For many years of my life I watched a lot of television. As a kid Saturday mornings was the jackpot. Does anybody else remember Lancelot Link, Secret Chimp or “Up at at ‘em Atom Ant!”? As a youth I was always looking for laughs. Bob Newhart, Mary Tyler Moore, and Carol Burnett offered humor which was not hurtful or hedonistic. When cable came into my life I spent more and more time with movies. I will watch Gunga Din no matter what time of day it comes on and Michael Caine was in some really awful movies. Sports have been the constant ingredient in my television viewing recipe. I know where I was when Ed Podolak had 350 all-purpose yards against the Dolphins in ’71, when Danny Manning squeezed the final rebound in ’88, and when Bill Buckner watched a five ounce white sphere roll between his feet changing his life forever and giving hero status to a man with the less than epic name of Mookie.
Over the last few years I have dropped television from my days. There are some good programs on, but there is entirely too much stuff being sent into our homes through that box. Some of the programs remind me of the old nature shows. Marlon Perkins would venture out in the wilds of Africa and show us the behavior of animals whose only concerns were fulfilling the basest of needs and following self-serving instincts. Now Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom is replaced by MTV’s My Super Sweet 16 which goes to deepest, darkest Beverly Hills and shows us the same thing only with designer dresses and out of control egos replacing dying gazelles and angry alpha males.
A little while back I spent more time in front of a television than I’m used to. The NCAA basketball tournament still draws me to the flickering blue light like a moth to one of those bug zappers. Fortunately, I do not get so close I experience a jolt of voltage making it so my wings will never caress the wind again. OK, I know I don’t have wings and “caress the wind” is an awfully girly phrase, but I found myself in the middle of a metaphor and I didn’t have another way out…gimme a break.
In my younger days I had the fastest mute button in the west, so I seldom heard commercials (and I was able to get Billy Packer to shut up once in a while). This was not possible for this tournament. No, I haven’t passed my prime. My trigger finger is just as spry as ever. The issue is the mute button itself. Ever since I started living in a house with three walking and talking children it has become much harder to keep track of things. People who do not have children believe the remote control is “remote” because it is used to control something from a distance. People with children know it is “remote” because it is inexplicably transported to remote locations. Locations like the crisper drawer of the refrigerator, under the sofa of the house three and half blocks south of your house, or the backpack of a scientist traipsing along the Amazon River studying Pink River Dolphins. That name is confusing. Is the river it lives in pink or the dolphin itself?
Watching and listening to the commercials brought to mind some questions. First is the color yellow some sort of visual signal for stupid? Remember those two guys who discussed cell phone service throughout the tournament? The dumb one always wore yellow. A German line of cars has an incredibly British guy describing how great they are. Is this just because Americans think all foreigners are the same? I mean we bought Sean Connery (a guy from Scotland) as Mulay Achmed Mohammed in one movie and as Khalil Abdul-Muhsen in another.
The thing I truly do not understand is big time stars doing the voice-overs for commercials. I get why products would want George Clooney to appear in their ad, but if you can’t see him how many people recognize his voice. It is his voice talking about beer. Is there some sort of subliminal message forcing the nameless rabble to follow the voice of a star? Gene Hackman tells us we can build things together with Lowe’s. Somehow I do not expect to see him with a crescent wrench fixing the dripping faucet in my bathroom anytime soon. But the absolute best has to be that Latin sex symbol Antonio Banderas, the heartthrob from Desperado and The Mask of Zorro. He is making house payments by supplying the voice of a sexy bumblebee in an allergy medicine ad. I know when I think of relief from nasal congestion the first thing that comes to mind is a Bombus distinguendus with an Andalusian accent.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Friday, April 06, 2007
There is too much to learn. I can't keep up.
A conversation amongst second graders at recess:
“Okay, today I’m going to be Apollo and you are Artemis, right? Who are you going to be?”
“I think I’m going to be Demeter.”
“Cool.”
This is not what most people expect when imagining the imaginative play of eight year olds. One would expect Power Rangers, not the twelve tasks of Hercules. However, it is one of the games my son and his friends are playing at Northwest School. This makes my brother very happy.
My brother, Eric, believes there are things a person needs to know in order to be considered educated and Greek myths are on that list. He is one of those guys who actually did all the reading in college, not just the Cliff Notes or renting the movie. (My problem was I went to get The Grapes of Wrath and ended up with The Wrath of Khan, “Wherever there’s a Klingon crushing a tribble, I’ll be there.”) Eric reads more books in a month than the average person reads in, well, in…okay, ever. When he found out my son had an interest in Greek myths Eric sent him a book entitled: Flammarion Iconographic Guide: Gods and Heroes of Classical Antiquity. When I was eight years old my reading material did not revolve around Hephaestus and Tartarus, but rather, Archie and Jughead.
The pop culture version of smart people is on display every weekday afternoon on the quiz show Jeopardy. I competed on that show a few years back. I lost. I was smart when it came to the category titled “S”- oterica, which meant every answer would start with the letter “S”. So I got things like “southpaw,” “Seattle Seahawks,” and “Scared Straight”. The guy who went on to win ran the category titled Vietnam. Which is more indicative of intelligence? At one point in the game he correctly identified a yurt. A yurt is a circular tent of felt or skins on a collapsible framework, used by nomads in Mongolia, something I had not heard of before, or for that matter, since. Which one of us was smarter? I do not know. I do know which one of us ended up richer, and it wasn’t me.
The other day I saw a short video talking about just how much information is being generated these days. Here is one statement from the video: It is estimated 1.5 exabytes (1.5 times 10 to the eighteenth power) of unique new information will be generated worldwide this year. One of those unique and new pieces of information must have been the word “exabyte” because my computer doesn’t recognize it. What the video failed to say was probably eight-tenths of that unique new information will revolve around Britney Spears going in and out of rehab, hairstyles on American Idol, and indispensable information for guys who play fantasy baseball like Zach Greinke’s earned run average with runners in scoring position and less than two outs, on odd numbered Wednesday afternoons.
Another factoid from the video said: It is estimated a week’s worth of the New York Times contains more information than a person was likely to come across in a lifetime in the 18th Century. Average citizens of the 18th Century were still required to focus more on things that kept them alive (those Frenchmen hiding behind that hill would like to shoot any Englishman coming this way) as opposed to information about Edward “Lumpy” Stevens the first great bowler in the history of English Cricket. (I did not make that up. It is an actual unique piece of new information generated sometime during the 18th Century.) I wonder what his earned run average with runners in scoring position and less than two outs, on odd numbered Wednesdays was.
What information people really ought to know is the crux of the matter. (I am showing off what I think is important by using words like crux.) The phrase thrown around education circles is essential information. What do people truly have to know? Who gets to decide what people have to know? With the legislation of No Child Left Behind the government gets to decide what kids have to know.
Does this frighten anyone else? The arbiter of intellect is the same group of people who decided Kansas needed not just an Official State Bird and an Official State Song but also an Official State Soil.
“Okay, today I’m going to be Apollo and you are Artemis, right? Who are you going to be?”
“I think I’m going to be Demeter.”
“Cool.”
This is not what most people expect when imagining the imaginative play of eight year olds. One would expect Power Rangers, not the twelve tasks of Hercules. However, it is one of the games my son and his friends are playing at Northwest School. This makes my brother very happy.
My brother, Eric, believes there are things a person needs to know in order to be considered educated and Greek myths are on that list. He is one of those guys who actually did all the reading in college, not just the Cliff Notes or renting the movie. (My problem was I went to get The Grapes of Wrath and ended up with The Wrath of Khan, “Wherever there’s a Klingon crushing a tribble, I’ll be there.”) Eric reads more books in a month than the average person reads in, well, in…okay, ever. When he found out my son had an interest in Greek myths Eric sent him a book entitled: Flammarion Iconographic Guide: Gods and Heroes of Classical Antiquity. When I was eight years old my reading material did not revolve around Hephaestus and Tartarus, but rather, Archie and Jughead.
The pop culture version of smart people is on display every weekday afternoon on the quiz show Jeopardy. I competed on that show a few years back. I lost. I was smart when it came to the category titled “S”- oterica, which meant every answer would start with the letter “S”. So I got things like “southpaw,” “Seattle Seahawks,” and “Scared Straight”. The guy who went on to win ran the category titled Vietnam. Which is more indicative of intelligence? At one point in the game he correctly identified a yurt. A yurt is a circular tent of felt or skins on a collapsible framework, used by nomads in Mongolia, something I had not heard of before, or for that matter, since. Which one of us was smarter? I do not know. I do know which one of us ended up richer, and it wasn’t me.
The other day I saw a short video talking about just how much information is being generated these days. Here is one statement from the video: It is estimated 1.5 exabytes (1.5 times 10 to the eighteenth power) of unique new information will be generated worldwide this year. One of those unique and new pieces of information must have been the word “exabyte” because my computer doesn’t recognize it. What the video failed to say was probably eight-tenths of that unique new information will revolve around Britney Spears going in and out of rehab, hairstyles on American Idol, and indispensable information for guys who play fantasy baseball like Zach Greinke’s earned run average with runners in scoring position and less than two outs, on odd numbered Wednesday afternoons.
Another factoid from the video said: It is estimated a week’s worth of the New York Times contains more information than a person was likely to come across in a lifetime in the 18th Century. Average citizens of the 18th Century were still required to focus more on things that kept them alive (those Frenchmen hiding behind that hill would like to shoot any Englishman coming this way) as opposed to information about Edward “Lumpy” Stevens the first great bowler in the history of English Cricket. (I did not make that up. It is an actual unique piece of new information generated sometime during the 18th Century.) I wonder what his earned run average with runners in scoring position and less than two outs, on odd numbered Wednesdays was.
What information people really ought to know is the crux of the matter. (I am showing off what I think is important by using words like crux.) The phrase thrown around education circles is essential information. What do people truly have to know? Who gets to decide what people have to know? With the legislation of No Child Left Behind the government gets to decide what kids have to know.
Does this frighten anyone else? The arbiter of intellect is the same group of people who decided Kansas needed not just an Official State Bird and an Official State Song but also an Official State Soil.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Virtual Grief for a Cyber-Buddy
Dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum. The previous was a phonetic representation of a funeral dirge, not adjectives describing a line of eleven people waiting overnight to buy tickets for “Dukes of Hazzard – The Musical.” The funeral dirge was played in honor of my trusty laptop computer which went to cyber heaven this week at the oh so young age of five years old. It surprised me how hard I took the news. Technology has always been a fun thing, but I thought I could take it or leave it.
I am content with four channels on my television. I am usually patient enough to cook without a microwave. We went without an answering machine on our phone for months until a friend became frustrated and bought us one. The best example of my technological indifference has to be my cell phone. The one I have at the moment has been mine for eight months. I have received sixty phone calls. The phone keeps track. I don’t. That works out to seven and a half calls a month. My most technologically advanced friend relies on his cell phone like a philodendron relies on photosynthesis. Seven and a half calls an hour would be slow, like glacier moving across Norway slow, for him.
There are some things I know how to do to “clean-up” the computer a little bit. I clicked the proper icons to start the defrag process (see I know some computer jargon). I then parked myself at my desk, staring at the little bar with the label stating 2% complete. I remained motionless as it stayed at 2% complete for about nine minutes. This would be followed by a short rock back in my chair and a glance at the heavens in gratitude when it jumped to 3% complete. To my family walking by and checking on me (over the next few hours) it appeared I was sitting shiva for a deceased family member. It looked like any second I would break into a Hebrew chant imploring some sort of mitzvah from the Moses of Microsoft. This, in truth, was as likely as any of my computer skills making a difference.
I think I was taking it hard because my computer is one of the only things in our house which I can call mine. As any husband and father can understand sharing is a matter of everyday life. From sharing a sip or three from my bottle of pop to a favorite t-shirt being turned into a nightgown for a little girl, dads share most things. I don’t mind sharing, but it didn’t seem to go the other direction very often. Think about it. If my wife pilfers from my closet no one at the store will bat an eye. On the other hand, if I wear her new culottes and wedgies I will find myself embarrassing my family all the way back to colonial days on the Maury Povich Show. I have already embarrassed my wife because I just implied she has culottes and wedgies in her closet, which are about thirty years out of date (she does not).
After I tried the few things I knew how to do as my computer choked and gasped, I called my sister, who works on computers for a living, and got a prognosis from her. Then Seth, my technologically advanced friend, took a crack at it and declared it most likely a goner. My next step was something like organ donation. I took the computer (or in its present state, the very heavy rectangular Frisbee) to a computer whisperer to get some files and things removed like a liver and a kidney for the organ bank.
Alan, the computer psychic, was most encouraging. He went right to work dissecting and re-connecting the hard drive. As is the case with most guys good with computers he was an adept multi-tasker. He answered the phone as he was working with my computer cadaver and began to help another customer. At least I assume he was helping someone, because all the information he was spouting was as coherent to me as a group of sailors leaving a Shanghai waterfront bar at four in the morning. This is what was said: “Your IP address and your sonic wall may not be interfacing this could cause the little pixies who run the printer to declare war with the tiny hamsters in control of the power supply which usually means the Grand High Vizier of the Operating System gets ticked off and moves to the Bahamas,” or words to that effect. I could be wrong. My mind started to wander.
I am content with four channels on my television. I am usually patient enough to cook without a microwave. We went without an answering machine on our phone for months until a friend became frustrated and bought us one. The best example of my technological indifference has to be my cell phone. The one I have at the moment has been mine for eight months. I have received sixty phone calls. The phone keeps track. I don’t. That works out to seven and a half calls a month. My most technologically advanced friend relies on his cell phone like a philodendron relies on photosynthesis. Seven and a half calls an hour would be slow, like glacier moving across Norway slow, for him.
There are some things I know how to do to “clean-up” the computer a little bit. I clicked the proper icons to start the defrag process (see I know some computer jargon). I then parked myself at my desk, staring at the little bar with the label stating 2% complete. I remained motionless as it stayed at 2% complete for about nine minutes. This would be followed by a short rock back in my chair and a glance at the heavens in gratitude when it jumped to 3% complete. To my family walking by and checking on me (over the next few hours) it appeared I was sitting shiva for a deceased family member. It looked like any second I would break into a Hebrew chant imploring some sort of mitzvah from the Moses of Microsoft. This, in truth, was as likely as any of my computer skills making a difference.
