Alabama Man, 42, Dies While Doing "The Crane"

Okay, so it's not a real headline, but it easily could be. Perhaps I should back it up a bit and make some sense here.

Some people say I have something of an extreme personality. I just say I'm a go-getter. For my 40th birthday I wanted to do something different, so I went skydiving (and loved it, by the way). I wanted to get a motorcycle, so I bought a Ducati. I wanted to try snow skiing, so I went to Taos on my first trip. I didn't say all the things I did were intelligent, just ambitious.

Now, getting back to the headline. I've been out of writing commission for the last couple of months because I took on a new exercise regimen. A litany of past injuries had teamed up with some rogue genes and, collectively, they decided to torment me on a daily basis. I made every effort to silence them by burying them in an avalanche of doughnuts, ice cream, colas, cookies and other such calorie intensive but delicious treats. Instead of burying them, though, I merely gave them bullhorns and red hot cattle prods. When it got to the point I couldn't jog the daunting 50 feet to the mailbox without getting winded, my "big boy" pants started squeezing my innards and my spare tire started looking like it came off a Peterbilt, I decided to do something about it.

During a physical therapy session from one of the aforementioned injuries, the masochist that was subjecting me to more pain than the original injury ever caused, commented that my muscles were weak and that I'd have better stability in my joints if I'd exercise. It didn't mean much then, but in light of my newfound self-loathing, it all hit home at once. Exercise. Yes, I must exercise. But what kind of exercise?

I could have started walking, but it's not really my style. I could have started cycling, but I live 15 miles from the Talladega Superspeedway and 19 miles from the Barber Motorsports track. Many of the locals seem to believe they are participants, so cycling didn't seem to be a good answer. I could have taken up Tae Kwon Do with my wife. Ninja, please. No I needed something different. Something intense. P90X. Yes, I needed to exercise and, true to form, I chose the most difficult, nausea inducing, muscle aching, pants kicking workout I could find.

Little did I realize that P90X included a weekly session of Hatha yoga. I had heard of yoga before. It was that thing that tofu munching liberals did when they weren't busy snuggling up to trees or saving whales. Surely it's inclusion in a muscle building, sweat producing, fat burning workout was the exercise equivalent to snoozing in my recliner. The guide recommended a yoga block and a towel. I supposed they were for entertainment when the yoga got too boring. I opted to pass on the extras and besides, a yoga block cost nearly $20.

I'll not step through the entire yoga session, but I wished I had looked up "yoga" before starting the workout. You see, "yoga" translated into english means "twist your body into positions that would make a pretzel maker pucker."

About 43 seconds into the warm-up, beads of sweat began to pop out down the length of my spine and across my forehead. I attributed it to a humid day in the south. After getting into "downward dog", which is essentially getting onto all fours and mooning the ceiling, I felt all the blood rush into my head and the sweat pour into my eyes. When I got out of "downward dog" I found myself translating into a very non-yoga-like position I call "light-headed redneck." Fortunately, I landed on the sofa to the right and not the french doors to the left. Apparently the towel is to wrap around your head to keep the sweat out of your eyes and cushion the fall.

Then came the bending maneuvers. Bending over doesn't seem too difficult until you find out that the yoga rule book states that bending the knees to accomplish touching the floor is a foul. No problem, I'll touch the floor. When my body stopped bending over the floor was still a long way. Ahhhh, yoga block. I paused the CD and ran downstairs to fashion an Alabama yoga block- a hunk of pressure treated 4 x 4 about 4 inches long. When I resumed the workout and reattempted the move I became impressed with my flexibility, or more specifically, the lack thereof. I paused the CD again and ran back downstairs for Alabama yoga block, revision 2- a hunk of pressure treated 4 x 4 about 10 inches long. It didn't lessen the pain, but at least I didn't have to bend over so far to suffer it. As an added discovery, I quickly recognized the fact that boxer shorts and yoga don't mix. I'm also pretty sure where the inventor of Pac Man got the idea for the game.

