that letters count as words in your arbitrary call for a minimum of 500 of such fleeting entities).

Webster defines “topic” as “something dealt with in a text or in discussion.” He tells us to also “see subject, theme, matter or issue.” But one must ask, who is he to be telling us what to see, with his eighteenth-century perspective and prejudices?

No one is really sure who he is anyway, whether he is Daniel or Noah or perhaps another Webster entirely. Or maybe he is some yet-to-be-conceived Webster, a man-child who will inhabit a space in the media of the future, perhaps an urban Chicago setting in which his parents were recently killed in a car accident and he’s adopted by George Papadapolous, played by Alex Karras. And perhaps he shall be known as Emmanuel. You never know.

These are times that demand more focus than to throw open a discussion such as this to the whims of high school seniors. We are but buds, still unformed, still uninformed, still uniform in our adherence to societal demands, not to mention the school dress policy. Mere buds, I say!

Speaking of nature, we should consider the moon and the stars and the galaxies that swirl around us in their impromptu dance of celestial wonder. They would qualify as a topic, certainly, but what good would it do to attempt to put them into the categories, the restrictions that language demands? Plus, it’s daytime, and even if it were dark out, my telescope is broken, and my stupid younger brother now uses its tubular length as a baseball bat. His naivete is so sad that it makes me weep.

I qualify not, though, as a crybaby, for I am a sensitive lad. Even my mother says so.

You label this class as “journalism”. I repudiate your labels, as we have not been asked to keep any journal whatsoever. (I’m not suggesting it; I’m just making an observation.) I heap derision and disgust on your provincial concepts of “objectivity” and “facts.” I do this by putting certain words in “quotes,” as is the literary fashion. Fashion, though, is of little concern to me and my generation, as the afore-noted reference to the dress code infers.

In closing, I stop to take a look at myself in the mirror and at the mask I wear which society — and my acne — has demanded. I see in the reflection a challenged soul, a primordial man, an adolescent in a shirt that is really too tight, though it claims to be a husky. In the background of the reflection, I see a can of Right Guard deodorant next to the bathroom sink, and its implied assertion that I need to eliminate all traces of nature from my essence. It’s an effort that is doomed to failure.

Maybe I should switch to a roll-on.

Revisited: It’s time to leak the truth

In 1979, there was an accident at a nuclear power plant in Pennsylvania called Three Mile Island (TMI). Initial reports indicated there was a small explosion and perhaps some minor injuries. It wasn’t until later in the first day that it became known there was a significant leak of radioactive materials, into both the air and the ground.

As details unfolded in the week that followed, the public learned that we had narrowly avoided a so-called “China Syndrome,” in which the core of the reactor would melt deep into the earth. Groundwater could’ve been contaminated and the air could’ve been filled with poisonous gases. Pennsylvania could’ve become even more inhabitable than it already was. Fear gripped the nation as more and more details were released and we imagined what might have been.

Ever since this near-catastrophe, whenever anyone is given too much information about something fearsome and repulsive, we call it “TMI”.

The following post may contain TMI. Sensitive readers should — wait, this is the Internet; sensitive readers shouldn’t be a problem.

+   +   +

I didn’t do a real good job this year of coming up with worthy New Year’s resolutions. In the past, I’ve promised myself I’d lose weight or be more thrifty, and generally did a good job of follow-through all the way into February. I’ve put the ambitious agendas aside this year, and decided instead to work on smaller, more achievable goals.

The main improvement initiative I’m undertaking currently is to pick up things that have fallen on the ground. I’m still okay with stuff that’s supposed to be down there — pebbles, earthworms, the drunken homeless — but I’m trying to put forth a real effort to make my world a better place with the simple act of bending down and retrieving discarded litter. Some people have chosen to help earthquake victims; I’m thinking that charity begins at home, in an approximately three-foot radius of where I’m standing.

Pride is picking up

The real fact of the matter is that I’m contributing a lot of this debris on my own. Maybe I shouldn’t be so self-congratulatory for picking up after myself, and yet it still gives me a warm feeling to know I’m working to clean up our environment. Just because the trash is of my own making shouldn’t discount the substantial effort it takes for someone my age to squat.

It’s because of these “warm feelings” that I’ve been creating such a mess in my wake. You see, I have a problem that confronts many men in their 50s, and I’ve been using small wads of paper stuffed into my shorts to address it. I have a problem with dribbling.

In my younger days, I enjoyed many an afternoon in a robust workout on the basketball court. I’ve never had much of a vertical leap and my three-point shot rarely found the hole, but I’ve always been a good ball handler, even perfecting a behind-the-back crossover that frequently left me open for a layup. What’s been hurting my game in the gym lately is that the floor tends to get a little slippery when I have to splash through a puddle of my own urine.

Really, that’s an exaggeration. My touch of incontinence doesn’t result in the kind of fashionable gushers we’ve recently seen in concert from a certain female singer for the Black Eyed Pees (spelling?). The difficulty I have isn’t the uncontrollable release that wetted Fergie in the midst of all her booming and powing; rather, what I’ve experienced is the drop or two trickle that lies in wait until I’m all zipped up and heading back to my desk. It’s not outwardly noticeable, and I don’t think it’s causing any kind of hazardous spill that could injure or sicken my co-workers. It’s just that warm, then cold, moistness that suddenly shocks your upper thigh and reminds you a little too vividly of what it was like to be young. Very young.

Fellow incontinent Fergie

My solution to this embarrassment is to wad up a piece of bathroom tissue, forming a hood that contains the tiny spill. My slacks hold this cap in place just long enough to catch any fleeting beads, until the wad gradually works its way down my leg and I can pull it out and deposit it in the can. It’s a pretty good system, as long as you can subtly pivot at every turn to check your tracks and make sure you’re not depositing a trail of crumbs like some latter-day Hansel and Gretel.

So that’s how I’ve gotten into the habit of stooping down to pick up debris. If I’m doing it often enough that people who witness the act think I’m just being a conscientious employee concerned about the appearance of the office, then they won’t be suspicious if they happen to notice the tile comet sliding down my ankle. Only once has anyone commented on the emergent hat, and I was able to laugh that off by claiming it was a dryer sheet.

Well, I’m tired of laughing at myself over a situation that plagues so many otherwise hygienic people. “No matter how you shake and dance, the last drop’s always on your pants” makes for a playful adolescent rhyme, but I’m sick of having it ringing in my ears every 90 minutes like some particularly bizarre ABBA tune. For too long, the slightly incontinent have hidden in the shadows, peeing themselves in shame, paralyzed by the ever-present fear that someone will shine a light into that shadow and scare us into a lethal blockage. I say enough is enough. It’s time I was praised for my ingenuity instead of disgraced for a thoroughly natural glitch in my plumbing.

If we’re going to leak, let us leak with pride. Let’s take the steps we must in order to preserve a sanitary home and workplace, yet let us not feel as guilty as if we were responsible for some awful catastrophe.

It’s not as though the leak were radioactive.

The care and feeding of cats

Even though I have three, I’m not sure I understand the point of owning cats.

They seem like such an arbitrary choice for domestication in our homes. How exactly did they win out over every-bit-as-good choices like ferrets, muskrats, weasels and other ungrateful groundlings? Can the beaver not catch a mouse? Can the squirrel not meow loudly in response to be a natural gas leak in your house?

OK, maybe not meow, but they could chirp and throw acorns.

It’s said that the cat is a fastidiously clean creature, however that’s only because they seem to be licking themselves every time you turn around. I’m sure some of this is done in the pursuit of cleanliness and I’m just as sure some of it is done for purposes of self-gratification. Where they really need to clean themselves up — in the crevices of their paws where soiled cat litter tends to accumulate — goes virtually unattended. That only seems to come loose when they leap unauthorized onto the kitchen table, hopping over my cereal bowl of granola and making it a little more crunchy than I’d prefer.

I do appreciate how they virtually house-train themselves in proper user of the catbox. I look out the window on wintry days at some of my dog-owning neighbors, gingerly carrying their poodles and miniature dachshunds into small snowfields, and placing the animal down to do his business. The dog looks up at its shivering master, as if to ask “what am I supposed to do with this?” They sniff the ground for a while, perhaps paw it once or twice, then refuse to cooperate. Meanwhile, my cats are in our warm, cozy utility room, peeing like there’s no tomorrow.

Not far from their catbox sits their dinner bowls, in what would be a highly questionable bit of feng shui to those of us higher up in the animal kingdom though perfectly acceptable to my cats. I guess they like the convenience of managing input and output functions in such close proximity to each other. And there’s also the fact that their food smells only slightly better than their waste, so why not lump it all together in the same room? They may have to leave the vicinity to barf on the couch or your favorite throw rug. Other than that, though, they’d probably be just as happy to spend most of their waking hours sharing quarters with the washing machine and the dryer, especially when the dryer is running at a low, warm purr.