I think I was taking it hard because my computer is one of the only things in our house which I can call mine. As any husband and father can understand sharing is a matter of everyday life. From sharing a sip or three from my bottle of pop to a favorite t-shirt being turned into a nightgown for a little girl, dads share most things. I don’t mind sharing, but it didn’t seem to go the other direction very often. Think about it. If my wife pilfers from my closet no one at the store will bat an eye. On the other hand, if I wear her new culottes and wedgies I will find myself embarrassing my family all the way back to colonial days on the Maury Povich Show. I have already embarrassed my wife because I just implied she has culottes and wedgies in her closet, which are about thirty years out of date (she does not).
After I tried the few things I knew how to do as my computer choked and gasped, I called my sister, who works on computers for a living, and got a prognosis from her. Then Seth, my technologically advanced friend, took a crack at it and declared it most likely a goner. My next step was something like organ donation. I took the computer (or in its present state, the very heavy rectangular Frisbee) to a computer whisperer to get some files and things removed like a liver and a kidney for the organ bank.
Alan, the computer psychic, was most encouraging. He went right to work dissecting and re-connecting the hard drive. As is the case with most guys good with computers he was an adept multi-tasker. He answered the phone as he was working with my computer cadaver and began to help another customer. At least I assume he was helping someone, because all the information he was spouting was as coherent to me as a group of sailors leaving a Shanghai waterfront bar at four in the morning. This is what was said: “Your IP address and your sonic wall may not be interfacing this could cause the little pixies who run the printer to declare war with the tiny hamsters in control of the power supply which usually means the Grand High Vizier of the Operating System gets ticked off and moves to the Bahamas,” or words to that effect. I could be wrong. My mind started to wander.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Driving through the generation gap
I am fully aware that I am on one side of the generation gap and my children are on the other. This past weekend that gap was illustrated over and over again causing me to think of it as less of a gap and more of a chasm, an abyss, a disparity larger than the difference between the number of people who have been informed all about Anna Nicole Smith’s life and death and the number of people who wanted to be informed about Anna Nicole Smith’s life and death.
As a birthday present my oldest daughter, Emilyjane, wanted to take a trip. So 8:00 AM Friday we packed the minivan. My first observation wasn’t so much a generation gap but rather a gap between the genders. The plan was to return home less than 48 hours after departure. I had one bag which was about the size of an overweight dachshund. Each of the three girls had bags and extras which made the minivan necessary for cargo, not just for comfort.
The first leg of the trip was a little on the short side. We went three blocks to get yet something else from one of the girl’s houses. I do not know what we needed, but I didn’t feel the need to ask, discretion being the better part of parenthood. We had been on the road a total of eighty-five seconds so when we stopped it only made sense that all three girls piled out of the van to go to the bathroom.
This trio of girls is a group any parent would be proud of, but I still don’t understand their behaviors. The first thing I noticed was symptomatic of the birth order theory of personality. One girl is an only child and proceeded to fall asleep as soon as we started rolling. It was obvious being an only child she thought it was natural to sleep on top of whatever, or in this case, whoever, was handy. My daughter is the oldest of three, so she thought it was only natural that she not be slept upon. The last girl is the baby of three children so she thought it was par for the course to have someone sleep on her. I guess it all worked out in the end.
As a father I have become very adept (or as the kids would say, I have mad skills) at closing my senses to what is going on in the back of the minivan while driving long distances. This was put to the test when it came to the radio stations the girls preferred. I had to resort to my i-Pod to keep from pulling my rapidly graying hair out of my head.
Let me give you examples of the different tastes in music and see which side you are on. My earphones were playing Sammy Davis Jr. singing “Begin the Beguine.” Here is a snippet of the lyrics: “What moments divine, what rapture serene, Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted, And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted, I know but too well what they mean.” Here are words that tell of love lost, words which paint pictures, words which require having scored above a 6 on your SAT’s to understand. Now a short description of what the girls were tuned to. I do not know the artist (and I use that term loosely), but it sounded like the defensive linemen from the entire NFC North were calling out the words, rather than melodiously interpreting them. These men were saying “Walk it out.” They proceeded to say it multiple times. How many times? Take the number of times any reasonable person would repeat any one phrase and then multiply by seven. You’d be close.
I was traveling with three teenage girls so of course part of our time was spent in a mall the size of a third world country. We had been inside the building, maybe three minutes, when a fully uniformed member of the Tulsa police force approached the girls. I was about five paces behind which was preferred by both them and me. The police officer asked the girls where a particular store was located. This made sense to me. If you want to know where something is in the outer reaches of the universe you ask Stephan Hawking. If you want to know the lay out of a mall you ask a teenage girl. I was about to step up and say we were from out of town so we couldn’t help, when all three girls turned and pointed to exactly where the police officer wanted to go.
It was downright eerie.
As a birthday present my oldest daughter, Emilyjane, wanted to take a trip. So 8:00 AM Friday we packed the minivan. My first observation wasn’t so much a generation gap but rather a gap between the genders. The plan was to return home less than 48 hours after departure. I had one bag which was about the size of an overweight dachshund. Each of the three girls had bags and extras which made the minivan necessary for cargo, not just for comfort.
The first leg of the trip was a little on the short side. We went three blocks to get yet something else from one of the girl’s houses. I do not know what we needed, but I didn’t feel the need to ask, discretion being the better part of parenthood. We had been on the road a total of eighty-five seconds so when we stopped it only made sense that all three girls piled out of the van to go to the bathroom.
This trio of girls is a group any parent would be proud of, but I still don’t understand their behaviors. The first thing I noticed was symptomatic of the birth order theory of personality. One girl is an only child and proceeded to fall asleep as soon as we started rolling. It was obvious being an only child she thought it was natural to sleep on top of whatever, or in this case, whoever, was handy. My daughter is the oldest of three, so she thought it was only natural that she not be slept upon. The last girl is the baby of three children so she thought it was par for the course to have someone sleep on her. I guess it all worked out in the end.
As a father I have become very adept (or as the kids would say, I have mad skills) at closing my senses to what is going on in the back of the minivan while driving long distances. This was put to the test when it came to the radio stations the girls preferred. I had to resort to my i-Pod to keep from pulling my rapidly graying hair out of my head.
Let me give you examples of the different tastes in music and see which side you are on. My earphones were playing Sammy Davis Jr. singing “Begin the Beguine.” Here is a snippet of the lyrics: “What moments divine, what rapture serene, Till clouds came along to disperse the joys we had tasted, And now when I hear people curse the chance that was wasted, I know but too well what they mean.” Here are words that tell of love lost, words which paint pictures, words which require having scored above a 6 on your SAT’s to understand. Now a short description of what the girls were tuned to. I do not know the artist (and I use that term loosely), but it sounded like the defensive linemen from the entire NFC North were calling out the words, rather than melodiously interpreting them. These men were saying “Walk it out.” They proceeded to say it multiple times. How many times? Take the number of times any reasonable person would repeat any one phrase and then multiply by seven. You’d be close.
I was traveling with three teenage girls so of course part of our time was spent in a mall the size of a third world country. We had been inside the building, maybe three minutes, when a fully uniformed member of the Tulsa police force approached the girls. I was about five paces behind which was preferred by both them and me. The police officer asked the girls where a particular store was located. This made sense to me. If you want to know where something is in the outer reaches of the universe you ask Stephan Hawking. If you want to know the lay out of a mall you ask a teenage girl. I was about to step up and say we were from out of town so we couldn’t help, when all three girls turned and pointed to exactly where the police officer wanted to go.
It was downright eerie.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
FIve Percent of the Recommended Daily Allowance of Riboflavin
Being a healthy person is more difficult than it should be. I am over forty years old, so I am supposed to be aware of what my body is saying. The problem is when my body is telling me to put down the candy bar and have a mess of broccoli; it is speaking in some arcane dialect of an indigenous tribe from the darkest recesses of the Amazon rain forest. Okay, I lied. I can understand what my body is telling me. I just don’t like what it is saying.
To accurately characterize the way my body talks to me I would have to say it is more like peeved grumbling than whimsical extemporizing. This happens most often after I have been doing physical labor for an extended amount of time (extended for me is anything which is longer than the attention span of your typical three year old watching C-Span, heck anyone watching C-Span). Shoveling snow a few weeks ago caused my body to not only grumble but to use words I cannot print in a newspaper which is not edited by Lenny Bruce.
One of the big problems with staying healthy as you get older is there is a ton of false advertising when you are younger. A double cheeseburger with onion rings and French fries followed by a chocolate shake was normal for me in college. It didn’t cause any change to my waistline and heartburn was a myth akin to Bigfoot, heard of but never experienced firsthand. No one ever told me that those things accumulated over time and when I turned 30 I’d wake up to find the size 32’s I had worn since high school were less likely to button up than Rosie O’Donnell’s mouth at a Donald Trump awards dinner. Also, the income I threw into fast food would have been much better utilized acquiring stock in the Tums Corporation because I now consume more of them than the number of Tic Tacs consumed at the 29th Annual Gilroy Garlic Festival in Gilroy, California. (There is such a thing. I looked it up.)
The other day I decided I needed to look into what foods were best for enhancing mood. If I am not totally healthy maybe I can at least be happy as I slowly damage various parts of my body. So I went to “The Google” (as President Bush would say) and did some research. I found an article on WebMD which described nutritional ways to manage mood. I hoped it would say Dr. Pepper and cherry Danishes were the secret to creating a happy individual. Unfortunately, the advice was stuff which would make me healthy, no hot fudge or mass quantities of Fritos.
Point one was to maintain stable blood sugar. Sugar, cool, I like sugar. The doctor-type people went on to explain their idea of sugar was fruit and whole grains. Where did these guys go to medical school? Sugar is Twinkies. Sugar is Ding Dongs. Sugar is Ho Hos. Sugar has happy names with a certain sense of onomatopoeiatic (I think I just made that word up) flights of imagination.
The experts also said to exercise 20 minutes a day to enhance mood. That is counter-intuitive. “Sir, we would like you to run on a treadmill for twenty minutes so you end up at the same place you started out, causing sweat to pour from various parts of your body, which will offend the olfactory senses of anyone within fifteen feet of you, after which you may very well think your legs are made of molten lead because they burn like crazy and you are not able to lift them without using your hand and arm muscles to help, and we will only charge you fifty bucks a month for the privilege.” Sure, that would cheer anybody up.
There was a brief glimmer of hope. The article said not to follow an extremely low-fat diet. This is because fat is needed for anti-depression. Eureka! In order to fight depression I need doughnuts! My glee was brought to an abrupt halt. They said I needed healthy omega-3 fats which were found in flaxseeds.
This called for another quick spin on the internet. Wikipedia describes Flaxseed as follows: It is an erect annual plant growing to 120 cm tall, with slender stems. The leaves are glaucous green, slender lanceolate, 2-4 cm long and 3 mm broad. The flowers are pure pale blue, 1.5-2.5 cm diameter, with five petals. The fruit is a round, dry capsule 5-9 mm diameter, containing several glossy brown seeds shaped like an apple pip, 4-7 mm long. Mmmmm, mmmm, don’t that sound like somethin’ straight from Aunt Bea’s kitchen.
To accurately characterize the way my body talks to me I would have to say it is more like peeved grumbling than whimsical extemporizing. This happens most often after I have been doing physical labor for an extended amount of time (extended for me is anything which is longer than the attention span of your typical three year old watching C-Span, heck anyone watching C-Span). Shoveling snow a few weeks ago caused my body to not only grumble but to use words I cannot print in a newspaper which is not edited by Lenny Bruce.
One of the big problems with staying healthy as you get older is there is a ton of false advertising when you are younger. A double cheeseburger with onion rings and French fries followed by a chocolate shake was normal for me in college. It didn’t cause any change to my waistline and heartburn was a myth akin to Bigfoot, heard of but never experienced firsthand. No one ever told me that those things accumulated over time and when I turned 30 I’d wake up to find the size 32’s I had worn since high school were less likely to button up than Rosie O’Donnell’s mouth at a Donald Trump awards dinner. Also, the income I threw into fast food would have been much better utilized acquiring stock in the Tums Corporation because I now consume more of them than the number of Tic Tacs consumed at the 29th Annual Gilroy Garlic Festival in Gilroy, California. (There is such a thing. I looked it up.)
The other day I decided I needed to look into what foods were best for enhancing mood. If I am not totally healthy maybe I can at least be happy as I slowly damage various parts of my body. So I went to “The Google” (as President Bush would say) and did some research. I found an article on WebMD which described nutritional ways to manage mood. I hoped it would say Dr. Pepper and cherry Danishes were the secret to creating a happy individual. Unfortunately, the advice was stuff which would make me healthy, no hot fudge or mass quantities of Fritos.
Point one was to maintain stable blood sugar. Sugar, cool, I like sugar. The doctor-type people went on to explain their idea of sugar was fruit and whole grains. Where did these guys go to medical school? Sugar is Twinkies. Sugar is Ding Dongs. Sugar is Ho Hos. Sugar has happy names with a certain sense of onomatopoeiatic (I think I just made that word up) flights of imagination.
The experts also said to exercise 20 minutes a day to enhance mood. That is counter-intuitive. “Sir, we would like you to run on a treadmill for twenty minutes so you end up at the same place you started out, causing sweat to pour from various parts of your body, which will offend the olfactory senses of anyone within fifteen feet of you, after which you may very well think your legs are made of molten lead because they burn like crazy and you are not able to lift them without using your hand and arm muscles to help, and we will only charge you fifty bucks a month for the privilege.” Sure, that would cheer anybody up.
There was a brief glimmer of hope. The article said not to follow an extremely low-fat diet. This is because fat is needed for anti-depression. Eureka! In order to fight depression I need doughnuts! My glee was brought to an abrupt halt. They said I needed healthy omega-3 fats which were found in flaxseeds.
This called for another quick spin on the internet. Wikipedia describes Flaxseed as follows: It is an erect annual plant growing to 120 cm tall, with slender stems. The leaves are glaucous green, slender lanceolate, 2-4 cm long and 3 mm broad. The flowers are pure pale blue, 1.5-2.5 cm diameter, with five petals. The fruit is a round, dry capsule 5-9 mm diameter, containing several glossy brown seeds shaped like an apple pip, 4-7 mm long. Mmmmm, mmmm, don’t that sound like somethin’ straight from Aunt Bea’s kitchen.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Warning: This Blog May Be Hazardous to Your Health (I don't know how, but it might)
I am arriving late for many of my appointments. Why? Every time I get into my car I have too many things to do. There is a sign on the visor which says, “IMPORTANT Before driving, read the label on the other side of the visor.” For some reason I am compelled to do as I’m told. Then on the other side of the visor it says, “IMPORTANT FOR YOUR SAFETY Following these instructions will greatly improve your chances of avoiding severe injury in case of an accident.” Since avoiding severe injury is right towards the top of my “To Do List” each and every day, I read it most carefully.