The real kicker came, though, with the balance postures. There is one called "The Crane" that is so supremely absurd that I'm not entirely convinced it wasn't a joke to begin with. Imagine standing on your hands. Okay, I can't imagine me standing on my hands either, but try to imagine it. Now from this position, imagine sticking your knees in your ears. Being the go-getter that I am, I squatted down, leaned forward onto my hands, stuck my knees in my ears and promptly fell on my head. I looked at the Gumby-like figures on the screen knotted into a monkey fist, balancing with apparent ease on their hands. So I tried it again... and fell on my head, again. And again. And again. Nothing says "I do yoga" like a rug burn on your forehead and a neck brace.

So here I sit, over two months into a three month program. I'm leaner, stronger, have better endurance and I still have a rug burn on my forehead. Now it's a contest. I'm determined to stick my knees in my ears for an entire 60 seconds or die trying. Just in case the latter happens first, before starting each session of yoga I set out a note for the paramedics so they'll have an explanation for the coroner. I hope my life insurance covers yoga.

You've GOT To Be Kidding Me

Somebody clue me in here. A couple days ago, October 4th to be specific, we went out to lunch. Nothing odd about that as it is a frequent Sunday event. What stopped me dead in my tracks, though, was what I saw when I walked in the door- a Christmas tree.

Christmas? Really? I looked at my iPhone to verify the date because I didn't want to be guilty of jumping to conclusions if I had been a victim of alien abduction and was missing some time or maybe I had been in a coma or possibly had just recovered from a wicked case of amnesia. I may have actually felt better if one of those scenarios had been the case. No such luck, though. I was spot on with the date.

I mean c'mon, the boys of summer are still taking the field and are just now heading into the playoffs. A quick calculation indicated we were still 82 days from Christmas, 50 days from Thanksgiving and 24 days from Halloween. And speaking of Halloween, that's when things got freaky.

I looked to the left and there, just across the aisle from the Christmas montage, was a Halloween display complete with ghouls, gobblins and witches. Suddenly I had the sensation I had just walked onto an ethereal battlefield where the forces of good and evil were facing off in a epic battle.

I could just see Michael Buffer standing betwixt them in his tuxedo and could hear his voice as plain as day. "In the right corner: Santa Claus, the Mrs., an elfen army and some flying reindeer. In the left corner: Satan himself, demons, ghosts witches and a host of evil minions."

The restaraunt crowd was such that I had to walk between them to get to the hostess. As I passed, I happened to notice a witch costume looking square at a reindeer and my mind began to wander.

[cue dream sequence sound effect]

"I'm just so sick of trying to come up with a sacrifice day after day. We've had chicken 3 times already this week. I had so much goat as a kid I can barely stomach it. The UFO guys have ruined cattle for us. Now I'd love to get my hands on these reindeer, but the blasted things are really quick and keep flying off. I'm SO thinking of going Vegan."

Then they begin their assault on the red and green enemy.

"I'm coming for you Santa!" one ghoul cries out.

Another enchants, "Forces of evil on all Hallow's eve, you're going down Santa, you'd better believe!"

Santa retorts, "I'm quaking in my ultra grande velvet pants. I keep a list, you know!"

"Coal is too good for you! I'm bringing a North Pole beat down!" chimes in an elf.

Ding, ding, ding. "Let's get it on!"

[exit dream sequence sound effect]

OK, so here it is... if we're in such a lousy hurry for Christmas to get here, let's just get on with the inevitable and go for it year around. It's getting earlier every year anyway, so let's quit beating around the bush, declare it a year long event and be done. I hear everyone complaining about it coming so soon, but no one can seem to stop it, so why fight it? If my years in the corporate world have taught me anything, it's to take a deep breath, relax, accept it and pretend you like it.

Let's face it, I know some people around here still have their lights up from last year, so they are ahead of the game. Now, I know I live in Alabama, but I have also lived and worked in enough parts of this great country to know the deep south hasn't cornered the market on rednecks and hicks. I'd be inclined to call you a liar if you'd openly say you haven't seen someone in your region that doesn't leave the lights up year round. Well since Christmas will soon be coming always, think of what you can do with all the time you used to spend putting up and taking down decorations. No more last minute, panic stricken trips to buy a gift from barren shelves. And if you didn't have a chance to get a gift to someone, no problem-o. Tomorrow is still Christmas as is next week or July 18th, even. It could become a utopia.