Ever since my wife began working nights about a year ago, I’ve taken over responsibility for the evening feedings of our three cats, Harriet, Taylor and Tom. They’re on a twice-a-day meal schedule, as is the tradition with household pets. (How they ever got screwed out of lunch remains a mystery). Having enjoyed their first meal of the day shortly after I get up around 6 in the morning, they have become plenty ravenous by the time evening arrives.

Using passive-aggressive techniques that can’t have worked very well in the wild, they emerge from their various sleeping positions and slowly gather around as I sit in my easy chair watching TV. There are no overt requests at first, just a kind of assertive loitering designed to remind me they are creatures who require sustenance, and they require it pretty damn soon. Taylor sits erect on the back of the couch next to me, trying to appear as obvious as he can. Tom takes up a position on the floor nearby, ready to jump up and rub against my leg if I head anywhere near the utility room. Harriet, the oldest and boldest of the three, leaps onto my lap to cuddle.

These food-gathering techniques can’t have worked very well 10,000 years ago just before they gave up the wild for domestication. I can’t imagine their original prey grasping the subtleties of the small desert carnivore who patiently requests that they give up their bodies for meat. I’m eventually guilt-tripped into feeding them but I doubt the rats and insects of ancient Egypt had a similar capacity for sympathy.

If I’ve become too engrossed in the Xavier vs. Western Kentucky basketball game playing on ESPN (hey, it could happen) and don’t notice their sudden desire to be close to me, it’s usually Harriet who takes the request to the next level. She moves from my lap up onto my belly and begins a steady round of loud, nasal meowing. If that doesn’t work, she starts rubbing her wet nose against my arm, which she knows I hate. That’s the point where I usually give in and make my way to the big bowl of cat food.

All three leap up in excitement, making a beeline for their pre-assigned dining positions. Tom has to dine separately in the sunroom because he has a tendency to overeat his and everybody else’s food, born of his early desperate life as an outdoor kitty. He heads for that door while I play the role of the maitre d’ escorting him to his alfresco seating. I then serve the other two in the utility room before returning to Tom with his cup of Meow Mix. “Will the gentleman be having cat food this evening?” I’ll joke with him, though cats — especially hungry ones — usually don’t appreciate my wry sense of humor. (I’ve tried to tell them about the success of my humor blog, but they just look at me with a blank stare. They’re not much for the Internet, I guess).

They hunker down for some serious eating, tails straight out behind them as they crunch their way through the dry pellets. This is perhaps the only time during their day they act with such intense purpose, and it only takes five minutes or less for them to wolf down their meal. Freshly energized, it’s then time for a session of what we call “the rips,” where they take turns running up and down the hallway. This soon exhausts them to the point that they’re ready to settle down for another episode of the twenty-hour-a-day sleep schedule they need to remain fresh.

It’s a pretty easy gig for me, and I really do enjoy having them around the house. For a relatively low amount of maintenance, my family and I get to enjoy watching them doze, drawing inspiration from their ability to relax so effortlessly. When I arrive home from work, tired and frustrated from a long day on the job, I can take one look at the lump under my bed covers and know that Taylor lies therein. He’s not worried about mortgage payments or the upcoming tax season; he doesn’t even care if he gets enough air to breathe. His indolence inspires me to take a nap free of guilt.

I doze fitfully for perhaps 45 minutes before I feel a slight commotion at my feet, followed by the lightweight footsteps of Harriet up my back. I try to pretend I’m still unconscious and unable to respond to her, until that becomes virtually impossible when I sense her breath on my cheek, followed by a nudge of my shoulder, followed by that nasal twang that passes for a meow.

It’s getting close to the time, she reminds me, that we begin our routine once again.

Before dinner, it's time for the cats to make themselves known

After dinner, Harriet (top), Tom (left) and Taylor (the undercover lump at right) begin another round of snoozing.

Fake News: Other ideas for blending Congress being considered

WASHINGTON (Jan. 25) — Inspired by a push to commingle members from both parties during tonight’s State of the Union address, some congresspeople are trying to take the concept several steps further to show a more diverse legislative body to the nation.

Ever since Colorado Sen. Mark Udall asked Democrats and Republicans to mix together instead of sitting on separate sides of the partisan aisle, others have been looking for additional ways to bridge the traditional divide with a symbolic act of unity.

Sen. Charles Schumer (D-N.Y.) has asked members of both the House and Senate to swap shoes with the person sitting next to them. He would then adjourn Congress for a 30-minute recess right before President Obama’s speech tonight so members could “walk a mile in those shoes.”

“I think seeing representatives from both the left and the right hobbling a lap around the Capitol will give the American people a chance to realize just how hard we’re trying to work together,” said Schumer, a self-acknowledged size 13EEE who admitted he’d face a tight squeeze inside fellow New York Democrat Kirsten Gillibrand’s size 6 pumps.

Meanwhile, Sen. Tom Coburn (R-Okla.) looked to take that idea to the next level, offering to exchange entire ensembles with fellow representatives.

“I’ve had my eye on that lovely teal pantsuit that (Louisiana Democrat) Mary Landrieu wore last week,” the usually conservative Coburn told reporters. “Hopefully, she’ll also be able to lend me the darling brooch that accessorized it perfectly.”

Congress is hoping to change the impression that they can’t agree on anything and prefer instead to bicker rather than negotiate and reason together. At last year’s annual address by the President, Republicans booed and threw garbage when Obama said he wouldn’t allow budget constraints to eliminate the nation’s social safety net. Similarly, Democrats made the “I am not worthy” bow-down motion to acknowledge their agreement with the president’s announced intention — later rescinded — that he’d open the gold reserves at Ft. Knox to the homeless.

Other plans to mix members into a more diverse group may not have been organized in time for tonight’s address. Illinois Democratic Senator Richard Durbin wanted both houses to sit boy-girl-boy-girl until it was pointed out that men vastly outnumber women. He amended his proposal to make for a boy-girl-boy-closeted gay Republican-boy-girl arrangement, but that too could not be put together in time.

Additional proposals to sort Congress by age, height, good cholesterol numbers, attractiveness, facial hair and zodiac signs will have to be delayed until next year, at the earliest. There was still hope at press time that idealistic newcomers could be blended in with veteran legislators who basically no longer give a shit.

Some White House sources indicated that the president himself would make a symbolic effort to represent both the left and right during his speech. Press Secretary Robert Gibbs acknowledged there was the possibility the president would deliver one sentence with a Kenyan accent while wearing a Che Guevara-style beret and delivering the Nazi sieg heil salute, and the next sentence in a calm, reasoned tone.

“The president recognizes the need to reach out and find common ground with all political perspectives,” Gibbs said. “We’ll probably put him on a swivel so he can more easily rotate without getting motion sickness.”

The joys and sorrows of life in the workplace

I work in an office with a three-shift operation, which means I share a desk with two employees who work nights. We all try to be considerate of each other, cleaning the desktop before we leave, wiping down the keyboard to remove any sticky soda stains, being judicious about which trash goes in the desk-side receptacle (candy wrappers, empty water bottles) and which has to go in the bin outside (animal flesh, blood-stained clothing).

Minor comforts and conveniences that need adjustment from one person to the next are left for the incoming person to deal with. The short-statured lady who follows me on second shift pulls out a footstool so her legs don’t dangle like a baby in a high chair. The guy on third shift adjusts the chair back so he can recline easily and sleep during the wee dark hours of late night.

Some of us like the gel-filled wrist rests (I stick mine in the microwave for 30 seconds because, when warmed, it feels like my sleeping wife) and some of us don’t. Some of us like the extra desk lamp turned on, while I prefer not to have a clear view of the pages I’m reading, in case it makes me legally culpable some day down the road. I like the wind-blown ambience of a fan (it makes me feel like I’m out on the open prairie) while others would rather not chase their proofs down the hall. All of us recognize we can customize these features for ourselves.

We share a small easel to prop up certain papers we need to reference frequently during our work. It’s a simple black rectangle of metal, unadorned except for the “Fellowes” logo at the top right. Though fully utilitarian as it is, the guy on third shift has felt the need to tape a single sheet of paper to it. On the paper is one word, shouting in bold, 240-point type – ”JOY”.

I have no idea what this is supposed to mean. I assume he uses it as a reminder to be happy, despite his dismal circumstances of working in a modern American office, a wage slave pushing paper. You’d think he needs a verb in there somewhere. “Joy,” a noun, can’t just sit there by itself. More appropriate, you’d imagine, would be something like “EXPERIENCE JOY” or “BE HAPPY”. Just knowing there’s joy out there somewhere, and not knowing what to do with it, seems worse than nothing at all. It’s a tantalizing but inaccessible prospect that I wouldn’t care to be reminded about in the middle of my Excel spreadsheet.

Maybe it’s the name of his wife or significant other. Maybe just seeing her name every time he removes a work order from the easel lifts his spirits. Personally, I’d rather have a picture of a loved one instead of the letterforms that make up their name, but maybe that’s something he doesn’t care to share with his coworkers. Or maybe she’s ugly.

