Mad Science

The Ruffner Mountain High Hope Dashing, Crush Your Expectations and Replace Them With Useless Lower Limbs 21K Trail Run

2011-11-14T17:24:00.003-06:00

So maybe that title’s a little melodramatic but given that I’m sitting here suffering from the “second day after” soreness, it isn’t altogether off target. In all fairness to the event coordinators the actual title is the Ruffner Mountain High Crusher Ridge 21K. As I mentioned in the last post, this race was both my first trail run and my first half marathon all rolled into one. As an added bonus, it was also the inaugural running of the event, so I couldn’t find anyone’s input as a point of comparison. Way to go, Jamie.

The following is a reconstruction of the race based on the somewhat sketchy information that my oxygen starved brain has been able to retrieve. Those who are experienced runners will almost certainly point and laugh. Those who have never so much as run across the living room will almost certainly point and laugh. Go ahead and yuck it up- I don’t care.

07:25- Arrived at the race and noticed people parking on the street instead of in the parking lot 200 yards up the hill.

07:25:15- Realized that of the 115 registered runners, 112 of them got there ahead of me and the parking lot was full. Headed back down the hill. In the meantime, the other 3 arrived and got what would have been my parking spot.

07:45- Headed to the potty to get rid of the two cups of coffee that are essential to my morning survival, race or no race.

07:55- Got on my hydration pack, long sleeve tech shirt, gloves, cinched up the laces and headed to the starting line to shiver in the 36-degree (Fahrenheit) temperatures.

08:00- Gun sounded. Headed up a small paved path to the trailhead behind pretty much everyone.

Mile 0.05- Overheard concern from a fellow runner over how so many people were going to funnel onto a single track trail.

Mile 0.06- Came to a screeching halt waiting for runners to filter onto the trail. Commented to aforementioned runner “Oh, I see now.”

Mile 0.5- Noticed how rocky the trail was and wondered how to keep from tripping when 200 legs were obscuring my view of the ground.

Mile 2- Came upon the first of six aid stations and blew past it and 10 runners like it was up on jacks (technically, I guess it was up on jacks, but you get the point)- thank you hydration pack.

Mile 2.2- Questioned my decision to go with long sleeves and began to feel the second cup of coffee working on my bladder.

Mile 2.5- Full-on regretted my decision to wear long sleeves and shoved them as far up my arms as I could manage. Considered taking off gloves to cool off.

Mile 2.6- Witnessed a nasty crash and decided sweaty hands were better than bloody ones.

Mile 3.5- While on a perfectly level, relatively open part of the course, tripped over a root while trying to avoid poison ivy. Demonstrated one of the most ungraceful motions EVER in trying not grind my face off. Remarkably, succeeded in this attempt. Accepted ovation from runners behind me. Commenced to plowing through poison ivy with reckless abandon.

Mile 4.5- Felt the quads burning while on a steep uphill and overheard that we were only on mile 4.5. Suppressed the urge to cry.

Mile 4.7- DOWNHILL!! WHEEEEEE! Realized the pure fun of trail running for the first time.

Mile 5- Good feeling went bye-bye. Hoped the next aid station had a fire extinguisher for the flames in my calves and thighs. Abandoned hope of finishing in style and just hoped I don’t come in last.

Mile 6- Flat trail encountered. Became entirely suspicious at this point but was quickly distracted by my back side playing Pac Man with my skivvies. Commenced to digging like I worked in a mine to the chagrin of all who were behind me.

Mile 7- Missed a turn and ended up deep in the 100 acre woods. Hoped that I was not dubbed “Victim 3” in some slasher film. Retraced my steps and found the missed turn.

Mile 7.02- Noticed that the guy I passed 3 miles ago and 30 of his buddies were ahead of me now. Tried to catch up but legs rebelled vehemently.

Mile 8- Stopped at the aid station and tried to take in some calories. Grabbed a cookie and continued. Stopped worrying about where I would finish and started hoping I’d finish at all.

Mile 8.01- Concluded that the cookie must have been made with alum given that my dessicated mouth was trying to turn my head inside-out. Discarded remaining two-thirds of cookie for some poor, unfortunate chipmunk that didn’t know what was about to hit him.

Mile 8.02- Possibly hallucinating, but swore that I heard a chipmunk threaten to knife my tires.

Mile 9.5- Found myself on all fours climbing up an embankment passing the same guy I passed 5 miles earlier.

Mile 10.5- Directed into the woods and started another climb. Pace slowed to lower than that of a 14 month old toddler. For some unknown reason, checked pulse- found it to be clipping along at 408 beats per minute. Wondered if cell phone was 911 enabled.

Mile 10.6- Continued walking for what felt like an eternity. Was sure Jack didn’t go this high when he climbed the beanstalk. Quit worrying about whether I’d finish and focused on not throwing up on my own feet.

Mile 10.8- Heard words of encouragement from photographer at the top of the hill who had obviously been sent to chronicle my death. I wondered why he wouldn’t toss me a rope or call 911. Surmised he was a hallucination.

Mile 11.1- Two miles to go. Thank heavens for downhill and gravity.

Mile 12- Noticed signs of civilization and heard cheers coming from below. Wondered momentarily if it was the finish line or a Roman coliseum where victims were being fed to lions. Hoped for the former but was too tired to care either way.

Mile 13- Sentry (or possibly a guardian angel) pointed me to the finish line.

Mile 13.1- Crossed finish line to cheers from people. Too oblivious to notice or care who they were.

4 seconds post race- Surprised at the fact there was a 12-foot Burmese python around each leg but realized it was just my legs cramping.

5 seconds post race- Took my finisher medal from a volunteer and wore it the rest of the day.

Two hours post race- Attempted to sit in an ice bath to fight off the pythons, but screamed at the horror of it all.

Six hours post race- Got on the internet to look for the next time a race was scheduled.

I think I’m proclaiming myself a trail runner.

Stinkin' Forrest Gump

2011-11-12T15:59:00.000-06:00

"Run Forrest! Run!!" Jenny cried out. Run, he did. And he made it look so easy, too. It seems that hidden beneath those knackered up legs was a motoring machine.

Hidden beneath my knackered up legs are a wad of muscles completely devoid of glycogen but teeming with lactic acid. To make it worse, I didn't even run across the country- twice.

Last May (or thereabouts) I decided I'd get back into jogging as a means of staying in shape that didn't involve dumbbells, working out, or anything to do with Shaun T. That joker's insane. I have always been built like a runner... or so I've been told. Honestly, I don't know exactly what a runner looks like, but they're easy enough to spot- especially those Kenyans. I guess if I had to describe myself it'd be as a shorter, whiter, slower, graying Kenyan with a touch of an ice cream influenced belly.

Getting back on track, I fell victim to the hype surrounding the Woodstock 5k, the Indy 500 of 5k races in Anniston, Alabama. I committed to running it in August. At said race I crossed the finish line in 24:44, short on breath but long on running fever.

During one of the many race-centered discussions that ensued around the licorice bag at the office, we talked about how fun it might be to run through the woods. As fate would have it, one of the runners at work was also a trail runner and clued us in to the nature of trail running. As my ISTP driven personality inclined me to do, I researched everything I could find on trail running.

My initial plan was to go for the gusto. Those of you that have read this blog for awhile know that is not really an earth-shattering statement. For two months I followed a training plan to get me ready for a 50k trail run in February. Yes, I said 50k. That's 31 miles. I started thinking I didn't much care for the feeling of gusto, however, following a 12-mile road run. To go another 12, plus 6 more, plus another 1 just for sadism's sake seemed woefully out of reach. A half-marathon was not, though, and it just so happened that one was just around the corner.

Tune in next time for a detailed account of a trail half-marathon run by someone who has never run a trail race OR a half-marathon.

I Am the Agent of Change

2011-09-01T22:12:00.000-05:00

People often ask me, “Jamie, what does it take to become a successful humor writer?” Honestly, it’s very rare that I get asked that question. OK, you got me- I’ve never been asked that question even once. I suppose not being asked may be tied to the fact that I’ve not achieved one whit of success. Also, if you consider the very real possibility that my version of humor is questionable to all persons residing outside my brain, it all starts coming into focus. But just in case anyone ever does ask me, know for certain that I’m armed and dangerous. No, wait, that’s not it; ready- I’m armed and ready.

The following steps are guaranteed to earn you the same success I have enjoyed, lo these many years. Use them at your own peril.

Step 1- It really helps to be slightly touched in the head. People too grounded in reality can’t see the world for the silly place it is. Either that or the touched person sees humor where none exists. In either case, when you’re two electrons short of a noble element, the world becomes your oyster… or barnacle… or some other marine bivalve that has nothing to do with mental capacity or electron orbitals. If you cannot muster up some mental instability, look for signs of ADD, OCD or other abbreviations of the sort. I’ve found them to be good starting - look, a squirrel!!. Sorry. If all that fails, I cannot go so far as to recommend PCP, but I hear it packs a punch and the daydreams are supposedly off the chain.

Step 2- I always recommend for one to embrace the technique of fasting. While I hear that it helps to focus the mind and that the caloric reduction has some proven medical benefits, the real motive is that it will help you cope with the lack of grocery money that comes with being a professional humorist. It seems that people like to laugh, but none of the cheap so-and-so’s I’ve encountered are willing to part with a buck for the experience. Thus, one should be willing to live on bread and water and routinely forego the bread. Besides, when your blood sugar level strikes the floor it may well induce a hypoglycemic delirium. Delirious people are often funny, or at the very least, have people pointing and laughing at them. Take Charlie Sheen, for instance. He’s clearly delirious and people all over the world are ROFL (so to text).

Step 3- Develop a sarcastic and pessimistic air about you. Some of the best and funniest rants I’ve have ever read came as a result of someone belittling a person or situation that they viewed as ridiculous. While some view this as a “low road” approach, I see it more as a natural by-product of abject poverty. This may be a good juncture to review point number 2. There are few things that will turn a person more cynical than living in a cardboard box and dumpster-diving for sustenance. Perhaps this as why Sesame Street’s Oscar the Grouch is such a beloved character. If you cannot lower yourself to this level, take a job as a government employee and a bad attitude will be waiting for you right around the corner.

Step 4- Attaching yourself to a social deviant like a remora sucking up to a shark is another killer technique. (It’s not a killing technique mind you, but as a side note, when dealing with social deviants its best not to let your guard down for too long.) Material abounds when you pal around with people that play fast and loose with moral and civil law. Again, Charlie Sheen. It really gets entertaining when they take on natural law, but things almost always end on a sour note for said deviant in such cases. Not to worry, social deviants are aplenty and you’ll find a new one soon. The added benefit is that social deviants almost always carry cash to finance their exploits and when nature takes its inevitable course, you’re right there to help yourself to stuff they won’t need anymore.

Step 5- Become known for an inability to spel and/or tipe. When you slotter words, it serves the too fold purpose of giving peeple something to laff at and it elimenates the need for costlee edit-ing. Besides, when your finger slips off the “home row” and your words >kkm >k.d gjms, everee won asoomes it is intenshunal.

Well, there you have it- Jamie’s sure-fired, five-step program to (ahem) successful humor writing. Soon you’ll be right here with me. But when you get here, the dumpster to the left is mine. I’ve developed something of a penchant for day-old sushi and salmonella.

WIred WIreless

2011-03-08T22:07:00.000-06:00

I haven’t written for quite a few days and I have a very valid explanation. It’s Verizon Wireless’ fault. Let me back up a few years and explain. My Mom and Dad met at the… wait, wrong story. Oh, yeah, I got it now.

Back in the year two thousand and my memory is shot, I ditched the PC loving world to join the ranks of the Apple gang. I shelled out large and bought my first Mac. It was love at first click. I’m sure it helped that I was still reeling from a couple viruses and two dead Hewlett Puckerds. Still, given that I wasn’t a gamer, into computer anything and all about hating me some PC’s, the Mac scratched me where I itched. Fast forward to two thousand and some time after that. I decided to quick bucking cell phone technology and just take it like a man, so the iPhone seemed like a natural choice. With that purchase we were transformed into a full-blown Steve Jobs groupies.

For awhile it was bliss. The phone synced perfectly with the Mac. The graphics were amazing. The screen was bigger than the screen on the aged CRT TV in the living room. There was only one downside- the provider. While the Atlantic Telephone and Telegraph Company may have kicked some Morse code rear in Edison’s day, the present reality was that they stunk like a road-killed skunk when it comes to cellular service- at least around these parts. I had to drive 35 miles in one direction to get 3G service and 135 miles in the other direction. Hardly convenient, in my book.

For the next two years I shelled out a sizeable chunk of my retirement to fulfill my contractual obligation in exchange for a very impressive piece of equipment that, usability wise, was only slightly better than the duct tape bound POJ flip phone that I had previously. Despite many complaints to the service department, the response was always the same. “We’re sorry Mr. Baker. Where you live the 3G towers are still in the planning phase. I’m sure you’re complaint will be coming across the teletype to the manager any minute now and he’ll pony express a message to your regional office.”

Fast-forward two more years. Within 3 nanoseconds of my contract end, I waved goodbye to Stevie boy and hopped aboard the Android behemoth. The difference was amazing. It was like taking Wild Bill Hickok’s six-shooter and horse and giving him James Bond’s car, complete with heat-seeking missiles. A whole world, previously unknown to me, was unveiled.

Getting down to the real point, that’s been good and bad. My brother, blast his hide, introduced me to a free game from the accursed Android Market and I found myself addicted. With that I must issue this statement: My name is Jamie and I hate pigs. Not the real ones, mind you- they are cute and taste delicious- but the green headed, no body, hard-hat-wearing, moustache sporting, egg thieving ones. Fortunately, there are plenty of birds willing to go the route of the martyr in order to eradicate said pigs. I’ve been more than happy to hurl them to their wall-crushing demise, too. Angry Birds, sleep deprived bird slinger.

It’s consumed the whole family. The kids fight over the chance to kill pigs. My wife hasn’t bought groceries or done laundry in days. I haven’t showered in a week. My phone battery already has 493 charging cycles on it. It’s awful. What are they doing, sending subliminal messages through the screen? Angry Birds is destroying my life and the lives of my family and what am I trying to do to stop it? Score three stars on each level, that’s what. It’s like electronic crack doped with OCD. When will it end? Just when I think I have whooped its tail, they update the thing to add more. They have me by the cerebral cortex and they know it. I have seen the enemy and it involves birds, pigs and a slingshot. I can’t quit cold turkey- the DT’s are relentless. It’s like a siren song, only less of a song and more like a gamish of snorting, chirping and demolition.

Well, drastic times call for drastic measures. This is an all out cry for help. Does anyone know how to get three stars on level 11-9?? I’m getting really close to reaching those golden eggs!

Report? Sure, I'll Write the Report

2011-03-04T21:27:00.000-06:00

At work I will occasionally get asked to write a report, write up a lesson that covers a given topic, write an article for the company newsletter or other things that are about as much fun as watching the amalgam in my teeth tarnish. In the absence of interesting detail and proper adult supervision, I have been known to add my own touches to spice things up a bit. For some reason, unknown to me, they still insist on asking for my professional input. It seems blatantly obvious that my input is as far removed from "professional" as one could get, but maybe they are just desperate.

Today was a prime example of what I'm talking about. I was asked to write something really dull. Since it is Friday and I was hopped up on jelly doughnuts, I felt compelled to make the event a little more newsworthy. Any resemblance to actual people or events is purely coincidental and probably indicative that you've spent too much time at the movies.

Subject: Falsely Getting a Man’s Hopes Up

Issue Description: Secondary valve of compressed gas cylinder 12-pack was discovered to be partially open.

Background: A technician was asked to go outside and change the 12-pack to a fresh set. Being a child of the 60’s and misunderstanding the intent, he rushed to the task only to be supremely disappointed that the only 12-pack in sight was cylinders of compressed nitrogen and not Budweiser as he was expecting. He went about the task and was in the process of changing the gas bottles to a new supply when it was discovered the hard way that the valve to a secondary connection was partially open. When flow to the gas line was initiated, a protective dust cap on the secondary valve was launched approximately 15 feet past the technician. Unfortunately for the technician, his vision was drawn to the low mass, relatively slow moving dust cap and he completely missed the chromed ball that was behind it. The ball, traveling at an estimated 2, 200 feet per second, entered his chest just under his right nipple, virtually ending any future he may have had as a Hollywood body double for William Shatner. Well, that and the patchy thickets of slightly graying back hair. Anyway, the ball struck the edge of his sternum, ricocheted downward toward his pelvis and made an abrupt turn toward the stern before it exited the center of his cheek, essentially ripping him a new one. The upside was that the cryogenic liquid behind the ball had sterilized it and the spewing gas cauterized his wounds. This fortunate one-two punch resulted in a minimal loss of blood and almost completely mitigated the chance of serious infection. Since no major organs were involved and the technician retained consciousness, he was given two band-aids and was told to cowboy up. The incident was classified as a first aid case, protecting the outstanding safety record enjoyed by all. Incidentally, the rogue chrome ball was never found.

Recommendations: When handling compressed gas cylinders, be sure to check all valves for security prior to releasing cylinder contents. It is highly recommended that any potential high velocity, nitrogen propelled tater gun projectiles be fired away from you and in the general direction of people more easily replaced, such as temporary employees and day laborers. In all cases, the utmost care must be exercised to prevent harm coming to barn swallows, killdeer, crows, rabbits, deer, foxes, coyotes, buffalo, snakes, wasps, ants or company owned property.

When it comes down to the lesser of evils it is important to note that few things are as evil as having to fill out an accident report. It's easier to outsource a resurrection to a Haitian that specializes in Black Magic than to filter through all the forms. Also, Haitians are notorious for speaking in broken English so the opportunity for confusion goes up exponentially. The price of fuel being what it is combined with the inordinate difficulty in finding a Haitian black magic practitioner that will get within a dead chicken’s throw of a 767, this route is really only viable in rare and overly dire situations. The simpler option would be to load the body on the back of a pick-up truck and dump it over the fence into the settling pond at the adjacent sewer treatment plan, but that's just me speculating. Since no one was actually killed this time, it is a moot point. Therefore, my recommendation is to authorize an eye exam for said technician. Safety comes first but remember: a dead human is still better than filling out an accident report.

Reference Information: The CGA manual “Manufacturing Your Own Tater Gun” and the NRA pamphlet “You Can Take My Rifle, But I’ll Shoot You Just the Same.”

Actions: The valve was closed and the wounds were bandaged by the Paramedic/ Coffee Vendor/ MIG-TIG Welding Specialist. I did a quick test of the technicians reflexes by kicking him in the shin. Before I could say "Bob's your Uncle," he responded in kind by punching me just below the eye and I was left with my glasses slightly askance. He's pretty quick for an old guy so I feel safe in saying of the chrome ball "That sucker must have really been humming." The technician went to the smoke pit and proceeded to chain-smoke 28 consecutive Marlboro Lights and 1 illegal Cuban cigar before returning to work.

Lesson Learned: Never send a hairy-backed child of the 60’s who is expecting a brewski to change gas bottles- unless he has reflexes faster than Neo from The Matrix. Also be sure and keep an eye out for cold, streaking, shiny balls. At least those are the lessons I learned.

Now... I think the more pressing question is “Will my boss ever learn?”

I'm Such a Dufus

2011-02-28T17:32:00.000-06:00

Fortunately for me, I have people to tell me what to do. I was admiring the shiny displays on the wall of our higher-ups. I’m surprised that I could read them given the number of letters involved. It seems we have graduates with High Honors from the Stockholm School for Organizational Leadership, specializing in Brow Beating, Cognitive Suppression, Butt Kicking and Name Taking. I thought about asking what all that meant, but I know by now that my tiny brain is incapable of such elevated thought processes. I guess the professors at my university must have had pity on me when I was awarded that degree in chemistry, thinking they’d just humor me and rationalizing that I’d be no real threat to society.

I was thumbing through a procedure manual that was a foot thick and it made me appreciate the fact that so many woodland creatures gave up their homes to the deforestation necessary to provide paper instruction for those as mentally deficient as I am. I’d never know where to begin normally, but they have kindly provided me written instruction for using a procedure manual.

I’m sure they can only trust me to read so much, so we have a specialty group of people whose sole purpose in life is to keep me from harming myself. I’m grateful beyond words that they’ve told me how to go about walking safely and how stepping on the gravel is expressly forbidden. I’ve only been a biped for 43 years, so I can easily see how I needed extra guidance in this matter. It does make for some added stress on my four remaining brain cells when I have to choose between stepping on the gravel and avoiding the pick-up truck that seems to be qualifying for the Indy 500. I only winced a little bit when its mirror striped my left shoulder blade. I clearly made the right choice by staying on the pavement. I cannot begin to fathom the humiliation I’d have brought upon myself, and them, by stumbling on the gravel and possibly skinning a knee. Still, I am left to wonder how I was ever able to cheat death all those years that I ran 3-mile cross-country races.

As if walking isn’t taxing enough for someone as stupid as me, I also need to be told how to provide information to higher-ranking officials. Of course, they could never trust me to give a good enough impression in front of an official of any sort, so I have to route everything through smarter, more articulate people. Besides, my crayons are getting worn down and I don’t know how to re-sharpen them. Thank goodness for their foresight.

I thought I’d try and return their kindness by looking up some work related details on the Internet, but all my access to educational and scientific materials has been taken away. Apparently they like me just the way I am. On the other hand, my golf game must be in terrible jeopardy because the Ping Golf website was left wide open. I’m so appreciative for their willingness to ensure I have access to just the information I need.

When you’re a mental midget like me, everything is a huge undertaking… but they’ve covered the bases for me. They gave me a procedure for putting a “defective” tag on a broken piece of equipment. I’d have never figured that one out on my own. They wrote down how I was supposed to go about coming back to work when I’ve been out sick, too. I guess they’re just trying to help me out when I’m away from work and don’t have such strong, ever-present guidance.

Anyway, back to the task at hand. I need to find the procedure for using a towel. Apparently I can’t be trusted to drink a modest amount of coffee and I couldn’t remember what to do when my innards get that bloated, over-pressurized feeling. There’s probably a procedure for it and I just failed to follow it accordingly because I’m intellectually challenged. Anyway, I sprang a leak at my desk. I know that towel procedure is in here somewhere. Thankfully there are people committed to helping me fulfill my career potential. I am a lucky, lucky fellow.