[deep breath, long exhale]

Yes, I think this is a good idea and, by George, I like it. Thank you corporate world. Thanks a bundle. I'm so giddy I could choke a reindeer.

X-Men Rejects (Revisited) and Status Update

I apologize for the lack of blogification here of late. We finally have everyone feeling pretty well. Still, things around the ol' Mad Science laboratory have been nothing short of a madhouse. I have been dealt a blow much like the one suffered by the Dyer Brothers in that my employer has put the Kibosh on internet access and is randomly monitoring hard drives, flash drives, and disk drives for non-work related content. If they find any it's an automatic spot in the soup line. My kids don't like soup, so you can see the dilemma.

Additionally, my years of military service, soccer, cross country running, mountain biking, motocross riding (and wrecking), weight training, long hours of standing on hard lab floors and some unfortunate genetic inheritances have taken their toll on the bod. My physical therapist said the best defense against the increasingly constant pain is a regular exercise regimen. Shockingly, this does not include sitting on the couch and typing on a laptop. So, I'm trying to fit that into an already hectic schedule. Things may be slim for awhile until I find my groove, but I have not given up on my passion for the written word. Until then, I'll make due with what I can. Below is another one of my first posts, before the days of followers. I'll try and keep up with all of you as frequently as possible.

I was watching an X-Men movie on the TV a few days ago. I think it was the X-Men sequel number 224. I have always enjoyed the series, but in all the times I watched the movies, I never made one particular observation until this last go-round. That observation will become clear momentarily.

For those that may not be familiar with the X-Men movies, allow me to give you a quick and dirty background. The X-Men originated as a comic book series that dealt with people affected by an unknown gene which caused various mutations in the human genome. Some of the mutants (known as the X-Men) were led by Professor Charles Xavier, a paraplegic with telepathic abilities. He took them in and taught to them both harness and control the gifts that resulted from their genetic mutations. The mutations manifested themselves in various forms giving differing abilities. The mutants were viewed as outcasts from "baseline" society.

The characters are marvelous. There is Archangel, who has feather covered wings which give him the ability to fly. There is Iceman who can freeze his own body or freeze anything he touches. Cannonball can fly at supersonic speeds encased in an impenetrable force field. Storm has the ability to generate extreme weather phenomena in her locale. And, of course, there is the incomparable Wolverine, the first X-Man, who has razor sharp knife blades which will protrude from his knuckles on-command and who heals at a highly accelerated rate. Given the number of fights he is in, that is a good thing to have on your side. And in Hollywood you cannot have super heros with super powers without super villains that have equally impressive gifts and a knack for doing evil.

I even love the cool names that are given based on their abilities.

That's when the observation hit. If this were to mimic real life in any way shape or form, shouldn't there be 10 mutants with less than impressive mutations for every one with such awesome ones? And wouldn't the average Joe mutant have an equally unimpressive name to go with it? I can think of a few examples.

There might be "Big Eye" who passes out like a fainting goat at the first hint of danger, but he does so with his eyes still wide open. He is completely vulnerable but usually goes unharmed because his would-be attackers get totally creeped out by the open-eyed sleeper.

Maybe there could be "spittle" who can launch a minute stream of saliva from under his tongue. It takes his enemies a few minutes to recognize that it is totally non-toxic but not nearly that long to recognize that it is highly annoying and sometimes just plain gross.

Then there's the "Gimp" who has one leg that randomly disappears. You certainly don't want to be behind him at the grocery store when it hits, especially with him carrying a basket full of glass jars. To his credit, he is a perennial favorite at the annual Georgia Butt Kicking Contest.

We can't forget "Sanders" who puts off an odor of fried chicken. During a recent run-in with some villainous mutants he escaped unharmed, but later that night the villains nearly sacked the town trying to satisfy their horrific case of the munchies.

And what about "Bumfuzzled" who exudes just enough carbon monoxide to hinder his own supply of oxygen and walks in circles confused and mumbling to himself as a result of oxygen deprivation.