My other theory is that he’s a religious person who manages to find joy in the spiritual world. I don’t get to talk to him much, just a passing word or two as I arrive and he leaves, so I can’t know this for a fact. I did ask him once “how are you doing?” and he answered “I’m blessed,” which seemed a little odd. So maybe he’s just weird enough to think the bliss and ecstasy of the supernatural world can be summoned onto the production floor of a financial printer by keying three simple letters into a Word file and hitting “command P.”

Whatever the case, I’m tolerating this intrusion of optimism without making any big fuss about it. Though it has crossed my mind to freak him out one day by replacing his sign with one that says “DESPAIR.”

+++

My efforts on the job are managed by a person we call the production coordinator. He’s responsible for bringing in the work and making sure it’s started promptly and finished by its deadline. In such a role, he needs to keep tabs on the people he works with, knowing whether they’ve stepped away from their desk for just a moment or will instead be away for an extended period.

I have a good relationship with my coordinator, and would probably go so far as to call him a friend. So we’ve worked together to come up with a system that allows me to notify him with just a glance of how long I might be away. This way, I don’t have to interrupt him if he’s on the phone or talking with someone else.

If I flash Aaron a “one,” holding my pointer finger skyward, it means I will be gone for the length of time it takes to void my bladder. That’s not necessarily what I’m going to do as I head down the hall; it’s merely an indication that he can expect me to be gone for between two and four minutes, about the duration of the average pee.

If I show a “two,” in a rough approximation of a peace sign, it means I’ll be away for the time it takes to tend to the other excretory function. This would be about five to ten minutes, unless we split an order of spam musubi from the Hawaiian restaurant that just opened around the corner, in which case it may be as much as 15 minutes.

We’re also working on developing two other hand signals. I flashed him a “three” the other day and he gave me a quizzical look. I stopped to explain that simple arithmetic should tell him this meant I’d be gone for up to 20 minutes, the time it would take to address number one and number two consecutively. He countered that “three” should mean no more than ten minutes, since most people can handle the two functions simultaneously. So we still have some work to do hammering out an understanding on that one.

The other signal I’ve tried looks like this:

It’s meant to indicate “one half”. This does not mean, I explain, that I’ll be away between one and two minutes. It means instead that, because of recently diagnosed prostate problems, I may be gone as much as a half-hour and, even then, I’ll only be half empty.

I like to think of these as our gang signs, though I’m sure you’ll agree it would be one of the least fearsome crews on the streets today.

Fake News: Everybody has a response

WASHINGTON (Jan. 26) — President Obama used his State of the Union address Tuesday night to challenge Americans to unleash their creative spirit, set aside their partisan differences and come together around a common goal of outcompeting other nations in a rapidly shifting global economy.

In the Republican response delivered shortly after the address, Rep. Paul Ryan (R-Wis.) implored citizens to keep their creative spirit to themselves, put their partisan differences front and center, and come together around a common goal of rolling over and playing dead while other nations outcompete us in a rapidly shifting global economy.

Meanwhile, arch-conservative Rep. Michele Bachmann (R-Minn.) delivered a response on behalf of the Tea Party asking the nation to spirit their creativity into the manufacture of dog leashes, look inside the differences between atomic particles, and ask hip-hop superstar Common to rapidly complete the loose-fitting shift he’s been sewing so it can be sold around the world.

Obama used the annual speech before both houses of Congress to outline his plan to “win the future” by investing in critical areas such as education, transportation, clean energy and improved Internet access, claiming that “the rules have changed.” Ryan countered that we should “not only win the future but trounce and humiliate it” while Bachmann called for “tying the past before losing narrowly in overtime.” Both Republicans disagreed with the assertion that the rules have changed, with Ryan claiming they were the same but simply typeset in a different font, while Bachmann claimed they were also “in a different pointsize.”

“We need to out-innovate, out-educate and out-build the rest of the world,” Obama said in his speech. “We have to make America the best place on earth to do business. We need to take responsibility for our deficit and reform our government. That’s how our people will prosper.”

“Nuh-uh,” countered Ryan, newly appointed chairman of the House Budget Committee. “We want America to be the best place in the universe to do business, not just the earth.”

Bachmann urged the American people to “in-outovate, ed-outucate and blow up the rest of the world.”

It seemed like everyone had a response to the nationally televised address, despite the fact that the president spoke in very general terms about vague goals that seemingly everyone could agree on. In a response aired nationally on all four major networks, the wise-cracking smart-ass who sat behind you in tenth grade government class mocked the president’s assertion that “this is our generation’s Sputnik moment.”

“Did he say this was America’s ‘butt-lick’ moment?” asked Randy Buxton. “I’m pretty sure that’s what he said.”

Buxton also criticized Obama’s anecdote about how salmon are under the purview of the Interior Department while in fresh water and managed by the Commerce Department while they’re in saltwater.

“You can’t manage salmon, everybody knows that,” Buxton told the nation. “Tuna, yes. Perch, maybe. But the best you’re going to do with salmon is to loosely supervise them and try to keep them from spawning in front of the children.”

Still more highlights from my mini-blog

Please enjoy the following highlights from my new mini-blog, http://davisontv.wordpress.com

+++

Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg announced yesterday he was decommissioning his landmark website following a meeting with pop songstress Katy Perry.

“I started Facebook to meet girls and, now that I’ve met Katy, my work here is done,” Zuckerberg said in making the announcement. “Anybody want to buy some used servers?’

Perry had stopped by the company’s headquarters to participate in a live chat and indulge in the office’s famous “Nacho Wednesday” menu at the Facebook cafe. While looking for the ladies’ room to scrub cheese sauce out of her hair, she stumbled into Zuckerberg’s office.

The “California Gurl” snapped the photo below posing with the world’s youngest billionaire and posted it to her Facebook profile.

“Ya know just hangin’ @ ‘the’ facebook with ‘the’ CEO. Baller style,” she wrote in the caption. “I like him!”

“Did she really say that? Did she really?” Zuckerberg asked a meeting of venture capitalists and other investors shortly after hearing the news. “You’re not pulling my leg, are you? Wow! She likes me.”

Zuckerberg said he was giving up on the digital frontier that his company had helped forge, and would now devote his life to stalking Perry.

“She smelled really good,” he added.

“Look whose head I’m pointing at,” Katy said.

+++

Following news that there now exists a cordless heated “warming jacket,” a garment that can be charged for up to six hours of heat through sewn-in carbon fibers …

Jacket and charger

…comes news of the latest technology in modern comfort, the nuclear-powered snuggie (pictured below).

All the warmth of a reactor meltdown

Requiring only a bachelor’s degree in nuclear energy management to operate and six years of experience working in the core of a light-water reactor, the nuclear snuggie (not to be confused with the atomic wedgie) provides thousands of degrees of cozy comfort with only minimal doses of lethal radiation.

Next time you find yourself shivering through another icy winter day, consider installing a nuclear snuggie around you. Licensing reviews are going on now, so be sure to act fast to take advantage of this incredible offer.

+++

Though (nominally) still alive, former Price is Right host Bob Barker may want to think twice before he considers any Mediterranean vacations.

ROME — The body of Mike Bongiorno, who was Italy’s top quiz show host for more than 50 years and a close friend of Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi, was stolen from his grave, officials said Tuesday.

Bongiorno, who died in September 2009 at the age of 85, was buried in Arona, near Milan. A pensioner who regularly visits the cemetery alerted police that the grave had been violated and emptied. Italian media said no ransom had been demanded so far.

Bongiorno, a fixture in Italian television since its first broadcast in the 1950s, helped Berlusconi launch commercial television in the 1970s.

It is not the first time that the body of a famous personality has been snatched in Italy.

In 2001, in a cemetery near the one where Bongiorno was buried, the corpse of investment banker Enrico Cuccia was stolen and a ransom demanded. The thieves were identified and arrested.

+++

Chinese President Hu Jintao (left) met with President Obama (right) last week for an intense round of negotiations covering everything from international monetary policy to potential sanctions against Iran to the six-party talks now taking place to curb North Korean aggression. Hu spoke frankly about what he saw as America’s need to reduce its deficit and curb its military expansion, especially in the Middle East and South Asia. Obama was equally blunt, calling on the Chinese leader to respect civil and religious liberties in his country, and to create a more democratic economic model that would foster the rise of a middle class that could serve as a market for U.S. exports.

CORRECTION: Snooki and Kim Kardashian notice a cute guy.

 +++

The new-look American Idol kicked off its tenth season last week with two new judges sitting in front of the panoramic window that serves as their backdrop.

During tryouts for would-be singing stars from New Jersey and the greater tri-state area, a stunning variety of vessels — from small sailboats to ocean-going supertankers — floated by on the waterway behind Steven Tyler, Jennifer Lopez and Randy Jackson.

Despite the impressive display of watercraft chugging slowly downstream, ratings for the Fox mega-hit plunged an estimated 15% from last year, continuing a decline that’s been taking place for the last several seasons.

“I thought the show was as good as it’s ever been,” said Arthur Sachs, editor of Jane’s Ships. “You can’t beat the variety of boats that can be found plying up and down the Hudson River. My only complaint is that sometimes the judges, in their effort to be edgy and wacky and totally unpredictable, wiggled around too much and got in the way of some of the ships.”

