Sometimes I love critics, although much less so when it is I that is being critiqued. Rabid sharks are seldom as biting as some critics. Consider this line, from Slate Magazine's review of Michael Myers' new movie, The Love Guru:
This tale of a guru who brings joy to all who meet him is the most joy-draining 88 minutes I've ever spent outside a hospital waiting room.
Ouch.
Dave Ramsey, my new favorite financial guru, had an interesting comment on Big Oil yesterday. After spending $75 - the maximum amount the local gas station would authorize on a debit card at the pump - to fill the tank of his "politically incorrect" truck about three-quarters of the way, he went into the gas station's store to buy a drink. His little bottle of water cost him a buck.
It got me to thinking a little bit. If Big Oil should be punished for its windfall profits, I wonder what the calculation is on a bottle of water, 'cuz it's freakin' free. It's water. All they did was put it in a bottle. It's water ... and it's a dollar
For 8 ounces, it's a dollar, which, by the way, is $16 a gallon.
I think Big Water should be punished for windfall profits! Deer Park, you're going down! Costco brand water, you need to be taxed!
He then goes on to point out that a grande latte from Starbucks is $53 a gallon. Perhaps it's time to go after Big Coffee, too.
I hate when I get accused of being lazy just because I put something off for a few days or several months. You know - like posting.
(True, sometimes it is because I'm lazy, but that doesn't mean I have to like being accused of it.)
Yet sometimes the reason has nothing to do with laziness. For example, I have a whole bunch of stuff that needs to be organized. I also have developed a pretty good framework for how I want to organize it. I just need to put the organizational system into place, then all the organizing will be easy. My problem - and thus the delay - is finishing the system. You see, I'm a perfectionist; I'm just not very good at it. But here the problem is crazy, not lazy.
Then there are other reasons. The driver's seat of my car, for instance, broke. Apparently there is a weld in the frame of the seatback that snapped at some point. When this first happened, the seat leaned to right a little bit but still held up OK. After a while, something snapped again and suddenly I could no longer incrementally adjust the reclining angle of the seat. Also, if I leaned too hard, the seat would make a Pop! and suddenly it would recline a lot. When this happened, I would have to get out of the car, pull the lever that allows you to recline the seat, and give the seat back a big shove forward.
Lately, however, the seat turned terminal. The seat back had all the structural integrity of wet cardboard and it had to be replaced. This led to the conversation that I had been avoiding. I took Hubert (I drive a mid-90's Buick ... it's an old man's car, it needs an old man's name!) to the local dealership and asked for an estimate.
I know what you're thinking at this point. First, I don't know why, oh why, you are still reading this. Second, you are getting ready to point the lazy finger at me for not getting an estimate sooner.
But you see, I already had an estimate; I just needed one from the dealer. And as I had estimated, the dealer's estimate was indeed higher than my estimate of the dealer's estimate. See, I hadn't been putting this off out of laziness, I had been putting this off because I'm cheap.
Fortunately for me, the service manager on duty that day was also cheap. He suggested I check with salvage yards to see if I could track down a new, er, replacement seat that way.
(One good thing about driving an old man's car is there are always plenty of parts available from salvage yards. Many old men drive either too slow or too fast, which means there are a lot of cars out there that are OK except for the tremendous front-end or rear-end damage. As they used to say about chicken nuggets, parts is parts.)
Sure enough, I found a seat.
All it took was a couple hours of work, a trip to the local auto parts store to find the special ratchet attachment for the one freaking star-shaped bolt, and some colorful metaphors and voila! I had replacement seat in my car for a good $1,000 less than it would have been to have the dealer do it.
And to prove laziness was not the issue, the next day I uninstalled and reinstalled the seat again.
(That aforementioned one freaking star-shaped bolt is used to attach the seat belt to the frame of the car. The seat belt receptacle on the replacement seat was incompatible with the seat belt on the car. I didn't realize this until Saturday night when we drove to the store. As I was driving, my seat belt, which I had clicked into the receptacle, started retracting. It clicked, it just didn't latch.)