That alone would not make me late. The problem is at the bottom of the visor it instructs the driver to consult a section in the owner’s guide. By the time I read all that too, I might as well go back into the house because I am now horribly late for whatever compelled me to get into the car in the first place.
I know it is a dangerous world we live in. If you look around there are warnings everywhere. Coffee cups at fast food restaurants point out the contents are hot. Two liter bottles of soda point out the contents are under pressure and they should be opened with caution. I suppose the next thing will be warning labels on warning labels, after all you can get a wicked paper cut off of some of those things.
A cursory inspection of my house revealed so many imminent dangers it is a wonder I haven’t met my insurance deductible five times over. I found a hand held air pump. I purchased it to pump up a basketball. There on the side in bold red letters it reads, “Warning: designed and intended for inflating purposes only.” This is where the warning label truly needs a warning label. It would read, “Warning after reading this warning label you run the risk of wasting the next hour and half of your life trying to think of things you could use this pump for other than inflating things and what would be the intrinsic danger involved with such unauthorized activity.”
My personal favorite warning labels feature the stick figure icon of a person dealing with the worst case scenario. A while back I was helping a friend paint her house. We were using scaffolding to get to the very topmost parts. Now I am not one of the bravest folks in the land so there was no need to warn me about the danger of falling off a platform forty feet off the ground. I was so aware of the danger of falling off a platform forty feet off the ground I was often seen simply sitting on the plank and griping the iron bars so tightly my wedding ring spot welded in place. It was as I sat there, immobile due to the fear of gravity driving my head into the flower bed below, that I noticed the warning label. It not only had words describing the precautions which should be taken but it also had that poor little cartoon stick figure guy falling backwards off the little cartoon stick figure scaffolding to his little cartoon stick figure death. I am surprised there were not little cartoon stick figure pallbearers carrying a little cartoon stick figure casket past a little cartoon stick figure weeping widow as well.
Since this poor guy goes through so much in his selfless quest to help the rest of us stay safe, I decided he needed more of an identity in order to create some empathy. He is obviously bald. This may be because nobody draws hair on stick figures or it may be because he has set himself on fire so many times by not following all warning labels on cans of aerosol furniture polish. Anyway, I have named him Yul after one of the most famous bald guys ever, Yul Brenner.
Not only does the name Yul reflect his lack of hair, but it also helps him get his point across to the public. If you do not heed the warning labels Yul suffer severe injury, Yul be visited by ambulance drivers, and Yul never win the lawsuit because the insurance company lawyers will make sure Yul appear to be an imbecile of epic proportion in the eyes of the jury because you can’t even read the label telling you that using the hand held air pump to give a constipated kinkajou an enema is an unauthorized activity, etc. etc. etc….
That alone would not make me late. The problem is at the bottom of the visor it instructs the driver to consult a section in the owner’s guide. By the time I read all that too, I might as well go back into the house because I am now horribly late for whatever compelled me to get into the car in the first place.
I know it is a dangerous world we live in. If you look around there are warnings everywhere. Coffee cups at fast food restaurants point out the contents are hot. Two liter bottles of soda point out the contents are under pressure and they should be opened with caution. I suppose the next thing will be warning labels on warning labels, after all you can get a wicked paper cut off of some of those things.
A cursory inspection of my house revealed so many imminent dangers it is a wonder I haven’t met my insurance deductible five times over. I found a hand held air pump. I purchased it to pump up a basketball. There on the side in bold red letters it reads, “Warning: designed and intended for inflating purposes only.” This is where the warning label truly needs a warning label. It would read, “Warning after reading this warning label you run the risk of wasting the next hour and half of your life trying to think of things you could use this pump for other than inflating things and what would be the intrinsic danger involved with such unauthorized activity.”
My personal favorite warning labels feature the stick figure icon of a person dealing with the worst case scenario. A while back I was helping a friend paint her house. We were using scaffolding to get to the very topmost parts. Now I am not one of the bravest folks in the land so there was no need to warn me about the danger of falling off a platform forty feet off the ground. I was so aware of the danger of falling off a platform forty feet off the ground I was often seen simply sitting on the plank and griping the iron bars so tightly my wedding ring spot welded in place. It was as I sat there, immobile due to the fear of gravity driving my head into the flower bed below, that I noticed the warning label. It not only had words describing the precautions which should be taken but it also had that poor little cartoon stick figure guy falling backwards off the little cartoon stick figure scaffolding to his little cartoon stick figure death. I am surprised there were not little cartoon stick figure pallbearers carrying a little cartoon stick figure casket past a little cartoon stick figure weeping widow as well.
Since this poor guy goes through so much in his selfless quest to help the rest of us stay safe, I decided he needed more of an identity in order to create some empathy. He is obviously bald. This may be because nobody draws hair on stick figures or it may be because he has set himself on fire so many times by not following all warning labels on cans of aerosol furniture polish. Anyway, I have named him Yul after one of the most famous bald guys ever, Yul Brenner.
Not only does the name Yul reflect his lack of hair, but it also helps him get his point across to the public. If you do not heed the warning labels Yul suffer severe injury, Yul be visited by ambulance drivers, and Yul never win the lawsuit because the insurance company lawyers will make sure Yul appear to be an imbecile of epic proportion in the eyes of the jury because you can’t even read the label telling you that using the hand held air pump to give a constipated kinkajou an enema is an unauthorized activity, etc. etc. etc….
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
I don't want it all...just the good stuff
“Greed is good,” was a battle cry of the late 1980’s made famous by Michael Douglas’s uber-rich and powerful Gordon Gekko in Oliver Stone’s film Wall Street. For some reason Mr. Douglas chose to play the role sporting a hairdo he received when he took a wrong turn at the strip mall and ended up at Jiffy Lube instead of Super Cuts. It has been twenty years since that film hit the multiplexes of the land and it is no longer cool to wear your hair like that (note to Pat Riley) nor to overtly claim one of the seven deadly sins is actually a virtue. It is, however, still ingrained in most every American to want more than he or she has at the moment.
This is proven on a nightly basis on every “reality” television show on every network. It must be greed driving the people on American Idol who have the same chance of having a song played on the radio as my son’s guinea pig has of winning the Kentucky Derby (she has a tendency to drift too wide of the rail on the last furlong). It surely can’t be any reasonable semblance of an awareness of one’s own talent. When these people sing in the shower the soap on a rope hangs itself.
Greed must be the motivating factor behind anyone signing up to compete on Survivor. There would have to be a GUARANTEE I would be given a million dollars (not a CHANCE amongst 15 other pathetic graspers at fame…sorry, competitors) if they wanted me to wade through leech infested stagnant ponds, eat rats on a stick, or go without a shower for 48 hours. I have a very sensitive scalp and I need to maintain my proper shampooing regimen.
People who want to improve their lot in life through hard work are not greedy. People who utilize special talents to earn large amounts of money are not necessarily greedy. People who refuse to split the last slice of pizza are. I do not think of myself as greedy, heck you can have the entire Canadian bacon and pineapple if you want it, but I sure wouldn’t mind having more money. I would even settle for more free time and less stress, which can sometimes be a by-product of more money.
Being Bill Gates rich or even Paul McCartney rich is not what I want. It doesn’t bother me to drive a used minivan. However, last week when the minivan had a flat tire I wished I was rich enough to call “the guy,” have it taken care of and just write the check. When you have something akin to surplus money you can always call “the guy.” I do not know who “the guy” is but he can fix the flat tire, unclog the sink, remove the viruses from your computer, and if the price is right, “the guy” has a cousin in New Jersey who can “Jimmy Hoffa” the person of your choice.
Many people would tell me I need to be grateful for what I have. When I grumble and grouse about things which really are rather unimportant my wife often says, “It could be worse.” I prefer not to subscribe to the “It could be worse” school of optimism. Of course it could be worse. It could always be worse. One of Job’s buddies from the Bible could have said “It could be worse” and it could have been. I mean with all those boils it would have been worse if he had been married to Lot’s wife. Can you imagine coming home from a hard day of questioning God’s existence with open sores all over your body and hugging a pillar of salt? Ouch.
Just because “it could be worse” is no reason to be content with the way things are at the moment. As the old words of wisdom say: Some people look at the world as it is and ask “Why?” Others look at the world as it could be and ask “Why not?” Yet others look at the world around them and ask “Why can’t I have the same chances other people have, really, I have as much talent as Jason Alexander, for goodness sake, and not only will he receive money from the never ending reruns of Seinfeld, but just because he’s kind of famous he gets a children’s book published even though there is no reason to believe he has any talent as a writer of children’s books or even deserves to have a publisher look at his manuscript, but because he was a whiny self-centered nebbish on a hit sitcom he gets to do what ever he wants.” Or maybe that’s just me.
This is proven on a nightly basis on every “reality” television show on every network. It must be greed driving the people on American Idol who have the same chance of having a song played on the radio as my son’s guinea pig has of winning the Kentucky Derby (she has a tendency to drift too wide of the rail on the last furlong). It surely can’t be any reasonable semblance of an awareness of one’s own talent. When these people sing in the shower the soap on a rope hangs itself.
Greed must be the motivating factor behind anyone signing up to compete on Survivor. There would have to be a GUARANTEE I would be given a million dollars (not a CHANCE amongst 15 other pathetic graspers at fame…sorry, competitors) if they wanted me to wade through leech infested stagnant ponds, eat rats on a stick, or go without a shower for 48 hours. I have a very sensitive scalp and I need to maintain my proper shampooing regimen.
People who want to improve their lot in life through hard work are not greedy. People who utilize special talents to earn large amounts of money are not necessarily greedy. People who refuse to split the last slice of pizza are. I do not think of myself as greedy, heck you can have the entire Canadian bacon and pineapple if you want it, but I sure wouldn’t mind having more money. I would even settle for more free time and less stress, which can sometimes be a by-product of more money.
Being Bill Gates rich or even Paul McCartney rich is not what I want. It doesn’t bother me to drive a used minivan. However, last week when the minivan had a flat tire I wished I was rich enough to call “the guy,” have it taken care of and just write the check. When you have something akin to surplus money you can always call “the guy.” I do not know who “the guy” is but he can fix the flat tire, unclog the sink, remove the viruses from your computer, and if the price is right, “the guy” has a cousin in New Jersey who can “Jimmy Hoffa” the person of your choice.
Many people would tell me I need to be grateful for what I have. When I grumble and grouse about things which really are rather unimportant my wife often says, “It could be worse.” I prefer not to subscribe to the “It could be worse” school of optimism. Of course it could be worse. It could always be worse. One of Job’s buddies from the Bible could have said “It could be worse” and it could have been. I mean with all those boils it would have been worse if he had been married to Lot’s wife. Can you imagine coming home from a hard day of questioning God’s existence with open sores all over your body and hugging a pillar of salt? Ouch.
Just because “it could be worse” is no reason to be content with the way things are at the moment. As the old words of wisdom say: Some people look at the world as it is and ask “Why?” Others look at the world as it could be and ask “Why not?” Yet others look at the world around them and ask “Why can’t I have the same chances other people have, really, I have as much talent as Jason Alexander, for goodness sake, and not only will he receive money from the never ending reruns of Seinfeld, but just because he’s kind of famous he gets a children’s book published even though there is no reason to believe he has any talent as a writer of children’s books or even deserves to have a publisher look at his manuscript, but because he was a whiny self-centered nebbish on a hit sitcom he gets to do what ever he wants.” Or maybe that’s just me.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Some are more equal than others
At the risk of sounding un-American I have to admit I am finding it harder and harder to buy into the “All men are created equal” precept Mr. Jefferson threw into the Declaration eleven score and ten years ago. Well, when I think about “created” equal it might be viable. As an example let’s take Alan Greenspan and Jimmy Kimmel’s Uncle Frank, they may have started out equal but on down the line some things went a bit haywire. I do not intend to devalue either person, but you cannot say they are equal in many comparable traits.
This great land of ours has always valued the individual. The idea that anyone can grow up to be President is a wonderful thing to tell children. Even though it may have the same merit as telling them “if you keep making that face it will freeze that way” or talking them into doing things they really hate by telling them it builds character. Also, if you spend twenty minutes at any grocery store and you will be able to point out at least a dozen kids you hope will never become president of the local chapter of the Frodo Baggins Fan Club much less of the United States. You know the kind of kid I’m talking about. (Gimme some cookies? Gimme a candy bar? Gimme some gum? Buy me something, buy me something, buy me something.) Actually, if you spend twenty minutes at the national conventions for either party and you will be able to point out at least a dozen candidates you hope will never become president of anything more powerful than the local chapter of the Dan Quayle Fan Club. Once again, you know the type. (Gimme your attention? Gimme your trust? Gimme access to your wallet? Vote for me, vote for me, vote for me.) The problem is the idea of equality has been twisted a bit.
I hate to burst anyone’s bubble, but we are not all equal. Think of it this way. If you require heart surgery it would make much more sense for the person wearing the rubber gloves to be someone who spent more time in med school than playing Super Mario Brothers. This brings to mind a conversation I overheard as I was walking across campus in my undergrad days. One twenty year old hung over guy stops staring at the coed jogging by and says to the other twenty year old hung over guy: “I was going to go with a pre-med major, but I decided to go for business because you can party more.” Now if I became a patient of this man in later years I would not want the last few words I heard as the anesthetic took hold to be: “I was going to us the scalpel but the DeWalt 6.5 Amp Heavy-Duty Variable-Speed Top-Handle Jigsaw sounded much more fun.” Come to think of it if this guy did graduate with a business degree I wouldn’t want my vice president in charge of the long range planning saying to his buddy as they stroll down Wall Street: “I was going to invest the company’s retirement funds in FedEx and Exxon stock but I decided betting the whole thing on Chicago Cubs to win the World Series was more fun.”