Sachs predicted that once the new judges are comfortable, they’ll settle down and allow viewers a better look at what’s going on behind them

“Some critics say American Idol has already seen its best days, but I’m optimistic there’s more quality viewing still to be had,” Sachs said. “This week’s show, their first visit ever to Milwaukee, will give us a great opportunity to see some of the magnificent barges of the Great Lakes.”

Farewell, at least for now

Hear me, America.

(One of the cool things about being on American Idol has got to be the opportunity to address the entire nation as one. It’s not just host Ryan Seacrest who gets to drop the frequent imperative “America, do this” or “America, do that.” Even the contestants are allowed to implore all 307 million U.S. citizens to “vote for me, America.” Since I doubt I’ll ever have the chance to appear on this top-rated talent show (not because I can’t sing — that hasn’t stopped the current crop of would-be Idols — but because I have a pathological fear of Jennifer Lopez), I’m using my blog instead to address the .00009% of America that views my writing on any given day.

Today, I announce my retirement from DavisW’s blog. This will be my last new post for the foreseeable future. I’ll continue to toss up some stale retread of a previous posting on a daily basis for a while, at least till I lose interest in that. Then, I’m out of the blogging business.

There are several reasons why I’m making this move at this time.

One, I’m tired and I’m stressed out. Since December of 2008, I have written a fresh post virtually every single weekday. In over two years, I missed only a Tuesday in February ’09 when my son had major abdominal surgery, and a week at the end of 2010, during which I suffered a complete physical and mental breakdown, or maybe it was just a head cold. It’s become too much pressure to produce something new on a daily basis.

Second, the concept of “blogging” has become passé. It’s yesterday’s news, something grandpas do to keep their friends and families apprised of their bowel movements. I was never able to fully get into the likes of Facebook and Twitter, and am too technologically backward to try to anticipate the next big thing. I thought for a while that the latest in new media was going to be sneaking up behind people and shouting into their ears, but I’m not sure my 1,200-word essays lend themselves well to that format.  Seems likely I’d get punched before I was halfway through my treatise on the commercial that sells “privately-enhanced” two-dollar bills, in which five-year-olds color pictures of Yellowstone National Park all over Thomas Jefferson’s face.

Thirdly, I’m not getting a lot of comments from the readers indicating how enthralled they are with my prose. A kind word from someone who got a chuckle out of my observations goes a long way in re-energizing me, and these have become few and far between. About a year or so ago, someone contacted me online and said I’d get a lot more response if I went into the “settings” portion of WordPress and checked some box. I waited and waited for the avalanche of feedback he said I should expect, and instead the three or four comments I had been receiving each day trickled down to next to nothing. In retrospect, I have a feeling this person was up to no good, and actually convinced me to sabotage my own site, and now I’ve forgotten which box I checked. I still get occasional comments from a deranged ex-roommate, though that’s proven more frightening than rewarding.

I’ve tried to “monetize” the blog by offering it for sale on Kindle, and have actually made a number (47) of sales. How pathetic this revenue stream is became clear the other day when I met with my CPA to review my income taxes for last year. He asked about the W-2 I received from Amazon declaring an amount of $21.65 as taxable income, and I told him I made this money as a professional blogger.

“I guess we should report this,” he said reluctantly. “I’m seeing more and more of these online sales: there was a guy just in here who made a couple thousand dollars last year selling half-used cans of old paint through Craigslist. Maybe that’s something you should look into.”

Finally, I’m dealing with some undisclosed personal matters that require me to step out of the limelight for a time. Like Disney singer and actress Demi Lovato, I’m currently trying to resolve ongoing physical and emotional issues that I prefer to address in private, away from the glare of publicity. Like Demi, I too am a sensitive artist who has rocketed to international fame at a trajectory that my psyche has had difficulty keeping up with. Demi reportedly had eating disorders, was beginning to cut herself, and exhibited inappropriate behavior such as punching out a back-up dancer travelling with her on last fall’s Jonas Brothers tour. My issues would be viewed by most as less severe (I don’t even know any back-up dancers, as their presence isn’t widespread in the financial printing industry where I work), however they are plenty serious for me.

Also going on indefinite hiatus will be my so-called “mini-blog” http://davisontv.wordpress.com/. A third blog that I announced at the beginning of the year never materialized. I had hoped to be selected by the Charlotte Observer newspaper to be a part of their “Pounding Away” series, in which a trio of husky Carolinians would chronicle their weight-loss efforts, but my application was passed over in favor of the three goons seen below.

At least I didn’t have to pose for a silly photograph.

What kind of retirement I’ll have I cannot say. It could be a Brett Favre-style affair, and I’ll continue showing up day after day to miss wide-open receivers despite the fact they’re wearing Wrangler jeans. Or, it could be something more along the lines of what Johnny Carson did, slipping out of the public view with incredible dignity and conveniently dying a few years later.

If the urge to write humor returns, and I can view the exercise as exhilarating rather than obligatory drudgery, I’ll be back. If not, I’ll see you around.

Revisited: Sportswriters look for feel-good stories

MIAMI (Jan. 25) — With the matchup now set for pro football’s Super Bowl, members of the media have begun their desperate annual search for the “up close and personal” angle that will portray aggressive hulking millionaires as the kind of human beings we can all relate to, even though we’re pitifully inferior to them.

Unfortunately for sportswriters, family and friends of NFL players are generally in good health, thanks to of modern medical techniques that keep most people from hovering near death. Colts wide receiver Pierre Garcon’s parents are originally from Haiti, a promising lead in light of the tragedy that struck that nation. But it’s expected that by the February game, the devastating Caribbean earthquake will be so Jan. 12, and therefore out of the news cycle. Saints quarterback Drew Brees knew a guy who knew a guy who thought he had AIDS there for a minute, but it turned out he just had smudged some toner on his face.

Preliminary reports by writers already investigating players’ backgrounds hint at some of what we could be seeing in the run-up to the Big Game.

The spotlight could be falling on the ill-fated brother of Colts QB Peyton Manning, a young man named Eli who has endured numerous severe beatings in the last five months while in New York. The younger Manning had hoped to carve out a career for himself in the NFL, but instead ended up being repeatedly ambushed by street-wise toughs despite a contingent of burly but inept bodyguards.

“It’s a really sad story,” said ESPN writer John Rich. “He had such a promising future a few years back, but it all came crashing down.”

Saints cornerback Malcolm Jennings might do a good job arousing sympathy. Several in his immediate family have seen recent hardship, including a brother who lost his cell phone, a nephew who got short-changed by a vending machine, and a health scare recently experienced by his father.

“He had a thing on his neck that was kind of crusty and misshapen, like a scab but yellow around the edges,” said a friend of the family. “We thought for a while it might be malignant. It wasn’t.”

Colts tight end Justin Snow has a sister who was thought to be battling cancer. Snow said she received a note from her doctor following an annual physical that she needed to get treatment for a “canker,” but the physician’s handwriting was so bad she thought it said “cancer.”

“I was really worried there for a day or so, and I thought about dedicating the NFC championship game to her,” Snow said. “Fortunately, the confusion was cleared up pretty quickly. Good thing too, because I didn’t get into the game since I’m not that good.”

Saints linebacker Marvin Mitchell actually did lose his mother to heart disease about ten years ago, though he was in junior high school at the time and no one could foresee he’d later be in such a premier game.

“I’ll always remember her final words. She said ‘ouch, cardiomyopathy sure does hurt.’ I’ll remember that forever,” Mitchell said. “I only wish she could’ve been here with me now so I could use her to get the sympathy of millions of Americans who will watch the pregame show.”

Like Garcon, Colts offensive tackle Charlie Johnson has a heart-rending Haiti connection. While on a honeymoon cruise in 2006, an on-shore excursion to an exclusive island off the coast of Cap Haitien had to be cancelled when not enough people signed up for it. Later that same day, the ship had some problems with its stabilizer, causing the deck to roll excessively in a mild storm.

“It almost felt like an earthquake. Sort of,” Johnson said. “I know the self-leveling pool table in the Windjammer Lounge was completely out of commission.”

Saints defensive end Bobby McCray is a native of New Orleans and still lives year-round in the city that was flooded by Hurricane Katrina. He has voiced strong support for the rebuilding of neighborhoods in the city’s hard-hit Ninth Ward, especially since he drives through there on the way to practice yet can no longer take a favorite short-cut.

“Those folks have been through a lot,” McCray said. “If they could only get that Bypass Bridge fully repaired, the whole community could be opened up to people like me passing through.”

There’s still a chance a more sympathetic story can be found before press coverage hits its peak by the end of this week. There was an unconfirmed report that one player had a cousin who was born without a head, and that another player feared his playing days could be cut short because he has severe osteoporosis and brittle bone disease, preventing him from ever blocking or tackling. The Colts defensive line coach thinks he hit something with his car in the dark the other night, and hopes it was only a dog or a deer.