Buns of Cast Iron

2011-02-24T19:33:00.000-06:00

Living in the southern region of the U.S. we have found ourselves as the butt of many a joke. People seem to think we’re behind in every way. Perhaps it’s because we’re geographically under everyone else. Whatever the reason, people continue to aim cracks at us. Well, those of us around the ‘Ham aren’t going to take this sitting down. I intend to stand under a full moon (with a slight breeze blowing) and proclaim with trumpet sound that we live in the dirty south and you can bet your bottom dollar we have an iron constitution. So, people of Alabama, put your hair up in a bun and fire a shot in support of our state!

OK, seriously? We took the kids over to Birmingham for a doctor’s appointment a few weeks ago and, against all odds, we got out early. I’ve only lived in the region for round about 14 years, so I thought it was about time we went to visit the pride of Birmingham- the statue Vulcan. Vulcan, the statue, is a colossal visage of the Roman god of fire and forgery. It is a fitting symbol of the city’s steel producing heritage, most certainly, but a bit of an eyeful if you’re not expecting to see… it.

We rolled up to the park and, from the parking lot, a clear view of the statue was blocked by the elevator that took visitors to the observation deck. The sky was clear and deep blue, the air was cool but comfortable, the kids were wound tighter than Dick’s Hatband and my mood was fantastic. We paid the admission and headed straight for the 128-foot platform upon which Vulcan overlooks the city. As the elevator rose to the observation deck, I awaited the moment with child-like anticipation. The doors opened, I craned my neck upward and got an eyeful of the iron man’s buns of steel. Technically they are cast iron, but that’s beside the point.

I found myself locked into a stare down with Vulcan’s muscular Roman posterior. “I have looked into the eye of the beast and am forever changed,” I thought to myself. Truthfully, it probably sounded more like “Holy smokes, Honey, take a gander at that. I’ll bet he does P90X.” My wife, not being a fan of heights, was bonded to the hand rail and hadn’t gotten past questioning her decision to go up there in the first place. She was far less impressed with the view. My daughter, on the other hand was fixated like I was. She asked “Daddy, why is his bottom showing?” I offered a deep, well thought out response that went something like “Uhhh… not too sure… Hey, let’s go look out at the city!” I did have the presence of mind to capture the moment in digitally preserved history, though.

As I rolled around the front I noticed that all he is wearing period is a (presumably) leather apron and some sandals. I’d like to take the moment to thank the Lord and the Alabama Iron Workers Union for sculpting that apron, because I might have fallen to my death otherwise. While staring up in amazement I found myself wondering: Does being a Roman god make it OK to work with red hot steel and sling a hammer while wearing no pants? Either he was immortal or one tough hombre. If OSHA had been around he’d have had to be wearing, at a minimum, fruit of the looms and steel-toed boots. You know, kind of like the Village People.

Well now that I’ve gotten an education, I’m ready to field some questions. I’m just waiting for the day when someone asks how much the moon weighs because I can say, with all honesty, that in Birmingham, Alabama it’s around 4 tons.

Yes, indeedy- I am living in the hot seat of culture.

Never Called Again

2011-02-21T19:08:00.000-06:00

For only the second time in my life, I’ve been summoned to civic engagement. I’ve been asked for my willingness to sit on a panel that will determine the guilt or innocence of one of my peers. You guessed it- jury duty.

For a law-abiding citizen, there is something completely eerie about stepping into a courtroom, even knowing that you are innocent. It’s kind of like asking to test-drive a coffin. What’s more, people that have no authority at all seem to wield an inordinate amount of power when they are sitting at the bench and you’re standing in front of it. If I were to be in line with these same people at the grocery store, I’d never give them a second thought. However, when the clerk told us, in her firm but gentile voice, to move the line, we all scampered about like cadets running from a drill sergeant with a baseball bat.

I provided the requisite documentation to the clerk and was kindly instructed to park my keister on one of the wooden pews on the right half of the courtroom and wait for instructions. When I sat down, my mind immediately raced back to the small country church where my Mom and Dad attended when I was a kid. I still remember, to this day, fidgeting around on those hard, pine seats and wondering if the preacher would ever make his point so we could stand up to sing and let the tingling subside in my sitter.

Trying to take my mind off the fact that I was almost certainly going to be faced with the onset of courtroom-induced hemorrhoids, I started listening to the conversations of other people sitting around me. Almost unilaterally they were scheming, justifying and otherwise rehearsing their pleas to be excused for the day. I didn’t mind being there, save for the fear of having to stop at the drug store for a tube of Preparation H, but I seemed to be in the vast minority. About being there, that is- there was still a substantial run on the Preparation H later that day.

The internal plea-bargaining got me to thinking… and that’s almost always a dangerous situation. As a lunatic with ADD and a throbbing hind end is inclined to do, I started thinking of ways that were sure-fired, slam-dunk methods of getting out of jury duty. With the extra blood that normally occupies my upper legs being squished out of place, the extra flow of blood to my brain made me surprisingly lucid. Or maybe a small DVT broke loose and cut off some of my oxygen. Either way, here are a few tips for those of you that are diametrically opposed to serving:

When the summons comes in the mail, just chunk it in the round file. When the deputy comes to get you, keep calling him Barney and ask repeatedly to see the bullet in his shirt pocket.

As you walk through the security checkpoint at the courthouse, place a dummy hand grenade and an Al Qaeda membership card in the basket with your wallet and keys before you walk through the metal detector.

If you don’t have a dummy hand grenade, just tell the guard to “think fast” and make a quick move toward his weapon.

Inevitably, the judge will ask for those that wish to be excused. Go forward and when you get up there, gag a little and tell him his breath smells worse than a dirty diaper. If he threatens to hold you in contempt of court, let him know the only thing contemptible is what he has hanging from between his teeth.

Show up in a thong and keep dropping your car keys. If anyone says anything, threaten to lose the thong altogether.

If the defendant enters the room, stand up, scream “IT’S YOU!!!” to the top of you lungs and charge at him like an ill-tempered grizzly.

If anyone asks you to state your name, give your name, address, zip code and phone number by mooning them and smacking your back side. If they try to make you stop, repeatedly assert your freedom to speech and remind them that 70% of human communication is non-verbal in nature.

Yell “BOMB!” then pull the fire alarm.

Park your car in a spot reserved for judges or other high-ranking officials. When asked to move it, get belligerent because you are a citizen, too. If they make you move your car, park it with one wheel on the front steps of the courthouse.

Get good and drunk right before you hit the door so that you look good, feel confident and your inhibitions are long gone. If that fails, offer the bailiff a beer.

I’d say any of these are almost certain to get you arrested. As any good, potential juror knows, you can’t be selected to a jury if you have a criminal record. No need to thank me- I’m always looking for a way to help out my fellow citizens.

The Office Gym

2011-02-16T16:31:00.000-06:00

After suffering from an unusually bad case of post-lunch drowsiness, my friend Jim, who happens to be a scientist and the funniest guy I know, decided to consult the internet for tips on combating this fatigue. By in large, the tips he found were as you’d expect them to be: eat light, healthful food, go for a walk, etc. Suddenly he started laughing and read the next one aloud- do jumping jacks in the bathroom. Uh, come again? It sounded like you said “do jumping jacks in the bathroom.”

Does anyone else see the wrong in this idea? I have to ask: if you feel compelled to do some rigorous calisthenics, why choose the bathroom of all places? Why not beside your desk? Why not outside? The bathroom? Seriously?

I know that for me, personally, I go to the bathroom with the intention of using it for its designed purpose. Truthfully, I don’t know of one single soul that goes in there to combat the Sandman. If I’m in the minority here, someone please fill me in because I don’t want to miss out on some added productivity and have an opportunity to burn some calories while I’m at it.

First, having worked at various places over the course of 25 years, I’ve learned that if you don’t get really specific in your recommendations with people, they will twist what you say. That said, am I safe in assuming that this is not a great place to multi-task? Our janitors, on a daily basis, accuse our staff of being worse than barnyard animals. I cannot imagine that this would improve our reputation… or aim, for that matter.

Second, jumping jacks are pretty rigorous and I don’t see how you could possibly maintain good form and not risk tripping over your pants as they slide down around your ankles. I’m not the least bit willing to break a tooth on the porcelain throne. Besides, the toilet in our bathroom leaks almost constantly. If the tripping didn’t get you, the slipping surely would. It’s embarrassing enough to walk out with toilet paper stuck to your shoe, so how would you ever live down the humiliation of having it hang out the back of your shirt collar?

Third, I cannot begin to imagine the confusion it’d cause. If I was getting ready to walk into the bathroom and I saw someone coming out with beads of sweat on their brow, I wouldn’t know whether to congratulate them on a fine job of aerobics or to run for my life. We’re big on safety and posting signs, so it’d be terrifying for any visitor that read the message hanging just below the Men’s Room placard “Use Caution When Entering: Workout in Progress.” And can you imagine the rumors if you overdid it and the paramedics had to go in there and give you oxygen?

I’m the first person to admit that I’ve come up with some outlandish ideas. I’ll also readily admit that it’s better to just let some of them go in peace. This is one of them. I may be feeling a little drowsy but I’m thinking it may be better for all parties if I just took a nap.

A Mildly Fractured Valentine Ode

2011-02-14T17:37:00.000-06:00

Being the hopeless romantic and fiscally frugal person that I am, I expressed my Valentine sentiment in the following manner:

To my love I offer

This Valentine Ode

Part of which was written

Sitting on the… sofa

I’ve never been one

For putting verse into rhyme

But I figured I’d try it,

Since I’ve nothing but time

On a day like today

You deserve something special

Much more than is made

With mortar and with pestle

So I sat with my java

And considered my move

I know you like art,

So I thought of the Louvre.

But France is so far

Not to mention quite stuffy

With their cheese and their wine

And their parfaits, all fluffy

I considered a card

But for saving a tree

I’ll just peck out some words

Even better, it’s free

Through the course of the days

We’ve had many a chance

To get up in arms

And drop a few rants

But you’ve stuck it out here

Through thick and through thin

When the septic backed up

‘Cause the drain fields fell in

And the roof rotted off

And the heater went dead

The diswasher leaking

Kids peeing the bed

You never lost sight

Of what wrong and what right is

When on your last birthday

I got meningitis

Yes, I’ve done my own things

Like jumping from planes

And you’ve accepted the fact

That I have no brains

For over two years you

Took Taekwondo class

And I’m not really scared

That you’ll whoop my… rear

But we’ve found middle ground

When it comes to a thrill

Like hoping for snow

And skiing downhill

Over a decade of years

We’ve gotten less greedy

And that’s a good thing

‘Cause my middle’s more meaty

So on such a day

Amidst candy and roses

With a wink and a smile

I’ll go wipe the kids noses

And I’ll show you my love

Without too many coins

Since we still have to feed

The two fruits of my loins

Happy Valentines Day

To the one with my heart

I’ll even lay off the beans

So that I won’t… suffocate you.

I have to suggest that you don't try this at home without the supervision of a professional romantic at hand. I've spent years cultivating my smooth words and cunning ways.

Happy Valentine Day all.

I Love You Ol' Friend

2011-02-11T20:03:00.000-06:00

I love coffee. Coffee is my friend. Coffee is my morning, midmorning, noon-time, early afternoon, afternoon and sometimes evening companion. I love the way it smells when it is freshly brewed. I love the way it tastes, either black or fancied up with sugar, flavored syrup, cream, whipped cream, caramel topping, or sprinkles. I love watching creamer swirl around in the mug while steam disappears just above its surface. I love the way it fogs my glasses over when I’m driving, making my morning trip to work a little more interesting. I’m not so crazy about how it has turned my teeth the color of butterscotch pudding but at least they match my jeans which have become stained from spilling a few sips as I swerve back onto the interstate and around the pick-up in the other lane. No friend is perfect. Not to worry old friend, I’ll forgive you.

The world is a better place for having coffee in it. I suppose if you could say that coffee brings people together. Maybe it’d be best to overlook the historical fact that people, trying to smuggle the precious beans out of one country and into their own, sometimes resorted to deception and murder. Or that kings, trying to monopolize the supply, have nearly brought nations to war. Those are minor details.

Perhaps, my love for coffee could become a model for how to treat our fellow man. It doesn’t matter to me if it’s Kona or Blue Mountain, Java or Columbian. All are welcome in my house. OK, maybe it’s not a perfect analogy- I normally don’t grind up my houseguests and steep them in scalding water, but I’m supposing that you get the picture. Still, if circumstances are ever such that you become my houseguest, I wouldn’t recommend getting between me and my coffee, just to be on the safe side.

When looking around the world, it appears that coffee is a means of inspiration, too. Who’d have thought to take old coffee, pour it over ice and tip it back? A coffee lover that was really hot and didn’t want to pour the bottoms out of the pot, that’s who. Thanks to that bit of genius we have iced coffees, frappuccinos and even coffee ice cream. Cold, decadent treats have become a summertime favorite around the ol’ coffee shop. And even the ol’ machine shop, for that matter.

Would anyone dare to imagine what the dessert world would be without coffee to jazz things up a bit? I shudder at the thought, but I suspect it’d very, very boring. Thank you coffee cake, coffee cheesecake and tiramisu for making dessert divine and for making my mouth water at the mere mention of the word.

People call me an addict. That seems to be a bit harsh. I prefer the term “connoisseur”. Granted, I’m not sure how many connoisseurs enjoy their particular favorite in a 32-ounce travel mug, but that hardly seems cause for name calling. Besides, I told you coffee is my good friend and, where I come from, you can never have too much friendship.

The Games Children Play

2011-02-09T21:46:00.001-06:00

Some days at work I find myself relegated to trying to solve some of the world’s greatest mysteries. When you become a senior scientist, that’s just how you roll. Today was such a day. The mystery du jour was this: When playing rock-paper-scissors, why would anyone think that paper wins out over ANYTHING?

Yes, yes, I know, paper covers rock. That just doesn’t seem valid, though. I mean, if a slight breeze came along, wind would win out over paper by blowing it off of rock. If a summer shower came along, paper would fall to pieces and make a mess around rock. Strike a match to paper and there will be no more paper. Rock is unfazed by all of these things. And have you ever seen a fight between a skinny kid and a fat kid? Having experienced my youth as a skinny kid, let me clue you in to how things go. Fat kid sits on skinny kid and skinny kid screams bloody murder until someone removes fat kid. Same is true for rock and paper. If you still aren’t buying my argument by now, let me toss this out there as the deal-sealer. Hold paper in front of your face and let me throw rock at paper and see if you have true faith that paper will win out.

Personally, I believe that the game should be called “Rock Always Wins, Paper Always Loses and Scissors Just Want to Stay in Rock’s Good Graces.” This game is much more a game of endurance. Let me explain. With this thought process, no one in their right mind would pick anything but rock. The only reason I could see anyone possibly picking anything else would be that repeatedly beating your fist into your palm could cause your hands start to bleeding and conceding the game would be the straightest path to relief. In other words, it's the easy-out for a wimp.

For the more hard-headed, though, it takes approximately 39 tie games before someone invariably tries to introduce an unauthorized weapon. Take dynamite, for example. Dynamite blows rock to kingdom come. The opponent then has no option but to one-up the transgressor. Howitzer has a force of 100 tons of TNT and range of nearly 7 miles. You can chuck a stick of Dynamite about 40 feet. Easily seeing the where the path is heading, the first player has the option of moving to Full Battleship Broadside, B-52 Squadron, MOAB or simply skipping ahead to Nuclear ICBM.

This is where the game gets interesting. The second player can abandon military force and turn to nature. ICBM is no doubt a force to be reckoned with, but is doesn’t hold a candle to Volcanic Eruption Resulting in Trans-Oceanic Tsunami. The devastation of that effect is felt world-wide. From there it moves to Asteroid Impact, Solar Supernova and eventually Black Hole. It’s hard to top Black Hole.

By this point the frustration levels get so high that the game inevitably ends in a fist fight, rolling around in the dirt and going home in a huff with pine straw in your hair. Not to worry, though- kids are resilient. Besides, all matters can be settled the following day during a friendly game of kickball.

Streak the Insomniac

2011-02-07T21:53:00.000-06:00

BOING! My eyes popped open at 2am and I lay there, staring at the ceiling, disgusted with the fact that I was staring at the ceiling at 2am. I got up to roam around for a few minutes and noticed that my son was in bed with us, asleep across my wife’s neck. “Hope she can breathe,” I thought to myself. I peeked in at my daughter and noticed the fuzzy-bottomed half of Belle, the sorriest dog in the world, poking out from under her bed. I shook my head, knowing that we had no protection against a home invader.

I made my way to the living room intending to watch some infomercial, hoping it would bore me back to sleep. Before I could turn on the TV, though, I noticed how well illuminated it was outside. I stepped onto the back deck in nothing but boxer shorts to have a look around. The neighbor’s houses, on each side of us, were dark and silent. “Hmmph,” I thought, “I may as well have a look-see. Streak the Insomniac is on the loose.” Now, granted, while I wasn’t technically streaking, it’s as close as my shyness and sense of modesty would allow me to proceed. Sadly, around these parts roaming about in “Alabama swim trunks” treads dangerously close to socially acceptable, so I didn’t figure I was in any real danger.

I eased through the privacy fence gate and stood in the front yard. I looked up at the moon and momentarily considered mooning the neighbors. I was paranoid, however, that members of the Alabama chapter of the “UFO, Sasquatch and Elvis watch group” would emerge from the woods, certain they were about to capture the rare and elusive Albino Bigfoot. If that was to happen, my presence at future chapter meetings would forever be tainted.

The moon caught my attention again. “Waxing gibbous,” I thought to myself. I started laughing when I realized that “gibbous” is only one letter away from “gibbons” and the image of waxing monkeys struck me as humorous. Hey, I’m not saying that things are always logical when you’re standing in your front yard at 2am wearing nothing but boxer shorts.

I heard a rustle in the distance and decided that AL U.S.E. or maybe the Sheriff’s Department was on the prowl and, perhaps, discretion would be the better part of not getting arrested. I made my way back inside without anyone, including Belle the snoring wonder dog, knowing any differently, and I flipped on the TV. Ten minutes into the infomercial I was sound asleep.

The next morning I awoke on the couch, foggy and unsure of what had happened. The previous night’s events were something of an ethereal blur, reminiscent of a Salvador Dali painting. Come to think of it, I’m not entirely sure it wasn’t a dream.

I hope it wasn’t. That’s the most adventure I’ve had in ages. Maybe I’ll find out for sure if my eyes pop open at 2am tonight.

A Case of the Groundhog

2011-02-02T22:22:00.000-06:00

I've read that a good way to promote your blog is to invite guest bloggers to post on your site. Since I've never done anything right, I don't suppose I'll start now. Tonight's post is courtesy of a guest, but it isn't a blogger. She's more of a knot head, I'd say. My seven year old daughter wrote this story today in honor of Groundhog Day. Much like her papa, she writes every day. Unlike her papa, she does her own illustrating, binding and distribution. She's industrious and well on her way to an entrepreneurial life that will (I hope) support me in my old age.

I have added subtitles for your benefit.

(Butterfly's Bad Case of the Groundhog)

(Once upon a time there was a Butterfly. Her name was Butterfly)

(She loved spring, but winter did not stop.)

(Winter was a thief to her. "OH NO!!!)

(It killed all of the beautiful flowers...)

(It turned the grass to white)

(and it made the Earth look boring. Suddenly Butterfly got the case of the Groundhog.)

(It was naptime. In Butterfly's dream she saw the Groundhog. His shadow frightened him.)

(Butterfly did not like it!)

(When she woke up she was excited and hoped it was sunnish outside.)

(But the snow was still there. The earth still looked boring.)

(I think I'll see the whole Earth she pouted.)

(She looked on one side, but it was boring. The other side was the same thing. She sadly went home.)

(Suddenly it became spring.)

(The flowers were not black anymore. The snow was melting. It was a happy day.)

Happy Groundhog Day Everyone (even though it's a little late in the evening.)

And I Remain Employed

2011-01-31T21:18:00.000-06:00

One of the more peculiar practices where I "work" is having an employee write his own evaluation, then having the Manager address what was written. I am far from the highest ranking person in the organization, but I have been around the longest. They know I write. They know I'm sarcastic. They know I'm of mental uncertainty. They should have known better. Here is my response to the goal given me an my own highlights from the year. And I remain employed... for now.

1. Goal: Improve the Core Competency of “Expertise”

How does one specifically address one's progress? In a sense we are all “progressing” given that time continues to move forward and we have no choice but to accompany it. If the intended focus is directed towards improvement, however, we encounter a stumbling block. At some point each and every person becomes an "expert" in what he does. The implication is that he is at the top and everyone looks to him for guidance in regards to his "expertise." I find myself in this position, sitting atop my personal mountain of knowledge like the Dhali Lama, waiting for troubled souls upon whom I can bestow my wisdom. I have had my keister parked here for a number of years and intend to leave it here until the boss cuts the final "cheese," so to speak. Sadly, the number of souls seeking enlightenment seems woefully sparse these days, but even fewer are willing to listen when they do come. I understand that my lot is not to force enlightenment, but rather to maintain the level of excellence that I have attained. I also recognize that the only thing higher than where I currently reside is of a spiritual nature, and while I wait to transcend this level, I will look down with sadness on those that continue to scramble like an impala being chased by a cheetah. Sometimes it's lonely here at the top, but I have to admit that the view is pretty darn nice. Are there any other questions? Would you like to discuss my humility, while we’re at it?

2. Employee’s Significant Accomplishments and Contributions:

ü Consumed an inordinate amount of caffeine and lived to tell about it.

ü Inexplicably, felt compelled to do jumping jacks and jog around the block several times per day.

ü Did not miss lunch, even one time, since the last review period.

ü Demonstrated my thankfulness to the company by taking advantage of the facilities they, very graciously, provided. I spent an average of 20 minutes per day using said facilities and gladly accepted the $2900 worth of salary that my time equates to while in there.

ü Calculated dozens of statistics that were interesting to me, but deemed worthless by the company.

ü Achieved a new best time on “Minesweeper” before IT deleted any trace of it off of my workstation.

ü Fashioned aluminum foil hats because, if “they” knew about my Minesweeper campaign, they may be reading my thoughts, also.

ü Wrote some mighty funny stuff that I would try to slip into official publications and documents. If (when, actually) rejected, I’d stash it away for use as an entrepreneurial, freelance, humor writer.

ü Made the playoffs in fantasy baseball and held my own in fantasy football.