We couldn't forget "Flowbee" who grows hair. That's it, just lots and lots of hair. It'd take a team of interstate mowers and a contract endorsement from Gillette to keep him groomed, so every barber in town locks the doors when they see him coming. Now you understand where he got his name.

Hmmm. Come to think of it, this may not be so far off from reality after all. I think I've seen each one of these unimpressive mutants at the office. Yikes... another case of reality mocking science fiction.

I Opened My Mouth and Influenza (revisited)

Seeing as how everyone in the house is suffering (in some form or fashion), I'm re-posting one of the first articles I put up. None of us have the flu but it's rotten, nonetheless. I'll be back soon.

Well, it’s happened again. Somebody got offended. “NO!”, you say. I know it’s hard to believe but, sadly, it’s true. When are we ever going to start giving consideration to all the poor, innocent souls out there who stand to be easily offended by otherwise innocent and insignificant comments and references? Are we just heartless? OK, I need to stop now before my tongue pokes a hole straight through my cheek.

I heard the other day that people are offended by the fact that swine flu is being referred to as swine flu. Let’s see, it’s an influenza virus that affects humans but has it’s origin in swine. Swine flu seems appropriate enough to me. It’s not like we’re asking anyone to lick a pig here.

Do you want to know what’s offensive? It’s not that some dolt was offended by the name swine flu, but that a lot of other dolts took him seriously. Where are these people’s friends and family? Why won’t they give them a good dope slap and tell them if they must be on a bandwagon to find one that amounts to something? I'm guessing that someone actually encouraged this and said “You know, that’s a good thought. You need to bring this as a point of order to the world." The fact that they did just that is enough to make me sick.

Let’s just chase the rabbit for a moment, or can I not say that? If we have to abandon calling swine flu by its name then we are opening the door for continued absurdity. We'll have to be careful to avoid all swine and pig references in everything. My kids will be out of luck at supper time because I can no longer offer them pigs in a blanket. I won’t be able to call their room a sty, either. And what if I get a sty on my eye? Is it too close for comfort to call it such? And speaking of kids, kids everywhere will have lost an enjoyable game because ig-pay atin-lay will have to am-scray. Harley-Davidson riders the world over will no longer be able to mount their hogs and hit the road. The Arkansas Razorbacks will have to find a new mascot. The Washington Redskin fans will not be able to adorn themselves in hog faces and dresses (which may not such a bad idea anyway but to each, his own). Wall Street traders will have to give up on futures trading and pork bellies. Bostonians will certainly get their butts on their shoulders with the popular barbecue cuisine named as it is. The grocery chain Piggly Wiggly will now be an offense to all that is piggly or wiggly. The community of Swineford, Ireland will have to pack up move to a more respectably named locale. Heck, I’d even be worried about calling a pigeon by it’s name because it does say “pig” in it.

And why should we stop there? Woe be unto the person that contracts cat scratch fever because there are plenty of people that hate cats. I feel especially bad for them if it makes them sick as a dog. They may end up having to take some horse pill to get over it. At least it isn’t as bad as monkey pox. Or chicken pox. Or bird flu. If someone is unfortunate enough to have a rhinovirus, look out. And for the person that gets crabs… well, never mind.

We’d really be in a bind when it comes to mad cow disease because of the cow’s prominence amongst Hindu believers. How dare we call any of them mad? You’d think that it would be equally offensive to those that are mad because of the connection to cows. In reality, those that are mad are the only ones with any sanity in regard to this issue. While we are all up in arms, they just laugh at us and go about playing in the corner of the room with some dust bunnies.

I think I’m getting tired of hawking my point so I’ll just offer one final word to all who I have offended this day... hogwash.

A Little Help?

You gotta love the corporate world. The back-biting, the schmoozing, hobnobbing with the goober smoochers, the rat race, clawing your way up the ladder of success and all that comes with it. It's a hoot. There are so many companies trying to get a leg up on the competition that those of us working for them end up looking like William Shoemaker trying to mount a Clydesdale without a trainer to give him, well... a leg up.