“Every year we go through this search process, and every year we eventually find someone who’s vaguely sympathetic,” said writer Rich. “We can always use a player’s pet if we have to.”

Revisited: Mind if I text you?

My trainee sat quietly as I explained what her temp job with my company would involve.

“You’ll want to make sure the changes have been made to the document,” I instructed.

“Hmmm,” came the response.

“We’re not responsible for typos the client has created,” I added.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And be sure that you make your marks legibly,” I said.

“Mmmm,” she seemed to say. “Mmmmm. Hmmmm. Mmmm.”

Finally, it occurred to me that this rather stout woman wasn’t voicing acknowledgement that she understood my instructions. Instead, the low vibrating noise was coming from the vicinity of her lap. Perhaps she was pregnant instead of chubby, and the baby, ready to be delivered, was clearing its throat to get her attention. Or maybe she had swallowed an electric razor and it was getting ready to pass.

No, wait — that’s right, this is the twenty-first century. It must be her cell phone set to vibrate.

“Do you need to get that?” I asked, gesturing toward her crotch, and immediately regretting the move.

“Oh, it’s just my cell getting a text,” she said. “It can wait till later.”

Text messaging is one part of the wireless revolution that I can vigorously endorse. Like most people my age, I feel I should be annoyed by others talking on their cell phones. For one thing, they’re almost inevitably younger than I am, which I resent. They also seem to have friends, friends who want to talk to them with such urgency that they can’t wait to get near a land line. The conversation must be had now, regardless of whether they’re in the middle of outpatient surgery, being sentenced to prison, or sitting on the can.

I prefer texting to phoning for a number of reasons. I like to type. I like to get to a little thing I like to call “the point.” I like to know that I’m not interrupting something important on the other end of the line.

When I do have to call someone’s cell phone, I’ll typically text them first and ask if it’s a good time to talk. The portability of cells means they’re being carried everywhere, and not all of these places are places that civilized people want to talk. My sister finds this habit highly amusing, but I think she genuinely appreciates the opportunity to avoid talking to me.

Then there’s the issue of concern for who might overhear the other end of the conversation. I’m really more amused than bothered when I listen in on strangers’ discussions. It’s a little peek into lives almost always more interesting than mine, and I enjoy the voyeurism of it all. I wouldn’t necessarily be in favor of allowing this to happen on airline flights, as is now being considered. The babble of several hundred businesspeople confined in a space where they have nothing better to do than talk is an even more frightening prospect to me than catastrophic decompression at 30,000 feet. Allow wireless on jets and too many of us will be thinking about which type of explosives cause the least amount of chafe in our shorts.

It is a little irksome hearing about all the things going on in my coworkers’ lives while I’m trying to earn a living. I was minding my own business at my terminal the other day when a woman walked up behind me and cooed, “I love you so much.” Needless to say, she wasn’t talking to me but instead to a distant boyfriend. Another employee gets calls from her daughter asking what time it is. Several have idiot husbands who think their wives can mystically triangulate where their favorite shirt is from 20 miles away.

Worse than the chatter are the ring tones. For security reasons, we’re really not supposed to be taking calls on our cells at our desks, so one dutiful data entry lady always jumps up and heads for a small alcove near the door whenever Michael Jackson starts crooning “got to be there … in the morning.” Even if I need her to be here instead of there, to enter my sales order, she sprints off to learn the latest developments in Bob’s half-hearted search for employment.

Of course, the worst scenario is in the bathroom, where a surprising number of people have no problem at all mixing the sound of their voice with less musical tones being emitted from elsewhere on their persons. There’s little that’s more disconcerting than to hear a conversational opening in the stall next to you, and wondering if it’s you who’s being addressed or some distant acquaintance tuning in via satellite. Even once you’re relieved to learn it’s Frank, not you, who’s being told “yeah, I thought that was a great game [gurgling noise] but I felt sorry for Favre,” I still feel compelled to muffle my own sounds. Nobody wants to see, smell, taste or feel what’s going on in a presumably private setting; why would they want to hear it?

Cell phones have become so common that it now strikes me as unusual not to see them. When I stop by the local college to visit my son, I feel sorry for the two or three people in the crowd of pedestrians who have to be content listening to their iPods rather than phoning a friend. They seem lost, and frequently fall down from sheer loneliness. I even imagine there will be cell phone conversations in the afterlife, though the angels will obviously be having fewer dropped calls (because of the antenna-like haloes) than will their counterparts suffering eternal damnation downstairs. You’ve got to think all that hellfire will play havoc with decent reception.

I’ll take texting over talking any day, even though I realize there are safety concerns when you try to do it in a moving vehicle. I saw in the news yesterday where the Department of Transportation has banned texting by truck and bus drivers, probably a good idea considering the size of their rides compared to my Honda Civic. But I think, at the same time, we’re missing a great opportunity to open up the conversation on America’s roadways as a way to stifle road rage and other aggressive driving habits. Think about how much better we’d all get along if every car had its driver’s cell number posted in the rear window, and we could openly discuss constructive suggestions for improved motor vehicle operation.

I could preload “you goddam moron ” into my Quick Notes and be ready to meet the world head-on.

Taking a trip into the Sahara

A new restaurant opened near my home about a year ago. Locally owned and operated rather than yet another franchise outlet, I figured it would go away soon enough. Folks in my small South Carolina town aren’t exactly the adventurous type when it comes to dining out and, since this place had neither drive-through nor dollar menu, it seemed doomed.

Add to that the fact that the Sahara Restaurant offers “Mediterranean fare” such as falafel, baba ganoush and kabobs both shish and adana, and I’m thinking their fate is sealed. Only if the hookah bar draws nearby college students looking for a high, or rednecks looking for prostitutes, is there a chance it’ll succeed long term.

Surprisingly enough, though, it remains in business, so my family and I decided to give it a try Saturday night.

The owner is wise to present his eatery as Mediterranean. South Carolinians aren’t known for their geography skills — remember that our former governor confused Argentina with the Appalachian Trail — but they know enough about that part of the world to think of Greeks, Italians and Spaniards when they hear that particular inland sea mentioned. Were they to know the truth, that Middle Eastern dishes with a distinct Egyptian theme are on the menu at the Sahara, they’d immediately be thinking of Ay-rabs, and how they weren’t about to try any foods that might be favored by al-Qaida.

“The only thing they know how to barbecue is themselves, in a suicide vest,” many of my neighbors might say. “I ain’t eatin’ that.”

That Egypt has been an ally of America for over 30 years is lost on many in this part of the country. One look at a swarthy wait staff that doesn’t include a single Mexican, and most patrons would be executing a U-turn back to the parking lot, then using the remote start feature on their SUV to make sure it hasn’t been fitted with a car bomb.

When we arrived for dinner around 6 p.m., there were only a few other parties already seated. The atmosphere of the small establishment doesn’t offer much to transport you away to the Levant. It was brightly lit and featured standard-issue tables and booths. There were a couple of hookah pipes to the right of the entrance, and artwork featuring the pyramids, the Sphinx and scenes from the world’s largest desert on all the walls.

Unfortunately, the most overt representation of Egypt came from the wide-screen television hung directly adjacent to the table where we were seated. From there came CNN’s coverage of the developing story about rioting in the streets of Cairo, clashes among protesters, police and army units, and calls for the ouster of the Egyptian president. It didn’t help make for a pleasant dining climate to have the angry face on the TV screen crying “Death to Mubarek!” bear a striking resemblance to the waiter asking if we’d care to try an appetizer.

Still, I’m an open-minded man with some worldwide traveling experience, and tend to have an adventurous streak when it comes to trying the foods of other cultures. I look at the list on the menu and considered the starters. Among the offerings were “foul maddams,” “meggadara,” “fried kibba” and “french fries.” The first of these made me think again of hookers, the second of a heavy-metal rock band, the third of dog food, and the fourth of McDonald’s. None had the appeal I was looking for, so we decided to wait instead to order an entree.

While we considered the other dishes, I got the distinct impression I was being watched by every worker in the restaurant. Or rather, they seemed intrigued by my hair, as none of them met my eyes but instead looked several inches above them. When I saw my wife and son, sitting across from me, doing the same thing, I realized that everyone was being transfixed by the violent images on the screen behind where I sat. The cook, the cashier, the greeter, the dishwashers, all peered out to watch the news playing out halfway around the world. I wondered if an ancient peoples’ desire to throw off the yoke of an authoritarian leader and breathe the sweet air of democratic reforms was going to affect my dinner preparation. I don’t like my lamb overcooked while the chef worries about his imprisoned countrymen and I don’t like tear gas as a spice.

When the waiter returned, we had settled on our orders. My son had the chicken kabob with fries, my wife had the adana kabob (parenthetically labeled as “kofta” on the menu, as if that would help) and I had the mixed grill. We were also brought a complementary plate of hummus, some pita bread and a too-salty salad with cucumbers, a vegetable I hate only slightly less than death itself.