ü Played in every company golf tournament. Too bad it used all the money I had set aside for charitable giving.

ü Ate the management-provided doughnuts two at a time and became justifiably outspoken when they stopped bringing them.

ü Was able to convince management that I was a valued and important part of this team.

When they finished reading my self-assessment, they sent me back to my desk to write a bunch of lies. You gotta love the corporate world.

Meningitis Ain't a Tijuana Nightclub

2011-01-27T18:59:00.000-06:00

Sometimes you know about things and other times you know about things. Up until a few months ago I knew what meningitis was- intellectually, at least. Then I got to know meningitis up close and personal. I have always liked the sound it makes as it rolls off the tongue- men-in-gi-tis. It sounds like the after-effect of some indiscretion that comes with a boy’s night out south of the border. As it turns out, unless you happen to be referring to “south of the border” as the homestead for the devil and his minions, it is nothing like that, at all. Trust me, I KNOW meningitis.

I’ve since found out that there are two types of meningitis: there’s the kind that kills you and makes you suffer horribly on your way to the pearly gates. There’s also the kind that makes you think you have the first kind. In retrospect, I’m thankful I had the second kind. In the moment, however, you couldn’t have convinced me it wasn’t the first kind.

Let me see if I can accurately describe the pain that goes along with having viruses play fast and loose with your brain and spinal cord. Gather Mark McGwire, A-Rod, Sammy Sosa and any other baseball player that fits your definition of the term “slugger.” Then assemble Tiger Woods, Phil Mickelson, Bubba Watson and anyone else that meets your definition of the term “big hitter.” Then gather Mike Tyson, Muhammad Ali, Riddick Bowe, and anyone else that fits your definition of “heavyweight.” Then grab Wild Bill Hickock, Billy the Kid, Jesse James and anyone else that fits your description of “gunslinger.” Then get a Samurai warrior, a Roman Legionnaire, a Scottish Highlander and anyone else that fits your definition of “swordsman.” With this cast in place, you need to get them all good and drunk so that they totally lack discretion and any former remnant of accuracy is removed. Let them fall asleep for just long enough to get into a good comatose state, then wake them all up with an air horn. That complete, let them loose and tell them to have a heyday on your melon.

I woke up on a Friday morning with the beginnings of a massive headache. That’s bad for two reasons. The first reason is that Friday is donut day at work. Bread dough that’s deep fried in lard, then covered in sugar ranks just this side of heaven. Throw in the fact that the boss pays for them and they become sticky gold boullion. The second reason a Friday headache is bad is that doctor’s offices are typically open during the week and the staff is ready to head to the house by Friday afternoon. Being a typical man, I convinced myself I didn’t need to see a doctor and that it’d get better soon. Well, it didn’t get better soon and by the time I decided to give in and see a doctor, I was relegated to an after-hours clinic along sitting along side every other bull-headed sick person in town. If you’re going to have the worst headache of your life, it should happen on a Monday.

One after-hours clinic, two injections and three hours later, I was at home in bed, with the drunk, inaccurate horde still wailing away at my noggin. Meningitis decided, at this point, to up the ante by turning the room into a tilt-a-whirl. ANY movement on my part meant that I was, soon thereafter, whistling beef. I found myself locked into the title role of a B-rated, dry-heaving version of “Groundhog Day” because the same scene played out, over and over, all night long. By morning I was ready for a stray bullet to put me out of my misery, but agreed that the ER would do just fine.

Let me tell you something about an ER. If you stagger in with your face shoved in a couple of Wal-Mart bags, complaining about a terrible headache, looking like you’re going to turn inside-out on their floor, they’ll scramble to keep that from happening. Before my wife could get the car parked, they had me in a dark, quiet room where I waited for them to work some magic. It wasn’t until then that I realized that light made my head hurt. So did sound. So did motion. So did smell. I’m pretty sure that if I could have kept anything down, taste would have made it hurt, too. The pain was relentless and nothing could make it go away… well, almost nothing.

Hospitals are funny places. God love them, the people that work there have a horribly difficult job. That said, why on earth they stuck my throbbing head next to an intercom that was louder than a tornado siren, I’ll never understand. I think it would have hurt less if one of them had grabbed me by the ankles and slammed my head into a gong. When they came to take me for a cat scan, I thought I was going to get some relief, but what I got was a few laps on the fluorescent-lighted version of the Laguna Seca raceway and a driver that couldn’t keep it off the curbs. Nausea, people- remember the nausea. When they moved me to the cat scan table, it felt a lot like what I imagine the table in a morgue to feel like- cold and flat. I wasn’t sure if they were scanning my head or measuring me for a casket. With a cold tushy and one more lap at Laguna Seca, I found myself back in my room.

After determining that draining half my blood for testing wasn’t sufficient, they decided some spinal fluid would do instead. I don’t know why it took a 3-inch needle to do a spinal tap when I can feel my spine no more than a quarter-inch under the skin in my back, but that’s what they used. Under normal circumstances it’d have probably freaked me out, but by that time I was sort of hoping he’d shove it through my temple and make the pain go away.

What the did next, though, more than compensated for all the bad. They gave me a consolation prize for all of my suffering and it was quite the prize, indeed. I can’t tell you the name of that stuff they squirted in my arm, but I can say that it was a gem of a ride. Thank you Lord and the pharmaceutical industry, for opiate derived narcotics.

In honor of my recovery, I’d like to make a trip to Tijuana to celebrate. No indiscretion in the works for me, though. I’ll stick to water. After getting to know Meningitis, I’m sure Montezuma will be a piece of cake.

It's a Miracle!!

2011-01-25T20:12:00.002-06:00

As I was watching TV one evening, an advertisement came on about some new, amazing, far superior, extraordinary bathroom tub and tile cleaner. At first I pressed the mental “pause” button, not wanting to kill any more brain cells than necessary while I waited for my show to resume. Something caught my attention, however. A woman spritzed some of the cleaner on her shower and then proclaimed, “It’s a miracle.” Wow, a miracle cleaner. I had some stains in my shower that bordered on demonic, so maybe a miraculous cleaner was just the ticket. I made a mental note of the product so I could check it out the next time I was at the store.

Having worked as a chemist for 17 years, I have developed a habit of reading the ingredients. It isn’t to flaunt my knowledge of chemistry- I’m not smart enough for that. It’s done more out of geek-ish curiosity than anything. I was really excited to see what ingredient gave the “miracle” effect. My mind began to wander. Would it be some ethereal ether? Heavenly hydroxide? Angelic alcohols? Shoot, I’d even settle for pixie dust. I could just envision the label: Manufactured by God, Packaged by Angels. Imagine my disappointment, though, when there wasn’t any miraculous, magical or even unusual substance inside. In fact, there wasn’t anything in there that wasn’t in practically every other bottle on the shelf. I was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, they were exaggerating a bit.

Perhaps the term “miracle” is being tossed around too loosely these days. A miracle is defined as “an act that defies laws of nature.” Unless the mildew in your shower is attempting to hold your head under the spigot, I don’t suspect this cleaner is going to move beyond the confines of household bleach. Healing the lame and causing the blind to see, I get- that’s miraculous. Removing soap scum from grout, not so much.

I had a friend in High School that lost his vision in a hunting accident. I think they’d be justified in calling this stuff a miracle if I could spritz his face and have his eyesight return. I suspect, in actuality, he’d choke on the fumes, develop a good rash and have a few choice words for me in the process. I had another friend who was confined to a wheelchair as a result of cerebral palsy. While I can see this stuff doing an admirable job of disinfecting his wheelchair, I fear that any hope of rising up and walking would be followed by a face plant and a trip to the ER.

Now I know that Madison Avenue is prone to hyping their products and I’ve accepted that fact. I do wish, though, that they’d refrain from unrealistic claims. In the mean time I need to go pick up some new body spray that is supposed to make me attractive to women. If it works as advertised, it’ll be a miracle.

Drive Live

2011-01-21T22:30:00.000-06:00

There’s nothing worse than driving along a boring stretch of highway. OK, that’s a completely inaccurate statement because there are lots of things worse than that, but it’s still pretty bad. Having aged, the effect is much worse than it used to be. As a young man in the Air Force, I’d drive 18 or 19 hours straight. Sure I’d get sleepy, but a cup of coffee and a snack would carry me for miles. Now I suffer from highway hypnosis while driving a half-mile to the corner store.

I really began to notice the effect of drowsy driving when I was a shift worker. I am not, nor have I ever been a night owl. As a result, shift work was brutal given that my main corridor between home and work was a long, straight section of interstate that took 30 minutes to traverse. That gave ample time for the Sandman to do his thing. As a result I developed a few tips and techniques for staying awake while behind the wheel when the long-term effect of chemical stimulants is not a viable option.

Tip #1- Nudity

Yep, strip down buck naked and hit the road. It’s almost impossible to fall asleep when in this state. The simple fear of being in an accident and being seen by the paramedics, state patrol, and every rubber-necker on the highway does wonders for maintaining ones mental faculties. You do have to exercise care when choosing this option, especially if the car seats are vinyl, leather or pleather. One careless move during a hot summer can make for a really embarrassing trip to the ER. Coffee is right out and chips or crackers are not recommended. One should also avoid using Armor All on the seats when employing this tactic since it basically turns the seat into a slip n’ slide on wheels.

Tip #2- Hitchhikers

Stopping to pick up a hitchhiker is another great way to stay awake when driving. I can pretty well guarantee that if you pick up a guy that looks like Charles Manson, Ted Bundy or Jeffrey Dahmer, the desire to sleep goes faster than your bowels. The most eye-opening candidates will be wearing tattered clothes, have intolerable BO, look crazed and, ideally, be carrying a “will work for beer” sign. For added alertness, offer them the driver’s seat.

Tip #3- Autopilot

What’s that? You don’t have autopilot? Not to worry, I don’t either but I never let that stop me. Still, when the overwhelming urge to sleep hits, nothing wakes you up like the washboard things on the side of the highway and the sound of a semi truck’s horn. Once you get all four wheels back on the highway, control the swerving and lower your pulse below 180, it’s amazingly hard to go back to sleep.

Oh sure, there’s the normal roll your windows down thing, but for real wide awake driving action, I think you’ll find it hard to beat these tactics. Tell the State Troopers Jamie sent you.

Magnets Goeth Before a Nurple

2011-01-19T21:43:00.002-06:00

I'M BAAAACK! I KNOW IT'S BEEN AWHILE AND I REALLY DO HAVE A GOOD EXPLANATION. SETTLE IN AND GET READY. BELIEVE IT OR NOT THERE IS A POINT TO ALL THIS, THOUGH AT TIMES IT WILL NOT SEEM TO BE THE CASE.

I WAS SITTING AT WORK AND WAS, AS IS COMMON, SUPPRESSING THE GUILT THAT COMES WITH NOT DOING MY WORK. MY CO-WORKER DECIDED THAT THE MAGNETS FROM A DEFUNCT COMPUTER HARD DRIVE MUST BE EXTRACTED. AFTER ALL, THOSE WERE NO ORDINARY MAGNETS- THEY WERE NEODYMIUM IRON BORON MAGNETS. MAGNET EXTRACTION SOUNDED LIKE MORE FUN THAN WORKING, SO I WATCHED HIM ATTACK IT WITH LITTLE MORE THAN A SCREWDRIVER, A MAKESHIFT HAMMER AND AN unrelenting DESIRE TO GET TO THOSE MAGNETS.

I HAD NEVER PLAYED WITH NEODYMIUM MAGNETS. I WAS SHOCKED AT THE ATTRACTIVE STRENGTH OF THE LITTLE BOOGERS. IN RETROSPECT, I SHOULD HAVE HANDLED THEM MORE CAREFULLY, BUT I PROCEEDED IN TYPICAL CLUELESS FASHION. HAVING SCOOTED THE MAGNETS AROUND MY DESK AND TESTED THEIR LOAD CAPACITY FOR LONG ENOUGH TO GET BORED, I PUT THEM IN MY SHIRT POCKET FOR FUTURE PLAYTIME.

SOME TIME LATER I LEANED FORWARD TO GRAB THE COMPUTER KEYBOARD AND THE MAGNETS ZEROED IN ON THE EDGE OF MY DESK. SADLY FOR ME, THE ONLY THING KEEPING THEM FROM REACHING THEIR IRON CLAD DESTINATION WAS MY LEFT NIPPLE. I LET OUT A SHRIEK that was much that of LIKE A PERSON who HAD THEIR NIPPLE SANDWICHED BETWEEN A HUNK OF METAL AND A MAGNETIZED HUNK OF METAL. AS FATE WOULD HAVE IT, I JERKED MYSELF AWAY FROM THE INTENSELY FIRE-LIKE PAIN THAT HAD CONSUMED MY CHEST. HINDSIGHT BEING 20/20, I NOW KNOW THAT I SHOULD HAVE PERFORMED A MORE CAREFUL EXTRACTION AND PERHAPS I WOULDN’T HAVE ATTAINED THE WORLD’S FIRST DOCUMENTED, MAGNETICALLY INDUCED, PURPLE NURPLE.

AS THE PAIN SUBSIDED AND THE BLEEDING EASED UP, I HAD A MOMENT OF ENLIGHTENMENT. NEVER, EVER, EVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE, SHOULD YOU PUT MAGNETS IN YOUR SHIRT POCKET. NEVER, EVER. MOREOVER, I IMMEDIATELY MADE IT A LIFE-RULE TO AVOID MAGNETS IN MY PANTS POCKETS AT ALL COST.

THE ENLIGHTENMENT WAS FOLLOWED BY BRIEF INSPIRATION. I KNEW THAT HELD WITHIN MY HANDS THE GREATEST PRACTICAL JOKING IMPLEMENT THE WORLD HAD EVER KNOWN. THEN SEVEN SECONDS LATER I visualized HAVing SOME GUY WITH SPONGE BOB PECTORAL BANDAIDS AND A LOADED GLOCK WAITING ON MY DOORSTEP. I PASSED ON THE PRACTICAL JOKE APProach AND OPTED FOR FINDING A USE THAT WAS LESS NEFARIOUS.

THAT QUEST TOOK ME ON A SEARCH FOR THE PERFECT INVENTION. MY RESEARCH LED ME TO UNDERSTAND THAT INVENTIONS REQUIRE ATTENTION TO DETAIL, EXTREME DOCUMENTATION, SOME KNOWLEDGE OF LAW AND A WAD OF SCRATCH. I HAVE A.D.D. AND TWO KIDS, SO I QUICKLY SAW THAT I LACKED THE NECESSARY COMPONENTS FOR ATTAINING SUCCESS. THE DEJECTION FROM THAT REALIZATION LED ME TO TRY ONE OTHER AVENUE OF SELF-EMPLOYMENT.

I DELUDED MYSELF INTO THINKING I COULD MAKE MONEY WRITING. I’VE SINCE CONCLUDED THAT PEOPLE LIKE TO LAUGH, BUT NOT ENOUGH TO PART WITH A BUCK. I SUPPOSED I COULD HAVE ATTEMPTED SERIOUS WRITING, BUT IT WAS MY DESIRE TO AVOID WORK THAT GOT ME HEADING DOWN THIS TANGENT TO BEGIN WITH. I DID WRITE A BOOK, HOWEVER. MAYBE ONE DAY I’LL SCRAPE TOGETHER ENOUGH MONEY AND GUMPTION TO PUBLISH IT. MAYBE.

ANYWAY, I’M BACK. I’LL JUST WRITE AND GIVE IT AWAY. FOR NOW, I’LL KEEP PLUGGING ALONG AS A NEARLY MORTALLY WOUNDED, UN-ENERGETIC CHEMIST AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS. WHO KNOWS... MAYBE I’LL STUMBLE UPON A GOOD USE FOR THOSE MAGNETS YET.

Things are Looking Up

2010-04-08T23:05:00.000-05:00

It's been awhile since my last post- two months and seven days, for those that are as goofy about insignificant little details as I am. Working myself out of one job while concurrently working to start a new business has been more than enough to keep me at full tilt. Until today, that is.

For those of you that have followed this wad of nonsense known as Mad Science, you may recall the septic debacle of 2009, lovingly known by me as the summer of poo. Since then, the grass has re-grown with the characteristic lush green stripe that follows the path of the drain field. The ground has leveled out and there is scarcely an indication that heavy machinery had ravaged the back yard. And my back has almost recovered recovered from digging up the septic tank by hand. Twice. Yes, since then things have really been looking up, but I had no idea as to the extent.

If 2009 had it's feet in the sewer, then it seems 2010 is destined to have it's head in the attic. Given the condition of the roof, it could be even higher. You see, I was on the roof cleaning out the gutters when I noticed something amiss. There was a piece of aluminum flashing, whose purpose had formerly been to be a moisture barricade between the gutter and the facia board, flopped out to one side. Being a man of science, I wasn't satisfied to take it at face value. No, no, no, I had to know the root cause. I gingerly lifted the first course of shingles and there, staring back at me, was the biggest root cause I had ever seen in my life. The flashing wasn't attached to the facia because there wasn't any facia. Or plywood decking. What there was, though, was a 2 foot by 2 foot hole that allowed me to look directly into the attic.

So, you may ask, what does one do after recognizing that there is a 4 square foot hole in their roof? If you're me, you begin by fighting against the reflex to soil yourself. Then you panic. Then you call every roofer in the phone book. Then you call the insurance guy everything but a milk-goat when he indicates the claims adjuster will phone sometime NEXT WEEK to schedule an appointment. Then you tell your spouse the sky probably isn't falling but the roof doggone well might be. Then you panic some more. Then you come up with wild scenarios as to how this could happen. Then you write a blog post. Seems logical and scientific enough.

About the aforementioned wild scenarios: here are some I came up with during my very level-headed and unemotional response.

1. The affected corner of the house sits directly under a large shade tree. Perhaps it was the work of a yet-to-be-discovered variety of arborial beaver. It could happen.

2. Said shade tree drops hickory nuts that have such a high rating on the Mohs hardness scale that diamonds rank somewhere around "silly putty" in comparison. Maybe the tree nuts just beat the roof into submission.

3. VERY localized acid rain. I knew Mother Nature would get me for dumping that sulfuric acid.

4. We recently had some window work done. Those window guys are saboteurs.

5. A 30 year old roof and water damage. Nah... now I'm just being ridiculous.

I suppose that if I had to look on the bright side, it'd be that the squirrels are all very appreciative that we have opened up our home to them. (Sigh) This house needs the work of a trained professional. I'll gladly pay someone Tuesday for an arsonist today.

Seriously, Go Midwest Young Man

2010-01-29T09:30:00.000-06:00

Approximately ¼ mile down the road from the ski shop where the packing fiasco occurred, everyone in the vehicle needed to stop for some relief. Too much tea, I’m guessing. I knew my daughter needed to go, but she refused. I think six year old logic, a lack of time comprehension and a fear of auto-flush toilets led her to believe that if she held it, we’d get there quicker. My plan was to let her have her way so I could teach her an object lesson. I’m not suggesting it was a good plan, but it was a plan.

With most bladders empty and tempers flaring, we finally hit the open road. As the speedo rolled past 55mph we began to hear a sound that I can only describe as a machine gunner on the roof. I’d have preferred a fiddler but I got a trigger-happy warlord instead. My y-chromosomal instinct was to accelerate it into submission, but acceleration only made "the Gunny" that much more trigger happy. Not wanting to end up with a nicely sanded bare spot on the roof, I slowed down to around 45 mph and found some much needed auditory relief. A quick run of the numbers told me that our stop for the night was 3 hours away when averaging 65 mph. Driving at the current speed wasn’t going to work on any front, so I figured a quick stop to gas up and adjust the straps would be time well spent. And time we did indeed spend.

At the gas pump, I worked frantically to cinch up the straps so that our roof gunner would cease and desist. It was at that moment that my daughter’s prior refusal to relieve herself came to a most unhappy resolution. My wife, now thrilled beyond words, snatched up the kids and some changes of clothes to head to a store adjacent to the gas station. I completed my modification and rushed in to help her. By this time 2 and a half hours had elapsed and we were only 30 minutes from home. She grumbled something about sticking a ski boot in my mutt. The dogs were back at home and I couldn’t imagine what they had done to illicit such an angry response, but I could see that now wasn’t the time to discuss it, so I just dropped the conversation.

The modifications worked better, but we still had ol’ trigger finger on the roof for the rest of the way to the first stop. Knowing that the first stop only put us 25% of the way to our final destination, a better solution had to be reached. We checked in to a very nice hotel for the night. I got the wife and kids upstairs, then went back down to address the packing conundrum. Imagine, if you will, what the Beverly Hillbillies truck looked like when they moved to Californy. Now imagine what it would look like if their truck collided, head-on, with Sanford and Son’s truck. Imagine the collision resulting in a violent explosion and all the pieces landing in the parking lot of a very nice hotel. There were suitcases, bags, presents, plastic shopping bags, kids’ toys, pillows, assorted loose-leaf items, shoes… and let’s not forget skis, strewn about to the point that people for 2 spaces on either side of us were hemmed in like farm goats. People would drive past and I’d just wave and point at the Alabama plates on the car. The property value of that hotel dropped a half million dollars within about 10 minutes of our arrival. It sank another quarter million when I walked in the front door with a 6 foot long box and asked “Y’all got a trash can?” Well, I couldn’t very well leave it in the parking lot, now could I?

The upside was that I managed to get everything repacked in such a manner that everything, including the skis, were inside the vehicle. The downside was that it created enough internal pressure that if I so much as wiggled improperly the whole thing would explode like a confetti cannon. Still, that was my problem and I dared not say a word.

The rest of the trip went relatively smooth. The excitement continued to build as the forecast called for snow to hit the Midwest during our stay. It was going to be a skiers dream. The storm was forecast to hit big on a Thursday which coincided perfectly with my plans to hit the slopes. Several years back I worked for an entire winter in northeast Pennsylvania, so driving in the snow was not a scary proposition for me. For most people from the deep south, the very mention of the “s” word brings more fear of civilization shut-down than Y2K did to conspiracy theorists. I’m not scared of the “s” word, I’m scared of the “i” word: ice.

A rainy Wednesday graduated into a sleeting Wednesday. With every hour the sleeting continued my confidence in making it to go skiing dwindled. The icing on the cake came with the icing of the roads… about a half inch of it, to be exact. The road to the ski area was a two-lane country road and certainly not a high priority where the highway department was concerned. It officially marked the end of this ski trip. Lift ticket canceled.