Technology has made it possible for anyone to get his or her ideas out to the general public, and I do mean anyone. The world of “blogs” and YouTube means people with the journalistic acumen of Walter Cronkite’s left shoe can tell the world what is happening, whether it actually happened or not. I’m sorry, but I still prefer the information being spread around the countryside be gathered and distributed by people with ethics, intellect, and a conscience. Not by people with a laptop, a modem, and the spelling ability of Walter Cronkite’s right shoe.
It has gotten to the point that even Time Magazine named the nameless “You” as its Person of the Year for 2006. To explain this choice Time editor Lev Grossman wrote, “It’s about the many wresting power from the few and helping one another for nothing and how that will not only change the world, but also change the way the world changes.” However, the previous sentence could be pure bunk because I read it on Wikipedia, a website written by the normal guy on the virtual street, not by stodgy men in horribly out of date clothing who spend hour upon hour researching the accuracy of things before they put them into print for hundreds of thousands of people to read.
Just because Time Magazine named the common man Person of the Year doesn’t mean it’s a positive thing. Josef Stalin was also named Person of the Year, twice!
This great land of ours has always valued the individual. The idea that anyone can grow up to be President is a wonderful thing to tell children. Even though it may have the same merit as telling them “if you keep making that face it will freeze that way” or talking them into doing things they really hate by telling them it builds character. Also, if you spend twenty minutes at any grocery store and you will be able to point out at least a dozen kids you hope will never become president of the local chapter of the Frodo Baggins Fan Club much less of the United States. You know the kind of kid I’m talking about. (Gimme some cookies? Gimme a candy bar? Gimme some gum? Buy me something, buy me something, buy me something.) Actually, if you spend twenty minutes at the national conventions for either party and you will be able to point out at least a dozen candidates you hope will never become president of anything more powerful than the local chapter of the Dan Quayle Fan Club. Once again, you know the type. (Gimme your attention? Gimme your trust? Gimme access to your wallet? Vote for me, vote for me, vote for me.) The problem is the idea of equality has been twisted a bit.
I hate to burst anyone’s bubble, but we are not all equal. Think of it this way. If you require heart surgery it would make much more sense for the person wearing the rubber gloves to be someone who spent more time in med school than playing Super Mario Brothers. This brings to mind a conversation I overheard as I was walking across campus in my undergrad days. One twenty year old hung over guy stops staring at the coed jogging by and says to the other twenty year old hung over guy: “I was going to go with a pre-med major, but I decided to go for business because you can party more.” Now if I became a patient of this man in later years I would not want the last few words I heard as the anesthetic took hold to be: “I was going to us the scalpel but the DeWalt 6.5 Amp Heavy-Duty Variable-Speed Top-Handle Jigsaw sounded much more fun.” Come to think of it if this guy did graduate with a business degree I wouldn’t want my vice president in charge of the long range planning saying to his buddy as they stroll down Wall Street: “I was going to invest the company’s retirement funds in FedEx and Exxon stock but I decided betting the whole thing on Chicago Cubs to win the World Series was more fun.”
Technology has made it possible for anyone to get his or her ideas out to the general public, and I do mean anyone. The world of “blogs” and YouTube means people with the journalistic acumen of Walter Cronkite’s left shoe can tell the world what is happening, whether it actually happened or not. I’m sorry, but I still prefer the information being spread around the countryside be gathered and distributed by people with ethics, intellect, and a conscience. Not by people with a laptop, a modem, and the spelling ability of Walter Cronkite’s right shoe.
It has gotten to the point that even Time Magazine named the nameless “You” as its Person of the Year for 2006. To explain this choice Time editor Lev Grossman wrote, “It’s about the many wresting power from the few and helping one another for nothing and how that will not only change the world, but also change the way the world changes.” However, the previous sentence could be pure bunk because I read it on Wikipedia, a website written by the normal guy on the virtual street, not by stodgy men in horribly out of date clothing who spend hour upon hour researching the accuracy of things before they put them into print for hundreds of thousands of people to read.
Just because Time Magazine named the common man Person of the Year doesn’t mean it’s a positive thing. Josef Stalin was also named Person of the Year, twice!
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Auld Lang Syne of the Apocalypse
May old acquaintance be forgot. Out with the old and in with the new. New and improved. Better tasting plus more cleaning power! Humans always seem to think new, in and of itself, proves better. Well, here we are at the beginning of a “new” year, so following this logic things will be better or at least have increased cleaning power.
Personally, many things went quite well last year. I do not feel the need to throw it aside like a sock with a hole in the toe. Actually, I don’t throw away socks with a hole in the toe. I still hold to my theory stating each pair of socks you own is one more day without having to do laundry. There needs to be two holes in the toe and one in the heel before I think about tossing aside an old sock. Something my wife does not understand, but is willing to tolerate. Which brings me to one of the reasons 2006 was a good year.
I didn’t get divorced. Now those of you who know me need to realize there was never any danger of this happening. The reason I take the time to mark I didn’t get divorced is because my marriage is the best thing in my life and if 2006 was a good year, which it was, my wife is a major contributor to that success. Getting sappy is not in my job description for this column so I will now digress.
One big reason I do not have any problems in my marriage is I am too tired to create any. Infidelity is often cited by couples ending a relationship. If Cheryl Tiegs, (this proves I am out of the “lusting in my heart” stage of life because I had to reach all the way back to when I was thirteen to think of a “hot babe” to use as an example), if Ms. Tiegs offered to make my deepest fantasy come true she would remain fully clothed as she wrote the check getting me out of debt so I could quit my job and sleep until 9 o’clock every morning. Okay, to prove I’m still a red-blooded American man she could write the check while wearing that white mesh swimsuit she wore in Sports Illustrated.
Another example of why 2006 was a good year is 364 days of the year I did not throw up. Everyone can agree that a day without throwing up is always better than a day in which one does throw up. The day I had some sort of virus which caused extreme discomfort was horrible, but it was not self-inflicted. There were times in my youth I ingested a few too many containers of cereal malt beverage and became unwell because of it. That was long ago, just a few years after Cheryl Tiegs lived in my daydreams.
Nowadays the things which threaten my day-to-day health are a result of spending my work days in what amounts to a petrie dish of bacteria and viruses, a school. I have decided there are only two ways to avoid catching any illness when working in a building with six hundred germ incubators (a.k.a children). The first is to arrive each day wearing one of those suits the NASA guys wore when they invaded Elliot’s house looking for ET. This makes it very hard to sit at my desk and the gloves make it impossible to type discipline referrals into the computer. The other way is to bar students from the building. This greatly reduces the risk of being exposed to germs and it eliminates the need to write discipline referrals as well, two for the price of one, cool.
Looking forward to 2007 I have to admit I have my worries. Even though the Chiefs got into the playoffs which required Kansas City winning, Tennessee losing, Cincinnati losing, Denver losing, the moon moving into the seventh house, Jupiter aligning with Mars, causing peace to guide the planets, and love to steer the stars. There are other indications the world may be headed for disaster. Not the least of which is “Armed and Famous.”
Ad after ad for this “reality” show was displayed as I watched the game. If handing an ex-professional wrestler (Trish Stratus), a has-been television heartthrob (Erik Estrada), the son of a whacked out rock star (Jack Osbourne), a little person who made his living being publicly humiliated by someone named Johnny Knoxville (Jason Acuna a.k.a. Wee Man), and a member of the most famously dysfunctional family of all time (LaToya Jackson) real guns and badges is not a sign of the apocalypse I suggest someone study the Book of Revelations a bit more closely.
Personally, many things went quite well last year. I do not feel the need to throw it aside like a sock with a hole in the toe. Actually, I don’t throw away socks with a hole in the toe. I still hold to my theory stating each pair of socks you own is one more day without having to do laundry. There needs to be two holes in the toe and one in the heel before I think about tossing aside an old sock. Something my wife does not understand, but is willing to tolerate. Which brings me to one of the reasons 2006 was a good year.
I didn’t get divorced. Now those of you who know me need to realize there was never any danger of this happening. The reason I take the time to mark I didn’t get divorced is because my marriage is the best thing in my life and if 2006 was a good year, which it was, my wife is a major contributor to that success. Getting sappy is not in my job description for this column so I will now digress.
One big reason I do not have any problems in my marriage is I am too tired to create any. Infidelity is often cited by couples ending a relationship. If Cheryl Tiegs, (this proves I am out of the “lusting in my heart” stage of life because I had to reach all the way back to when I was thirteen to think of a “hot babe” to use as an example), if Ms. Tiegs offered to make my deepest fantasy come true she would remain fully clothed as she wrote the check getting me out of debt so I could quit my job and sleep until 9 o’clock every morning. Okay, to prove I’m still a red-blooded American man she could write the check while wearing that white mesh swimsuit she wore in Sports Illustrated.
Another example of why 2006 was a good year is 364 days of the year I did not throw up. Everyone can agree that a day without throwing up is always better than a day in which one does throw up. The day I had some sort of virus which caused extreme discomfort was horrible, but it was not self-inflicted. There were times in my youth I ingested a few too many containers of cereal malt beverage and became unwell because of it. That was long ago, just a few years after Cheryl Tiegs lived in my daydreams.
Nowadays the things which threaten my day-to-day health are a result of spending my work days in what amounts to a petrie dish of bacteria and viruses, a school. I have decided there are only two ways to avoid catching any illness when working in a building with six hundred germ incubators (a.k.a children). The first is to arrive each day wearing one of those suits the NASA guys wore when they invaded Elliot’s house looking for ET. This makes it very hard to sit at my desk and the gloves make it impossible to type discipline referrals into the computer. The other way is to bar students from the building. This greatly reduces the risk of being exposed to germs and it eliminates the need to write discipline referrals as well, two for the price of one, cool.
Looking forward to 2007 I have to admit I have my worries. Even though the Chiefs got into the playoffs which required Kansas City winning, Tennessee losing, Cincinnati losing, Denver losing, the moon moving into the seventh house, Jupiter aligning with Mars, causing peace to guide the planets, and love to steer the stars. There are other indications the world may be headed for disaster. Not the least of which is “Armed and Famous.”
Ad after ad for this “reality” show was displayed as I watched the game. If handing an ex-professional wrestler (Trish Stratus), a has-been television heartthrob (Erik Estrada), the son of a whacked out rock star (Jack Osbourne), a little person who made his living being publicly humiliated by someone named Johnny Knoxville (Jason Acuna a.k.a. Wee Man), and a member of the most famously dysfunctional family of all time (LaToya Jackson) real guns and badges is not a sign of the apocalypse I suggest someone study the Book of Revelations a bit more closely.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Deck the Halls with Boughs of Hollywood
I finally accomplished writing a column two weeks in row. This should appear in the Globe December 13th.
Driving down the street the other night I saw one of those inflatable snowmen in someone’s yard. These things are all over the country this time of year. However, the image in front of me was one which made it clear I was in southwestern Kansas. The snowman was bent so low to the ground he looked like he was tossing his icicles all over the grass. Inflatable snowmen are not tougher than the December Kansas wind. It’s good to be home.
As a young man I spent one Christmas season living in Santa Monica, California. Even with the name Santa in my mailing address the Christmas spirit was hard to muster. I worked in a mall, the repository of all that is tacky and sentimental for any holiday season, yet I still didn’t feel like the geese were getting fat. (It didn’t help that instead of hearing Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole’s mellifluous tones for some reason a pair of street performers were constantly dancing to Eddie Murphy’s “Party All the Time” in front of the bookstore which employed me.) Living six blocks from the beach is great in June and July, but after Thanksgiving the only tide I want to be concerned with is one of the Yule variety.
The Midwesterner out of Kansas feeling was brought home with stark realism one afternoon in mid-December. I had driven into Hollywood to do some Christmas shopping. (Tacky touristy items have an allure as stocking stuffers.) I came out of a store and looked to my left and saw Santa Claus ringing a bell standing next to a black pot. That’s not odd. The problem was he was wearing short pants! They were red with white fur trim, but Santa was wearing short pants! That is like Perry Como singing “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” That’s like Currier and Ives painting a picture of the Arabian Desert complete with camels and Bedouins. That’s like Rudolph having rhinoplasty which rivals Michael Jackson’s. That is like Santa Claus wearing short pants! Oh, sorry that’s what started this whole thing. I lost track. See how completely wrong it is?
Bermuda Santa wasn’t all. Soon after that shock I heard the convivial ringing of sleigh bells. Ahh, this is more like it. I looked onto Hollywood Boulevard and saw a pair of exhausted donkeys with bits of wood tied to their heads as antlers. While pathetic, I could live with it. You’d think in the very heart of make-believe and special effects someone could have come up something better than chair legs haphazardly attached to hooved critters to create fake reindeer. What made me want to hop the next sleigh to Kansas happened next. The donkeys were pulling a wagon with a dozen or so little kids sitting in it, southern California’s version of a hayrack ride, I guess. These little ones were not all bundled up singing Jingle Bells at the top of their lungs. Nope, they were riding along in silence. I noticed one little boy with a glint in his eyes. Maybe this guy had visions of sugar plums dancing in his head. Maybe he was dreaming of the Red Ryder BB gun he hoped Santa would deliver. Maybe a Lionel train set was steaming around the Christmas tree in his imagination. Then again, maybe not. I looked behind me to see what had his attention. He was staring at a window display, not a Macy’s window display from “Miracle on 34th Street.” Nope, it was a window display from “Sleazy on Hollywood and Vine.” It was the Frederick’s of Hollywood holiday panorama of unmentionables. I don’t remember anything else about the wagon. I was distracted for a while.
Growing up in a part of the world where Christmas is cold and even occasionally white allows me to buy into the images used in most all media versions of the holiday. What if I had grown up in southern California? All my memories would be of Santa in short pants and underwear mannequins. That would be sad. A kid I knew out there was eighteen years old and had never seen snow fall from the sky. She had seen it in movies and on television, but she had to take other people’s word for it. Snow falling from the sky is as mythical to a Santa Monica High School student as intellectual lyrics in a rap song is to anyone over forty. A southern California kid dreaming of a white Christmas is as likely as Snoop Dogg alluding to Jean-Paul Sartre’s seminal work “Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology” in his most recent release, “Kickin’ it with Kierkegaard.”
Christopher Pyle wishes everyone a wonderful holiday season, and points out the Grinch is pure existential myth. One Christmas he pushes the huge sack of Whoville Christmas trappings up the mountain only to find the next Christmas he must push it up the mountain again.