The main courses arrived promptly and were actually quite tasty. My college-age son struggled a bit with the whole kabob concept, uncertain whether to remove the meat from the skewer by sticking it deep into his mouth and impaling his larynx, or simply gnawing at it from the side until it came loose and fell in his lap. My wife’s dish turned out to be a browned, formed cylinder of ground beef, quite tasty if you could get past what it looked like. My mixed grill included chicken, lamb and a third meat I hoped wasn’t camel. It was all a tad dry but became more moist and flavorful when combined with the basmati rice and a white sauce I imagined had yogurt in it.

When we finished our meal, the waiter returned with a shrink-wrapped broadsheet that showed pictures of the desserts available. Baklava, I was familiar with, though I can’t say the same for “harrisa” and “konafa”. The fourth option was New York cheesecake, probably a tribute to all the Middle Eastern cabdrivers in Manhattan. We politely declined the desserts, as news came across the TV behind me that looters had attacked the Egyptian Museum and were carrying off bits of mummy, a distinctly unappetizing development.

All in all, we had a pleasant dining experience I can recommend to anyone in Rock Hill who doesn’t mind having their weekend outing complemented by an armed insurrection that could unbalance the fragile peace of the world’s most volatile region. My only complaint, other than the fact that the staff seemed more concerned with distant family than they did with refilling my water glass, was that the Sahara did not serve alcoholic beverages. I chalked this up to Islam’s intolerance for drunkenness but found out later that it was due to a city ordinance that prevents liquor licenses being issued to businesses located within 500 feet of a church. So it was the righteous Baptists across the street who deserved the blame, not similarly busybody fundamentalists from another of the world’s great religions.

If, God forbid, you ever find yourself in Rock Hill and longing for a good “fattush” (a salad tossed with toasted pita chips, lemon and sumac, not the mashup of a ZZ Top/Sir Mix-a-lot song), please give the Sahara a try.

Taco Bell thankful for being sued; public replies “you’re welcome”

The full-page ad appearing in hundreds of newspapers nationwide this weekend was extraordinary.

“Thank you for suing us,” Taco Bell President Greg Creed told the American public in big, bold type.

Creed and his company, targeted in a lawsuit that claimed the “seasoned beef” used in just about every product the restaurant sells except the soft drinks, were fighting back against the allegation that the meat was diluted. A California litigant claimed the percentage of beef in the taco mixture was as low as 35%, and included additives such as oats and cocoa powder.

“The claims made against Taco Bell and our seasoned beef are absolutely false,” read the ad. “Our beef is 100% USDA inspected.”

Which, to perhaps nitpick the point, doesn’t mean it’s 100% beef. It might be 100% inspected, but so are my toenails every time I cut them, yet I still wouldn’t want them in a burrito.

Creed goes on to address the purity issue with the assertion that “plain ground beef tastes boring” and the only reason they add anything to it is to give the meat “flavor and quality.” Finally, he reveals the real percentages — 88% beef and 12% secret recipe.

The concept of a “secret recipe” is a favorite among corporate food giants. Coca-Cola became a huge hit with a thirsty 19th-century America, in part because one of its secret ingredients was highly addictive cocaine. KFC’s fried chicken rose to prominence with intimations that its “secret blend of 11 herbs and spices” would improve your sex life, grow hair on your bald spot and make you popular, at least with your non-chicken friends.

The apparent reason Taco Bell is grateful for being hauled into U.S. District Court is that it will have the opportunity for justice to be served, not from a drive-through window by a surly teenager, but in a proper court of law. There, they will have the chance to explain why caramelized sugar, yeast, citric acid and unspecified “Mexican spices and flavors” (whatever happened to your gardener, anyway?) are required to turn pure beef into something more palatable.

The surprising aspect of all this is that anybody who’s a regular Taco Bell customer cares a whit about purety, quality and truth in advertising. Most of us go for the adventure. It’s a “run for the border” where we’ll “think outside the bun” while enjoying our “fourth meal”. We understand that menu items priced as low as 59 cents could be a shot in the dark, yet still we’re grateful someone is removing possum carcasses from the road, now that city maintenance crews are dealing with budget shortfalls.

“If it’s the same stuff they’ve always been selling and I’ve eaten it before, I’ll eat it again,” said Mike Podlasek, a Chicago sales manager and regular customer. “The only way that I would probably stay away is if they were saying there was salmonella in there or something.”

The ad concludes with the company’s promise to “stand behind the quality of our seasoned beef 100%,” again hoping customers might confuse 100% standing with 100% beef.

“We are proud to serve it in all our restaurants,” Creed concludes. “We take any claims to the contrary very seriously and plan to take legal action against those who have made false claims against our seasoned beef.”

Uh-oh.

As I was saying, hats off to Taco Bell for clearing the air on this issue and getting the truth out to the taco-eating public. It’s only through an open and honest release of information that consumers can once again feel comfortable enjoying your savory gorditas, chalupas, burritos and nachos, at least for the thirty or so minutes it takes for them to enter the duodenom.

And thank you, Taco Bell, for not suing me.

The real story behind Groundhog’s Day

Today, we honor the humble groundhog. With fewer and fewer businesses celebrating it as a paid holiday, most of us trudged off to work this morning barely aware there was any cause for commemoration. It’s not until later today, when we scan the news headlines and see poor Punxsutawney Phil being thrust skyward by some doofus Pennsylvanian in top hat and tails, that we realize we forgot to buy our loved ones an appropriate gift.

And once again, the groundhog goes unappreciated.

Most of us know the story of how the First Groundhog was born in a manger on a February morn thousands of years ago. Most of us remember learning how he was granted supernatural prognostication powers not equaled until Al Roker predicted he’d be blown off a balcony if he stepped outside during a hurricane. Most of us know he’s a plain, homely rodent – not dissimilar in appearance to The Weather Channel’s Stephanie Abrams – forgotten for 364 days a year.

But on this one special day, in the middle of winter, he steps front and center to claim the spotlight. Routed from his burrow, he looks at the frozen ground around him, trying to figure what season it is. If he sees his shadow, he notices he’s put on a few pounds over the holidays and will have to do some serious springtime dieting to be ready for swimsuit season. If he doesn’t see his shadow, it’s probably because, as a relative of the mole, he’s practically blind. Local news crews then interpret the event to mean we’ll either have six more weeks of winter, or that a savior has been born who is Christ the Lord.

What, though, do we really know about the groundhog? Allow me to tell you a little bit of his story.

The groundhog (Latin name Marmota monax, though most refer to each other with a guttural grunt) is also known as a woodchuck or a land-beaver. He’s part of a family of large ground squirrels that also includes the yellow-bellied marmot and the hoary (or slutty) marmot. He is strictly a North American creature, which is why primitive Europeans and Asians use things like satellite imagery and sophisticated radar instead of chubby groundlings to “predict” the weather.

The groundhog roams the continent from Alaska to Alabama, though scientists have yet to figure out how he journeys so widely. Some speculate that their elaborate system of burrows includes high-speed rail. Others figure that since they all look pretty much alike, they only offer the illusion of being well-travelled.

The animals are well-adapted for digging, with short but powerful limbs and curved, thick claws. Their spine is curved and their tail is relatively short. They are covered with two coats of fur: a dense grey undercoat and a longer coat of banded hairs that give the groundhog’s coif its distinctive “frosted” appearance. Again, not unlike Stephanie Abrams.

Groundhogs usually live only two to three years in the wild, or considerably less if nearby wolves, coyotes, foxes, bobcats and bears have any say in the matter. They themselves are mostly herbivorous, feasting on wild grasses, berries and nuts, with the occasional grub or snail thrown in for a protein boost.

With excellent burrowing skills that largely offset deficiencies in just about every other aptitude, the groundhog will literally hog the ground, taking over huge swathes of the subterranean world to sleep, rear its young and hibernate. It is the most solitary of marmots, though several individuals may occupy the same burrow as long as the others keep it down and promise to pay their portion of the utility bill.

Perhaps the only talent that rivals their ability to move huge amounts of dirt is their ability to enter into a true hibernation for up to six months at a time. From October until as late as April, they inter themselves deep beneath the frost line, allowing them to maintain a temperature well above freezing during the winter. Their metabolism slows dramatically as they live off body fat accumulated during the previous autumn. Only once during this long six-month night do they have to emerge to go to the bathroom and, unfortunately, it’s usually in the first few days of February.

Groundhogs are accomplished swimmers and will often climb trees to escape predators, survey their surroundings, or just hang out. When threatened, their primary defense is to “go underground,” crashing with an old college roommate, not using credit cards or email accounts, and going completely off the grid. If they find themselves under an imminent threat, they may offer a tenacious defense using their two large incisors and front claws. Or they may simply allow themselves to be eaten, exacting a post-mortem revenge on their enemy that you do not want to smell.

Most groundhogs breed in their second year of life, though a precocious few get it on before their first birthday. A mated pair will stay together in the same den throughout the 31-day gestation period, but as the birth of the young approaches, the male remembers an urgent meeting with his accountant and vacates the den. One litter is produced annually, numbering from two to six blind, hairless and helpless babies. Within six weeks, however, they’re ready to move out and live on their own (teenagers, take note).