That night the sleet turned to snow and it continued snowing for 3 days, leaving a wad of snow atop a sheet of ice. Choosing to stay in was possibly the only wise choice I made on the trip. That was confirmed when I attempted to go to the gas station for a newspaper, only to get stuck while backing out of the driveway.

All was not lost, though. It was a beautiful White Christmas- the first time I’ve experienced that in my life. Besides, I got in a little “Kansas Style Skiing” which is, in essence, standing on skis in the flattest yard EVER while the neighbors look on and shake their heads in disbelief. It’s just too bad I didn’t have a sail. With the wind out there I think I could have skied all the way to Iowa. Hmmm… that gives me an idea.

Go Midwest, Young Man

2010-01-26T17:35:00.000-06:00

Round 3: These events occurred between January 19 and December 21, 2009

I watched the snow shower down from the grey New Mexico sky as I sat inside the cafeteria at Taos Ski Valley. My knee ached from the events of the previous two days and my brain ached from four hours of sitting around killing time. I’ve always enjoyed people watching and there were plenty to watch, so I gazed at the skiers coming in from the cold and shaking off the snow.

After an hour or so, I began to recognize a trend: for every muscular, athletic skier, full of youth and indiscretion, there were 3 or 4 that were my age or older. I saw many skiers that had to be well into their fifties and some even older than that. Of these, there was a disproportionately high occurrence of "Dunlop Disease." I began to surmise that skiing must be less about athleticism and more about skill. I had athleticism, but skill was clearly lacking. “Which is easier to create,” I wondered to myself "to make an athlete a skier or to make every old skier an athlete?” The group I was looking at answered that question loudly and clearly. It didn’t sit well with me that I hadn’t succeeded in my endeavor and now I saw an opportunity to correct that situation. One day earlier I was certain skiing was not for me. A day later, visions of Salomons began dancing through my head.

I knew the first thing to do was get the knee back to a serviceable condition. With a few months rest, a couple visits to the doctor and plenty of strength training, the knee was as good as a 42 year old knee could be. With a semi-capable knee in place, I did what any reasonable person would do- I bought my own set of skis and boots. Hey, at least I bought used ones and not new ones. I may be dense, but I’m not stupid. Okay… maybe a little.

My plan was to take the skis with us on our annual Kansas winter pilgrimage to visit the in-laws so I could go back to Snow Creek in Missouri, where it all began, and conquer that blasted hill. I had become hardened by the insensitivity of the punks that had sprayed me with snow and determined by my new resolve, so I wasn’t going to let a little hillside full of teeny bopper snowboarders get in my way. If necessary, I’d scatter them like bowling pins.

The joy that is family vacation got off to a rousing start with a quick stop by the ski shop to pick up my freshly tuned skis and boots. The kids had sacked out in the back seat, so I told my wife “I’ll just run in to pick them up, stuff them in the back of the Jeep and we’ll be on our way- 5 minutes, tops.” I paid the folks for their work and ran back out to put them in the vehicle. When I popped the deck lid and attempted to place the skis inside, I realized I had failed to properly incorporate the “packing-required-for-a-family-of-four-plus-Christmas-gifts” factor into my calculations. My options were twofold: I could rest them on top of everything so that they protruded between the kids in the back seat OR leave them at the shop until we got back home. Being a man of vision, I could see making a quick stop and launching the skis like a torpedo, through the windshield and into whatever it was I was trying to avoid hitting in the first place. I could also see my daughter using them to play the drums on my son’s head. Option 2 was becoming the only viable choice.

What is that expression about hindsight, again? Don't they say something about first instincts, too?

I took the skis back inside to leave them, but the person in the shop suggested strapping them to the roof. Brilliant! I headed back out, skis in tow, with some Styrofoam to protect the car. My wife gave me that “Huh?” look. I ignored the look and shuffled around in the back until I found the tie-downs and proceeded to utterly shred the Styrofoam while trying to secure the skis. After several failed attempts and a lot of dismay, it was back inside to leave the skis behind. Again. This time the person inside suggested a box for the skis. Brilliant!! I went back out, skis, box and tie-downs in tow, and commenced to strapping down the box amidst a half-million crumbled Styrofoam balls. A determined mind knows no bounds... or repurcussions.

I managed to get the box secured and the whole process took only 5 minutes… assuming you stick another 5 in front of the 5. Needless to say, the kids had awakened, the wife was overjoyed at my success and we all sang celebratory songs for the remainder of the trip. Sure. And if you believe that I have a ski-front chalet for sale in the Alps.

Oh Look Honey... Another Yard Sale

2010-01-24T13:34:00.001-06:00

I left the Snow Creek ski area in Weston, MO on a sunny December day, happy that I had given skiing a go, but certain that I had too much “Floridian” in me to ever succeed at such an unnatural and life-threatening activity. As I relayed the story of my experience, including that of the “yard sale,” to my brother and a motorcycle-riding buddy of mine, the wisdom and instruction began pouring in. “Oh, you can’t lean into a turn on skis.” Duh, I know that NOW. “You have to put pressure on the toe of one foot while lifting the heel of the opposite ski.” “It’s sort of the same motion as riding a bicycle.” “Turning is kind of like sliding into second base.” “Lean forward on your ski boots.” “Keep your body pointed down the hill.” And so on. I began to dwell upon it and concluded that if an out of shape old man could pedal a bicycle one-footed while sliding into second base, all the while leaning his body forward and down the hill then, by cracky, I could too. It sounded easy enough.

A month later my brother and I were headed for New Mexico to create a new annual tradition: The Baker Brother's Skiing Extravaganza. The original plan called for me to head to the ski school on day one and get some more professional instruction. The modified plan was to ignore the first plan and head to the top of a green run so I could get accustomed to the feel of skis under my feet. My brother was a skier and he seemed to have confidence in me, so why not? Oh, and this was to be my first time on a chair lift, too. The ride up was beautiful and quiet and I was jazzed at the thought of getting going. When we neared the top my brother instructed “When your skis touch the snow, push off the chair lift.” No prob. That is until I realized that this was a time-sensitive operation. That minor detail became obvious as I was falling 4 feet off the lift onto the area where other skiers we trying to de-lift themselves. We meet again, yard sale. Hello again, unhappy knee. I tried to shake it off but frictionless surfaces and unhappy knees don’t mix. The knee gave out before I could get to the bottom of the run, adding injury to insult.

I visited the first aid area and was advised to get an MRI when I got home. I left my brother to finish the day skiing while I went to ask for mercy and a refund for my lift ticket. Surprisingly, my sob story worked and they graciously gave a refund. I figured I’d give it a try when I returned the skis, too. Again, jackpot. The ski rental dude was very understanding, having bad knees of his own. He told me of how he had to take up snowboarding because it didn’t stress his knees like skiing. I escaped with my life the first time but, once again, those lousy Sirens suckered me in.

After a quick trip into town for a knee brace and a bottle of ibuprofen, I was renting a snowboard before you could say “slow learner.” I signed up for a group snowboard lesson and the group consisted of me and the instructor. To my credit, she said I was the best student she had ever had. I suppose it’s conceivable I was her first student. At any rate, I was eating less snow as a snowboarder than I was as a skier, so the trip wasn’t a total wash. Yet.

The following day we drove to a different ski area and I quickly rented my board, certain it was going to be an experience I’d never forget. That part was true. The weather had been unseasonably warm and as a scientist it was not surprising that warm days + cold nights + ski slopes = ice rink. What did surprise me was just how dramatically differently it felt upon impact. We headed up the beginners slope and, wouldn’t you know it, I fell coming off the chair lift.

You know, yard sale, I’m getting sick of seeing your mug.

Fortunately I was wearing a knee brace and was packed full of ibuprofen, so I was able to continue. Falling, that is. I sent my brother off again while I went down to analyze the situation over an extra large café mocha valium latte. With a little rest and caffeination, the call of the wild came and I was all too willing to answer.

Defying logic and sound judgment, I decided to go to the top of the mountain to take a green run called “The Long Way Home.” On the upside, it was a wide, gently sloping run that meandered around the perimeter of the ski area. Of course, the other side to that was that it was, in fact, the long way home. I was feeling pretty good, but had underestimated the fatigue factor in the legs. Based on the burn in the thighs I was beginning to think I had imagined the chair-lift ride and had actually sprinted up the mountain. I sent my brother on ahead, knowing I was going to reduce the pace from “snail” to something more tolerable like “Amoeba.” As I made a turn onto my toe side and I was facing up the mountain, my calves began to cramp. I made a rookie mistake by relaxing my heels, allowing the trailing edge of the board to dig in. The resulting crash left me lying in the snow gazing up at the sky.

Get off me, yard sale.

A quick but motionless self-triage led me to believe that I was, at best, going to have a dandy case of whiplash. At the other end of the spectrum was the possibility that Stephen Hawking would not only be intellectually superior, but that he’d have greater mobility in his limbs, too. It was a disease that took him down, but I’d just be the drooling idiot that failed to heed his own advice.

I managed to regain enough feeling to unclasp the board and walk thirty feet down the slope to retrieve the ski cap that had rocketed off my head upon impact. I sat down in the snow and decided that walking "The Long Way Home" was better than another crash and having the ski patrol scrape my now throbbing brains off the snow. Besides, I was seeing triplicate and was basically aiming for the middle image. As you can imagine, I was pretty demoralized.

My misery plummeted from there, however, when two punks decided it would be cute to race past me and spray snow across my back. If a person is walking down a slope carrying a snowboard it can only foster one of a couple conclusions: (1) he is injured and needs help (2) he is exhausted and needs help or (3) some combination of the previous two. I’m also guessing that the aforementioned punks never considered the fact that (1) he probably wasn’t in a very good mood and (2) he’d spend the rest of the day looking for them so he could beat them to a pulp and stuff their carcasses in a snowdrift.

That last crash was enough to do me in for the rest of the trip. I spent the final day in the lodge, wearing a knee brace, reading a book and drinking coffee. I didn’t think I’d ever be back.

BUT... a lot of ski talk and some good old-fashioned rehab would change that. Round three was a mere winter away, just calling my name. Sirens, I tell you. Without beeswax in your ears, the song is irresistible.

Oh Look Honey... a Yard Sale

2010-01-22T17:17:00.000-06:00

I wish I could understand what changes occur in a person’s mind to make them undertake something that was previously unappealing. Up until a year ago, when approached with the subject of snow skiing my thoughts were encapsulated with the response “Strapping a couple of boards to your feet and skidding down the side of a frozen mountain is nuts. Just ask Sonny Bono. Oh, that’s right, he DIED while skiing.” I sit here today 180 degrees from my former stance and I’m not overly sure why.

I guess a lot of it has to do with the fact my brother started skiing a few years ago and absolutely loves it. Hearing his stories about the family fun and seeing the beautiful, serene images of snow falling on the ski village became more tempting than a Siren was to Odysseus. In retrospect, I kind of wish I’d had sense enough to have someone tie me to a mast.

My first experience with skiing came last year in Missouri. Yes, I said Missouri. Weston, Missouri is home to the Snow Creek Ski area and was to be the launching pad for my newfound passion. I made the drive up from Kansas City while visiting the in-laws, rented a couple skis, signed up for a lesson and hit the bunny slope with the tenacity of a rabid Chihuahua on amphetamine kibbles. I should have taken it as a sign when I clicked into the skis and immediately began sliding backwards. In a way, skidding backwards is preferable because at least you don’t see your impending collision. After 2 hours and an immense amount of frustration on the part of my instructor, he left me to my own devices knowing I had signed a waiver releasing him of all liability. I practiced on my own for another 30 minutes or so and decided that falling on the beginner slope was getting monotonous so, logically, I needed to crash on something more substantial.

Let me just take a moment to say that friction is a marvelous thing. If God had wanted us to live in a frictionless world, the people in Florida and Southern California would have been born with wheels on their feet, the people in the north would have been born with blades and the people in the west would have been born with skis. That’s not the case, though. We were meant to grip the ground when we move, not move effortlessly over it. I claim this as the reason I have failed miserably at roller skating and ice skating. Going straight: not so much of a problem problem. Turning: big problem. As soon as I began traveling in the forward direction, the realization that I had zero control hit me like a tsunami does a beachfront condo. The end result was similar, too. I had flashbacks of the pine flooring in the Crystal Springs, FL roller rink where I never learned to skate as a kid. I had the horrid memory of flipping over the railing because those stinking frictionless wheels refused to let me hang a left. I had flashbacks of the look on the face of that poor girl in Washington D.C. that I tackled when trying to ice skate. I was going down and I knew it, so my reflex was to grab hold of whatever was closest. She happened to be closest. “I’m sorry” is a little inadequate when you have just form tackled an unsuspecting ice skater and it’s a girl, at that. However, my walk down a very traumatic memory lane was interrupted by the recognition that there were about six teeny bopper snowboarders sitting across the slope just ahead of me and at least one of them was about to meet their maker at my hands, or feet as it were, when I put an out of control Rossignol into their spine.

As an avid motorcyclist, I did what came natural. I leaned on those ski poles like they were handle bars. Obviously, with no front wheel, counter-steering was ineffective. So I did the next best thing- I leaned into the turn. On a motorcycle, if you do it right, you can lean so much you drag a knee, or even an elbow, while maintaining control. I had no real idea that leaning into a turn on skis was a bad idea. Hello, yard sale. When the tumbling concluded, I resumed breathing and I was able to get the snow out of my nostrils, there were six teeny boppers alive and well, a ski up the slope to the left, a ski pole up the slope to the right, a ski down the slope to the right, a ski pole underneath me, an unhappy knee that had popped twice and a lot of blank stares from people in the vicinity. All in all, I was just happy that nobody, including me, died in the melee.

Now, going inside to have a cup of hot chocolate, sit by the fire and reflect on the events of the day would be a sensible and logical conclusion to a snow-filled fantasy, but it’d also be very un-Jamie like.

I’m afraid there’s more, but I’ll have to keep it on ice until another day.

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

2009-12-11T23:13:00.000-06:00

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

2009-10-05T19:45:00.000-05:00

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

2009-09-29T19:45:00.000-05:00

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)

2009-09-23T18:14:00.000-05:00

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?

2009-09-15T21:56:00.000-05:00

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

2009-09-10T22:45:00.000-05:00

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

2009-09-05T23:33:00.000-05:00

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.

Under Attack

2009-09-04T21:42:00.000-05:00

There is a terrorist lurking around my property. Nearly two weeks ago I fell victim to a chemical attack. No, not like the one in the Tokyo subway attack. This terrorist couldn’t pull off something that enormous, but is much more silent, subversive and insidious. The paranoia that is generated as a result of even a small-scale launch is impressive. I look with cynicism everywhere I go. I pay attention to every step. I am aware of very few safe havens. I feel exposed and vulnerable. The truth is, I am.

My assailant developed this weapon as a mechanism of self-defense, but the stories of its effect are so widespread and so severe that people have sought to eradicate it from the earth. I’m certainly joining in the efforts to do just that, but I seem to be fighting a losing battle. This enemy has plenty of resources and it’s roots run deep.

The chemical? Scientifically, it is pentadecylcatechol, but most people know it simply as Urushiol. Urushiol is of Japanese origin and its name roughly translates “claw your skin from your body.” I believe it. The attacker? Ivy. Poison Ivy. She may be little, but she’s meaner than a striped tail snake and packs a punch that can bring a grown man to tears. I’m crying right now. The itchy leg blues, that is.

I used to be immune to this weed, thinking nothing of stomping through it and laughing at its inability to touch me. I was ten feet tall and oil proof. Oh how the once proud and arrogant has been force-fed a big fistful of humble pie! I blame fences. I have described the extreme efforts I have undertaken in order to keep Belle, my less-than-sociable Australian Shepherd, contained. It was during one such wave of fence installation that I met my demise. Apparently, I encountered a poison sumac tree and apparently, I had a cut on my hand. Apparently, once it gets in your blood it breaks out anywhere and everywhere it so chooses and apparently, once an extreme exposure has occurred you become forever sensitized.

Oh, I got sensitized. On my legs and arms and back and torso and neck and feet. That effect was caused by the aforementioned urushiol. It exists in the same form for sumac and ivy. It is very similar to that which is in poison oak. That outbreak cost me a week off work and indescribable discomfort. Not that I won’t try, mind you. Imagine the itchiest insect bite you have ever had. Imagine the desire you had to scratch it. Give it the ol’ Emeril LaGasse “BAM!”, kick it up a few trillion notches, cover your body in it and you have systemic contact dermatitis, courtesy of our friend urushiol. I couldn’t go to work, mostly because it was way too intense to wear clothes. They’re opposed to full-on nakedity in the lab, for some odd reason. Strong acids or something, but I digress. Since that time, if I so much as look at a poison ivy plant, I break out. I hate ivy, oak, sumac and the whole stinking lot of urushiol oozing plants. I want them all to die.

That was four and a half years ago. Until now I have done a respectable job in avoiding the enemy. Last week, though, I was out back doing, guess what? Yep, stringing fence. During the summer septic tank debacle of 2009, Captain Sewage pushed over a tree that landed on my fence. It ripped down a 40-foot section, leaving the perimeter wide open. I can’t believe that my dog can pull off an escape artist stunt that would make Criss Angel jealous, but could miss the fact that there was a 40-foot hole in the fence. Whatever. I’m not looking a gift-dog in the fence hole… or something like that.

Anyway, I attacked the fallen tree with chainsaw and bad attitude well in hand. I dragged off limbs and re-set fence in a total huff. I had intended to use the day for some very important lying around and was in no mood to fix a problem I had not created. In that moment, I lost my focus. I was kneeling down, driving in a fence staple and noticed Ivy right beneath me, laughing obtrusively at my ill-fated move. I knew it was too late. I was wearing shorts because it was 826 degrees outside and 119 percent humidity. It was the perfect scenario for a subtle terrorist chemical attack. I’ll get my revenge Ivy. I will.

So here I sit, clawing madly at both legs from the knees down. I know that I’m supposed to keep my hands off, but this is making me mad as a hatter. I’m thinking if my options are (1) get over the rash by showing self-control or (2) go insane, I may institute a third, unexplored option: scratch until I bleed, then see the doctor for antibiotics to treat the secondary infection. Sounds like a plan.

I hate terrorists. Would someone pass me a wire brush?

Caution: Trip Hazard Ahead

2009-09-01T22:11:00.001-05:00

I’ve heard it said that you learn more from your children than they learn from you. The part about me learning a lot has been true, for sure.

When I was a kid, TV was much simpler and more wholesome. Maybe I’m dating myself, but I grew up with cartoons like Bugs Bunny and Friends, The Flintstones, Scooby-Doo and the Pink Panther. There were even some lesser-known cartoons that I made part of my regular viewing experience, like Underdog and Hong Kong Phooey. It was awesome. The one consistent thread that ran through all my favorites was some good, old-fashioned violence. I loved it when Wile E. Coyote would ride his latest Acme gizmo off the edge of a cliff and would fall hundreds of feet only to leave a perfect Wile E. shaped hole in the desert floor. I’d cackle when Daffy Duck would take a shotgun blast to the face leaving a charred little ducky noggin with his bill spun around in the opposite direction. I’d be rolling when Yosemite Sam would take the barrel of his rifle and slam the runaway horse on the bean, yelling “I said WHOA!” I still love them to this day. They helped make me who I am.

Oh, but the times they are a changing. I was jazzed about having kids so I could be justified in reliving the glory of Saturday mornings. When I began watching though, it was all very different. There were no pulsating smashed thumbs and stubbed toes. There weren’t any ensnared criminals hanging upside down from a Rube Goldberg-like booby trap. The body slams, the head-on collisions and the brandishing of weapons were all starkly missing. What had happened? As Henry, Hong Kong Phooey's mild-mannered alter ego would do, let me consult my Hong Kong book of Kung Fu to find out. Ah yes, as I suspected. New TV requires the “Lizzle Dizzle Stoned for Shizzle” maneuver.

As I sat in amazement, I was increasingly shocked by what I saw. These new cartoons were obviously the work of people who had frequently sought… let’s just say “Herbal Enhancement.” These weren’t your Daddy’s cartoons or, at least, their Daddy’s cartoons. No, this was the work of the “Non-fat caramel macchiato with a side of California Sensamilla” generation. And I’m not ruling out the possibility of some mind-altering hallucinogenics, either.

In fairness, some of the shows are cute but, on the other hand, some of these shows are flat out weird. And here’s the real kicker: the trippier the show, the better my kids seem to like it. Apparently there is some link between chemical stimulus and kid appeal. I hate to think about what they’ll be watching when they get a little older. As of this moment, here is the Mad Science skinny on a sampling of the shows I’ve been forced to watch:

Ni Hao Kai Lan- this titles is translated “the Chinese Dora sans the monkey.” My kids love this freaky little show. A few days ago my son was spouting something in my direction. I recall saying to him “I have no earthly idea what you’re saying, boy.” My 5 year old daughter and multi-lingual translator informed me “He’s saying ‘jump’ in Chinese.” Wonderful. Just stinking wonderful. He can’t say his own name, but he can count in Spanish and say "jump" in Chinese.

The Wonder Pets- mild mannered elementary classroom pets by day and animal saving superheroes by later-that-day. This very evening I saw an episode where they flew to Scotland to save the Loch Ness Monster. They left after school dismissed and returned to the classroom before the sun set. I think the key to their speedy travel is in their propulsion system- two caps off of dry-erase markers. The purple ones seem to maximize thrust. I’d like to see the airline industry look into this technology.

The Backyardigans- This show features Tasha, the somewhat bossy Hippo, Pablo, the panic stricken Penguin, Tyrone, the laid back Moose, Austin, the quiet and reserved Kangaroo and Uniqua, the mischievous um… pink spotted creature with curly cue antennae. Are they just messing with my head here? There are four easily identifiable animals and a zoological mystery with an ornery streak? Yowzer. Anyway, it's very musical and gives my son a chance to get his groove on. I should mention, for the record, that he has also been known to break it down to the sound of the printer printing off a tax form.

Yo Gabba Gabba- This is definitely the “head shop” of kid shows. It’s more awful than a recurring Hanna Barbera night terror. Imagine Sigmund the Sea Monster on PCP. The host, for lack of a better term, is an African-American dude that is as big around as a number 2 pencil, wears Harry Caray’s glasses and looks like he flunked out of summer band camp, but kept the uniform and insists on wearing it out in public, daily. He carries around his nightmarish toys inside a boom box and they come to life when he opens it up. Somebody needs to hose down the inside of that thing with a can of Raid.