Driving down the street the other night I saw one of those inflatable snowmen in someone’s yard. These things are all over the country this time of year. However, the image in front of me was one which made it clear I was in southwestern Kansas. The snowman was bent so low to the ground he looked like he was tossing his icicles all over the grass. Inflatable snowmen are not tougher than the December Kansas wind. It’s good to be home.
As a young man I spent one Christmas season living in Santa Monica, California. Even with the name Santa in my mailing address the Christmas spirit was hard to muster. I worked in a mall, the repository of all that is tacky and sentimental for any holiday season, yet I still didn’t feel like the geese were getting fat. (It didn’t help that instead of hearing Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole’s mellifluous tones for some reason a pair of street performers were constantly dancing to Eddie Murphy’s “Party All the Time” in front of the bookstore which employed me.) Living six blocks from the beach is great in June and July, but after Thanksgiving the only tide I want to be concerned with is one of the Yule variety.
The Midwesterner out of Kansas feeling was brought home with stark realism one afternoon in mid-December. I had driven into Hollywood to do some Christmas shopping. (Tacky touristy items have an allure as stocking stuffers.) I came out of a store and looked to my left and saw Santa Claus ringing a bell standing next to a black pot. That’s not odd. The problem was he was wearing short pants! They were red with white fur trim, but Santa was wearing short pants! That is like Perry Como singing “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” That’s like Currier and Ives painting a picture of the Arabian Desert complete with camels and Bedouins. That’s like Rudolph having rhinoplasty which rivals Michael Jackson’s. That is like Santa Claus wearing short pants! Oh, sorry that’s what started this whole thing. I lost track. See how completely wrong it is?
Bermuda Santa wasn’t all. Soon after that shock I heard the convivial ringing of sleigh bells. Ahh, this is more like it. I looked onto Hollywood Boulevard and saw a pair of exhausted donkeys with bits of wood tied to their heads as antlers. While pathetic, I could live with it. You’d think in the very heart of make-believe and special effects someone could have come up something better than chair legs haphazardly attached to hooved critters to create fake reindeer. What made me want to hop the next sleigh to Kansas happened next. The donkeys were pulling a wagon with a dozen or so little kids sitting in it, southern California’s version of a hayrack ride, I guess. These little ones were not all bundled up singing Jingle Bells at the top of their lungs. Nope, they were riding along in silence. I noticed one little boy with a glint in his eyes. Maybe this guy had visions of sugar plums dancing in his head. Maybe he was dreaming of the Red Ryder BB gun he hoped Santa would deliver. Maybe a Lionel train set was steaming around the Christmas tree in his imagination. Then again, maybe not. I looked behind me to see what had his attention. He was staring at a window display, not a Macy’s window display from “Miracle on 34th Street.” Nope, it was a window display from “Sleazy on Hollywood and Vine.” It was the Frederick’s of Hollywood holiday panorama of unmentionables. I don’t remember anything else about the wagon. I was distracted for a while.
Growing up in a part of the world where Christmas is cold and even occasionally white allows me to buy into the images used in most all media versions of the holiday. What if I had grown up in southern California? All my memories would be of Santa in short pants and underwear mannequins. That would be sad. A kid I knew out there was eighteen years old and had never seen snow fall from the sky. She had seen it in movies and on television, but she had to take other people’s word for it. Snow falling from the sky is as mythical to a Santa Monica High School student as intellectual lyrics in a rap song is to anyone over forty. A southern California kid dreaming of a white Christmas is as likely as Snoop Dogg alluding to Jean-Paul Sartre’s seminal work “Being and Nothingness: An Essay on Phenomenological Ontology” in his most recent release, “Kickin’ it with Kierkegaard.”
Christopher Pyle wishes everyone a wonderful holiday season, and points out the Grinch is pure existential myth. One Christmas he pushes the huge sack of Whoville Christmas trappings up the mountain only to find the next Christmas he must push it up the mountain again.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Sometimes we just need the Snickers to work
“Make the Snickers work” was scrawled on a piece of paper posted next to the candy machine in the lounge at work. The pain and suffering expressed by those four simple words was palpable. Novelists spend years of their lives trying to convey such emotion. They use thousands of words crafted, edited, and re-written with painstaking care in order to give the reader a sense of human longing, desire for the unattainable, striving for perfection. Dante, Shakespeare, Cervantes, even Danielle Steele, come up short compared to this anonymous author’s reaching out to powers greater than himself to make life worth living. Maybe I am overstating things just a bit. Dante was successful a couple of times.
When the candy machine keeps your sixty cents and does not dispense the chocolate confection there is a sense of loss and frustration, and you see the struggle against the powers that be as something fruitless, or at least candy bar-less. Your will to continue is called into question. You are a poorer individual, at least sixty cents poorer. The reason you forced yourself out of your chair, trudged up two flights of stairs and poked through a fistful of loose change is taken from you. The goal is now unreachable because all you have left is pennies. The coin return of life just springs back into place without the friendly clink of coins dropping into the tray for retrieval.
The metaphor illustrated by this experience is downright stark. The act of rising up from your chair represents the energy exerted to pull yourself up from the simple and mundane and move towards something greater than oneself, something of nougat sweetness. Trudging up the stairs is emblematic of man’s continual climb towards perfection, something akin to the Eight-Fold Path described by the Enlightened One, also known as Buddha. (Have you seen pictures of Buddha? It appears that dude had access to a whole bunch of candy machines.) The loose change symbolizes the cultural and economic tokens of achievement which are tools to an end, but should not be the goal in and of themselves. Picking through the coins is like pulling the greater achievements out from amongst the lesser ones, the quarters from the pennies, so to speak. Then our “Everyman” takes those great achievements (the coins) and uses them in trade (deposits them into the slot and pushes button 22) in order to reach his ultimate goal (the Snickers bar). He stands there waiting for the corkscrew shaped holder of his heart’s desire to rotate and gently drop it a mere six inches. Then all he needs is the energy to push aside the door and grasp what he has been working for his entire life. But no, the mechanism is still, the Snickers bar does not move. The goal is visible through the Plexiglas. It hangs there, mocking him, so close yet unattainable.
Now some people would not do what our friend did. A person of lesser character would grab hold of the machine and shake it in a craven attempt to aggressively take what was being kept from him. Others might pound on the glass protesting loudly the unfair and heartless treatment he was receiving like those earliest humans calling out to the moon as if it was a caring deity. The basest among us might have taken the nearest blunt object and burst through the boundary of glass and greedily grabbed not only the Snickers bar but also the mini chocolate donuts, the spicy barbeque chips…all the treasures in the machine without a single thought towards others. Others who, at this very moment, might be sitting in their office chairs dreaming of the time when their break will come and they can use their coins to purchase a little slice of heaven simply known as Funyuns.
Our hero did not care about his own achievements and dreams. He performed a selfless act. The call to powers greater than himself (the Candy Machine Guy) was not demanding repayment of his own lost coins. Nay, he used his energy to make a plea that the unsympathetic machine of life be repaired so others following in his footsteps would not suffer the ignoble pain of such horrible loss. This person did not place himself above others. He did not let his loss scar him and cause him to behave is a way which was beneath him. He simply and artfully wrote the words “Make the Snickers work” and left them for others to see. A sign of the danger one must face whenever one places too much worth upon a single goal.
Then again maybe he just hit button number eleven, got a bag of Skittles, and went back to work.
When the candy machine keeps your sixty cents and does not dispense the chocolate confection there is a sense of loss and frustration, and you see the struggle against the powers that be as something fruitless, or at least candy bar-less. Your will to continue is called into question. You are a poorer individual, at least sixty cents poorer. The reason you forced yourself out of your chair, trudged up two flights of stairs and poked through a fistful of loose change is taken from you. The goal is now unreachable because all you have left is pennies. The coin return of life just springs back into place without the friendly clink of coins dropping into the tray for retrieval.
The metaphor illustrated by this experience is downright stark. The act of rising up from your chair represents the energy exerted to pull yourself up from the simple and mundane and move towards something greater than oneself, something of nougat sweetness. Trudging up the stairs is emblematic of man’s continual climb towards perfection, something akin to the Eight-Fold Path described by the Enlightened One, also known as Buddha. (Have you seen pictures of Buddha? It appears that dude had access to a whole bunch of candy machines.) The loose change symbolizes the cultural and economic tokens of achievement which are tools to an end, but should not be the goal in and of themselves. Picking through the coins is like pulling the greater achievements out from amongst the lesser ones, the quarters from the pennies, so to speak. Then our “Everyman” takes those great achievements (the coins) and uses them in trade (deposits them into the slot and pushes button 22) in order to reach his ultimate goal (the Snickers bar). He stands there waiting for the corkscrew shaped holder of his heart’s desire to rotate and gently drop it a mere six inches. Then all he needs is the energy to push aside the door and grasp what he has been working for his entire life. But no, the mechanism is still, the Snickers bar does not move. The goal is visible through the Plexiglas. It hangs there, mocking him, so close yet unattainable.
Now some people would not do what our friend did. A person of lesser character would grab hold of the machine and shake it in a craven attempt to aggressively take what was being kept from him. Others might pound on the glass protesting loudly the unfair and heartless treatment he was receiving like those earliest humans calling out to the moon as if it was a caring deity. The basest among us might have taken the nearest blunt object and burst through the boundary of glass and greedily grabbed not only the Snickers bar but also the mini chocolate donuts, the spicy barbeque chips…all the treasures in the machine without a single thought towards others. Others who, at this very moment, might be sitting in their office chairs dreaming of the time when their break will come and they can use their coins to purchase a little slice of heaven simply known as Funyuns.
Our hero did not care about his own achievements and dreams. He performed a selfless act. The call to powers greater than himself (the Candy Machine Guy) was not demanding repayment of his own lost coins. Nay, he used his energy to make a plea that the unsympathetic machine of life be repaired so others following in his footsteps would not suffer the ignoble pain of such horrible loss. This person did not place himself above others. He did not let his loss scar him and cause him to behave is a way which was beneath him. He simply and artfully wrote the words “Make the Snickers work” and left them for others to see. A sign of the danger one must face whenever one places too much worth upon a single goal.
Then again maybe he just hit button number eleven, got a bag of Skittles, and went back to work.
Monday, November 20, 2006
The quickest route from joke to joke is a straight line
A man is walking down a crowded hallway in a public building. He is talking loudly and enthusiastically. He is moving both of his hands in gestures which give added emotion and emphasis to what he is saying. There is no one near enough to be an obvious receiver of his very important monologue. All of this used to mean the guy was not the most emotionally balanced individual in the vicinity. It was also quite likely he would be wearing an elaborate hat made with voluminous amounts of tin foil and a rusty spaghetti strainer in order to block the brain infiltration rays being beamed from the alien mother ship in geosynchronous orbit over these particular longitudinal coordinates. In today’s airports this behavior is seen every few minutes. However, the man doing it is not wearing any Reynolds’s Wrap. He is wearing a Brooks Brothers suit and a Rolex watch. He drives a luxury vehicle and works for a Fortune 500 company. The conversation he is so generously sharing with the general public is being transmitted hundreds of miles through the stratosphere using technology Gene Roddenberry never thought of. The man has a small blinking electronic contraption clipped over his right ear allowing him to have this discussion using something called Bluetooth technology through his cellular phone. This device not only lets him talk to his executive assistant back in San Francisco about the intricate merger financing which needs to be completed by close of business today but it also makes the beaming of brain infiltration rays from the alien mother ship in geosynchronous orbit over the particular longitudinal coordinates of Dulles International Airport much more effective.
Recently I took a trip to the Washington D.C. area because of my real job. (Believe it or not I am not able to support my family writing a semi-weekly column for the local newspaper.) It had been a while since I had traveled any way other than in a car with my kids in the back and my wife riding shotgun. (She actually has a shotgun encouraging the children to refrain from bickering as we roll through the Kansas terrain.) The businessmen carrying on wireless conversations oblivious to the dozens of people around them was just one of the things I found odd upon my return to travel.
Since I taught literature to middle school age students I always thought I had lived the role of the “Least-paid-attention-to-speaker” in the world. Have you ever tried to point out the humor of the verbal repartee between Benedick and Beatrice in Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing to seventh graders? Every pair of eyes in the room goes into screen saver mode. Well, I found someone who is ignored even more: the flight attendant as s/he explains the safety information before take-off. As valuable as I think Shakespeare is the information given by the flight attendant may be more important. Granted it is only important if things go horribly wrong, but it is stuff you will want to know under particular circumstances.
If there was an emergency landing on water and the bozo in seat 22B, fumbling for the safety instructions card in the seat back pocket, called out to ask: “What am I supposed to use for a floatation device again?” I wouldn’t blame the flight attendant if s/he replied: “You, sir, will just have to use the carry on bag which you did not properly stow in the overhead compartment. By the way that plastic bag and yellow cup which just dropped from the ceiling is just to keep the little bag of peanuts you stole from the guy sleeping in seat 22A nice and fresh.”
One of the biggest things I noticed on this trip had to do with the difference between fancy hotels and cheap, but not sleazy, hotels. Most of my previous travels involved staying at hotels with a number as a part of their name. This time I was put up at a spot with a much higher standard of living. It is better to stay at the cheaper ones.
Each little service had some sort of fee. I was surprised the shampoo wasn’t included in the minibar fridge amongst the five dollar cans of pop. I had the distinct idea that if I asked the desk clerk where the free continental breakfast was served she would have had an attack of vertigo looking down her nose at me. The Aryan beauty at the desk spoke with some sort of impossible to identify European accent. This helped her maintain superiority over the hick wearing his University of Kansas hoodie asking directions to the nearest McDonald’s. I bet if you ran into her away from work she’d sound like Ellie Mae Clampett.
Recently I took a trip to the Washington D.C. area because of my real job. (Believe it or not I am not able to support my family writing a semi-weekly column for the local newspaper.) It had been a while since I had traveled any way other than in a car with my kids in the back and my wife riding shotgun. (She actually has a shotgun encouraging the children to refrain from bickering as we roll through the Kansas terrain.) The businessmen carrying on wireless conversations oblivious to the dozens of people around them was just one of the things I found odd upon my return to travel.