Their interaction with humans is mostly involuntary, as the desperately wiggling Phil will happily demonstrate on national TV this morning. If raised in captivity, they can be socialized with relative ease, especially if you have a few fingers to spare. Doug Schwartz, employed as the groundhog trainer at the Staten Island Zoo (and New Yorkers wonder why their state is facing a $10 billion deficit), says the animal “is known for their aggression … they’re natural impulse is to kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out. You have to work to produce the sweet and cuddly.”

Other unwilling contributions to humanity include medical research, where they’re dosed with a strain of Woodchuck Hepatitis B virus that mutates into liver cancer, and, surprisingly, in archeology. At the Ufferman Site in Ohio, they’ve excavated numerous artifacts from the loose soil, including significant numbers of ancient human bones, pottery and tools, while human archeologists sit around on lawn chairs admiring their effort.

And then there’s the whole Groundhog Day routine that we’ve come to know and tolerate. With what’s being called a monster snowstorm bearing down on the Midwest and Northeast for the next few days, we’ll watch as not only Punxsutawney Phil but also Wiarton Willie, Balzac Billie, Buckeye Chuck, Shubenacadie Sam and Dunkirk Dave are yanked from their lairs. They might look for their shadows but the blizzard of the century will keep them from seeing beyond the snoots on their face, and they’ll declare that winter is not yet over. Duh.

Punxsutawney Phil

South Florida Stephanie

Egypt looking to fill void at the top

CAIRO, Egypt (Feb. 2) — With news that Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak will soon step aside in the wake of massive anti-government protests, the question now turns to who will fill the power vacuum he’ll leave behind.

Some are concerned that the Muslim Brotherhood, a fundamentalist Islamic movement with ties to jihadist groups, could rise to prominence. But many observers doubt the youthful, mostly secular crowds that paved the way for Mubarak’s ouster will support such anti-Western sentiment. A more moderate arm of the group, the so-called Muslim Cousinhood (MC), could offer the mix of strict Sharia law and a thriving nightclub scene that many of the protesters might be willing to endorse.

“The Muslim Brotherhood, they are too radical for most of us,” said MC spokesman Abdul Rahman. “We are comfortable accommodating many Western ideals, and believe in maintaining our peace treaty with Israel. The Brotherhood wants to see an end to the Jewish state and wishes to drive the Israelis into the sea. We merely want to push them as far as the shoreline, where we think they’ll be quite comfortable in their seaside cabanas.”

Another group that could move in to fill the void is the all-girl power pop band of the ’80s known as The Bangles. With their 1986 hit “Walk Like An Egyptian,” they made a strong case for pan-Arab pride, as they urged not only the heirs to this ancient civilization but also “the Japanese with their yen, the party boys [in] the Kremlin and … all the cops in the donut shop” to stand tall in the modern world.

Although the band has little in its background to suggest members could govern a nation of some 80 million people, they did oversee several successful reunion tours in recent years. And it’s thought that their modern take on the traditional call to prayer — “whey-oh whey-oh whey-oh whey-oh” — could resonate with both those who favor the old ways and those with a love of jangly folk-rock.

“We have a new version of the song we’re recording now,” said lead singer Susanna Hoffs. “It’s called ‘Walk Like An Egyptian (But Riot Like A Maniac)’. Instead of instructing listeners to ‘slide your feet, bend your back, shift your arm, then pull it back,’ we’re urging people to pelt the police with rocks and Molotov cocktails. It’s going to have a really kicky beat.”

Many traditionalists in Egypt want to see a more gradual emergence onto the international stage for this key American ally. Some are starting to rally around Tea Party Republican congresswoman Michele Bachmann as someone who could at least serve in an interim capacity as president.

“We are very proud of our heritage, as exemplified by the many silhouettes of human forms found among the ancient hieroglyphs,” said conservative cleric Muhammad Baralak. “These traditionally show the body facing forward while the head is turned at a 90-degree profile. This stance was very hard on our necks and shoulders, and made it difficult for people standing right in front of us to hear us when we spoke. We believe that Rep. Bachmann’s speaking posture, with her head turned only perhaps 10 or 15 degrees to the side, represents a compromise we could live with.”

Other possible successors to Mubarak are considered much more of a long shot. Some in the throngs that have overtaken Tahrir Square want to see the winner of this Sunday’s Super Bowl XLV form a provisional government, headed either by Pittsburgh’s defensive MVP Troy Polamalu or Packers quarterback Aaron Rodgers. Others have expressed an interest in troubled TV star Charlie Sheen, thinking he could be convinced sand is cocaine. Many in the older generations have fond memories of Elizabeth Taylor’s portrayal of Cleopatra, and would accept either her or Zsa Zsa Gabor taking the reins of power.

“We heard that one of them is near death, but I can’t remember which one it is,” said one opposition leader. “We want whichever one looks like they’re going to live longer.”

In any case, it looks as though the man many believed would eventually succeed his father sees his political future in tatters. Ethan Mubarak tried one last desperate attempt to rally the nation in support of his candidacy with a bold proposal to address Egypt’s chronic economic woes.

“Look, man, we could, like, sell the pyramids and the Sphinx. Well, maybe not sell them outright, but at least sell the naming rights,” the 32-year-old Ethan told reporters earlier this week. “Instead of the Great Pyramid of Giza, it might be the Great Pyramid of GoDaddy.com, or the Great Pyramid of Tostitos. We could make millions.”

Even more highlights from my mini-blog

Please enjoy the following highlights from my new mini-blog, http://davisontv.wordpress.com

+++

Mike Rowe Tackles Dirtiest Job Yet

Mike Rowe, host of Discovery Channel’s popular Dirty Jobs series, has taken on what may perhaps be his most revolting task yet — acting as a spokesman for the Ford Motor Company in TV commercials.

Rowe is supplementing his day job on Discovery, in which he profiles the unsung American laborers who make their livings in the most unthinkable ways, with a series of ads touting Ford trucks and automobiles.

“I know, I know,” Rowe told reporters recently. “You probably think I have no shame. One minute I’m cleaning raw excrement out of a sewage pipe with nothing but my bare hands, and the next I’m trying to get innocent Americans to buy monstrous chrome gas-guzzlers. But a guy’s got to make a living, right?”

Rowe is seen in the series of Ford commercials cajoling, coaxing, wheedling and enticing owners of other vehicle brands into trying his sponsor’s vehicles. Most offer some initial resistance to his pleas, but eventually give in, reluctant to embarrass him in front of TV cameras and eager to get him to leave because he smells so bad.

Rowe eventually quips his way into getting the drivers to offer some grudging respect for the Fords they’re inspecting.

“Would you say this truck is a better value than the one you currently own?” he asks one obviously mortified woman. “Would you say that? Seriously, would you say that into the microphone?”

“Okay, already, I’ll say it,” the woman eventually responds. “This truck is a better value than the one I currently own.”

“There you have it,” Rowe offers directly into the camera. “Another driver ready to switch to Ford.”

Producing ads for Ford: A dirty job, but someone has to do it

+++

Animals Seem to Favor the Packers

REAL STORY IN A REAL NEWSPAPER:

A Greenville, S.C., orangutan named Baby Bob has picked the Green Bay Packers to defeat the Pittsburgh Steelers in this Sunday’s Super Bowl.

Bob was offered T-shirts for both teams, and he chose the Packers shirt.

Bob’s Super Bowl picks were part of his fifth birthday celebration.

FAKE STORY IN A REAL BLOG:

My three cats were impaneled last evening to vote on who they think will win the Super Bowl. Admittedly, a cat is not as smart as an orangutan, but surely three cats combining their brainpower come close.

Since T-shirts tend to fit them poorly, I set up the exam a little differently. To represent the Packers, I put a piece of raw beef on one plate (the Packers name originally was shortened from “meatpackers”). To represent the Steelers, I put a piece of metal on another plate. (I think it was steel, though it could be aluminum).

By a 3-0 margin, my cats pick the Packers. Upon further questioning, I found that Taylor favors the Pack by a score of 21-17, Tom likes the Green Bay squad by a tally of 35-28, and Marie likes the NFC champs by a score of 5-1. (As the sole female, she’s obviously not familiar with common football scores).

On behalf of my kitties, I’d like to add my two cents: Go, Packers!

The Green Bay squad is obviously a favorite among kitties.

+++

Pro Bowlers Charge: “Somebody Tried!”

HONOLULU (Jan. 30) — Pro Bowl MVP DeAngelo Hall was roundly criticized by his fellow NFL all-stars following Sunday’s game, with some claiming he “tried” while others blasted his “running full speed.”

Hall had one of his team’s five interceptions and returned a fumble for a touchdown to help the NFC defeat opponents from the AFC by a score of 972 to 681.

“He was wearing a helmet and pads and shoes and everything,” said AFC quarterback Philip Rivers. “We’re supposed to be out here having fun. Where was his lei?”

“I can understand wanting to give the fans a good show, but I thought we took care of that with the mass hula dance all the players did at halftime,” added Cleveland’s Alex Mack. “That was just showboating he did on that touchdown.”