I got informed at work that I am supposed to attend some sort of “training” that will provide me the “tools” necessary for me to be successful at what ever endeavors I undertake. This guy must have more powers than Kazoo from those old Flintstones episodes. He’s going to tell each of us, all with different capabilities, backgrounds and interests how to succeed. Sure. I’d come closer to believing that aliens are going to land in town and so provide us with the first annual, inter-planetary river dance.

OK, here’s the deal- I’m sick and tired of people that don't know me from Adam trying to make me into a better person. My parents instilled in me the need to be a good, decent human and to treat other people with kindness and respect. I learned that by putting your mind to something and by working hard at it, you could succeed at anything. That’s it. Those are the keys to success. If I really want to succeed, I have to predetermine that the sacrifices and consequences of my efforts are outweighed by the potential gain of what it is I am after. If that doesn’t happen, I am not going to be successful at squat unless I find a magic lamp in the sand and rub it real nice.

This is, as I see it, another case of the corporate world emulating our society's want for instant gratification without investing any effort. For those that get into this stuff, let me save you some time- it doesn’t work if you’re not willing to work. I know that sounds pessimistic but, trust me, it is true. Maybe I should charge people money to save them money by unveiling the truth about these kinds of things. There is no doubt that this dude, at whose feet we are to obtain our tutelage, has gotten a huge paycheck from our company to come in here and speak in sweeping generalities with such enthusiasm that people cannot help be motivated by his energy and slick speech. You know what would really motivate people? Split that guy’s paycheck into equal parts and distribute it evenly amongst the workers who are going to be two days behind after attending this session.

For the life of me I cannot figure out the appeal of having these motivational speakers come in to try and whip everyone into a work producing frenzy. Oh, I’m getting whipped into a frenzy alright. I’m affected by these guys the same way I am when I’m subjected to excessively energetic exercise guys that are always hawking some gizmo on TV. I want to jump right up out of my recliner, whack them in the shnoz with a sack of M&M's and watch them drop to the ground like a homesick brick. If I want to get fit, I’ll do it on my terms and if I want to be a superstar at work, the same applies.

Here’s a thought for my viewpoint opponents: supposing that this guy comes in and is the best thing to ever grace planet earth. If his thoughts and ideals are so revolutionary that we all are forced to sit in wonderment of how our cerebral cortexes managed to control our autonomic functions without him, and we all reach new heights as people and workers, then, truthfully, what has changed? In relation to one another, we are all exactly where we were, only at a higher level. Let me offer a little revolutionary thought of my own- it takes the lazy bums of the world to provide the necessary and stark contrast to make the superstars shine brightly. If we all shine so much brighter, we should expect kajilion dollar raises for all of us, right? We all are going to be eligible for appointment to president of the company, eh? Yeah, right. Our collective brightness will be such that the individual is lost. The reality is this- the people who stand to gain from my torture, er, I mean tutoring are the ones cutting the check, bottom line.

I cannot help but wonder if anyone else has ever followed my line of reasoning with this garbage. It is being sold as a way for me to improve every aspect of my life, in and out of work. Well if it is true and if attending this class will help shave one, single stroke off my golf score, I’ll take back everything I have said. If, after his inspirational monologue, I’m able to make the skies give forth sunshine or rain as needed to bring some life back to my plants, thereby making me successful in saving my dying yard, I’ll go on his campaign trail and work to get this guy elected as President of the United States of America. If the magic of his words so change me that I become the next Bill Gates, then honestly, I’ll probably just quit my job and play with my toys. What I expect, though, is to get: 1) a headache from listening to him blabber; 2) frustrated from participating in ridiculous, unrealistic role-playing exercises, 3) an ulcer from trying to cope with the increased backlog of work that I am already behind in from other such hoopla, and 4) in trouble for getting home later than normal and making my wife late for her Tae Kwon Do class.

And this is supposed to make me a better person. Thanks. Thanks a bunch. Next time someone wants to make me a better person, I hope they just kick me where it hurts and get it over with quickly.