I'm actually going to have to uninstall and reinstall the seat one more time. The upholstery on the seats don't match, so there is a slight deviation between the fabric on the various seats.
(By slight deviation, I mean the back and passenger seats are maroon, the driver's seat is beige.)
That's a repair for a different day, however. Perhaps even a different month.
My son leads a secret double life. Typical third-grade boy by day, once school is out (and if there’s nothing good on TV) he sheds his cover and becomes Super Terrific Imaginary Action Hero Boy.
The life of a super terrific imaginary action hero boy can be an arduous one, fraught with danger, destruction, and, of course, lots of explosions. One day he might have to save the world from imaginary mutant dinosaurs, the next he may have to rally the good, ahem, metamorphing robots to repel an attack from the bad ones. The following day he may be an imaginary mutant dinosaur out to destroy the world. And of course there are the standard battles to wage that only involve humans ... who happen to be armed to the teeth with automatic weapons and laser guns.
Whatever the nature of the task facing a super terrific imaginary action hero boy, there are always two common elements: automatic weapon fire and mass destruction. The automatic weapon fire is essential because of the need for cool sound effects. That telltale tshtshtshtshtsht sound of an imaginary machine gun can be heard no matter what a boy is playing. "OK, Billy, you be the Pope and I'll be Buddha. Tshtshtshtshtsht!"
Incidentally, not every boy grows out of the sound-effects stage. Ms N gives me guff every time I pick up one of our cats. It's not a conscious act, but every time I hoist them off the ground I make a "Tshew" sound.
As for mass destruction, well, every third-grade boy worth his fruit snacks is a walking mass of destruction. Whether he's causing it or trying to prevent it, a super terrific imaginary action hero boy faces destruction of Biblical proportions every day.
It's a thankless imaginary job, but with great imaginary power comes great imaginary responsibility.
As I was getting ready to work on a household project, I heard my son downstairs. He was engaged in an epic battle that stretched from the living room to the dining room. There was even a sneak attack against the enemy’s flank in the hallway. Before long, the imaginary battle worked its way up the stairs and right to the edge of the room I was in.
"So how's the battle going?" I asked.
"Good," he replied, before unloading another imaginary clip into his surging imaginary foes.
"Are you winning?"
"No," he answered. He switched to a more laser-sounding weapon.
"Oh," I replied. Sensing a fatherly advice type moment, I figured I'd dispense some fatherly advice. "Well, keep fighting the good fight and I'm sure you'll prevail."
"Yeah," he answered, firing a few more rounds. "That's the way it usually works out."
"Annoying as Hell" seems like an understatement, what with the nasty reputation Satan has built up over the centuries.
Annoying? Hell is not supposed to be a nuisance; it's supposed to be agonizing! It's supposed to be, well, Hell.
But when you think about it, over time (and what is eternity if not lots and lots of time?) some annoyances become unbearably tortuous.
With the ever-growing numbers of people that seem to be on the eternal damnation fast-track nowadays, there are good reasons to believe that Hades Inc would have a vested interest in finding punishments that are more cost effective and environmentally friendly.
Besides, many of the more insidious tortures are labor intensive and Beelzebub is facing labor issues. Unlike the Screen Actors Guild, the Subterranean Brotherhood of Minions and Trolls Local 666 is not under Satan's direct control. They reportedly have connections with the Teamsters, and we all know that can't be good news for management.
Alternative methods are employed according to the extent of ones pre-mortem misdeeds. Murderers and lawyers get the Pit of Eternal Fire, while people who were more "naughty" than "evil" get less extreme punishments, like the Fly of Eternal Ear Buzzing or the Unending Unreachable Itch.
The research division of Hades Inc tends to be secretive, but every once and a while rumors slip out. Here are some of the recent projects "allegedly" in development.
And of course the dreaded Middle Seat in Coach.
"Hope for the best, prepare for the worst"; that's my motto.