If I had to choose the single worst element of these shows, it’d have to be the songs, hands down. They broadcast these things with the auditory equivalent of Magic Marker and Super Glue. It’s doggone near impossible to get these tunes out of your head. I find myself singing them at work. My co-workers think I’m teetering on the edge. I have to agree with them. When I opt for singing old Cindy Lauper tunes as the lesser of evils versus “There’s a party in my tummy, so yummy, so yummy…” the end can’t be far off.

I’ve got to go find an old Bugs Bunny cartoon. Maybe if I can find the one with the Vampire or the Square Dance episode, it’ll be enough to bring me back for a little while longer.

I have to take a moment to thank Chris@Maugeritaville for honoring me with the "Post of the Week" Award from his site for my post The Pitter Patter of Carbon Feet. Chris is a very funny and talented writer and I take it as high praise coming from him. Chris- as soon as I can figure out HOW to pick up my award, I'll certainly do it and I'll mount it with pride on my page.

The Pitter-Patter of Carbon Feet

2009-08-27T18:16:00.000-05:00

I know this post is probably going to get some people up in arms. Fine, I can live with that. But before you try to crush my ribs with an aggressive tree hug, let me offer a caveat right out of the gate. I believe, with all my heart, that we have the responsibility and obligation to be good stewards of the planet. I was taught to treat the environment with respect. As a kid, when those Keep America Beautiful commercials, that had Iron Eyes Cody with tears streaming down his face, would come on TV, I’d be right there boo-hooing with him. My ¹/₁₆ portion of Cherokee blood would kick in and I was usually ready to scalp the next white scum-bag that tossed a burger wrapper out the window of a speeding car. I have no doubt that we, as inhabitants of this earth, have the ability to do atrocious things to tear up the planet and should, equally, make efforts to preserve it. I do.

With that caveat in place, though, I need to blow off some steam, a little carbon dioxide and if I get too riled up I can’t rule out the possibility of a methane excursion. If I have to hear many more people talk about my carbon footprint, so help me, I may give them a motor oil soaked boot upside their hollow heads. I’m SO sick of the smug, political bantering by those who claim to be scientists that my beakers are beginning to fog over. Well, I have my own set of opinions concerning the role of man in the “destruction” of the planet and it’s my blog, so I’ll blab if I want to, blab if I want to.

Opinion #1: Theory (and therefore, Opinion) is Often Touted as Fact

I love reading about how proponents of a given theory defend their theories from its opponents. It can be pure entertainment, really. I recently read a case where someone was defending the position that humans are the primary cause of “global warming”, “climate change” or whatever the chic term is these days. The argument went something like this:

Opponent: “I don’t think that a hundred years worth of data is sufficient to draw such a conclusion.”

Defender: “Yes it is.”

That’s it. That was the whole defense. No statistics. No evidence. No numbers. My immediate reaction was “Wow. I never looked at it like that before. Of course a hundred years is enough. How foolish of me not to see it before now. Thank you for setting me straight with your highly scientific, unbiased and fact-filled defense.” [Then skips off through a meadow whistling the Moody Blues’ Tuesday Afternoon]

Let's not forget that a few hundred years ago it was a well accepted fact that the earth was flat as a flitter. A guy named Galileo went against the popular opinion and was accused of heresy. Craziest thing, though... he turned out to be right.

Opinion #2: I’m Skeptical of Theories that Rest on a Bed of Assumptions

Anytime I hear about someone basing their theory for what happens tomorrow on evidence from more than a couple hundred years ago, I have a tendency to give it the yeah, yeah. The reason for that cynical attitude is that everything we presume to know about the planets history is based on the assumption that we understand the conditions that lead to the evidence being examined. The truth of the matter is that it is based on assumptions about what occurred. The only way to know for a fact how the scene actually went down would be to send a roving reporter back in time to chronicle the history of the planet from Day 1. I’d hate to have that task because the life of that reporter would be hanging on the assumption of some scientist as to when Day 1 actually occurred. Overshoot by a day and you’re thrust into a void of nothingness with nothing to bring you back. No thanks, I’ll just be cynical.

Opinion #3: If We’re Truly Messing up Mother Nature’s House, She’ll Kick Us Out

My grandmother had a special weapon for dealing with us when we were bad- a razor strap and I avoided crossing her because of it. It had two thick, wide, leather strips bound together so when you got hit it sent a searing pain across your backside and sounded like a cracking bullwhip, just to make you think you had been killed. I remember her chasing me and my uncle across the living room and out the front door for tracking dirt into her clean house. I was little and forced to fumble with the gate on the porch, narrowly escaping with my life. My uncle, six feet tall and 225 pounds, hurdled the railing and high-tailed it for safety. My grandmother was, on a good day, 5’1” tall, but there was no doubt whatsoever about who was in charge. I suspect if we’re guilty of leaving carbon footprints everywhere, Mother Nature can run us off using only gravity and space rocks. Gravity may be a weak force but there’s a lot of it, by cracky. A 400 foot rock hitting the earth at 30,000 mph means bye-bye humans and Mother Nature wouldn’t even so much as smudge her lipstick.

Opinion #4: People are Arrogant

We sure do like to give ourselves credit, both good and bad. There’s a lot of finger pointing going on about how we’re affecting climate change. If we’re to believe the geological, chemical and paleontological records (I don’t, necessarily), then we have to consider the possibility that the earth has gone through cycles of heating and cooling WITHOUT the influence of people, their SUV’s, their industries or their cows’ excessive flatulence. There are too many other factors in play for us to be so brazen as to say “We did this. Period.” I think it’s entirely likely that we are much more subject to the earth’s influence on us than it is to ours. We know precious little about the depths of our oceans or what goes on beyond the confines of our own atmosphere. I find it difficult to imagine that we can accurately quantify the things that happen right here on the 3^rd rock. Just consider volcanoes, and the things they belch into the atmosphere or the oceans and the pockets of methane and who-knows-what they release. We’re barely getting a grip on events of this magnitude, and yet we seem mighty sure we’re outdoing the earth’s natural forces. I think if Mother Nature gets tired of seeing my carbon footprints, she’ll just cover them up with 8 feet of residue from a pyroclastic flow.

Now… go ahead and unload on me if you must. It can’t be any worse than what I’m forced to bear already. And if I’m totally wrong and we are heating up the climate, you can be the first to say “I told you so”. Of course, you should also know this- I grew up in Florida and chances are I’ll be able to take the heat.

And the Winner is... Natural Law!

2009-08-20T21:18:00.000-05:00

We humans don't do so well when left to our own devices. We cover this fact by instituting civil laws which keep civilization from becoming, well... uncivilized. It's hard to be prosperous as a species when anarchy is the norm. I find it amazing, though, that people seem to have forgotten that civil law plays second fiddle to natural law.

I was reminded of this fact while driving through a parking lot several days ago. I approached a crosswalk and was eyeing a couple of people that were thoroughly engrossed in their conversation. I noticed that they weren't looking out for traffic, nor were they breaking stride. Being a good citizen and a defensive driver, I slowed down to a crawl. One of them looked up, gave me the hairy eyeball, proceeded to offer the middle digit salute as a sign of her disgust and spouted some very colorful expressions in my general direction, to boot. I really don't know why she acted that way. After all, I had seen them and slowed accordingly. Apparently she and her friend were too involved in solving the world's problems to recognize the presence of one so lowly.

That's when the natural law thought occurred to me. The civil law indicated it was MY responsibility to yield to pedestrians. Conversely, natural law suggested that HER willingness to step out in front of two tons of steel armed only with a cantaloupe, a bag of nachos and a National Enquirer, then to anger the operator of said steel, was a sure fire trip to an non-glorious ending. Exciting, but non-glorious. My initial reaction was to floor it and squash her into a little ol' greasy spot. I held my desire in submission, though I did goose it a little and blow her a kiss just to rile her up even more.

But this rabbit runs much deeper than dingbats taking on diesels. I continued thinking about the supremacy of natural law over our feeble civil laws. It seems to me the oh-so-prevalent "it’s just not fair" attitude fits into this category. Here’s a news flash: Life Isn’t Fair. I don’t mean life as in “the lot I’ve been dealt.” I mean life as in “turning oxygen in carbon dioxide.” How about this for a shocker- life has to die for other life to live. Let me explain. All life on this planet is carbon based. We have to consume carbon-based forms in order to sustain our own carbon-based form. Regardless of what your opinion is concerning food morality, all food was alive before it became supper. Plants, animals, fungi… all of them were alive at some point. Next time you hear someone say that life isn’t fair, remind them they should be thankful they aren’t neighbors with Hannibal Lechter. It may be against the law for him to eat you, but he’d continue to sustain life and it’d be mighty hard to file a lawsuit from inside a deep freeze.

I don't know why we, as a society, feel compelled to try and make life fair and people equal. I'm sorry, but all people are not equal. People are inherently different and those differences make them unequal. We can pass laws day and night saying I have to give someone a fair shake, but because I have to give them a shot doesn’t make them a good fit. Yao Ming will never be a good fighter pilot. Jerome “The Bus” Bettis will never succeed as a professional jockey. Stephen Hawking will never make a good roofer. Donald Trump will never be on the cover of Coiffure Weekly unless they happen to be looking for an R&D case study. I will never receive a golden ticket on American Idol. OK, for the record, I would try out for American Idol, but it’d for the sole purpose of trying to make Simon choke on his own saliva and to get Randy’s bowels to let loose. “Yo, Dog, I need to freshen up and Simon could use an ambulance.”

Mother Nature says we’re not equal, so maybe we should examine her side rather than being so quick to get our knickers in a twist.

And for the record, as much as we may hate it, fight it and make laws regarding it, the natural law “might makes right” is still in effect. Just ask that lady from the parking lot. I’m sure she’d be glad to tell you… with some gesturing and colorful language, I’m certain.

The Numbers Don't Lie

2009-08-18T17:27:00.000-05:00

I think we must be in love with statistics. No, not the hard core, purely mathematical variety. We leave those statistics to the people that have letters behind their names and who are often seen wearing pocket protectors. There is a viable place for that kind of statistics say, for instance, in a nuclear power plant. I think it’d be good to know that spent fuel rods need to reside for at least five years in a cooling pond in order to achieve 95% confidence that they are safe to handle for disposal. We wouldn’t want those things to be going in the dumpster fresh out of the oven.

However, I’m talking about the more subtle and, dare I say, useless variety of statistics, some of which border on not being statistics at all. It’s been said that 87% of all statistics are made up on the spot. That could be true, but I haven’t gone back to verify the math, mostly because it is just easier to accept it as fact and go on. The great Mark Twain is quoted as saying that “facts are stubborn things, but statistics are more pliable.” Well said, sir. I think this is why we love them… we can make any useless bit of knowledge seem plausible, and possibly even important, by sticking a percent sign in there or simply by comparing it to some other bit of useless knowledge. In case you doubt the factualness of what I am saying, please allow me to provide some supporting statistics to prove my point.

The lab where I work likes to tape lists of useless statistics inside the stall in the men’s room. Given that 75.2% of our workforce is male and knowing that 96% of those men, amongst whom I am numbered, are going to spend at least 15 minutes a day in there, they know they have a captive audience. Given that I take advantage of this perk on company time, 3.1% of my day and, therefore, salary is dedicated to reading useless statistics. As a paid professional, I feel more than qualified to deliver the following bits of useless knowledge to you. Of course, in doing so I have interjected my own commentary.

Stat: Statistically speaking, you are more likely to be struck by lightning than bitten by a shark.

Reaction: Duh. Last time I checked, lightning occurs nearly everywhere, at some point in time, across the entire land mass of the U.S. By comparison, very little of the country is marine shoreline and of those who visit the shoreline, even fewer venture into the water. You may as well say that an Australian is more likely to drink a Foster’s than to wrestle a wombat.

Stat: A research group has found that pink cars are less likely to be involved in an accident than cars of other colors.

Reaction: I’m guessing that, nationally speaking, there are no more than 30 pink cars on the road at any given time. That’s a pretty small set upon which to base a conclusion. What I’d like to know is how many accidents occur around pink cars as people gawk at the unsightly spectacle. On the flipside, if you happen to be a Mary Kay Cosmetics mercenary, you’ll probably make it to your destination in one piece.

Stat: Americans, on an average day, spend 5 times more money on potato chips than they do on exercise equipment.

Reaction: I’m sure the intended message was that we need to get off our deep-fried rear ends and go do some exercise. The message I got, though, was that potato chips taste at least 5 times better than a treadmill. If I can figure out how to make a product that tastes like kettle cooked salt and vinegar chips and if eating an entire bag of them has the same effect as spending 3 hours in the gym, you can bet your sweet bippy that I’ll have enough money to hire Bill Gates as my pool boy.

Stat: In the U.S. a house catches fire every 45 seconds.

Reaction: I have 38 seconds before I have to shut down the computer, stash my critical belongings in a pillow case and go wait in the front yard for the fire department to arrive.

Stat: If every man, woman and child were to take up smoking, we'd still be outnumbered by the numbers of smokers in China.

Reaction: Suddenly my fear of the Chinese taking over the world is drastically reduced. With one well placed embargo we could have a bunch of very grumpy Chinese crippled by nicotine withdrawal.

Stat: Though difficult to pinpoint with accuracy, there are easily tens of millions of blogs out in existence, with thousands more being created daily.

Reaction: I have, to date, 11 followers. Statistically, that makes each of you greater than one in ten million. I’ll leave it up to you to decide if that makes you feel warm and fuzzy or if you suddenly feel the need to seek therapy.

Statistics make the world more interesting, for sure. I’d like to think that since you took 0.3% of your day to read this nonsense that you, at least, got something in return for your time. If not, take some solace in the fact that you still have 99.7% of your day untainted to use in a valuable manner. Like visiting the stall and leaving some useless statistics for the next person that comes along.

A Rock and a Hard Place

2009-08-10T19:32:00.000-05:00

I find myself in something of a predicament. I am, after 42 years on this earth, getting set in my ways. Just ahead I can see a cross road. The sign pointing to the left at the crossroad reads "Rock- 2 weeks." The sign pointing to the right reads "Hard Place- 3 years." The sign pointing straight ahead reads "Sorry Chump, this road is going nowhere."

The "rock", so to speak, is my level of comfort. I go to work, I come home, I play with the kids and basically do all the requisite dad and husband stuff. I've lived a pretty comfortable life for the last 10 years. I like the fact that I have no real outside commitments that draw me away from my lifestyle.

The "hard place" is my job... or better said, the upcoming loss of it. I work for the company Monkey Mind International who was contracted to operate a lab in support of hazardous waste disposal facility. I've worked there for 10 years. For every drop of waste we've eliminated, a piece of my job has gone with it. We were all hired as "contract" employees meaning when the job was done so was their obligation to us. MMI has been a good company and I've enjoyed the compensation they've offered.

The road straight ahead is the number of other chemistry jobs in this area.

Here's where things get dodgy, though. I've given MMI a good 10 years and they like me. I'm pretty confident I'd get another job within the company, but the big 5 dollar question is where will it be? I grew up in Florida. I live in Alabama. I've lived and worked in enough other parts of the country to know that there are other parts of the country where I don't want to live or work. If I stay on, I'm rolling the dice on where they will send me. But beggars can't be choosers, right? Well, maybe.

MMI, knowing they can't employ everyone in the post-project market, has decided that rather than give everyone a pink slip, a pat on the fanny and a wish for good luck, they'd offer a shot at education prior to handing out those other things. Yep, full tuition and books, with very few strings attached. One of the strings, though, is you have to keep up your full-time job while attending school. I think it's their way of getting people ready for the hardship to come. What's funny, though, is after 16 years as a chemist (and prior to the offer by the company) I concluded that I wanted to be an engineer when I grew up. Well... and a blogger, of course. I never foresaw having a chance to go after that degree because of my family commitments. There is no doubt they come first.

As luck (or misfortune) might have it, there is a well respected university in close proximity to my location that offers a Mechanical Engineering degree (just the one I wanted) with coursework available on-line and labs performed on campus only one day per week. Given my transferred chemistry credits and work schedule, if I start now it'd take me 2 1/2 to 3 years of full time schooling to complete the degree... almost exactly the same time left on the contract. That means for the next three years I'd spend a third of my day at work, a third dedicated to school, a third dedicated to family and home life, and a third dedicated to all my other responsibilities. That's a lot of thirds and I didn't even factor sleep into the equation.

So there's the issue. Free education for something I'd love to do and would significantly open additional doors of opportunity for the family versus being forty- two years old with little kids and barely able to stay awake with conditions what they are right now. This is a conundrum, indeed. I guess I'm going to have to get out my scientific calculator and try to engineer a way out of this fix.

Who's Teaching Who, What?

2009-08-06T22:15:00.000-05:00

I know I've been on a kick lately where I post alot about the kids. It has been said that our unconscious minds are programmed by our daily conscious thoughts. In other words, we are what we think. I am at the stage of parenthood where the kids require a tremendous amount of attention. Conscious thought leads to unconscious programming which leads to alot of posts about the kids.

My mind seems to get freed up when I go outside to mow the yard. There's something about the drone of the engine that puts me in a meditative state. It will occasionally be broken by a high velocity rock impacting my shin, but I can usually get back in the zone pretty quickly. Besides, when I get inside some Neosporin will fix up my lacerated shin quite nicely but a cluttered mind will make your head detonate, so it's best to work through the pain. Anyway, I have every intention of writing a book on real-life parenting for Dads, because heaven knows the material is right in front of me. Here is but a smattering of the things I contemplated while mowing... and hemorrhaging.

Kids On Parental Discomfort

I don't know how they do it, but if there is a bad place or time for a kid to comment on something, it will be at the worst possible moment... say for instance, at register 4 in Wal-Mart while 26 black gang members are lined up at register 3. So why in heavens name is it at thatmoment when the question pops out, at excessive volume mind you, "Why did God make some people with black skin?" Let me just say, we have made it a point not to distinguish between any races of people with our kids, and we have some very dear friends that are african-american, but the people in the other lane don't know that. So why, why, why at that moment? Extreme moments like these call for extreme reactions. Like raking every pack of candy off in the floor, dropping everything you're holding and yelling "Clean-up at register 4!" to create a diversion so you can make a beeline for the parking lot. Of course, the same kid, who just moments earlier, couldn't stand being in line begins to yell, "Why are we leaving!?!" Naturally, this elicits the teeth clenched, under-the-breath response, "Because I said so. Besides, I just peed a little."

Kids on Bathroom Habits

There is something that happens when the wait staff in a restaurant sets food on the table that triggers a kids bowels. The sound of the kitchen door swinging open must be the "brown note" for a kid. I remember eating hot meals and my wife and I hope to enjoy one again some day. Entering any sort of public establishment is also a trigger, except this one gets the bladder. It must be the change in barometric pressure, moving from outside to inside. Three steps inside and they start squirming in such a manner as to give the Solid Gold Dancers a run for their money. Apparently the same triggers that hit the bowels and the bladder also are the stimulus that pumps up the volume. I don't know why they can't inform me quietly and inconspicuously. Instead it's "DAD, I GOTTA PEE!!" "Shhh! Can't you wait a minute?" "NO!! I GOTTA GO NOW!!" You can't help but to look around, knowing well and good that the people in the next county are now aware that your kid has to pee... and now. All you can hope for is the sympathetic nod that says "I feel your pain. Been there, done that."

Kids on Discovering Self-Will

People will give you lots of reasons for why they chose to have kids. I'm going to shoot you straight; I had kids for 3 reasons. First, I wanted someone to obey me unconditionally. I thought this was what I was getting when I got married but, strangely, my wife has a mind of her own. I figured with kids I could start from scratch and I'd have my own little daddy-serving automatons. Imagine my surprise when they began to assert their own independence. Clearly it was their Mom's DNA peeking through. On more than one occasion I have asked my daughter "Can you (fill in the blank)?" Her reply has been "I can, but I won't." "Thanks for recognizing that there is a difference between the two, sweetie. Defy me again and I'll pinch your head off."

Secondly, I had kids for the child labor force. When sitting in my recliner it was always a nuisance to have to take off my own shoes, find the remote or go get a Coke from the fridge. By having kids the problem was supposed to be solved. Wow, was I ever wrong. So far when I ask my daughter to do any of those things her response is "I'm too little. You do it." Where have I gone wrong?

The third reason I had kids was so I could crack a joke. When my wife told me she was expecting I wanted to be able to ask "Are you sure it's yours?" That has nothing to do with kids asserting their own self-will, but it is the third reason. For the record, the joke wasn't worth it.

Kids on Observation Skills

It didn't take me long to realize that kids hear and see everything, unless it is something they are intentionally looking to see or listening to hear. They notice the tiniest of details. One night while watching a basketball game my daughter repeated a phrase the commentator had just said. We had no idea she was paying any attention to what was going on around her. That attentiveness did not diminish. In fact, kids notice things I've been past a thousand times and never even saw. I guess they have no point of reference as to what is important, so they notice what they like. My daughter could pick out a fire alarm from a mile away. One day in Home Depot she pointed to the ceiling and said "Look." I looked and saw girders, conduit, cameras, speakers, and whatever else is on a ceiling. I had no idea what it was she was pointing at. Her age and verbal skill prevented her from being able to give a detailed description of what she saw. Before long we had a host of Home Depot employees with us, all looking up at the ceiling and not a one of us, except my daughter, had a clue as to what we were looking at. It was reminiscent of the scene from Forrest Gump where Forrest was running and a wad of people were following, all waiting for enlightenment. When she said "It's red," and we all realized it was the fire detection system there was a definite sense of let-down. She was jazzed, though.

In stark contrast, she asked me in the living room one evening "Daddy, where's my little dog?" I replied, "Look down," noticing the dog was six inches in front of her. She gave a head sweep that would do a Doppler radar proud, but never saw the dumb dog. She did notice, however, that Bear Grylls had just taken his clothes off on TV and was doing naked push-ups in the snow. "Uhh, Daddy? Why is Bear Gorillas naked?" "I'm not sure sweetie... hey, I just saw a unicorn run into your room! Go see if you can find him!" I'm not proud.

I've always heard that situations like these help to build character. Providing that they live to see adulthood, DHS doesn't come take them and I maintain my sanity, I should wind up being one of the biggest characters on the planet.