Time to Skin the Pigs

Labor Day is in the books, so that can only mean one thing: college football season has started, and it’s about stinking time. Well, officially started, I should say. For the current year, that is. If the truth were to be told, college football hasn’t ended since it began in 1892. Around here, people live for college football. Occasionally, and under unusual circumstances (read: under the influence of immense amounts of alcohol) people die for it. Here in the deep southern states of the U.S. lies the home of the Southeastern Conference. The SEC is the home of some of the most extreme football fans you’ll ever see. They’re like animals. No, they’re like rabid animals. OK, more like rabid animals that have washed down a fistful of amphetamines with a gallon of sugar-laden double espressos. I mean intense. But here in Alabama its amped up a few more notches, still.

I grew up a few hundred miles to the south, in central Florida. I don’t recall the level of intensity being this high over college football. It was probably this high over the constant influx of 9mm packing illegal immigrants from the south or the influx of motor vehicle challenged retirees from the north, but those amounted to life and death. Football was a game, or so I was allowed to believe in my sun-drenched naïveté. Sometimes even the ignorant get an education.

For those of you who are not sports fans, this may be hard to envision. For those of you that are sports fans, it may still be hard to envision. For those of you across the pond… I’ll try to come up with something to explain it.

Let me remind you that we’re not talking about professional sports teams here, but college. The folks here would be quick to tell you that professional athletes lose something with their first big paycheck. In college it’s about the guts, the glory, team spirit, school pride, history, pageantry, and plain ol’ fun.

For the fans, it’s about rights. Specifically, the right to rub the noses of the people you know, who root for the wrong team, in the fact that your team took theirs to the cleaners. For a whole year you have the right to be the most obnoxious reminder of past events you can be, knowing full well that next year the shoe could be on the other foot so you’d better take your shots while you have them. The ones on the receiving end spend the year of abuse plotting their moves for when their team bestows bragging rights upon them. This is the Bears vs. the Packers, Liverpool vs. Manchester United, Ford vs. Chevy, the Allies vs. the Axis, all rolled into one. This is the epitome of rivalry.

If you come to Alabama from somewhere else, as I did, there are a few expectations you can bet you’ll face. First of all, you must choose sides. Neutral parties are as well accepted as a pot-bellied pig in a mosque. I’ve heard it said many times “You have to choose a side.” If you refuse to accept one of the Alabama teams as your own, you have to be as loyal and painstakingly dedicated to the team you do choose as they are to theirs. Loyalty means loyalty at all costs and not having a team is not an option. Women are not excused from this requirement. Many of the women here could take the mike for the college football segment on ESPN’s Sports Center without ever breaking stride.

I think this mentality is a result of hours dedicated to studying history. Football history, that is. “Shug” Jordan and “Bear” Bryant may have been dead for nearly 30 years, but every kid knows their names like they are the mayor or governor or someone really important like the college athletic director. For all practical purposes “The Bear” and “Shug” are still alive and kicking.

With dedication like this it should be no surprise that people go in droves to support their teams. The football stadiums here dwarf most professional venues. On-campus stadiums that hold 85,000 + are packed to the gills every Saturday. Thousands more fans surround the stadium to grill out and watch the game on any TV set that is available. Tickets for high-profile games draw hundreds of dollars apiece.

Normally small college towns swell to many times their normal population. It’s an impressive sight, indeed and well worth the effort to attend.

Yes, it’s football season at last and I can’t wait. Of course, I live in a divided house… a mixed marriage, if you will. My wife roots for the wrong team. It’s all good until game day Saturdays when our teams are playing at the same time. During the Iron Bowl (arguably the biggest rivalry in all of sportsdom) we just don’t talk. It’s a thing of beauty. Yes, it’s football season again. Still. For 4 months life is sweet. And the next 4 will dictate what the following 8 will be like, but I have high hopes.

Until then…WAR EAGLE!!!

I Want to be the Weatherman

I want to be a weatherman. From an interest standpoint, I’ve always thought that meteorology would be a cool field. I’ve long been fascinated with storms and clouds. I wanted to chase tornadoes long before Stormchasers aired its first episode. But meteorology is not what I’m talking about here. I want to be a weatherman… like the guys on the local news. I want to be a weatherman so I can be dead wrong in my analysis and it be perfectly acceptable to say “Well, how ‘bout that? The computer model said it was supposed to be sunny. Hmmph. Better luck next time, I guess.” How about stepping outside and taking a look at the sky, Mac?