Since I taught literature to middle school age students I always thought I had lived the role of the “Least-paid-attention-to-speaker” in the world. Have you ever tried to point out the humor of the verbal repartee between Benedick and Beatrice in Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing to seventh graders? Every pair of eyes in the room goes into screen saver mode. Well, I found someone who is ignored even more: the flight attendant as s/he explains the safety information before take-off. As valuable as I think Shakespeare is the information given by the flight attendant may be more important. Granted it is only important if things go horribly wrong, but it is stuff you will want to know under particular circumstances.
If there was an emergency landing on water and the bozo in seat 22B, fumbling for the safety instructions card in the seat back pocket, called out to ask: “What am I supposed to use for a floatation device again?” I wouldn’t blame the flight attendant if s/he replied: “You, sir, will just have to use the carry on bag which you did not properly stow in the overhead compartment. By the way that plastic bag and yellow cup which just dropped from the ceiling is just to keep the little bag of peanuts you stole from the guy sleeping in seat 22A nice and fresh.”
One of the biggest things I noticed on this trip had to do with the difference between fancy hotels and cheap, but not sleazy, hotels. Most of my previous travels involved staying at hotels with a number as a part of their name. This time I was put up at a spot with a much higher standard of living. It is better to stay at the cheaper ones.
Each little service had some sort of fee. I was surprised the shampoo wasn’t included in the minibar fridge amongst the five dollar cans of pop. I had the distinct idea that if I asked the desk clerk where the free continental breakfast was served she would have had an attack of vertigo looking down her nose at me. The Aryan beauty at the desk spoke with some sort of impossible to identify European accent. This helped her maintain superiority over the hick wearing his University of Kansas hoodie asking directions to the nearest McDonald’s. I bet if you ran into her away from work she’d sound like Ellie Mae Clampett.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
A Greatest Hit
This was on my blog in January of 2005. I just seemed to be fitting to re-post it with the elections happening where this stuff just keeps popping up.
It is a letter to the editor:
Dear Sir,
I want to express my displeasure about an issue in the Kansas State Legislature. I can't believe these people are spending so much time talking about s-e-x. They should be ashamed of the themselves. I don't think s-e-x should be talked about in public places. However, I am going to have to make an exemption.The people in Topeka want to outlaw same sex marriage. This is awful! I only know one way to have sex. I have the same sex all the time. If they make this illegal I don't think I can handle it. I can't come up with a new way to do it each time my wife and I want to have relations. Granted it only happens whenever we change the clocks (and the batteries in the smoke detectors) but after we spring forward I will not be able to figure out a new way to fall back. Those yahoos in Topeka had better come up with some kind of manual if they expect everyone in the state to stop having the same sex. I for one would allow my tax dollars to make some sort of Kansas Sutra to help the less imaginative of us.
Sincerely,
It is a letter to the editor:
Dear Sir,
I want to express my displeasure about an issue in the Kansas State Legislature. I can't believe these people are spending so much time talking about s-e-x. They should be ashamed of the themselves. I don't think s-e-x should be talked about in public places. However, I am going to have to make an exemption.The people in Topeka want to outlaw same sex marriage. This is awful! I only know one way to have sex. I have the same sex all the time. If they make this illegal I don't think I can handle it. I can't come up with a new way to do it each time my wife and I want to have relations. Granted it only happens whenever we change the clocks (and the batteries in the smoke detectors) but after we spring forward I will not be able to figure out a new way to fall back. Those yahoos in Topeka had better come up with some kind of manual if they expect everyone in the state to stop having the same sex. I for one would allow my tax dollars to make some sort of Kansas Sutra to help the less imaginative of us.
Sincerely,
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Parenthood and boot camp not as different as you’d think
At 1500 hours rendezvous with Offspring Bravo at the coordinates of 1st and Comanche. Transport “package” to home base in order to coordinate combination of forces with Offspring Charlie. If watches are properly synchronized Offspring Alpha will require support at precisely 1700 hours for basketball drills. At 1830 all units will report to the mess hall for nourishment of the battalion. Offspring Charlie will have “domestic assignments” completed and will properly apply an approved dentifrice in preparations for lights out at 2100 hours. Offspring Alpha and Bravo will follow the same regimen for lights out at 2130.
The preceding paragraph does not describe a little known offensive during World War II. Parents will recognize the actions as a regular day in the life of any family with children. The sheer volume of things enumerated on the average family of five’s “To Do List” would make the social secretary for Laura Bush consider applying for a transfer to Undersecretary of Defense in Charge of Making Rumsfeld Appear Less Like a Dyspeptic Cactus.
I do not remember life being so packed with activity when I was a kid. During my grade school years I walked home after school and had a snack while I watched a guy standing on a cheap spaceship set wearing a goldfish bowl on his head in an attempt to look like John Glenn introduce cartoons starring Yakky Doodle Duck or Snagglepuss. I did not have ceramics class followed by Cub Scouts followed by thirty minutes of homework followed by twenty minutes of answering e-mail. Of course e-mail in the middle seventies was as likely as the video watches Dick Tracy and the culturally insensitive Joe Jitsu wore on some of those Major Astro cartoons. (Anybody else remember “Hold everything please.”?) Actually, if you remove the ads I get for shrinking the size of my debt and increasing the size of something else I do not, as an adult, get the volume of e-mail the majority of kids get.
My kids have more going on in their lives than I do. I go to work. Towards the end of the day I call my wife to find out what is required of me in order to make sure each child is properly transported and no one is left unsupervised for an extended period of time. I take care of my assignments with the children and then I go to sleep. That is what my days have become. We have referred to it as “Tag Team Parenting” ever since we first had children. It used to be one parent would hand off to the other parent as we pursued our own jobs, hobbies, and activities. Now our jobs, hobbies and activities are pretty much eaten up with chasing children. To be fair my wife does the vast majority of the transportation and the entire calendar keeping work. I prefer to come home after work, have a snack and watch cartoons.
Earlier I likened family activities to military endeavors. When one enlists in the armed forces one never really knows what it will be like. Oh, they have an idea. They have seen it in the movies. They have talked to other people who have experienced it. They may have even spent some time in quasi-military organizations like R.O.T.C. However, they do not KNOW what it will be until they get there.
It is the same for starting a family. I had seen it in the movies. I had talked to many people who had kids. Heck, I was a kid in a family with three other kids. I even babysat for the neighbors with frequency as a youth. In every one of those instances I was only briefly in charge of a child or I was able to hand it off when things got truly unpleasant.
Talking to other young adults with children about children is not going to give any kind of accurate picture. These people talk about how the unconditional love which emanates from the baby and child gives such a sense of fulfillment they truly do not know how they ever felt like fully rounded people before they had their children. What they fail to tell you is lack of sleep and inhaling the fumes of Desitin ointment causes this Pollyanna outlook on parenthood. Once the person gets a full night’s sleep and a breath of clean air this impression leaves. Unfortunately, that doesn’t occur until the children are about to leave for college and it is way too late.
Running a family of five is quite like a large military exercise. It costs an exorbitant amount of money and there is no viable exit strategy.
Christopher Pyle may not have been as busy as his kids, but at least his after school cartoons featured mice and cats hitting each other with frying pans and not an oceanic invertebrate wearing short pants.
The preceding paragraph does not describe a little known offensive during World War II. Parents will recognize the actions as a regular day in the life of any family with children. The sheer volume of things enumerated on the average family of five’s “To Do List” would make the social secretary for Laura Bush consider applying for a transfer to Undersecretary of Defense in Charge of Making Rumsfeld Appear Less Like a Dyspeptic Cactus.
I do not remember life being so packed with activity when I was a kid. During my grade school years I walked home after school and had a snack while I watched a guy standing on a cheap spaceship set wearing a goldfish bowl on his head in an attempt to look like John Glenn introduce cartoons starring Yakky Doodle Duck or Snagglepuss. I did not have ceramics class followed by Cub Scouts followed by thirty minutes of homework followed by twenty minutes of answering e-mail. Of course e-mail in the middle seventies was as likely as the video watches Dick Tracy and the culturally insensitive Joe Jitsu wore on some of those Major Astro cartoons. (Anybody else remember “Hold everything please.”?) Actually, if you remove the ads I get for shrinking the size of my debt and increasing the size of something else I do not, as an adult, get the volume of e-mail the majority of kids get.
My kids have more going on in their lives than I do. I go to work. Towards the end of the day I call my wife to find out what is required of me in order to make sure each child is properly transported and no one is left unsupervised for an extended period of time. I take care of my assignments with the children and then I go to sleep. That is what my days have become. We have referred to it as “Tag Team Parenting” ever since we first had children. It used to be one parent would hand off to the other parent as we pursued our own jobs, hobbies, and activities. Now our jobs, hobbies and activities are pretty much eaten up with chasing children. To be fair my wife does the vast majority of the transportation and the entire calendar keeping work. I prefer to come home after work, have a snack and watch cartoons.
Earlier I likened family activities to military endeavors. When one enlists in the armed forces one never really knows what it will be like. Oh, they have an idea. They have seen it in the movies. They have talked to other people who have experienced it. They may have even spent some time in quasi-military organizations like R.O.T.C. However, they do not KNOW what it will be until they get there.
It is the same for starting a family. I had seen it in the movies. I had talked to many people who had kids. Heck, I was a kid in a family with three other kids. I even babysat for the neighbors with frequency as a youth. In every one of those instances I was only briefly in charge of a child or I was able to hand it off when things got truly unpleasant.
Talking to other young adults with children about children is not going to give any kind of accurate picture. These people talk about how the unconditional love which emanates from the baby and child gives such a sense of fulfillment they truly do not know how they ever felt like fully rounded people before they had their children. What they fail to tell you is lack of sleep and inhaling the fumes of Desitin ointment causes this Pollyanna outlook on parenthood. Once the person gets a full night’s sleep and a breath of clean air this impression leaves. Unfortunately, that doesn’t occur until the children are about to leave for college and it is way too late.
Running a family of five is quite like a large military exercise. It costs an exorbitant amount of money and there is no viable exit strategy.
Christopher Pyle may not have been as busy as his kids, but at least his after school cartoons featured mice and cats hitting each other with frying pans and not an oceanic invertebrate wearing short pants.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Signs of Intelligent Life
The other day I was driving into the city of Great Bend. There was a sign at the side of the road which read: “Jack Kilby Nobel Prize Winner 2000 Physics”. Now, I assume the sign was there because Great Bend was claiming one of its own. The brainy Mr. Kilby must have been born in town or at least spent some of his formative years there. There was no explanation whatsoever, so this is all conjecture on my part. As it stands it could simply be a wonderful little tidbit of information kindly placed on a sign as a public service to individuals who are traveling the highways and byways of the great state of Kansas.
This may be something the Commissioner of Education should discuss with the Highway Commissioner. (They both work in Topeka. It shouldn’t be that hard to find each other. I’m sure the education guy has the alphabetizing skills to look up the highway guy in the directory and the highway guy ought to have the map skills necessary to navigate to the education guy’s office.) The government could place signs all over the state which would offer a vehicular curriculum.
Many people think driving through Kansas ranks on the exciting meter somewhere between watching paint dry and watching paint dry on the Regis and That-Girl-Who-Isn’t-Kathie-Lee television show. Placing thought provoking and intellectually stimulating material every few yards would fight that stereotype, as well as some other preconceived notions about the intelligence level of your run of the mill Kansan. Face it; Kansas hasn’t exactly gotten the best press over the past few…decades. I was watching a television show the other day and one character made reference to something which he considered obscure news. The response by the hip young executive woman was, “People in Kansas know about it.” This is verbal shorthand for even people who are horribly backward and out of touch know about it. Ouch! I do not subscribe to this school of thought. If I did I would have to contemplate going into the nearest biker bar and calling the largest and hairiest person available a showtune loving nancy boy. (At least it is a creative suicide.)
Pardon the digression please; I will get back to the idea of a “Road to Enlightenment.” Every other state in the country will continue to use the same old numbering system for their highways. You know, “Take 40 for about fifty miles then jump on 25 going south.” Boring! Kansas will have all these great educational signs on our roads and we can name them after the subjects they teach. So if a person wants to go to Salina from Dodge City the directions would sound more like this: “Head east on highway Introduction to Psychology, then you can turn left onto state highway English Literature…” Doesn’t that sound interesting as well as educational?
The highways that go the length of the state could have an entire course of study. The American History highway starting at the Colorado border would begin with the Asian migration to Northern America via the Bering Straits land bridge. At about Colby Leif Erickson and his Viking buddies are discussed on those green and white reflective textbooks. At Hays we start colonization and by the time we get to Missouri we have completed the Civil War. If people want to get up to present day they need to make a u-turn and go back to Colorado. This helps with economic development as well. People who need that sense of completion, or the college credit, have to keep eating at our restaurants and staying in our hotels.
Experts often say the best way to learn a new language is to immerse yourself in it by going to another country. The idea is there is greater motivation to speak the unfamiliar tongue. If Kansas makes the highway system surrounding Wichita all in French learning it would become a priority. If the only way to get out of the construction zones on Kellog was to translate the following phrase: “L'allée gauche est le seul moyen pour échapper ce purgatoire de baril orange” people would parler le français.
Some subjects could be tailored to fit in specific locations in the state. Existential archetypes found in the collected works of the Harlequin Romance series would just about fit between Hutchinson and South Hutchinson. Hugoton to Elkhart is a stretch of road people might actually be willing to do algebra as they traveled it. This idea just might work.
P.S. I love the fact the internet can be used to quickly find the French words for: The left lane is the only way to escape this orange barrel purgatory. Cool huh?
This may be something the Commissioner of Education should discuss with the Highway Commissioner. (They both work in Topeka. It shouldn’t be that hard to find each other. I’m sure the education guy has the alphabetizing skills to look up the highway guy in the directory and the highway guy ought to have the map skills necessary to navigate to the education guy’s office.) The government could place signs all over the state which would offer a vehicular curriculum.
Many people think driving through Kansas ranks on the exciting meter somewhere between watching paint dry and watching paint dry on the Regis and That-Girl-Who-Isn’t-Kathie-Lee television show. Placing thought provoking and intellectually stimulating material every few yards would fight that stereotype, as well as some other preconceived notions about the intelligence level of your run of the mill Kansan. Face it; Kansas hasn’t exactly gotten the best press over the past few…decades. I was watching a television show the other day and one character made reference to something which he considered obscure news. The response by the hip young executive woman was, “People in Kansas know about it.” This is verbal shorthand for even people who are horribly backward and out of touch know about it. Ouch! I do not subscribe to this school of thought. If I did I would have to contemplate going into the nearest biker bar and calling the largest and hairiest person available a showtune loving nancy boy. (At least it is a creative suicide.)