I Need a Sine

2009-08-03T22:18:00.000-05:00

I'm definitely not one of those people that thinks the world owes them something. I don't believe the world owes me anything. There are times, though, when an explanation would be nice. If an explanation is not available I'd, at least, appreciate one of those interstate rest area "You are Here" signs.

I've always pictured life like a sine wave... never steady, but rather oscillating between up and down, pausing briefly at the pinnacles and valleys only to begin travel in the opposite direction. The problem, though, is I've not been diligent enough in my observation to know where I am right now, relative to what's ahead or what's past. Things have definitely been skidding, so I'm guessing that means I'm either at the bottom and every direction is up, or life's about to give me an atomic wedgie.

The last month has been a pill. Not a good "make me happy" kind of pill. Not a "take the pain away" kind of pill, either. Thankfully, it hasn't been at the other extreme... a "take me out" cyanide pill. No, it's been somewhere in the middle. I'd say the kind of pill that simultaneously gives you roaring diarrhea and an uncontrollable cough. Not lethal by any means, but enough to leave you uncomfortable and exhausted from debating the impossible options you're forced to confront.

The septic issue has been well documented. Probably over documented for most people's liking. That is just one stanza of the song, though. I guess the first note came when I swerved to miss a backhoe that was in the process of digging up the road. As I focused on the big yellow hunk of steel coming toward me, I failed to see the 10 inch rock that it had kicked out into the road. I hit it squarely on the wheel which bent the rim. That incident left me feeling a little flat, and that's not even counting the condition of the tire. The nature of the work I do is dependent on gaining project contracts. I've been working on the current project for 10 years and was hoping for another 5 or 6. Realistically, it's only going to be 2 or 3 meaning I'll be hunting another job all too soon. When I suffered the flat I was on my way to play golf with a prospective future employer. How can I expect him to hire someone that can't even get to the golf course given the high priority of golf? Bummer.

We got a new rim for the car (by new I mean as new as a junkyard produces). Two weeks later I was headed home and turned on the AC, seeking a little relief from the heat. Several minutes passed and it was still hot. I didn't pay it much attention because this time of year in Alabama is comparable to the climate on the planet Mercury. My assumption was the AC was just struggling to overpower the flames. Struggling? Indeed. Overpowering? Not so much. I think it's a simple fix, but it's also low on the priority list. Fortunately, I still have the bike.

I mentioned in the first septic issue about my wife calling me at work to tell me she had backed into the garage door. I don't blame her in the least because, at the time, she was wrangling our two yahoos and trying to get somewhere on time. With the sudden and penetrating noises they make, frankly I don't know how either of us have kept from backing through the door, across the street, into the neighbors yard, through their living room, off their back deck and into the woods. The door was an easy, 5 minute fix but even small things take their toll in times like these.

Then just yesterday the washing machine left us for that great clothesline in the sky. The massive puddle in the floor was the dead giveaway. We have a Mom & Pop fix-it duo we called. When I don't have time to work on something, we call them. My wife went down to tell them we were thinking of getting a new one soon. I believe his reply was "Yes, you are." DOA. Kaput. Finito. "No problem," I thought, "we were thinking of getting new one, so hi-ho, hi-ho, to Home Depot we go." We did go... and did get a new unit... which will be delivered in a week. Hello, laundromat freak show.

I told you none of the events were devastating, but they have come in rapid-fire form. However, I have learned enough in my years on this earth to know you never ask "What else could go wrong." There's plenty. Like the roof, the hot water heater, the other car, the motorcycle, the stove, the AC unit, and so forth. I may not know where I am on the sine wave of life, but since sine waves are predictable, you can always count on things changing one way or the other. I suppose there could be worse things in life than riding a wave, though. Like going flat-line. That wouldn't be enjoyable, at all.

The Twilight Zone

2009-08-01T21:27:00.000-05:00

Things around here are getting more bizarre by the minute. I sit here, alone in the living room, and can't help but wonder if Rod Sterling is going to pop through the door at any moment. I feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone, but maybe it's just Alabama. Sometimes it's hard to distinguish between the two.

As has been mentioned previously, I am in the midst of having septic issues. Well, I'm not having septic issues, but my house is certainly struggling. When I wrote that post I was hopeful that things would come to a swift, not to mention, neat and tidy conclusion. So much for optimism. It's now one week later and there are still poo puddles in the back yard. Additionally, as attractive accents, there are several, randomly located, gaping holes to visually contrast the puddles. It looks a lot like Better Homes and Gardens tried to do a makeover on a limestone quarry but got fed up with the project and flushed the whole thing down a giant, cosmic toilet.

As chronicled earlier, I am a DIY guy and am usually hesitant to hire outside help, but we decided it was the better move in this instance. I had several septic companies come out to assess the situation. When I got the quotes for the job, the back yard was no longer the only place with poo.

This is where the Twilight Zone comments come into play. Apparently, building codes have undergone some changes since our house was built. When our house was under construction the Bee Gees were Jive Talkin' and people were soiling themselves in theaters everywhere as Jaws took the world by storm. It seems that in 1975 the health department was too busy getting with the funk to be concerned about the disposition of raw sewage. The Sultan of Sludge informed me that our septic system was not acceptable according to current code. He said he'd ask if the health department would let him repair it as it exists, but I knew that was as likely to happen as Barack Obama scheduling a press conference to inform the nation he had, in a dream, been informed that George W. Bush was the embodiment of the returned Messiah and we should all follow him, instead. Already sensing the answer, the Drainage Dude to told me the health department would have to be involved in bringing it up to current standards. He said to expect the inspector the next day. The next day came and went... no inspector. The following day came and went... no inspector. Third day, same deal. I sense we're moving at the speed of county government, here.

Over the course of those days waiting for the phantom inspector, I began to have delusions of DIY. I went to the health department to look for the results of our "Perc" test and to find the location of the drain fields. No luck on either count. Apparently it's standard practice to file that info by the original owners name and never, ever, ever, ever update it again. Given that I was 8 and living in Florida, I was in no position to offer useful information. They looked through their records. No luck. They went to the courthouse. No dice. I finally just asked, "Can I do the work myself?" The response was essentially "We don't recommend it, but it's your house..."

That was the impetus for the holes. If I could just locate those field lines I might be able to tell if it was within my skill set to repair them. After digging all afternoon, getting overheated, nearly refunding my lunch thanks to the overheating and now aching from stem to stern, I'm beginning to wonder if paying the Poo Pumper isn't the better option, after all. Right now I'm weighing my options, which are: (1) Get comfortable with the idea of parting with my hard earned savings, but be done in short order, (2) Save some of my hard earned savings, but end up in traction from doing more physical labor than I've done in the last 10 years or (3) Accidentally dropping a match in a pail of gasoline which is precariously stationed in the living room and using the insurance money to buy a house in a subdivision that's on a sewer system. I'm leaning toward option 3.

Whatever route we end up taking, that health department inspector, repair guy or pretty much anyone else at this point, had better think twice before giving me much grief. I'm getting really frustrated from all this mess. Given that my septic system is, by county records, non-existent, it'd take them a long time to figure out where I have a carcass stashed.

Crossing the Line

2009-07-30T19:35:00.000-05:00

Aside from being a chemist, husband, father and writer, I also refer to myself as an inventor. A friend and I currently have one of our items in patent pending status. As an inventor, I applaud the creativity and developmental effort that goes into producing a new product. With that disclaimer, however, comes this truth: some items I see being advertised make me cringe. One such item is the "Snuggie," otherwise described as the blanket with sleeves.

Now, I'm not here to discredit the effectiveness of the product in any way. It may be the best thing to come along since the woolly mammoth tunic. My beef is much more shallow than that. I'm here to talk about the image put forth by it's advertisers. The commercials depict a woman trying to cover up and manage to answer the phone while simultaneously wrestling an Afghan. You'd think it was an Afghan soldier from the battle that was going on. Of course, that image was contrasted with the warm and easy to use "Snuggie." Fine. If someone wants to wear a sleeved blanket in the comfort of their own home, that's their prerogative.

I have to say that, for my own taste, they get a little close to the edge when they show a man sitting wrapped up in one while working on his laptop. Still, it could be that he's never been introduced to his y-chromosome, so I'm even willing to give that a pass as long as he's Snuggied in his own house. I have to call a foul, though, when they show MEN walking around outside in them. C'mon Linus, put down the blanket and grab a coat for crying out loud. In the commercial it looks like a pack of very dainty Benedictine Monks invaded the neighborhood. There is nothing, and I mean NOTHING you can do to make a Snuggie look manly. You could put knives, swords and battle axes on it and it'd just look like the overgarment for a medieval executioner that wears lace delicates underneath. Imagine the gayest scene you can come up with, then wrap everyone involved in Snuggies and see if it doesn't move a notch higher.

But it gets worse, much worse. I know there are some people that have no self-respect. It has always been that way and will alway be so. The Snuggie people couldn't leave well enough alone, though. They had to drag man's best friend down with them. That's right, Snuggies for dogs and I'm here to say that's going too far.

The commercial tries to make it seem as though it is an improvement over dog sweaters. How about trying this novel concept on for size: God gave dogs fur, so they don't need clothes. Why in the name of all that is good and right do people feel compelled to dress their dogs? I've heard all the excuses. "He looks cute." Maybe, but he's probably also uncomfortable with the unnatural and restrictive accessories. My guess is he's looking for a fence and an opportunity to shred it or at the very least, a pile of cow manure so he can improve it's scent. "But he likes it." Malarkey. Dogs want to please people so he's faking it because it seems to make you happy. "He has short hair so he gets cold." Fine. Fix him a nice warm bed beside the fire and spare the poor creature his dignity. Ask a cat to put on a Snuggie and what you'll get is a two-word answer and a sliced chin. Cats would rather die than sacrifice their image. The poor dog just wants to be pleasing.

It seems like it's always the small dogs that get made into canine spectacles, too. I suspect it's because a St. Bernard would give you more than you could handle if you tried to wrap it in a Snuggie. Get one of those mammoth paws upside the noggin and you become more worried about a concussion than a Snuggie-wrapped pooch. Besides, it'd cover up his cool brandy barrel. On the other hand, people can out muscle a Yorkie or a Lhasa Apso so they end up sporting a fleece and sitting in a handbag as an exclamation point to the injustice. I hate to think what must go through their little minds when they have to pass a Malamute or a Doberman on the street. If you see a pursed pup looking at you, he's actually saying "Take me with you and get this ridiculous costume off me. Please, kind human? I'd be indebted and forever loyal."

If people want to prance about like a bunch of fleece-covered nymphs, that's one thing. People have the power of choice. But for the love, people, let a dog be a dog. Let him run around to sniff bottoms in dignity and with self-respct, ornamented only with his own natural clothing.

And as for the people that invented this Snuggie for Dogs thing, if you have to advertise it... show the dogs one act of kindness and don't advertise on Animal Planet.

Home Sweet Minefield

2009-07-27T21:18:00.000-05:00

There's nothing like having your own little slice of Americana- a house, yard and white picket fence that you hand made. It's a little slice of heaven assuming, of course, that your picture of heaven is sponsored by DeWalt and the Home Depot. Being a homeowner can have it's ups and downs. Today had a little of both, but mostly down.

I inherited a curse from my Mom and Dad. Both of them are the hardest working people I know. They do everything. Maybe too much. I grew up watching this kind of behavior. I guess it's like a kid that grew up in an abusive home or with a parent who was an alcoholic, only to develop those same habits in their own adulthood. You'd think it'd be just the opposite, but I guess seeing a certain kind of behavior on a daily basis has a way of burning it into your psyche. My parents worked. Like dogs. Alone. If something broke, Dad fixed it. There was no buying another. There was no calling a repairman. The one we had worked just fine when it was running. If Dad didn't know how to fix it, he did what any self-respecting man would do: he took it apart, saw what was on the inside and scattered parts everywhere until he figured it out. It was me and my brothers job to keep up with parts and pass tools like a nurse would to a surgeon. He was, and still is, the greatest repairman I've ever known.

Now that I have a home and a family, I know no other way of doing things. If something breaks, I fix it. If I don't know how to fix it, I take it apart and see how it works. And it has to be right. My DIY has a touch of OCD. The ADD gets in the way a little, but I can usually manage. In those instances where I find myself stumped, I call Dad. I spent some time on the phone with Dad today.

Today was, uhh... oh yeah, MONDAY!! I woke up feeling like I was coming down with a cold. That worsened as the day went on. My wife called me at work three times today. Calls number one and two really set the stage for number three. Call number one was to inform me my son took another whack at terminating his own existence by sucking on a washcloth he swiped off the bathroom counter. The problem with that was that it was the Comet contaminated one my wife was using for cleaning. He won't eat food, but household cleansers are delish. Call number two was to tell me that the dog had an infected eye. Marvelous... back to the vet. Call number three was the pinnacle. The dog was digging in the back yard and the hole started filling with water. I knew exactly what that meant. Poo. And I gotta dig it up.

We live out in the county, so we don't have the advantage of a sewer system. We operate off of ye olde septic system. That is the most appropriately named system ever. Septic is from the latin septicus meaning "to putrefy." My lunch started getting septicus when I got home and started digging. I tried to keep my mind off what I was smelling by imagining I was Mike Rowe working my own personal little Dirty Job. I even came up with an operatic aria that went awry and ended up sounding like the Beverly Hillbillies instead.

Well, lemme tell you a story 'bout a man turning red

Working in a lab tryin' to keep his family fed

Then one day he was digging for some tubes

and up from the ground come a bubbling poo.

Sewage, that is

black water,

NAAAAASTY.

I went out there thinking I was Joe Don Fixit. There's nothing quite as demoralizing as thinking your number one, only to find yourself ankle deep in number two. So I did the unthinkable because I knew it had to be done. I called Dad and told him the bad news- I had to call someone in. And you know... while I know he would have helped me, for once I'm pretty sure he was glad we weren't going to try and take it apart to see what was on the inside.

The man told me it was going to require new drain fields and the Health Department inspector had to come see it before he could begin work. I know those government officials have a strange way of doing business, but I'm pretty sure it's going to be a slam dunk... so to speak. I'm no geologist, but my yard is easily 20 feet vertically elevated over my neighbor's yard and whose house is only a couple hundred feet away. I didn't even have to stay at a Holiday Inn to know that is one steep slope. Unless that guy has an anti-gravity machine, I know where that pool in my yard is headed, and with a quickness. The good news is the sewage in my yard won't stay in my yard for long. The bad news is I'll never be able to look my neighbor in the eye again.

That brings me to where I am right now. I still have a cold. I still have poo in the back yard. And I guess I'll know more tomorrow. So do me a favor will you... go on into the reading room and give it an extra flush for me.

Pearls and Gems

2009-07-25T09:16:00.000-05:00

I know that everyone likes to gush about the cute things their kids spout off. I'm no different. There's nothing as beautiful and oftentimes wise as the perspective provided by a pure and uncluttered mind. I wrote this to be documentation for posterity's sake as much as anything. If this kind of thing isn't your cup of tea, I'll be back with a "normal" post in a couple of days. If you do like those "Kids Say..." sessions, though, this could be a treat. All of these pearls came from my daughter, given that my son, thus far, has chosen to abstain from actual language usage. Maybe one day I'll have a post dedicated to him.

Recently while changing my son's diaper, my daughter, being the little Momma, wanted to help. When I put the diaper on him she said "Daddy, that diaper fits his stinking little pee-pee hiney just right... but we don't talk about that."

One night while sitting in the bathtub she noticed her girl parts on her upper torso. She poked at them a couple of times, looked up at me and said "They're belly steens." To this day in our house they are referred to as "belly steens."

When my wife would pick her up after pre-school, a staff member would walk her out to our car. It had rained earlier in the day, so puddles abounded. One puddle, being close to their path was obviously far too tempting to pass up. She gave it a good stomp, splashing water on her and the teacher, also. When I got home I asked her why she would do such a thing. She replied by saying "I saw the puddle and Mommy beckoned me to jump in it." Sounds reasonable to me.

I've always had a sensitive gag reflex. That's bad when you have kids. I always warded off the funk during diaper changing sessions by pulling the collar of my t-shirt up over my nose. One day I was wearing a button up shirt and wasn't equipped to use my normal funk deterring technique when my son loaded up royally. I was doing my best to change him without retching, but having little success. My daughter was looking on and suggested "Daddy, just pull a little piece of shirt over your nose."

I was making up the bed recently she came in the room and wanted to help. She asked "Daddy, can I help you sheet the bed?"

As documented previously, my daughter in an animal freak. She had managed to dig up a "wiggly worm" and was carrying it around looking for a "house" to keep it in. When I asked her what she was doing she responded "This worm is my first pet in the WHOLE world," she said as she walked past the two dogs. I don't think the clown fish was amused either.

I had asked her to scratch my back recently, which she was happy to do. When she finished I asked if she wanted me to scratch her back, too. She replied, "No, my back doesn't itch. I don't have hair on it."

Apparently I was not giving her due attention one evening. After several attempts at getting me to listen to her, she said with an elevated voice, "Hey, grown-up! James Daddy Baker listen to me!" Ouch, she three named me.

She walked in on me one day when I thought I was alone. I had eaten beans earlier, so you can imagine what she walked into. She said "WHAT is that smell?" I asked in reply "You don't like it?" She said "Daddy, son, you stink. You smell badder than me, Mommy and my brother."

I was doing what Dads do one evening playing the old "pull my finger trick", which they both LOVE, by the way. I accused her of making the ensuing sound. She replied indignantly, "That wasn't me that was YOU, you goon."

My Mom and Dad had gotten a yip dog. My daughter was jazzed about getting to see the dog. Apparently it wasn't used to kids, or at least MY kids. In a flurry of activity the dog nipped at my daughter. Undeterred, she later commented, "I like the little biter. She's cute."

My son had gotten old enough to pester my daughter. Apparently she was tired of the pestering and the fact he had taken the attention that formerly belonged entirely to her. She asked, "I don't like him anymore. Can we take him to the pound?"

My daughter really wanted to try the tomatoes that had come out of the garden. She helped me plant them, she helped water them and she picked them. I cut up a piece for her to try. Upon taking a bite she made the kind of face you'd make when you thought you were getting a bite of pie but got a lemon instead. "I like it," she said amidst a full body shiver. I asked, "Do you want more?" She responded, "NO. You eat them. I'll eat them when I'm grown up."

She was sitting on the floor in her pig sty of a room. I asked her "Can you clean up your room?" She looked around and replied, "I can... but I won't." While I appreciated her honesty, it still had an unhappy ending.

Both kids love being outside. I discovered that when we'd go on walks in the woods her mind became like a sponge, learning about plants, trees and animals. One day, desiring to stomp through the woods she asked "Can we go on an adventure like Bear Gorillas and that other boy?" (translation: Bear Grylls, star of TV show Man vs. Wild and Les Stroud, star of TV show Survivorman)

I was trying to type and I had turned the TV on waiting for a show to start. My wife just had finished telling my daughter that it was Daddy's time to sit and relax. She came in 5 minutes later and whispered in my ear "Will you turn off your computer and the TV and come play with me?" I responded somewhat sharply "Will you just let me relax for a little while?" She came back and whispered in my ear "Not if you keep acting like that."

Well, I could go on with this post ad infinitum, but that wouldn't do anyone any good. I know there are those of you out there with equally adorable comments from your kids. I'd love to hear them, so comment away.

Math for Lunatics

2009-07-23T19:00:00.001-05:00

It’s no mystery that sometimes I say things that are not clear. If you could spend a day in my life, the reason that I say things that are unclear would become crystal clear. My mind is a cluttered mess of chemistry, kids, yard, cars and writing. Because it’s a cluttered mess, the places my mind goes are often surprising, even to me. For a thought to get out of my brain it must have to bounce around like a pinball before it ever locates a mean-free path. During that process there’s no telling what might get jarred loose. I had one of those moments yesterday. I was making a comment on a blog post when a completely unrelated thought busted free: A person can use the laws of Math to get what they want out of life.

There are plenty of people who have an utter disdain for math and it’s easy to see why. It used to be that math was primarily numbers. You added them, you subtracted them, you multiplied them and if someone put a gun to your head, you divided them. My Granddad was a whiz-bang at this kind of math. Toss out a column of numbers and, bada-boom, bada-bing, he had them tallied, just like that. That’s when math was really math. I remember 8^th grade, though, when math went buck wild.

Apparently someone, somewhere, at some point in time spilled some alphabet soup on their long division and decided that rather than re-do it, they’d just take it and run. I remember being blown away by the concept of having letters in a math problem. English and math slammed head-on and for awhile my life smoldered in the educational ditch. For a whole semester I struggled to get the concept. During that semester every math problem looked exactly the same: (1 + X ) x (a tuna sandwich) = next Thursday. One day someone told me “Letters aren’t really letters, you Bozo. Letters are numbers in disguise.” Ahhh, the light bulb illuminated for the first time.

Since that time I have come to realize that there is endless potential with this. We need numbers so we can comprehend our world. To truly understand anything we have to apply a number to it. What’s the date? What satellite channel is ESPN? What’s the temperature? How many MPG does that car get? What’s our bank balance? Just how much do you weigh, big’n? But we people, being people, are sensitive about some of our numbers. Enter math. “Happy Birthday… so how old are you?” “Well, let’s look at it like this… yesterday my age was the whole integer ‘X’ and today we’ve added ‘1’, so my age is X + 1 which equals ‘mind your own stinking business.’” See the value here?

But math usefulness goes way beyond protecting sensitive info. We can arrive at some very interesting conclusions based on mathematical principles. One of my favorite mathematical principles is called the “Transitive Property.” This is commonly explained by saying “A = B and B = C, therefore A = C.” Cool… A, B, and C all have the same value. With that in mind, let’s see what we can come up with.

The other day I was at work imitating the way one of my former co-workers walked. It was a ridiculous looking walk that can best be described as the way Frankenstein’s monster would walk if he had totally lost feeling in one leg. Mockery is a form of imitation, so we’ll call this Mockery “A.” It has been said that imitation is the greatest form of flattery so mockery, being a form of imitation, must be flattering. Let’s call the Flattery “B.” Likewise, it has been said that flattery will get you nowhere, but also that flattery will get you everywhere. Going with the “nowhere” response, while probably closer to the truth, leads to an abrupt and boring conclusion, so let’s go with the “everywhere” response. Let’s call Get’s You Everywhere “C.” When you put it all together you have A = B and B = C, or in words Mockery = Flattery and Flattery = Get’s You Everywhere. By the Transitive Property we are forced to conclude that, mathematically speaking, Mockery Get’s You Everywhere. I like where this is going.