Most players at skill positions like quarterback, running back and wide receivers played barefoot in the balmy Hawaii weather, with little more than a visor and sunglasses to protect against possible concussions. The linemen playing in the trenches opted for flip-flops and Panama hats, since action on the line of scrimmage can get a little intense, even in an exhibition like the Pro Bowl.

“This was my first Pro Bowl. I didn’t know any better,” said Hall in a post-game interview. “If you look closely at the tape, you’ll notice I skipped rather than ran on the touchdown return.”

In play that was casual even by past Pro Bowl standards, most of the NFL’s brightest stars spent their time on the field posing for pictures, waving at family in the stands and roasting a pig in a luau that was staged in the end zone.

The NFC’s defensive line comes up with a big stop to end a third-quarter threat by the AFC all-stars.

+++

Horgmo Goes Awesome on ESPN Reporter

Torstein Horgmo, aka “The Horgmonator”

One of the biggest stars of the Winter X Games, now playing on ESPN, has been Norwegian snowboarder Torstein Horgmo.

Friday night, he turned in a truly Horgmogian (Horgmoesque? Horgmoiffic?) performance in some event I’ve never heard of that involves snow, gravity and broken ribs. Horgmo performed the unprecedented “triple cork,” which his heavily decaled snowboard itself described as “AWSM”.

For those not familiar with the distinctive syntax of the X Games, “AWSM” is the extreme spelling of “awesome.”

During his post-slide-jump-showoff-land-fall interview, Horgmo created a bit of a scandal with his remarks to an on-camera correspondent.

“Nicole, that’s my board, she got pretty pissed at me on that first jump,” Horgmo said through teeth clenched in pain. “Good thing I gave her a wax job, y’know, a little bit of foreplay.”

“You’re talking about your board here?” asked the obviously embarrassed female reporter.

“Yeah. She likes it hard, though. But since she’s a twin-tip, she can go both ways.”

“Alright, thank you, Torstein,” said the reporter as she yanked the mike away from his totally radical face.

I’ve enjoyed watching the young people participating in the X Games. They’re so exuberant and full of life thanks to patrons such as Rockstar, Full Throttle and Red Bull energy drinks. Even major sponsors like Taco Bell and the U.S. Navy serve to put an extra spring in their steps.

But they hardly have a monopoly on the world of the extreme. Note the registered trademark word coming out of the Goldfish cracker’s mouth on the bag of “Slammin’ Sour Cream & Onion” snacks below.

+++

Bieber Releases New Nail Polishes

Justin Bieber has added several more nail polishes to his “One Less Lonely Girl Collection,” and young fans of the teen sensation are snapping them up as fast as they’re transferred from the toxic industrial vats where they’re created into fashion-forward bottles.

The eight cool hues already on the market flew off the shelves during the recent holiday season. Colors like “Red-y to Runaway Love,” “One Time Lime” and “Baby Blue” were so popular with the teen set that The Beeb is adding four more polishes.

Appearing at Wal-Marts and Targets across the United States of Justin in early February will be “Blueberry Huffin,” “Whiff You Were Here,” “Sporty Snort” and “Lass-a-Tone.” All four glosses contain high concentrations of acetone, the chemical that gives them their distinctive, hallucination-inducing aroma.

“No longer will young girls have to huff gasoline fumes from their mothers’ minivans,” said Nicole Olsen, whose fashion house in helping produce the line. “A dangerous high will be right at their fingertips.”

Olsen discounted reports that the fresh, hot polishes could cause brain damage in teenagers at a critical phase in their neural development.

“You have to figure most of Justin’s fans already have brain damage, so I can’t see these gorgeous new tones doing that much harm,” Olsen said. “Now, when he comes out later this year with lipsticks made of  spoiled beef tallow, there could be an issue in the gastrointestinal area. But we’ll deal with that later.”

Revisited: Water, water everywhere, which now I have to drink

Life-giving water rains from the skies, cleansing our polluted air as it falls. It percolates through the soil and makes its way to the reservoir, bringing sustenance to the fish and fowl who breed and splash and die in it.

And I’m supposed to drink this stuff? I don’t think so.

I’ve never been much of a water drinker. As a kid growing up in Miami, my parents weren’t forward-thinking enough to allow us store-bought soft drinks. It was either an old mayonnaise jar of water with your name taped to it in the refrigerator, or refreshment straight from the yard hose. To this day, I fondly remember the taste of rubber hosing, and eagerly await its discovery by modern flavor-makers in the candy and fragrance industries.

As soon as I was old enough, I migrated to the popular cola drinks. Even as I took up running and other aspects of a healthy lifestyle, I retained a fondness for the juvenile joy of gulping down a high-fructose carbonated drink, eagerly waiting for those bubbles to repeat the flavor of cola back from my gullet, popping over my tastebuds and into my sinuses. Running a marathon in my 30s, I turned down the offerings at the water stations and saved up a ravishing thirst that I enjoyably nursed for days with Pepsi after delicious Crystal Pepsi.

When I took several business trips to India a few years ago, I made it a point to drink a fair amount bottled water, primarily to combat the dehydration of jet lag and ward off that certain looseness one tends to encounter about the third day on the Subcontinent. I tried the Coke product offered at my hotel in Tamil Nadu but, like almost everything else in that southern region, it seemed to be sweetened with coconut. The local beer was only average, losing much of its zing after you finished boiling it. The orange juice turned out to be watermelon juice, and the coffee turned out to be tea. Bottled water was about the only choice I had.

A few years later, some of the coworkers I had trained in Chennai made a visit to the U.S. to continue their work at learning how to take my job. My wife and I met them at the airport, then drove them to their hotel and helped them settle in. They wanted us to call the front desk to ask where their bottled water was, and were surprised to discover that the tap was considered as safe a source as any. This didn’t make sense to their foreign ways.

“Why would you go to the trouble of making the water you use in your garden and your laundry clean enough to drink?” Sudhir asked. “Wouldn’t it be easier to sterilize just the small amounts required for drinking?”

Silly Indians. They didn’t realize that in America, we don’t do things that way. We have cars and trucks and giant SUVs to wash, and are willing to spend millions of tax dollars on filtration plants just in case a few drops accidentally bounce off the windshield and into our maws. I still remember the monumental inconvenience of having to keep my mouth closed while showering at the Taj Connemara hotel, for fear that I’d get dysentery along with my refreshing bath.

Now, I’m older and wiser, and find myself putting on weight that I can’t explain. How could I spend twenty minutes a day on a treadmill, live mostly on turkey sandwiches and bran breakfast bars and yet still find myself ballooning over 200 pounds? It couldn’t be the 300-calories-per-serving soft drinks, could it?

So my New Year’s resolution this January was to cut back on the sodas. I got off to a good start, but began feeling pretty thirsty by about Martin Luther King, Jr. Day and realized you couldn’t just stop drinking pop. You had to replace it with something.

For a while, I considered trying to absorb moisture directly from the ambient air. It seemed to work well enough for plants, as a fern assured me it would. The problem was the hour or so a day I was spending in the musty YMCA; plenty of humidity was being generated in the cramped wellness center, though I didn’t exactly relish getting it inside me.

Finally, I realized I’d have to start drinking water. I began forcing fluids every opportunity I could, my enjoyable libation of the past now being replaced by an obligatory dosing that seemed more like medicine than refreshment. I put a bottle in my car, and tried to make it a habit to grab a swig every time I stopped at a red light. (I had to quit that practice when I found myself running the yellows just to avoid the bland liquid). I started to understand why so many dogs turn up their noses at the bowls of fresh water filled with such dedication by their masters, and instead head for the toilet to get a drink. At least the commode gives it some semblance of taste.

I think I’m starting to get the hang of it. I still treat myself to maybe 15 or 20 ounces of Pepsi a day, but even that I dilute with seltzer. I’m drinking more coffee and more juice, and I’m realizing at last there are more productive uses for water than as a frame for the eighteenth green at Hilton Head or as the source of the glistening sheen on the slender limbs of a wet T-shirt contestant. It can provide my aging cells with the lubrication and health they need to keep me going into my golden years.

I’m still going to miss those complex carbohydrates, that intricate structure of the cola molecule that so succulently combines up to half the elements in the periodic table. (My personal favorite: polonium). Water is so plain and dull. There are only three homely atoms in H20, and two of these are hydrogen. What am I, the Hindenburg zeppelin?

Don’t answer that.

Pittsburgh defeats Green Bay; hundreds feared dead

A rugged ground attack combined with a barrage of aerial firepower led Pittsburgh to defeat Green Bay in a classic match-up last night.

Not long after the Packers’ 31-25 defeat of the Steelers in Super Bowl XLV, the invasion began. It’s not often in modern America that one city militarily attacks another, but yesterday’s onslaught showed what can happen when civic pride gets taken to an extreme, and fans of losing sports teams think of creative ways to vent their frustration.

Armed regiments from the Steel City’s Golden Triangle, South Side