Pardon the digression please; I will get back to the idea of a “Road to Enlightenment.” Every other state in the country will continue to use the same old numbering system for their highways. You know, “Take 40 for about fifty miles then jump on 25 going south.” Boring! Kansas will have all these great educational signs on our roads and we can name them after the subjects they teach. So if a person wants to go to Salina from Dodge City the directions would sound more like this: “Head east on highway Introduction to Psychology, then you can turn left onto state highway English Literature…” Doesn’t that sound interesting as well as educational?
The highways that go the length of the state could have an entire course of study. The American History highway starting at the Colorado border would begin with the Asian migration to Northern America via the Bering Straits land bridge. At about Colby Leif Erickson and his Viking buddies are discussed on those green and white reflective textbooks. At Hays we start colonization and by the time we get to Missouri we have completed the Civil War. If people want to get up to present day they need to make a u-turn and go back to Colorado. This helps with economic development as well. People who need that sense of completion, or the college credit, have to keep eating at our restaurants and staying in our hotels.
Experts often say the best way to learn a new language is to immerse yourself in it by going to another country. The idea is there is greater motivation to speak the unfamiliar tongue. If Kansas makes the highway system surrounding Wichita all in French learning it would become a priority. If the only way to get out of the construction zones on Kellog was to translate the following phrase: “L'allée gauche est le seul moyen pour échapper ce purgatoire de baril orange” people would parler le français.
Some subjects could be tailored to fit in specific locations in the state. Existential archetypes found in the collected works of the Harlequin Romance series would just about fit between Hutchinson and South Hutchinson. Hugoton to Elkhart is a stretch of road people might actually be willing to do algebra as they traveled it. This idea just might work.
P.S. I love the fact the internet can be used to quickly find the French words for: The left lane is the only way to escape this orange barrel purgatory. Cool huh?
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
The loss of one Buck has made us poor
I know this is supposed to be a humor column, but I am going to ask everyone to bear with me for a while.
Buck O’Neil died Friday October 6, 2006. He was a ninety-four year old man so the fact he passed away cannot be a big shock. Ninety-four year old men die on a daily basis. It is what Buck O’Neil did on a daily basis during his life that makes it necessary to mark his passing. Everyday of his life he spread joy, knowledge and compassion. Everyday of his life he embraced not only his own life, but every life he came in contact with, and he made it a point to come in contact with as many lives as he could. Buck O’Neil was something which is not talked about nearly enough in today’s news media and even our culture. He was a good man.
If you do not know who Buck was I suggest you spend some time finding out. Let me give a brief historical look.
John “Buck” O’Neil was born in 1911 in Florida. This of course meant his life was restricted. He was a black man long before Martin Luther King Jr. and people of his sort caused great change in our country. Martin Luther King Jr. actually followed the trail blazed by Buck and others of his courage.
Buck loved baseball. He hung out around the spring training parks in Florida and saw the greats of that generation. He played baseball in the Negro Leagues. He managed baseball in the Negro Leagues. He saw all the greats of that generation, black and white. He was the first black man hired by a major league team as a coach. He scouted for teams for decades. He saw all the greats of a few more generations. He loved what he did.
In 1994, Ken Burns made a long form documentary about the history of baseball. Buck O’Neil became a star. His easy-going story-telling made him a joy to watch. Even when he told of the horrible treatment of black players in his athletic heyday he did so without malice and with an air of humanity which showed his strength of character.
Now for a funny story:
Buck was friends with Satchel Paige. Paige is considered by many people to be the greatest pitcher ever. Satchel was a character and lived a full life. Satchel called Buck by the name of Nancy. Here is my attempt to tell the story of how Buck O’Neil was christened Nancy.
Satchel Paige was a bit of a ladies man, actually more than a bit. On one road trip Satchel struck up an acquaintance with a lovely young lady named Nancy. Unfortunately Satchel’s fiancée showed up in town. So Satchel has his fiancée in his hotel room and his new friend is in another hotel room quite nearby. Buck is also staying on the same floor. Once Satchel believes his fiancée is asleep he sneaks out of his room to find Nancy. Since he is being sneaky he is quietly knocking on her door and whispering “Nancy, Nancy.” That is when Buck hears Satchel’s fiancée get up and come to her door. Being the quick-thinking good friend that he is Buck rushed out his door and says to Satchel, “Here I am, Satchel.” Satchel, being no dummy himself simply responds, “Oh, Nancy, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.” Satchel and Buck stuck to their story for years. Satchel Paige called Buck “Nancy” for the rest of his life.
I did have the pleasure of being in the same room with him once years ago. They were having a big fundraiser party for his pet project the Negro League Baseball Museum in Kansas City. For some completely unknown reason I got an invitation. I couldn’t afford to go, but I did it anyway. There were hundreds of people there, many of them very famous individuals. I was able to step up to the man at his table and hand him a baseball. He signed the ball and handed it back to me. I said to him something he had heard thousands of times before, “It is an honor to meet you, sir.” He simply gave me a big grin and said, “Thank you.” There were a couple dozen people standing behind me to get his autograph so I moved on. The smile was genuine. The thank you was genuine. The man was genuine.
Buck O’Neil lived life with a smile. He didn't complained, and heaven knows he had valid reasons to. He sang whenever he had the chance. He had a policy of never walking by a woman who was wearing a red dress without stopping to talk to her. Just think about the improvement to our lives if what this “Buck” exemplified was the actually currency of the land.
Buck O’Neil died Friday October 6, 2006. He was a ninety-four year old man so the fact he passed away cannot be a big shock. Ninety-four year old men die on a daily basis. It is what Buck O’Neil did on a daily basis during his life that makes it necessary to mark his passing. Everyday of his life he spread joy, knowledge and compassion. Everyday of his life he embraced not only his own life, but every life he came in contact with, and he made it a point to come in contact with as many lives as he could. Buck O’Neil was something which is not talked about nearly enough in today’s news media and even our culture. He was a good man.
If you do not know who Buck was I suggest you spend some time finding out. Let me give a brief historical look.
John “Buck” O’Neil was born in 1911 in Florida. This of course meant his life was restricted. He was a black man long before Martin Luther King Jr. and people of his sort caused great change in our country. Martin Luther King Jr. actually followed the trail blazed by Buck and others of his courage.
Buck loved baseball. He hung out around the spring training parks in Florida and saw the greats of that generation. He played baseball in the Negro Leagues. He managed baseball in the Negro Leagues. He saw all the greats of that generation, black and white. He was the first black man hired by a major league team as a coach. He scouted for teams for decades. He saw all the greats of a few more generations. He loved what he did.
In 1994, Ken Burns made a long form documentary about the history of baseball. Buck O’Neil became a star. His easy-going story-telling made him a joy to watch. Even when he told of the horrible treatment of black players in his athletic heyday he did so without malice and with an air of humanity which showed his strength of character.
Now for a funny story:
Buck was friends with Satchel Paige. Paige is considered by many people to be the greatest pitcher ever. Satchel was a character and lived a full life. Satchel called Buck by the name of Nancy. Here is my attempt to tell the story of how Buck O’Neil was christened Nancy.
Satchel Paige was a bit of a ladies man, actually more than a bit. On one road trip Satchel struck up an acquaintance with a lovely young lady named Nancy. Unfortunately Satchel’s fiancée showed up in town. So Satchel has his fiancée in his hotel room and his new friend is in another hotel room quite nearby. Buck is also staying on the same floor. Once Satchel believes his fiancée is asleep he sneaks out of his room to find Nancy. Since he is being sneaky he is quietly knocking on her door and whispering “Nancy, Nancy.” That is when Buck hears Satchel’s fiancée get up and come to her door. Being the quick-thinking good friend that he is Buck rushed out his door and says to Satchel, “Here I am, Satchel.” Satchel, being no dummy himself simply responds, “Oh, Nancy, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.” Satchel and Buck stuck to their story for years. Satchel Paige called Buck “Nancy” for the rest of his life.
I did have the pleasure of being in the same room with him once years ago. They were having a big fundraiser party for his pet project the Negro League Baseball Museum in Kansas City. For some completely unknown reason I got an invitation. I couldn’t afford to go, but I did it anyway. There were hundreds of people there, many of them very famous individuals. I was able to step up to the man at his table and hand him a baseball. He signed the ball and handed it back to me. I said to him something he had heard thousands of times before, “It is an honor to meet you, sir.” He simply gave me a big grin and said, “Thank you.” There were a couple dozen people standing behind me to get his autograph so I moved on. The smile was genuine. The thank you was genuine. The man was genuine.
Buck O’Neil lived life with a smile. He didn't complained, and heaven knows he had valid reasons to. He sang whenever he had the chance. He had a policy of never walking by a woman who was wearing a red dress without stopping to talk to her. Just think about the improvement to our lives if what this “Buck” exemplified was the actually currency of the land.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Being taller and older doesn't mean you are grown-up
I turned 44 years old last week. If there is a more unremarkable age to turn I can’t think of it.
At 16 a person can drive a car. Well, a person can legally operate a vehicle if he or she passed the proper tests and received a license. There are people you run across on a regular basis who seem not to have actually mastered such things as turn signals.
When you turn 18 a person is allowed to vote. This means P. Diddy, or whatever name he is going by now, advocates you pay attention to politics and vote your mind. Some generation’s voices of political conscience are people like John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. This generation has a hip hop music mogul. We may be in deep trouble.
When a person turns 21 he is allowed to buy alcoholic beverages. In a way this makes sense. It is three years after the person has been allowed to vote and he has lived with the choices he made for three years and could use a stiff drink.
At thirty years old a person has made the final crossover to being an adult. Remember a person over thirty is not to be trusted. That is what the folks at Woodstock believed. Now all those people are well over thirty and have probably even voted Republican.
However, when you turn 44 there is no rite of passage. It isn’t even an age which people would understand if you were depressed. Guy #1: “What’s the matter, Tom? You look a little down in the dumps.” Guy #2: “Well, Jim I’ll tell you. I turned 44 yesterday and I’m feeling a little bummed out.” Guy #1: “Gee, Tom I didn’t realize. Boy, 44, that’s pretty tough.” Guy #2: “I didn’t think it would hit me so hard.” Guy #1: “I see where you’re coming from. I mean, wow, 44. This means you’re…you’re…oh, get over yourself! 44 is nothing. Ooooo, it’s 23 years until I retire. I still have my health. My kids are old enough to take care of themselves. Some of my hair is gray. Waaahhhh.” Guy #1 walks away in disgust after lambasting Guy #2 with sarcasm and disdain.
Guy #1 is right. There really isn’t anything to be concerned about; except for the possibility that you may have gotten so unremarkable you may cease to be interesting. There is an old Monty Python sketch in which a man is asked a question and he responds, “I am an accountant and consequently too boring to be of interest.” That is probably my fear. (I do not fear becoming an accountant. I have friends who are accountants and they are not completely uninteresting.) I fear becoming boring.
This fear is not unfounded. Recently I have found myself discussing, at some length, our household budget. If we pay off this bill and then roll that monthly payment into that bill we can…arrgghhh. It is important and it can make a huge difference in my children’s lives if I am able to get out of debt and pay for their college educations, but that doesn’t mean it is fun.
I have said for years, “I hate doing grown-up junk.” This usually meant bills, car maintenance, insurance policies and anything involving the word prostate. The issue here is obviously proof I haven’t grown up. A true grown-up doesn’t whine about doing the day-to-day business of taking care of himself and his family. A true grown-up identifies the important things in life and deals with them in a mature manner. A true grown-up doesn’t shirk the unpleasant tasks. A true grown-up wakes up each morning and dutifully goes to work, pays the bills, cleans the house, does the dishes, and then sneaks into his bedroom, fires up the PlayStation and plays four and half solid hours of Madden NFL ’07.
Being a grown-up means I stand in the stiff Kansas wind on a Saturday morning and watch my son play soccer, or more accurately, run wildly from one end of the field to the other with several other eight-year-olds doing the same partially organized endeavor. Being a grown-up means being amazed when my eleven-year-old daughter comes up with the perfect witty retort which makes the entire room break-up laughing. Being a grown-up means watching my oldest daughter make caring and positive decisions which show she is much brighter than her old man. Being a grown-up means sitting down exhausted after a crummy day at work and having my wife give me a look and smile which lets me know I’m not doing it for nothing. Being a grown-up can mean you have a darned fine life…I still refuse to do anything involving the word prostate.
At 16 a person can drive a car. Well, a person can legally operate a vehicle if he or she passed the proper tests and received a license. There are people you run across on a regular basis who seem not to have actually mastered such things as turn signals.
When you turn 18 a person is allowed to vote. This means P. Diddy, or whatever name he is going by now, advocates you pay attention to politics and vote your mind. Some generation’s voices of political conscience are people like John F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. This generation has a hip hop music mogul. We may be in deep trouble.
When a person turns 21 he is allowed to buy alcoholic beverages. In a way this makes sense. It is three years after the person has been allowed to vote and he has lived with the choices he made for three years and could use a stiff drink.
At thirty years old a person has made the final crossover to being an adult. Remember a person over thirty is not to be trusted. That is what the folks at Woodstock believed. Now all those people are well over thirty and have probably even voted Republican.
However, when you turn 44 there is no rite of passage. It isn’t even an age which people would understand if you were depressed. Guy #1: “What’s the matter, Tom? You look a little down in the dumps.” Guy #2: “Well, Jim I’ll tell you. I turned 44 yesterday and I’m feeling a little bummed out.” Guy #1: “Gee, Tom I didn’t realize. Boy, 44, that’s pretty tough.” Guy #2: “I didn’t think it would hit me so hard.” Guy #1: “I see where you’re coming from. I mean, wow, 44. This means you’re…you’re…oh, get over yourself! 44 is nothing. Ooooo, it’s 23 years until I retire. I still have my health. My kids are old enough to take care of themselves. Some of my hair is gray. Waaahhhh.” Guy #1 walks away in disgust after lambasting Guy #2 with sarcasm and disdain.
Guy #1 is right. There really isn’t anything to be concerned about; except for the possibility that you may have gotten so unremarkable you may cease to be interesting. There is an old Monty Python sketch in which a man is asked a question and he responds, “I am an accountant and consequently too boring to be of interest.” That is probably my fear. (I do not fear becoming an accountant. I have friends who are accountants and they are not completely uninteresting.) I fear becoming boring.