From this point we have to turn to our sense of logic and reasoning. Everywhere is all-inclusive, so by default Anywhere is located within Everywhere. Given our sound reasoning and by applying the Transitive Property again, I can comfortably conclude that Mockery can get me Anywhere. Since an individual Anywhere is called Somewhere, the natural conclusion is that mockery can get me Somewhere.

Since I am now capable of getting Somewhere, I just have to decide where it will be. I’m definitely tired of going Nowhere, so I want to go Somewhere that is interesting. Maybe I’d like to go to the edge of the universe. That’d certainly be interesting and it seems as good a place as Anywhere. I’d like to go Everywhere, but I’m a finite creature, so that’d be impossible. I hope they have restaurants wherever I go. There’s nothing worse than being in the middle of Nowhere, getting hungry and having nature call. Surely since it is Somewhere there’d at least be a McDonalds because those things are Everywhere. I’m really not picky, though. I just want to go Somewhere. One thing’s for certain- I’m going Nowhere fast sitting here writing this so if I am to have any hope of going Anywhere, I have to go Somewhere and mock some people.

You know… I can’t believe that there are people in this world that still think math is confusing and that they’d never use it. Those people are going Nowhere.

Bullies in the Park

2009-07-21T22:09:00.000-05:00

The weather has been as spectacular as Alabama is capable of offering up in July, so getting the kids outside to ride bicycles and play at the park seems like a no brainer. The city park is a lovely, lakeside place complete with covered pavilions, picnic tables, piers and plenty of open, green space for the kids to romp around and be kids. It's a nearly perfect setting for a family outing. Nearly. However, there's an ugly truth about the park that you never see mentioned in any of the fliers or civic advertisements: the park is also the preferred stomping grounds for a group of bullies.

I'm sure you can picture the scene in your mind. The family is sitting at a picnic table that overlooks the lake. Boaters and skiers are zipping around and the sounds of summer fill the air. The kids dig into their PB J's and munch a few chips on the side. The sodas are ice cold, having just come out of the cooler, and are the perfect prescription for taking the edge off the summer heat. The company and conversation are the things dreams are made of, but it is all squelched in an instant with the sound of an approaching and somewhat riotous mob. "Did you hear that?" my wife asks with her heart in her throat. I try to remain cool and take the manly stance, yet I respond with a crackle in my voice. "Just ignore it. I'm sure they aren't coming for us." Foolish, foolish man and all your testosterone guided decisions. My wife peeks out of the corner of her eye. "They are coming for us, THEY ARE!" I reply with visible nervousness. "Just ignore them and they'll go away." Sure they will. They’ll go away just like the paparazzi will go away from Paris Hilton if she ignores them. The mob nears the table and tensions rise. Though denying their approach, they draw nearer and utter the fateful sound that everyone knew was imminent but prayed they wouldn't have to hear: "Quack."

Blasted ducks. They really know how to kill a good time.

Who has empowered the ducks, anyway? Is this the result of feeding them stale, molded bread? If so, we need to re-think what we’re doing because apparently that stuff is to ducks what heroin is to humans. Once a duck gets a taste of it, he’ll go to any length to get it again, but it takes more and more moldy bread to satisfy his lust for that duck high. The New York City homeless aren’t as demanding as a duck in search of bread. At least a homeless guy claims that he’ll work for food.

There’s nothing more detrimental to a picnic than being bum rushed by a gang of web-footed bread seekers. I’ve noticed that those big white ones with the bad acne are the ringleaders, and definitely the ones with itchy trigger feathers. Don’t turn your back on one of those guys, because he’ll get you when you’re not looking. It used to be that an elevated voice and a few stomps of the feet was sufficient to send them scurrying off in search of aquatic safety. Somewhere, though, one of those white ones called somebody’s bluff and word got out that the humans aren’t nearly as tough as they pretend to be. I know the people involved have, out of desperation, been guilty of chucking a sandwich down by the lake in hopes of getting rid of them. I know this to be true because I have done it myself, but this has only exacerbated their already demanding behavior.

Since word has gotten out about how the humans operate, the ducks have unilaterally banded together. Apparently their migratory nature has been the vehicle for widespread distribution of the news, and thus the birth of the duck gang. Unlike human gangs, there are no colors, no differences, no turf boundaries and no gang wars. If you’re a duck, you’re in the gang and inside the duck gang there’s total cohesiveness due to a common quest to snooker me out of my lunch. Plus, they operate with the discipline and tactics of a well trained army. Once, while fending off a frontal attack, I held my sandwich behind me thinking that it’d be protected. What I didn’t notice was that it was a ploy to distract me while a secondary band performed a wide flanking maneuver and came up behind me. One of the white ones snatched my sandwich and ran off while his buddies put up a feathered wall to barricade me.

Lunch is a sacred time for me. I’d have been less offended if they’d have given me the atomic wing off the top ring rope and slammed my head into a turnbuckle. I was a little peeved that he nipped my finger in the process, too. If you want to fight me, fine... but back away from the grub.

Ducks aren’t into sharing, either. They are very self-centered critters. Just recently there was a nice little school of colorful fish that were having a heyday with the bread snacks getting tossed in the water. Until the ducks caught wind of it, that is. Enter park bullies, exit pretty fish. How much rudeness are we willing to tolerate?

So here’s the ethical dilemma… is it ok to kick a duck when he tries to bully you out of your lunch, or worse, flat out steal it? We don’t accept that type of behavior from people. One time while working in a retail store, I ran down a shoplifter because I was insulted that he tried to steal from me and chose to run rather than fess up. I tackled him in the parking lot just as some co-workers arrived. I hate brazen thievery. Granted, I could have been shot and “officially” got in trouble with the management even though there was that back room celebration, but I digress. So why do we turn a blind eye to behavior that is not exactly what we’d call ducky? What message do I want to send to my kids? Give in to a bully when he comes around or stand up and kick some tail feathers? I don’t yet know as of this writing, but I’m working on it. In the meantime, I think I’ll stay away from the water and do my picnicking under the trees by the merry-go-round. I don’t think the squirrels have caught on just yet.

Aw, She's a Beauty!

2009-07-20T15:54:00.000-05:00

It would be a gross understatement to say my daughter, the oldest child, is an animal lover. This kid is more of an animal freak. And not just crazy over normal kid type animals, either…ALL animals. I think I may have the female version of Steve Irwin on my hands.

When she was old enough to be talking we were sitting together, enjoying some daddy-daughter time and were looking through a book. Naturally, it was an animal book. We happened upon a page with a picture of a small monkey. She stopped my hand from continuing to flip through the pages and examined the page closely. She looked up at me and asked “Daddy, is that a Pygmy Marmoset?” I believe my exact words were “A what?” She replied, as if to say “You poor, stupid, grown-up. Did I not enunciate well enough for you,” by slowly saying “A Pygmy Marmoset.” I was dumbfounded. I had to stop the reading session and go look up “Pygmy Marmoset” on the internet because I had no earthly idea what one of those looked like. I’ll be doggone if it wasn’t a little monkey-like creature. I hate it when my kids make me feel dumb. Why couldn't it be a monkey?

That was merely setting the stage for what was to come. Our world became one filled with talk of Scarlet Macaws, Spectacled Bears, Chinchillas, Lemurs, Jaguars and Llamas. Curse you Diego! You’ve forced me to learn taxonomy when I was content with my former zoological knowledge that was limited to what I picked up from Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote cartoons. Her animal fascination would ultimately be the impetus behind a children’s book I wrote which is currently being illustrated.

Little did I realize that the fascination would transcend the imaginary and move into the physical. She actually wanted to hold everything she saw. Thank goodness there are no Pygmy Marmosets in Alabama. However, springtime in our area does bring with it a litany of rejuvenated life forms, one of the more aggravating of which is the stinging caterpillar. I was sitting on the back deck having a fun game of “flick the caterpillar” when my daughter walked up beside me and asked “Daddy, what’s this creature in my hand?” To my surprise, one of the hairy little stinging buggers was inching across her palm. I popped the underside of her hand and sent the caterpillar tumbling over the rail before it could get her. “DON”T touch those… it is a caterpillar and they will bite you,” I admonished. “Aw Daddy,” she retorted, “it was my friend.”

Obviously I didn’t get my point across because she has continued to pick up and hold anything she is quick enough to catch... and she’s pretty quick. We live in a relatively rural area so there is no shortage of varmints to manhandle. She’s shown up with lizards, frogs, worms, toads, beetles and some things I’m not real sure about. One I was really sure about was a spider that she had sandwiched between her thumb and forefinger. I grabbed her wrist and flailed it around until she unhanded the suffering arachnid, which drew the response “Daddy, he wasn’t a BITING spider. He didn’t bite me at all.” After having spent 3 days in the hospital from a spider bite on my leg, I was still a bit edgy about them at that juncture.

There was even an instance where, after everyone else was in bed, my wife was sitting at the computer and caught sight of a field mouse that had made his way indoors. The ensuing frenzy woke everyone in the house. Lacking a net, mousetrap, or shotgun, my alternatives were to catch it or shoo it outside. I was running back and forth trying to corral the stupid mouse and my daughter came running in with me, her hands on her knees, saying “Come here little guy, come here,” wanting to befriend it. I had a broom and it occurred to give him a slap shot against the living room wall, but she would have never forgiven me, so I shooed it out instead.

The real coup de main, though, came one day when she was outside with me while I was working in the front yard. She said “Look Daddy, a pretty snake.” Let me tell you straight up, I hate snakes. I’m terrified of them. The mention of the word makes my bowels buckle. I don’t like looking at pictures of them. I have refused to go inside a friend’s house because he kept one of those non-shouldered, slithery, minions of Satan in his house. I want neither part nor parcel with any snake. If the two of us occupy the same piece of ground, I willingly and enthusiastically abandon my position and retreat. So when she said she saw a “pretty snake” my ears pricked up and my bowels knotted.

“Say what? Where?”

“Right there in the tree,” she replied, “he’s SO pretty.”

“Where? I don’t see any… OH!!!”

It was at least 14 feet long. OK, maybe it was only 6 or 8 feet long. My ability to estimate length is not at its best while I’m peeing myself. This thing was crawling down the tree trunk 10 feet from where we were standing. The garage doors were open and I didn’t know what its intentions were, though I’m positive they were not at all noble. I ran inside and grabbed an 8 foot long 2X4 because I didn’t have one that was longer than that, and I took my battle station. Normally I would have run away, but I am a Dad and I was determined not to let it eat my little girl and besides, if it’d gotten in the house I’d have had no choice but to burn it to the ground. She took a couple steps toward it and said “Daddy, don’t hurt it.” I grabbed her collar and I told her “As long as he goes the other way, I won’t but if he comes one inch in this direction, I’m gonna give him a headache he’ll never forget.” Fortunately, he went the other way and my outside work came to a screeching end. Besides, I needed dry pants.

So now I’m left with the conundrum of a lifetime. I love the fact that she wants to learn and remembers every little detail. I love her innocence. I don’t want to translate my fears onto her and I want her to do what makes her happy. Still, if I have to turn on the TV and see her holding a snake telling the audience “Aw, she’s a beauty,” it may be more than my aging innards can bear.

Motorcycle Mayhem

2009-07-16T22:38:00.000-05:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I ride a motorcycle. That’s right, a big, fast motorcycle. What’s more, I’m getting tired of hearing about everyone in the history of the world that has been killed while riding a motorcycle. I know well and good that a motorcycle does not possess a protective exoskeleton. I know that there are people that drive crazy on the roads. I know that there is an inherent danger in being on the same roads with said people while sitting on something that is little more than a two-wheeled motor with a seat. I know these things. I knew these things before I ever bought the bike. I knew these things before I ever threw a leg over it. I knew these things before I enrolled in the motorcycle safety course. I knew these things before I bought the gloves, full-face helmet, armored jackets and padded pants. I know it, already. You don’t have to tell me any more.

As I see it, life itself is a calculated risk and I’ve done the calculations. I’m not suicidal by any stretch. There is danger everywhere, but I’m shocked at how many people choose to ignore that fact, all the while barking about me getting on my bike. Well, I’m here to point out some things to increase people’s awareness and, frankly, get this off my chest.

Yesterday I had a guy who looked like he was the President and CEO of the North American Bacon Eaters Club tell me about someone he knew that was seriously injured in a motorcycle accident. My initial thought (though I bit my tongue to keep from saying it) was that I knew of a guy whose ticker went off like a grenade from shoving sausage biscuits down his gullet and refusing to push back from the table and do some exercise. If you’re sitting there looking as swollen as Jabba the Hutt, chewing on a rib bone and you have gravy dripping off your chin, your comments aren’t really reaching me. I’m not an odds maker or a gambler, but if I had to wager on who was going to buy the farm first, I know where my money would go. And how can someone be justified in firing up a smoke and taking a sip of booze while telling me getting on a motorcycle is bad for my health? I’m sorry… I can’t hear you for all the wheezing not to mention that your gin blossom is blinding me.

Another thing I commonly hear is about how some little old lady pulled out in traffic right in front of someone’s uncle’s neighbor’s best friend’s brother and he had no where to go but through her driver's side door. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with that information. Is it done as a memorial for that person? Are they suggesting that I avoid little old ladies? Or is it that they want to converse, but this is the only bit of motorcycle knowledge they possess, so they toss it out there? Trust me folks, there is no one more cognizant of where the little old ladies, the punks flipping the dial on the radio, the business man on his 3 way call or the excessively fatigued truck driver than I am when I’m on my bike. I watch them like a hawk and I’m more keenly aware of their presence than a buzzard is of a fresh carcass. And for the record, I read about a guy in a trash truck that swerved to miss a little old lady that pulled out in front of him and was injured in the ensuing wreck. Maybe if he’d been on a motorcycle he could have avoided her and wouldn’t have ended up in the ditch with a steaming heap of old diapers and half-eaten pizza slices.

If you want something to clamor about, why not focus on the number of kids these days that are dropping dead while engaging in sports activities? I’m a lot more worried by 18 year olds dying during football practice than I am by a 42 year old ripping up the highways. Chances are those kids were just doing what their coach instructed them to do. Chances are also good that the guy on the bike that got killed was doing something stupid that he told himself to do. Go figure.

While we’re tossing out random things to fret over, why not consider all the bridge failures that have occurred? There have been lots of people killed during bridge collapses, and it is an indiscriminate killer. Does that mean we should all avoid bridges because it could collapse? Next time you’re sitting on an overpass, encapsulated in your protective cage during rush hour traffic, try thinking about the fact that the very bridge that stands between you and terra firma was built by the low bidder. See if that doesn’t make you pinch a hole in your shorts.

And while I’m rolling, why don’t we consider some things that are more close to home? How about the fact that your hot water heater is a pressurized bomb with only a pop-off valve to keep it from becoming an instant skylight installer. How about hoping the guy at the gas pump next to you isn’t suffering from static cling while he pumps the gas with his engine still running? Should you worry that the electrician who was running the wires in your house was more focused on the hangover that was plaguing him than the staple he drove through one of the wires? Will that next can of beans you open be the one with salmonella, shigella, E. coli or Ebola? Should you let the grass in the yard grow out of control, inviting varmints of all varieties or go out and cut it with the whirling blades of death? Tell me, please.

I’m not trying to be an alarmist, make light of, or minimize the threat of danger where it truly exists, but rather to point out that danger lurks everywhere. All any of us can do is EITHER be aware of danger and take precautions to mitigate it OR we can curl up in a corner somewhere and pee ourselves. I don’t like that warm, wet feeling so I’m going to go with option number one.

Yes, I ride a motorcycle. Yes, I know the risks. Yes, I’m careful. And yes, I have fun. If you’re one of those people who is guilty of passing on horror stories then please, take a pass next time you see me. Trust me, I’ve already heard it.

The Mother of Invention

2009-07-15T16:24:00.000-05:00

I had one of those moments of enlightenment yesterday whilst walking through the drug store, of all places. There was a TV screen set up in the store airing an infomercial for a hands-free device that would open jars. That’s the moment it hit me. You know the kind of moment—one of those times when you feel an aura of light surrounding you and you hear the angelic voices singing “Ahhhhh!” The truth which I now not only comprehend, but embrace is this: necessity, as the saying goes, is in fact not the mother of invention, laziness is.

I started noticing all the conveniences we have today that were unavailable 50, 20, 10 and even 5 years ago. I can’t think of one that is an absolute necessity, but simply an easier way to do something. The same is true where I work. I work in a laboratory and sometimes go to great lengths to automate processes, not because it is necessary, but because it makes my life easier. You see, I’d rather work at avoiding work than to actually do the work to begin with. I think that maybe, just maybe, we’re all lazy at our very core and have to find creative ways to let that laziness surface. We disguise this ugly truth by marketing our gizmos as improvements until such time as they become necessary because we’ve gotten lazier and more spoiled than we already were. I’m starting a new revolution here- My name is Jamie and I’m creative because I’m lazy. There, I said it.

When I think about the handy, dandy, space age, jar opener of the future that spawned my moment of enlightenment, I wonder how we ever got sticky jars open to begin with. I’m pretty sure the reason my Grandma had kids was so that there was someone to fetch dishes from the top shelf and so that she didn’t have to open jars on her own. Before she had kids there was Grandpa. Before him, there was her dad. It certainly is easier, though, to have some whiz bang gadget pop that pickle jar wide open than to have to inconvenience someone for 25 or 30 seconds, you’ve got to admit. I mean, why on earth would I waste precious energy opening a jar when I could be sitting in the recliner memorizing every line from a Seinfeld episode that I’ve seen 26 times already? I’m all about conserving that energy. Maybe that’s it- I’m a conservationist! Wow, I even impress myself sometimes!

I love the levels of laziness, or as I prefer to call it, creativity that we have reached. We have found easier ways of doing things that were easy to begin with. For instance, I never threw my shoulder and elbow out rolling down the window in my Dad’s truck but, as laziness would have it, there is now a button that does the same thing. Same goes for pencil sharpeners but, thankfully, I don’t even have to push a button to get that perfectly sharpened pencil, much less crank a handle round and round.

And as for the tube—never has laziness driven us to such great achievements. I remember the 3 channel days. In retrospect, I’m convinced that there were only 3 channels because that’s all that was needed. It took WAY too much effort to get up, walk 10 feet, change the channel, walk another 10 feet and sit back down. Though there were three channels, typically you settled on the one that gave you the greatest odds of good programming and rode out the storm during the in between times. Given that we must have our options, though, some lazy genius figured out how to change the channel without getting out of his chair by means of a wire that ran across the floor to the TV. Wires and high traffic areas were a bad combination, however, and it didn’t take long for us to realize that if someone tripped over the wire it could snatch the remote out of your hand and you’d be right back to getting up again. As a result, wireless remotes were invented. Still, it required the use of a thumb to flip back and forth between favorite shows, and that couldn’t be good for anyone. The solution? Two shows on the screen at the same time, of course. Awesome.

And communications—there’s some laziness for you. It was such effort to pull in somewhere and use a payphone that we had to bring the payphone into the car with us. Now I spend $75 a month to avoid spending the 50¢ I used to spend in a months time, but it sure is less complicated. Now I can check my e-mail, browse the web, watch movies, listen to music AND take phone calls because, before recently, all of that meant migrating from room to room. No point in having all that extra motion.

We’re even, um, creative when it comes to exercise. Remember those things in the 60’s that had a strap that would run around your back side and try to jiggle the blubber off of you? Laziness. We haven’t given up, though. I loved the sentiment behind the “Ab Shocker.” Strap an electrocution hazard around your abdomen and let an electrical current stimulate the flexing of your abs so you don’t have to. The reason this didn’t go like gangbusters, though, is that it worked. No not by the intended design, but by virtue of the fact that it hit you like a cattle prod which made you jump up and run around the room all the while bucking like a rodeo bull. Actual exercise was never intended and certainly will not going to be tolerated.

Well, I have to go lie down. Writing this post has exhausted me. Maybe while I’m in there I’ll come up with a way to write while avoiding poking at these pesky keys. I’ll tell everyone it’s more feasible, but the truth is I’m just lazy.

Home Grown Goodness

2009-07-13T19:09:00.000-05:00

As I sit here eating a mayonnaise and tomato sandwich with one hand and typing with the other, I’m reminded of how simple some of life’s pleasures really are. However, it’s going to get a little more complicated if this tomato juice keeps dripping off my chin and onto my keyboard. Still, a gooey computer is a small price to pay compared to the deliciousness of a mayonnaise and tomato sandwich made with a fresh, vine ripened tomato right out of the back yard. For the moment life is good beyond measure.

Sitting here basking in the glow of my satisfaction, I can’t help but think about the joy that has been bestowed upon mankind by the humble fruit that finds itself living in a vegetable’s world. The lycopene laden wonder is the basis of innumerable sauces, soups and stews. Many a person has warmed their innards on a cold day with a cup of steamy tomato soup. Even pop culture has embraced the simple tomato by maintaining the popularity of Andy Warhol’s tomato soup can art. And what kid doesn’t slather their food in tomato catsup? (OK, to answer my own rhetorical question… my kids, but they’re an exception to the rule) The tomato puts the “deli” in delightcious every time a sandwich maker slaps a slice on one of their concoctions. Here in the south we get so excited that we can’t even wait for them to ripen. We cut ‘em up green, batter ‘em and toss ‘em in hot grease. Whether it’s an Oxheart or a Better Boy, a Rutgers or Dixie Golden, a Goliath or a Cherokee Purple, they’re all good enough to make your tongue slap your brains out.