(Well, one of them, at least. "Buy low, sell high, collect early, and pay late" is another personal favorite. "I plan to live forever ... or die trying" is another, and it has the added benefit of being one to which I can claim ownership!)
But in practice, the words by which I live are more appropriately stated as: "Hope for the best, prepare for whatever requires the least preparation."
I've heard a tale told of a small farming town on the prairie that was suffering from horrible droughts. The townsfolk decided that with the help of the local pastor they would gather one day and pray their hardest for help from above; perhaps the Lord would answer their pleas with some much-needed rainfall.
On the prescribed day, the people gathered at the town square. Every single person showed up, but when the mass prayer was set to begin, the pastor looked disapprovingly at the crowd. "You people have no faith," he scolded, much to the astonishment of those there gathered. "Not one of you brought an umbrella."
It dawned on me that by observing the way in which someone prepares themselves, you might be able to discern that person's likely outlook on life. Preparation, after all, is a product of the expectation - or at least acknowledgment of the likelihood - of possible future events. Preparation is active risk management.
When the fire alarm goes off in many office buildings, the response of the employees is often less enthusiastic as it would be, say, in an elementary school. Teachers and school administrators have good reason to make sure that kids file out of the building in a somewhat orderly fashion, and kids usually would prefer being outside, anyways. Plus, those that evacuate to the front of the school get to see the fire truck.
Office workers, on the other hand, are less enthused about the fire truck, and often less excited about going outside. As adults, office workers are expected to handle their own evacuation. There's no lining up in single-file lines. Besides, years of experience have taught most office workers that there are far more sounding of the fire alarms than there are actual fires.
Where there's smoke, there's probably a frozen waffle jammed into a break-room toaster.
As a result, office workers are frequently non-plussed about the whole alarm-thing, and often take a moment or five to prepare themselves and their work area before actually attempting to leave the building.
A fire alarm, therefore, presents the possibility for a sociological experiment. Theoretically, the extent to which an office worker prepares him- or herself for a building evacuation could correlate to that worker's general perspective on life. An optimist and a pessimist would presumably have a different outlook on the alarm, and thus would respond differently.
One may feel that the alarm is just another in a string of false alarms. If so, this person would gather very little - perhaps their purse, keys, or cell phone. It seems reasonable to assume that the person who evacuates the office empty handed is expecting to return to the office in short time and to find his work waiting for him just like he left it.
Some people, however, leave the office during the alarm looking as if they were leaving for the day. This type of person is anticipating that his work may not be as he left it; that this alarm may be real and that their office may be at risk of being engulfed in the blaze. (Bull manure is flammable, after all)
This person, laden with shoulder bags, laptops, coats, boots, and possibly even family photos and coffee mugs, is ready to not only evacuate the building, but to leave the area altogether if that is required.
Next time your building's alarm goes off, think about how you respond, and how your coworkers respond. Who's expecting to come back and who's thinking the building might burn to the ground? Makes for interesting musing.
My own experience is that people do respond differently. The problem, though, is now one of definition. Take the guy who evacuates with all of his personal effects and car keys in hand and compare him to the guy who is just waiting to head back up and return to his work ...
Which one's the optimist?
They say you should learn something new every day. Since it will probably be Monday by the time you read this, and since nobody learns anything new on Mondays on their own, here's a something that came from (or at least through) the, ahem, great center of learning that is Pennsylvania State University.
(Unofficial motto: "You can't spell 'Penn State' without B-I-N-G-E")
Surprisingly, this PSU contribution to mankind's collective intelligence does not involve the consumption of alcohol. (At least not directly. I'm sure a lot of alcohol was involved indirectly!)
I'd present it without further ado, but I recently received this cool You-Tube video that I found really cool. So here is the further ado:
And now back to our story.
If you're a fan of baseball, you may think of an "upper decker" as a home run ball hit so hard that it lands in the upper tiers of seats. Well, the guys (and I am quite sure this was figured out by guys) at Penn State determined that upper deckers can involve a pastime other than our national one.