I wonder what that approach would look like where I work? I work in a lab for the large multi-national scientific research and development company Monkey Mind, International. I can just see one of the bosses at MMI coming in and saying, “Jamie, we need to know the composition of this sample. It’s very important and has been requested by a high profile client.”

“Okey, dokey boss, I’ll get right on it.”

“So, any ideas?” he asks.

“Well, based on historical modeling for everything you’ve ever brought to me on a full moon when wearing that ugly stinking tie on a Tuesday while drinking from a coffee mug with mouse ears, I’d have to say it’s a chicken enchilada.”

“Uhhh, shouldn’t you analyze it on some sort of instrument or do a titration or check the pH or something? It’s in a jar and feels like a liquid.”

“Nah, I’m sure the model is good. I’ll go with that.”

Later that same day: “Jamie, we had the sample analyzed by an outside lab and it turns out it was benzene. Had we gone with your analysis, 50 people would be facing serious illness and possibly death.”

“Hmmm. That’s weird. Well, better luck next time. Hey, Boss… any chance you could actually get me a chicken enchilada? I forgot my lunch.”

Yeah, right. There isn’t another place in the world where you could have that kind of track record and retain your employment status. I’d love to have that job. So by now you may be wondering why I’m cracking on the weatherman. I’ll tell you why. Overtime.

Earlier this week I agreed to come in on Saturday and work a 12-hour stint with the shift workers to fill a void on their crew. Part of the fun of getting back on a shift crew is that I can ride my motorcycle to work, hang out with the other two-wheeled brethren and re-live the shifty lifestyle I left so many years ago. It was supposed to be fun. Last night, immediately prior to going to bed, I pulled up the forecast.

“Let’s see… clouds building late in the day… okay, no problem. A 20 to 30 percent chance of rain… that means a 70 to 80 percent chance of no rain, so I’m okay with those odds. Morning lows in the 60’s, highs in the mid to upper 80’s. Awesome. A typical summertime forecast, so I’m good to ride the bike.”

Well, not so much. Never, ever, ever, when I read that forecast, do I interpret it as “clouds socked in like a London fog, producing a day-long, steady rain.” Clearly, I don’t speak “weatherman.”

I had to be at the lab at 6am, which means I was pushing the bike out of the garage at 5am. I examined the sky, as I am apt to do. “Are those clouds?” I asked myself, peering into the darkness. “I’m sure it’s fine,” I thought. “It was rainy yesterday, so it must be that the clouds must have been slow clearing out. The weatherman said it was going to be clear until this afternoon.”

I remained dry all the way to work. I continued to give the weatherman the benefit of the doubt, although with the coming daylight came the increasing evidence that rain was close at hand. Less than an hour after arriving, I looked out the window and saw a steady rain coming down. At lunch… rain. Mid-afternoon coffee break… rain. Quitting time… rain.

Let me tell you something about riding a motorcycle in the rain. It hurts. Raindrops at highway speed feel like you’re riding through a barrage of needle-sharp blow darts. You’re forced to choose between riding slow and getting drowned or riding fast and getting drowned. I had rain gear, but the rain was hard enough that it seeped into the nooks and crannies and proceeded to soak everything underneath, effectively turning me into a plastic wrapped sauna. People in cars tend to lose their ever-loving minds in the rain, too, and develop tunnel vision. So in addition to worrying about the blow darts that are penetrating your skin and soaking your spleen, you have to duck and dodge more than normal with less than optimal traction. It a nutshell, it’s a loser.

I made it home safely despite being soaking wet, having my visor fogged over, and having to avoid every loon that panics when water falls from the sky. And what did I come home to? The local weatherman laughing about how badly he knackered the forecast. Nice.

Well, weatherman, just to show that I can forgive and forget, I’d like to send you a little peace offering. It’s a great big box just chocked full of chicken enchiladas.