This fear is not unfounded. Recently I have found myself discussing, at some length, our household budget. If we pay off this bill and then roll that monthly payment into that bill we can…arrgghhh. It is important and it can make a huge difference in my children’s lives if I am able to get out of debt and pay for their college educations, but that doesn’t mean it is fun.
I have said for years, “I hate doing grown-up junk.” This usually meant bills, car maintenance, insurance policies and anything involving the word prostate. The issue here is obviously proof I haven’t grown up. A true grown-up doesn’t whine about doing the day-to-day business of taking care of himself and his family. A true grown-up identifies the important things in life and deals with them in a mature manner. A true grown-up doesn’t shirk the unpleasant tasks. A true grown-up wakes up each morning and dutifully goes to work, pays the bills, cleans the house, does the dishes, and then sneaks into his bedroom, fires up the PlayStation and plays four and half solid hours of Madden NFL ’07.
Being a grown-up means I stand in the stiff Kansas wind on a Saturday morning and watch my son play soccer, or more accurately, run wildly from one end of the field to the other with several other eight-year-olds doing the same partially organized endeavor. Being a grown-up means being amazed when my eleven-year-old daughter comes up with the perfect witty retort which makes the entire room break-up laughing. Being a grown-up means watching my oldest daughter make caring and positive decisions which show she is much brighter than her old man. Being a grown-up means sitting down exhausted after a crummy day at work and having my wife give me a look and smile which lets me know I’m not doing it for nothing. Being a grown-up can mean you have a darned fine life…I still refuse to do anything involving the word prostate.
Monday, September 18, 2006
Is something wrong?
I went to check my blog today and things seemed awry. I am publishing this little note in an attempt to get things right again.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Things aren't always what you expectorate
I always thought imagination was one of the best parts of being a human being. I suppose it is possible cats daydream about having opposable thumbs and taking their rightful place at the top of the food chain. Maybe penguins have fantasies about Bermuda or gerbils imagine themselves in some sort of rodent NASCAR event as they run in those pointless wheel thingies. However, until I am shown some sort of compelling evidence to the contrary I will believe people are the only critters on the planet with the ability to make stuff up.
Evidence that mankind is the only species with brains designed for such an activity can be the sublime (Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel), the ridiculous (every script for Charlie’s Angels), and even the frightening (the Houston Astros uniforms of 1975). Most things created by imagination are intended to inform, entertain, and even enlighten. Those are the positive aspects of imagination. Imagination is not always positive though (see the reference to the Astros above).
The ability of people to imagine is often used to predict. “How will things be in the future?” is the most common use of imagination. Some people’s imaginations work differently than others. If I go to the top of this very steep mountain, which is covered with hard packed snow, making it somewhat akin to a sheet of glass covered with Wesson oil, and place my feet into two very long, very slick planks of wood and then, intentionally, throw all my weight downwards towards dozens and dozens of boulders and trees with a molecular density much greater than my own this will be: A. Fun B. Invigorating C. Slightly Risky or D. Suicide. My imagination tends towards the “D” answer. Luckily for the entire skiing industry not everyone shares my particular style of predicting.
Recently I was reading a book which discussed how this can lead to unhappiness or even depression. The author posits that people are very adept at making up what they believe the world will be in the future. They are equally adept at being disappointed when it doesn’t turn out that way. The more serious disappointment comes when things do happen as predicted, but their lives still stink.
Many of us have pinned all our hopes on a particular happening. “If I get this new job I am after everything will be great.” Then the person gets the job and learns carrying the lights for the top Playboy photographer is back-breaking work and the models are not only not very pretty in person, they shoot you down when you hit on them just like every other girl you ever approached since junior high. Another problem which revolves around predicting the future is people often think they have more control over what will happen than they really do. Sports are the best examples of this misapprehension. Has anyone you know (yourself included) ever recorded a sporting event? He will then spend the time between the game actually being played and the time he can watch it doing everything humanly possible to avoid learning anything about the outcome. This will include putting a finger in each ear and singing “It’s a Small World” at the top of his lungs to drown out family and friends. Is this because he will not be able to enjoy the athletic abilities of the players? Nope. Is it because the sense of suspense is what makes the event enjoyable? Nope. Is it because this poor misguided soul actually believes wearing his lucky hat, eating his special cheese dip, and turning around three times and spitting over his left shoulder whenever his quarterback is sacked will cause his team to win? You betcha!
I admit to suffering from this malady. I refuse to wear anything with the mascot of my favorite team on game days. I adopted this belief (it is not a superstition if scientifically proven) several years ago. It was proven to be the absolute truth one seemingly normal day. I got dressed in a hurry and without thinking I put on my Kansas Jayhawk tie. I realized some time in the afternoon the Jayhawks were scheduled to play the Colorado team in basketball that very evening. I thought about taking the tie off then and there. I decided not to. After all the Jayhawks had beaten the Buffaloes like ten or twelve times in a row so it probably wasn’t a big deal. That night the Jayhawks lost. I felt awful. Those poor guys had worked so hard and I had made it impossible for them to win with one thoughtless act of wardrobe.
Evidence that mankind is the only species with brains designed for such an activity can be the sublime (Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel), the ridiculous (every script for Charlie’s Angels), and even the frightening (the Houston Astros uniforms of 1975). Most things created by imagination are intended to inform, entertain, and even enlighten. Those are the positive aspects of imagination. Imagination is not always positive though (see the reference to the Astros above).
The ability of people to imagine is often used to predict. “How will things be in the future?” is the most common use of imagination. Some people’s imaginations work differently than others. If I go to the top of this very steep mountain, which is covered with hard packed snow, making it somewhat akin to a sheet of glass covered with Wesson oil, and place my feet into two very long, very slick planks of wood and then, intentionally, throw all my weight downwards towards dozens and dozens of boulders and trees with a molecular density much greater than my own this will be: A. Fun B. Invigorating C. Slightly Risky or D. Suicide. My imagination tends towards the “D” answer. Luckily for the entire skiing industry not everyone shares my particular style of predicting.
Recently I was reading a book which discussed how this can lead to unhappiness or even depression. The author posits that people are very adept at making up what they believe the world will be in the future. They are equally adept at being disappointed when it doesn’t turn out that way. The more serious disappointment comes when things do happen as predicted, but their lives still stink.
Many of us have pinned all our hopes on a particular happening. “If I get this new job I am after everything will be great.” Then the person gets the job and learns carrying the lights for the top Playboy photographer is back-breaking work and the models are not only not very pretty in person, they shoot you down when you hit on them just like every other girl you ever approached since junior high. Another problem which revolves around predicting the future is people often think they have more control over what will happen than they really do. Sports are the best examples of this misapprehension. Has anyone you know (yourself included) ever recorded a sporting event? He will then spend the time between the game actually being played and the time he can watch it doing everything humanly possible to avoid learning anything about the outcome. This will include putting a finger in each ear and singing “It’s a Small World” at the top of his lungs to drown out family and friends. Is this because he will not be able to enjoy the athletic abilities of the players? Nope. Is it because the sense of suspense is what makes the event enjoyable? Nope. Is it because this poor misguided soul actually believes wearing his lucky hat, eating his special cheese dip, and turning around three times and spitting over his left shoulder whenever his quarterback is sacked will cause his team to win? You betcha!
I admit to suffering from this malady. I refuse to wear anything with the mascot of my favorite team on game days. I adopted this belief (it is not a superstition if scientifically proven) several years ago. It was proven to be the absolute truth one seemingly normal day. I got dressed in a hurry and without thinking I put on my Kansas Jayhawk tie. I realized some time in the afternoon the Jayhawks were scheduled to play the Colorado team in basketball that very evening. I thought about taking the tie off then and there. I decided not to. After all the Jayhawks had beaten the Buffaloes like ten or twelve times in a row so it probably wasn’t a big deal. That night the Jayhawks lost. I felt awful. Those poor guys had worked so hard and I had made it impossible for them to win with one thoughtless act of wardrobe.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Pluto we hardly knew ya
Okay, what else are they going to change their minds about? It appears the International Astronomical Union (I bet the hotel doesn’t have to hire extra security when this convention comes to town) has decided to strip Pluto of its status as a planet. I wouldn’t worry about the little fella getting his feelings hurt. It is 2.66 billion miles from the Earth to Pluto. The scientists aren’t willing to pay the extra postage for next day delivery, so by the time he finds out we will all have been reincarnated so many times it won’t matter.
It seems this group of telescope nerds has decided Pluto does not fit into the new definition of what a planet is. The definition, as quoted by CNN on their website, goes like this: “a celestial body that is in orbit around the sun, has sufficient mass for its self-gravity to overcome rigid body forces so that it assumes a ... nearly round shape, and has cleared the neighborhood around its orbit." This can either be a planet or that overweight bully you had to contend with in sixth grade.
I bet these scientists had no idea how far reaching the ramifications of this decision would be. First of all people of all ages will have to expunge from their minds that handy little mnemonic device: My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizza pies. This taught us the order of the planets (Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto). Now all of us who learned this so many years ago will be left hanging. My very educated mother just served us nine…nine…nine what?!? The sentence doesn’t end! My wife suggested a new sentence: My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Noodles. I guess this will work. It puts the planets in the right order and it is also much easier to fit into the household budget. Nine pizzas would cost around fifty dollars, even with a coupon. But you can feed the entire population of Roswell, New Mexico (little green men included) Ramen noodles for about six dollars and fifty-seven cents.
Someone else who will have extra work is the highway department of Kansas. There are signs placed outside Burdett touting itself as the boyhood home of Clyde Tombaugh, discoverer of the planet Pluto. The state is now going to have to remove those signs. They could update them but having a sign which says “Burdett, Kansas – The boyhood home of Clyde Tombaugh, the discoverer of a great big rock which used to be called a planet but isn’t any more” just doesn’t have the same ring to it. Plus it would cost too much to make a sign big enough to say all that. The conspiracy theorists in Kansas will probably say if the guy who discovered the planet came from California or New York they would have left it a planet. But, since it was puny Kansas they just don’t care. I guess we don’t have a strong enough Famous Kansan Lobby in the ol’ International Astronomical Union.
Come to think it of these space guys keep changing their minds on things. A few years back we had to change how we pronounced the names of things. Halley’s Comet went from a “long a” sound to “short a” sound. The seventh planet from the Sun was pronounced “your anus” and now we are supposed to say “urine us.” Both pronunciations invoke large amounts of tittering in fifth grade classrooms, but then again so does the word “tittering.”
I’m not sure this is a precedent we should be happy about. The names of the planets were things we learned early in our educational lives. There was even a “School House Rock” song. Kids will now question so many other things. Maybe conjunctions don’t function to link words and phrases. Maybe laws are not made from cute little scrolls of paper laboriously climbing the steps of Congress.
What we all need to learn from Pluto’s demotion is nothing is beyond question. Will the medical profession figure out sitting in a tiny room for an hour wearing only a paper robe is not a good idea? Will politicians realize they are in office to make life better for others, not just themselves? Will the people of France finally realize Jerry Lewis isn’t funny? I don’t think we will suddenly find out the world is flat or Pamela Anderson is a better novelist than William Faulkner (it would be more of a shock to find out Pamela Anderson is flat), but we may be surprised one day to learn when a tree falls in the woods and there is no one around to listen it makes the sound of one hand clapping.
It seems this group of telescope nerds has decided Pluto does not fit into the new definition of what a planet is. The definition, as quoted by CNN on their website, goes like this: “a celestial body that is in orbit around the sun, has sufficient mass for its self-gravity to overcome rigid body forces so that it assumes a ... nearly round shape, and has cleared the neighborhood around its orbit." This can either be a planet or that overweight bully you had to contend with in sixth grade.
I bet these scientists had no idea how far reaching the ramifications of this decision would be. First of all people of all ages will have to expunge from their minds that handy little mnemonic device: My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Nine Pizza pies. This taught us the order of the planets (Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto). Now all of us who learned this so many years ago will be left hanging. My very educated mother just served us nine…nine…nine what?!? The sentence doesn’t end! My wife suggested a new sentence: My Very Educated Mother Just Served Us Noodles. I guess this will work. It puts the planets in the right order and it is also much easier to fit into the household budget. Nine pizzas would cost around fifty dollars, even with a coupon. But you can feed the entire population of Roswell, New Mexico (little green men included) Ramen noodles for about six dollars and fifty-seven cents.
Someone else who will have extra work is the highway department of Kansas. There are signs placed outside Burdett touting itself as the boyhood home of Clyde Tombaugh, discoverer of the planet Pluto. The state is now going to have to remove those signs. They could update them but having a sign which says “Burdett, Kansas – The boyhood home of Clyde Tombaugh, the discoverer of a great big rock which used to be called a planet but isn’t any more” just doesn’t have the same ring to it. Plus it would cost too much to make a sign big enough to say all that. The conspiracy theorists in Kansas will probably say if the guy who discovered the planet came from California or New York they would have left it a planet. But, since it was puny Kansas they just don’t care. I guess we don’t have a strong enough Famous Kansan Lobby in the ol’ International Astronomical Union.
Come to think it of these space guys keep changing their minds on things. A few years back we had to change how we pronounced the names of things. Halley’s Comet went from a “long a” sound to “short a” sound. The seventh planet from the Sun was pronounced “your anus” and now we are supposed to say “urine us.” Both pronunciations invoke large amounts of tittering in fifth grade classrooms, but then again so does the word “tittering.”
I’m not sure this is a precedent we should be happy about. The names of the planets were things we learned early in our educational lives. There was even a “School House Rock” song. Kids will now question so many other things. Maybe conjunctions don’t function to link words and phrases. Maybe laws are not made from cute little scrolls of paper laboriously climbing the steps of Congress.
What we all need to learn from Pluto’s demotion is nothing is beyond question. Will the medical profession figure out sitting in a tiny room for an hour wearing only a paper robe is not a good idea? Will politicians realize they are in office to make life better for others, not just themselves? Will the people of France finally realize Jerry Lewis isn’t funny? I don’t think we will suddenly find out the world is flat or Pamela Anderson is a better novelist than William Faulkner (it would be more of a shock to find out Pamela Anderson is flat), but we may be surprised one day to learn when a tree falls in the woods and there is no one around to listen it makes the sound of one hand clapping.
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