I don’t think anyone has done a better job of capturing the essence of what a homegrown tomato does to a person than country singer Guy Clark. His aptly named 1983 redneck classic Home Grown Tomatoes pretty well nails it. I share with you here the wisdom of the well-spoken bard:

Ain't nothin' in the world that I like better
Than bacon & lettuce & homegrown tomatoes
Up in the morning', out in the garden
Get you a ripe one, don't get a hard one

Plant `em in the spring eat `em in the summer
All winter with out `em's a culinary bummer
I forget all about the sweatin' & diggin'
Everytime I go out & pick me a big’n

Homegrown tomatoes homegrown tomatoes
What'd life be without homegrown tomatoes
Only two things that money can't buy
That's true love & homegrown tomatoes

You can go out to eat & that's for sure
But it's nothin' a homegrown tomato won't cure
Put `em in a salad, put `em in a stew
You can make your very own tomato juice

Eat `em with egss, eat `em with gravy
Eat `em with beans, pinto or navy
Put `em on the side put `em in the middle
Put a homegrown tomato on a hotcake griddle

If I was to change this life I lead
I'd be Johnny Tomato Seed
`Cause I know what this country needs

Homegrown tomatoes in every yard you see

When I die don't bury me
In a box in a cemetery
Out in the garden would be much better
I could be pushin' up homegrown tomatoes.

Amen, brother. I think I feel a tear in my eye.

For the last couple of months I have dutifully watered and weeded, pruned and staked all in hopes of a few weeks worth of bounty. As long as my tomato plants stay upright and are producing it is a happy time around the ol’ homestead. I've spoken in the past about how much I dislike my neighbor's dogs. I’ll tell you, they come through and tear up a single one, that’s where I draw the line, when the peace will end and I start killing people. I hope it doesn’t happen and until it does, all is good.

Well, all this tomato talk has me feeling hungry again. I’m not sure what I’ll eat, but I’m thinking another mayonnaise and tomato sandwich would hit the spot just right.

Sam Walton Hates Me

2009-07-08T22:01:00.000-05:00

Why is it that everything I want from Wal-Mart is at the back of the store?

"Excuse me, can you help me find the Auto Supplies?"

"Back o' the store."

"Electronics?"

"Back o' the store."

"Sporting Goods?"

"Sandwiched between electronics and auto supplies."

"Soft Drinks?"

"Take a guess, genius."

"Hardware? What? Why are you giving me the hairy eyeball? Oh wait, I get it. Back o' the store." "Well what about garden supplies?"

"Listen Mr. Greenjeans, if that's all you're here for we have a whole other entrance way down at the end just for you. Don't embarrass us by coming in the front door. Now, shoo."

There can only be three possibilities for why all my stuff is in the farthest reaches of the super sore, er, I mean store. First, there's store arrangement/ marketing genius going on. We men are self-professed shopping masters. Actually "shopping" is a misnomer because we know what we want, we go get it, we pay and we leave. Assuming we know where what we want is located, it's a 5 minute trip, max. If our stuff was up front, there'd be no hope of us ever breaking down and making an impulse buy. As a result they hedge their bets by making us walk past everything in the store to get to what we want in hopes of distracting us. This also explains why we have to walk past the lingerie to get to it. I don't know if anyone actually buys lingerie at Wal-Mart, but I'm guessing it is there for the rattling effect more than anything.

The second reason is that they cater to women, Mom's in particular. They know that a Mom with a couple kids is probably more like a goat wrangler than a shopper and odds are she can only push one cart. When it's full, it's time to go. As a result, they put the stuff Mom is most likely to need close to the front of the store just knowing she's grabbing stuff and tossing it in, the kids are grabbing stuff and tossing it in and if they've done their job she's in it for $250 before you can say "Cha-ching". This also explains why the toys are in the back. She can't buy bananas and hair goo with junior screaming for a new Transformer. Oh, they're good. They're really good.

The third reason is that Sam Walton hates me. He knows (even from beyond the grave) that once his store hits town, everyone is hooked. He knows he created a one stop shopping wonder and if you're going to come into his store you're going to walk wherever he jolly well wants you to walk. He knows that neither he nor his people have to be friendly because if you don't like it you can go to the grocery store and buy that same $2 quart of oil for $6. He's a mean, mean man hiding behind convenience and low prices. And to add insult to injury, that smiley face is everywhere grinning his smug little grin that just screams "Hey little boy... I have a piece of candy for you." Stupid smiley face. And I haven't even mentioned that if you want a tire change he makes you use the back door.

Well let me tell you what I'm going to do about it. Not a lousy thing. He has me by the wallet and he knows it. So I'm going to keep walking to the back of the store like a second rate citizen to get my stuff. Then I'll walk back to the front and pay for it, but I promise I'll grumble while I'm at it. Take that, Sam.

Game On!

2009-07-07T22:04:00.000-05:00

I've found yet another way to burn daylight, moonlight, midnight oil, candle wax and brain cells. I got convinced to play fantasy baseball at work last year. At first I was hesitant because, compared to some of my co-workers, I am sports illiterate. Don't get me wrong, I'm a sports fan and casually follow a variety of sports teams, but I wouldn't fall into the category of "fanatic". Honestly, it has never been that important to me to tuck away knowledge about an athlete's lifetime batting average or career high home runs or favorite brand of boxer shorts. Still, I ponied up and got in the league, but expecting the worst.

I was sure that I was going to get clobbered on a weekly basis, especially by said fanatics who flowed forth with statistics like wind from a hurricane. Granted, most of them have probably forgotten their wives birthdays and have blown past an anniversary or two, but if you need to know anything about game 4 of the 1992 World Series, they've got you covered. I could see the impending bleeding and merciless harassment before it ever started.

Once we got into the season, some unusual things started to surface. First, I held my own. I didn't see that coming. Second, it was fun, mostly because of point one. I began to recognize, at that point, that fantasy sports weren't necessarily only for the jock-of-heart. I wondered how this could be? Now that the curtain had been pulled back slightly, light had begun to shine on the reality of the situation and it all became crystal clear. You see, the past is a lot like Vegas... what happens there stays there. Knowledge of the past doesn't always translate into fantasy points in the future. It was entertaining, in a morbid sort of way, to see these sports nuts get the bejeebers whomped out of them by, well... me. I also realized that another key factor to fantasy success lies in the fact that I don't actually play, participate with or have any influence on any of the players whatsoever; I'm just an outside observer relying wholly on Lady Luck to smile favorably on me. To be successful in any fantasy sport is as much dependent on an ability to put on some Nostradamus goggles and speak in quatrains as it is on knowledge of a players stats. Lucky for me I had a pair of Nostradamus goggles handy. It's all about luck and numbers. One of the guys in our league is a statistician by training and statisticians love numbers. Let me give you a word of advice- never trust a statistician in fantasy sports. It's like trusting a street wino with the keys to the liquor store.

Once the season was well underway, another reality about fantasy sports hit me. It is the modern day version of a bunch of old men sitting around the barber shop listening to a game on the radio. It is a chance to do what men do- crack on each other and assert their own superiority. In fact, it may be a step further. Fantasy sports is social networking for men. Facebook? Whatever. Twitter? Batter, please. ESPN Fantasy Sports league? Now we're getting somewhere. There's more smack talking, cyber chest bumping and testosterone slinging around those chat rooms than you can shake a stick at. Women love Twilight, men love fantasy sports.

Don't think it ain't so, either. There's Fantasy, baseball, football, golf, auto racing and even fantasy fishing. Yes, fishing. (Right, Chip?) And it gets to be addictive. I went from being tentative about joining a league to playing in several at one time and starting one of my own. Like I said at the first, yet another way to murder time and I have a 9mm in 0ne hand and a machete in the other. I just hope the fantasy creators out there in cyber world never come out with fantasy blogging, because I may never see daylight again. As for now, I think I'm gonna grab an iced tea, sit in my boxers, chat with my buddies and see how my teams are doing. It's good to be a man.

WHAT is Going on Here?!?!?

2009-07-05T20:13:00.000-05:00

First it was David Carradine, then Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, Billy Mays and now Steve McNair. Again I have to ask: WHAT IS GOING ON??!! It's a bad time to be famous. Now I know you could go with what appears to be the obvious explanations for their deaths. I have a different explanation. Someone has it in for famous people.

Please excuse me for typing in a whisper, but the people in the black helicopters can read my thoughts and if they get wind of this, I'm sure to be a goner. It's obvious that this work was done by a professional. Look at the evidence. All of the deaths seem to have a reasonable explanation with nothing nefarious at hand. The technique varied from person to person. The careers that made the affected people famous were very different. The only connection is that all of them were famous. We're dealing with a very sly fox here.

So far (I fear we haven't seen the end of this) we have had an actor, a co-host, a singer, an actress, a pitchman and now a football player. That list has a glaring omission: HUMOR BLOGGER. As of right now if you were to go to http://Humor-Blogs.com and look at the profile for Mad Science, you'd see my score is a paltry 28. I'm thinking that is a good place to be at the moment. With a score of 28, I'm hardly famous but I'm going to have to ask that you refrain from smiley-ing me until things, well, die down just to be on the safe side. As for Candice, Sue, Rambler, Bee and even Daddy Papersurfer, I'd keep my eyes peeled if I were you because this person is good. Especially you, Bee... that Mirapex is bad ju-ju and I'd hate to see an "accidental" death by funky dream.

I cant help but wonder if this is the REAL reason behind Diesel's hiatus. I'm wondering if his keen senses allowed him to smell this coming and he got while the gettin' was good? That's my guess and it's what I'm going with.

For now, I'm just going to take a lead from Nooter's and Haley's approach to the 4th of July and hang out under the bed for awhile. If you decide to go out, trust no one- especially if they look normal or like an "Agent" from The Matrix. I'm going to ride the Ducati tomorrow because I should be able to out run anybody that comes after me.

Until next time, be safe and as NOT famous as you can make yourself. And don't smiley me at http://lunatron.blogspot.com.

Oh, and if you're one of my non-blogging readers, I know this makes squat for sense. I apologize and will be back in form soon, but I had to get the word out.

Let the Explosions Begin!

2009-07-02T19:15:00.000-05:00

Send us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free and we'll equip them with gunpowder and lighters for USA's jubilee.

Here we are on the verge of Independence Day in America, truly one of my favorite holidays. Sure there's the patriotic aspect, but that's not necessarily why it is a favorite. Nope, not the family gatherings, homemade ice cream, grilling out, or even the day off of work. I'm talking about the fireworks. It's a great day to be American.

I love the fact that we celebrate our country's independence by giving our kids (of ALL ages) miniaturized explosives, rocket propelled flame throwers, incendiary devices chocked full of flammable metals, smoke grenades and mortar launchers. Even the humble "sparkler" burns at a couple thousand degrees, but I remember being a kid and running around with those things like I was trying to fly a very short, flaming kite. Good family fun, right there. And why should it stop with the little ones? Remember I said kids of all ages. My Dad, the firefighter, used to come home from being on duty with stories of how his fellow firefighters had built custom launchers for bottle rockets and were having bottle rocket wars in the fire station. I thought that was the coolest thing ever.

So are we crazy? Maybe so. I've noticed a trend where fireworks are concerned. Apparently there is a requirement on the permit application to run a fireworks stand for part of your name to be "Crazy". Look around... "Crazy Bill", "Crazy Steve", "Crazy Hal", "Crazy Jay" and so on. It seems you have to be crazy if you're going to succeed in selling fireworks. I can't help but wonder why insanity in an integral part for fireworks sale? Is it that the opportunity for a law suits is so alarmingly high that only a crazy person would take on the risk? Is it that only a crazy person would arm a bunch of inebriated fools with enough firepower to level the town? Is it that only a crazy person would sit on a case of mortar shells and fire up a Marlboro? Maybe it's much simpler... I've heard that breathing gunpowder will do something bad to your brain. Whatever it is, I'm almost crazy right now and see a future in this for me.

There is something deeply imbedded in the y-chromosome that puts fire and explosions high on the list of a boy's life necessities. I think it ranks in the top three along with girls and cars. I don't know that any one of those three permanently ranks higher than the others, but rather it becomes a matter of which one has priority at any given time. This time of year fireworks are hard to top.

I know personally of a hundred acre field that got scorched because of boys and their toys. I know I was involved in many summer night "raids" on friends houses. My best friend and I were even brazen enough to "attack" a friend at the city tennis courts. (Granted, that one brought out the law, but we were highly trained mercenaries and our superior camouflage and stealth meant they didn't have a chance against us.) I have been on the losing end of fire crackers with short fuses and the target of a well placed "Saturn Missile". Even as a soldier in the first Gulf war, I recall all the "boys" standing around a blazing pit of trash, tossing spray cans in the inferno and cheering as the ensuing skyrocket launched into the night sky. Are any of these things safe or sound? Clearly not, but the lure of the flame overpowers reason. This is why every male on the planet would love for their paying job to be blowing stuff to kingdom come. I'm still working on sorting out the details on it. One of the reasons I became a chemist in the first place was so that I could learn the secrets to making things go "pow". Mad Science, indeed.

So take advantage of what the day has given us. Go on out and pay a visit to your local crazy person, grab something that burns, flies, explodes or preferably, all of the above and have a fun filled Independence Day. Remember: strike, light and run. And if it all goes in the tank, the ER never closes.

Heroes Turn Up in Some Unlikely Places

2009-07-01T17:12:00.000-05:00

Wow, you people inspire me. I keep getting memories that are triggered by your writings. The first came via Daddy Papersurfer and the most recent memory is brought to you courtesy of Chris@Maugeritaville. I know it sounds weird, but thanks for the memories.

Dateline: Summer 1987, Dade City, FL

Two years after high school graduation, I was struggling to find my niche in life. I had started college, but wasn’t thrilled with where I was going in that regard. I had considered the military but was waffling on that as well. I decided I’d join the workforce on a full time basis to see what would shake loose.

I was working at a local pharmacy chain thanks to a classmate of mine who had become an assistant manager at one of the stores. Given that I had some college, they decided to put me at the counter in the pharmacy rather than in the entry level front register slot. The hierarchy seemed to be phytoplankton, front register, cosmetics and/or pharmacy, floor stocking, and on up the chain. I was 20 years old and thankful for the offer.

The pharmacist was a man in his late 60’s or early 70’s known only to me as “Mr. Chandler”. He had operated his own pharmacy in town for 2 or 3 millennia and was known by everyone as “Doc”. He was more of an alchemist than a pharmacist, often mixing up his own batches of paste and elixirs for folks in town. Everyone trusted him more than they did their own physicians. He sold his business to the drug store chain who, in turn, hired him to work as the pharmacist. I could tell that he wasn’t always happy with the direction they had taken his business, but by in large he maintained his professionalism. You could tell by his demeanor that, as a younger man, it probably didn’t take much to rile him up, but he had been tempered by age and experience.

One day we were plugging along with business as usual when a man stormed up to the pharmacy, walked right past the counter and handed his prescription to Mr. Chandler. He looked at the prescription, handed it back and told him to give it to me so I could take down the needed information and it’s be a 20 to 30 minute wait. The man, obviously impatient and certain that he was at the center of the universe, looked around and replied, “I don’t see anyone else here. I want my prescription to be filled now.” In a very professional manner Mr. Chandler pointed to the line of prescriptions and told him that while the people may not be standing there they were, indeed, waiting and he’d do his best to get it filled quickly. The man’s voice and temper elevated. “I need this to be filled now! It won’t take you but a minute!”

For a moment I thought about feigning the onset of severe amoebic dysentery and running for the back room until the storm passed, but mesmerized I sat ringside and watched with my mouth gaping open.

Mr. Chandler began turning slightly red, which I had learned was a sign of impending disaster. He responded, “Sir I assure you that I’ll get to it as soon as I can. These other people need their prescriptions, as well.” That was clearly not the answer the impatient man was gunning for because he began to huff, had veins bulging from his forehead, and looked like his scalp was going to pop off at any moment. “I know people on the board of directors for this company and if you don’t fill my prescription NOW, I’ll have you reported!” he yelled at the top of his voice.

“Uh, oh, that was a bad play”, I thought and it certainly was. Mr. Chandler retorted in like kind. “Report me? You’re going to REPORT ME? Go ahead and report me, but before you’ll have had a chance to utter one word I’ll have already kicked your rear end up one side of this store and down the other!!!” The man’s mouth dropped open, obviously shocked at the fact his bullying technique gained him nothing and maybe had gotten him a little more than he had bargained for. Visibly rattled, he gave a huff, snatched up his prescription and stomped out the door.

Imagine, at this point, the greatest victory celebration you’ve ever seen and escalate it by an order of magnitude. That’s what I was doing inside at that moment. I knew better than to speak a single word, but man I was dancing like James Brown on the inside. I was always aggravated by the “Customer’s always right” philosophy. I’m sorry, but if the customer is a bullying jerk, human dignity outweighs whatever that clown has in his wallet. I was reeling in the moment, but it was to get better.

A few moments later his wife stomped in. She marched up to the pharmacy and bellowed out to Mr. Chandler “I’ll have you know I just got my husband out of the hospital!” Mr. Chandler had not yet cooled down from the previous eruption and with a roar he yelled “And if he ever steps foot in my store again, I’ll put him back in it!!” Slam dunk and the crowd goes wild.

That was a defining day in my life. I learned that it’s OK not to take guff off some guy because he thinks he’s the most important person on the planet. I don’t care if you’re Santa Claus, talk to me like that and a response will follow. I also learned that working with the public was not in my best interest. Or theirs.

Who Needs a Gym?

2009-06-30T22:16:00.000-05:00

On occasion I drive by the gym where I used to work out about a year and a half ago, or as I like to call it "back in the day". It was really nice going in and working out in an air conditioned gym where there was always a satellite radio kicking out the jams. You know the deal... a little cardio, a solid workout on a particular muscle group, a progressive warm-down, gulp down a protein shake, barf from gulping down a protein shake right after a workout. Good times, indeed... and long gone at that.

I tore up a shoulder in the gym one fateful day and it put me out of commission for a couple of months. During that recovery time was when I realized that my whole life is a workout and I was paying for the ambiance, not the benefit. You see, I am a homeowner, a husband, a father and a pet owner. Each of those things brings with it more workout than any one man can handle.

Any homeowner can attest to the fact that there is always SOMETHING to be done around the house. The fixer upper list, if left unclipped, would roll out the driveway and down the street. I feel compelled to attempt all of them myself. My parents always had a tremendous work ethic and when coupled with a meager bank account it was a recipe for a sore back. I have inherited the same situation, so there is no wanting for manual labor around the ol' Ponderosa. Case in point: just this weekend we started having, um... septic issues. I wasn't about to pay a guy $800 to tell me we had a clog and to use less T.P., so I investigated it and dug that sucker up myself. Grab a pick axe and shovel and feel the burn. In the muscles, too.

As the man of the house I try to lend a hand and do "man stuff". Like carrying the groceries in from the car. It sounds simple in theory, but the garage is in the basement and there are 783 very steep steps to climb to get up to the house. OK, so it's really like 12, but when I have 6 Wal-Mart bags, all nearing their stress limit, in each hand it feels more like running I'm from the field to the press box. Over and over. "Oh and I hope you don't mind, I bought some lead shot and several bags of quickcrete. Would you bring them up, too?" Grocery day is truly a workout.

Kids are a totally different workout. Chasing little ones is alot like having Tony Little as a roommate- you're never allowed to slow down. Mine like to be tossed in the air, whirled around in circles, chased from room to room, bounced off the bed, then have the process repeated ad infinitum. Somehow they don't grasp the concept of "tired". Even when we're not in full play mode, I've always seen childcare from a linebacker's viewpoint. When we had one kid it was double coverage all the way. When the second one came along it became a man-to-man defense. If one of us is busy, but we're both home it's more of a zone coverage. When I'm alone with them I pull back into prevent defense and pray the game ends soon. No matter how you slice it, a few hours with them and I'm limp as a dishrag. Try getting that at the gym.

Then there are the dogs. My past experience with dogs has been that they required some care, but all in all, they weren't much of a problem. Not so much, these days. My dogs like to be around each other the way Dick Cheney loves to hang out with Nancy Pelosi. Shotgun and all. These two are better suited for guarding the River Styx than living in my back yard. The dogs, that is, but the same argument could be made of the other two, I suppose. As a consequence, I have invested more physical effort into wrangling these two beasts than I ever hoped for, or wanted for that matter. That's the worst of all workouts- the unwanted but painfully necessary one.

I guess the good news is that I'm staying fit. Now if I can just install a satellite radio around the house and occasionally chug a protein shake, it'll be like old times.

Bad Yard! Bad, Bad Yard!

2009-06-28T21:30:00.000-05:00

I mowed the yard today in blistering heat. The thermometer read precisely 308 degrees. OK, so it reads in Kelvin, but it was still really hot. So much so, that I almost took myself out of blogoworld and every other world, for that matter. It is now 6 hours after the fact and I'm just now feeling better.

I'm beginning to think I have a real sickness. No, not about working myself halfway unto auto eradication in stupid hot temperatures, but in this blogging business. I was shoving the mower around the yard and an idea hit me for a blog. Rather than stopping for a drink of water I chose, rather, to ignore the sound of bacon frying in my cranium and chase the thoughts that were coming at a fast and furious pace. They seemed like winners at the time, but heat stroke does weird things to your rationality.

Anyway, the one thing I have managed to recover from the solar scramble pie, what is my brain, is that my yard is one vile beast. It's uphill in every direction and where most people have chosen to go with grass and flowers, I have grenades and land mines. I'm not much of a top ten guy, but nothing I have done today has been worth a hoot, so why not give it a go? Here are my top ten reasons I know my yard is a beast (in no particular order):

10. After assessing my yard, the U.S. Geological Survey has now determined that diamonds are actually the third hardest substance on earth behind chert rock and hickory nuts.

9. My self- propelled mower popped up a white flag and a sign reading "No Mas".

8. The Red Cross called and said I'm getting low on my stash of self- donated blood. I have to mow again next week, so I'll need to stop by first so I can be ready.

7. Tony Hawk called me personally and wants to turn my front yard into a natural half-pipe for the next X-Games.

6. When trying to hire a lawn service to mow for me, there was a lot of gesturing and grumbling. I did make out the words "crazy white dude" and the estimate was more Pesos than I make in a year.

5. When I fire up the mower the neighbors grab up their kids and head inside like a posse of banditos just rode into town.

4. I have to inform the county of my intent to mow two hours before I actually start so they can sound the tornado sirens and the neighbors can put up their anti-tank armor over their doors and windows.

3. My wife is taking CPR because I refuse to pay the lawn guys a years worth of Pesos and I work in 308 degree temperatures.

2. I'm on my third mower since last summer because, hey, they're only made out of steel.

1. Sticks and stones may break my bones. Like a tibia or an ulna.

I got it mowed but wow, what an ordeal. At this point I'm thinking astroturf is looking pretty sweet.

(If you have any stories that show your yard is a beast, leave me a comment and let me know. Maybe we can request to be roomies at the hospital.)