You see, there comes a time when a guy may feel a need - a really pressing need at that - to torment some other person in an unpleasant manner. It may be an act of vengeance, or it may be an act of social acceptance (sometimes it's hard to tell whether you get treated worse by guys who are friends or those who are foes). Either way, a prank is an important ritual in the life of a collegiate male.
But to be effective, a prank has to be memorable.
Of course, one way to make something memorable is to make it disgusting. And one seemingly endless source of disgusting material is the human digestive system, specifically in its final stages. In terms of disgustingness, number two is number one on most lists.
Odds are, you've used (or even owned) a toilet that is filled with blue water. That color comes from a cleaning solution that is placed in the tank. On each flush, the bowl is emptied and replenished with tinted tank water. This is typically a cleansing process.
The guys at Penn State came up with a new way to use a toilet in a prank, and it involved no cellophane whatsoever.
See, cleaning solution is not the only thing that can color the toilet water. In fact, virtually anything water soluble in the tank will wind up in the bowl on the next flush. (If you really want to confuse someone, sneak into their bathroom with a packet of Kool-Ade. You don't need college football to have an orange bowl.)
Without getting too crass, we'll explain the upper decker as such: "the deposit, usually as a prank, into a toilet tank of that which would normally be deposited into the bowl."
A poo bomb.
And now you know something you didn't know before. Your day is complete.
It wasn't my favorite, but it will do.
The greatest play in Super Bowl history now joins the ranks of the Immaculate Reception, the Catch, the Holy Roller, the Music City Miracle, the Miracle at the Meadowlands, the Hail Mary, Ghost to the Post, Wide Right, and several others (See: NFL Lore). The play now has a name:
Catch 42.
Of the other suggestions that received mention, my personal favorite was "The Boston Strangler". But I can see how that one could draw some criticism, what with the trivialization of mass murder and all.
I found another one to be incredibly funny, but it would never have worked as a play name. More likely, we'll see this on You-Tube soon. Imagine if you will three replays of that final catch - one from each angle - timed to match the audio from everybody's least favorite commercial. (You know the one where the woman just repeats the product name and slogan three times in a row.)
Head On:
Apply directly to the forehead.
My entry, "The Maracle" failed to earn any mention, which is about as much mention as it deserved. I'm like that guy in Not Another Teen Movie who's lifelong ambition was to inspire group applause by being "The Guy" who starts clapping slowly in those first moments after somebody has borne their soul to someone else in a public setting when the bystanders are too stunned by what has just transpired that they don't know how to react. Three or four times during the movie he starts it up - clap ... clap ... clap - only to be told that it was not the time. Finally, when the time does come, he gets all excited, readies his hands, and then gets upstaged by some other guy who starts the slow clapping.
The point of that rambling analogy was to say that I'm a pretty creative guy until there comes a time when creativity is needed. Oh well, I guess there's worse things than not getting the clap.
So I missed getting to name the play ... at least my list of titles for the Patriots season got read on NYGiantscast, which means I get some street cred out of this!
As a numbers guy, I notice when certain patterns emerge in seemingly random numbers.
For example, I found it quite memorable when my purchase at a convenience store, after sales tax, wound up being exactly $10.00. I also found it amusing when, after my winnings were applied, I wound up with 666 credits on a slot machine in Atlantic City.
I used to happen to glance at clocks at 11:56 (both am and pm) a statistically improbable number of times. Any '80s Giants fan recognizes those numbers ... Phil Simms and LT.
Needless to say, I found it notable that the last time I glanced at my watch, it was 1:11.
But there's a difference between notable and blogworthy, and three ones on a watch are not blogworthy. Unless, of course, you consider the last time I looked at my watch, which was 120 minutes earlier ... 11:11.
This morning we were watching the early, early news - you know, the news they show before sane people wake up. The anchor, when covering last night's lunar eclipse, gave a somewhat unexpected analysis.
"An eclipse occurs when a giant dragon in space swallows the moon," he said, "or whenever the moon passes through the shadow of Earth, whichever you choose to believe."
