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Random ReviewerEvaluating everything, eventually. Review of Three Especially Spastic Moments in My LifeWe all have spastic moments, right? I mean, even Abraham Lincoln must have had some nasty spaz attacks here and there. Maybe when he was brushing his teeth the day he gave the Gettysburg Address, his hand slipped as he went to start brushing, and he jabbed the toothbrush into his eye, and as he tried to get the toothpaste out of his eye because it was stinging so bad, he stuck his other finger in his nose, and got a bloody nose, and, well, you know how it goes. Even four score and seven years ago. Same as it ever was.
Well it’s like that for me. But more so. I, well, I, er, I’m kind of a spaz. I spaz a lot. As I walk around the office, which is a bit of a rabbit warren, I’m constantly cutting corners too short and smashing my shoulder on the wall, or misjudging the width of a doorway and running right into the door jam, or even missing my mouth with a cup of water and pouring the water all over myself.
Yes, I’m that guy.
Let’s review a couple of the best moments.
The Bike Spaz Most people who have ridden bikes for a while are either using, or are familiar with the oddly named clipless pedals. While de rigeur for any serious cyclist, these little contraptions are essentially ski boot bindings for your bike. Many things can impact how easy they are to get in and out of, but the most important of these factors is simply familiarity. Practice.
Right after I bought my first mountain bike, I also bought clipless pedals. Kim wandered onto the front porch to watch me try them out. I hopped onto my bike, clicked in, rode up to the porch, and fell right over into the bushes. Still trapped in my pedals, I thrashed around trying to free myself, oblivious to the sharp thorns on the bushes, scratching the hell out of my face, arms, and legs. Finally defeated, I stopped thrashing, and asked Kim to help me get out of my pedals. Unfortunately, she was so embarrassed that I did this in our front yard on a busy street, she had gone back inside and locked the door.
[For a video example of how clipless pedals can quickly turn from a rider’s best friend to his worst enemy, watch this, er, clip. The mayhem is at the 3:30 mark. Poor Tom doesn’t get released from the pedal until the 4:00 mark.]
The Falling Down Stairs, Run Into the Door Trick When I was growing up in Minneapolis, we remodeled and turned the garage into another family room, and an office for my dad, and put a new garage on the front. No, we didn’t leave the garage doors in place as walls. That would be cool though. I’ve seen it done—it makes moving furniture easy.
Anyway. We had a back staircase that used to be the stairs from the garage to the basement, with a small landing at the bottom, and a very heavy door leading into the rec room in our basement. When I was about 2 years old, I toddled to the back of the garage and dropped straight off the edge, and plummeted to the bottom of the stairs. Not down the actual stairs, but straight to the bottom. Think stairs with no railing. Probably not up to code. But this isn’t the spaz moment I’m going for. I mean, jeez, I was only 2.
When we remodeled, we carpeted the stairs and landing but left the heavy door. Once, in my teenage years, I was fleeing from my older brother, undoubtedly because I had done something particularly egregious to his sock drawer or re-ordered his 8 track tape collection, or something, and I was heading down those back stairs a bit faster than was safe. I slipped about halfway down, but not backward, but rather, forwards. With both arms outstretched to save myself, I flew the bottom 4 or 5 stairs, landed on my feet, but lurching out of control forward, and toward the heavy door, which was open and swung away from me.
Did I mention the outstretched hands thing? My left outstretched hand inserted itself directly into the gap between door and door jam. But with my palms facing outwards. My body continued flying past the door, and was abruptly caught by my by now bending completely backwards left hand, the fingernails of which were touching the top of my forearm. Eww. As my forward momentum arrested itself, my left shoulder, acting as a fulcrum, spun me hard to the left. Where, unfortunately, there was a very heavy door waiting for me. My face smashed into the door, breaking my nose and showering me and the door with blood.
That’s how my brother found me moments later. Deeming my punishment sufficient, he simply chortled and left me there. Which I appreciated.
Holden’s Rube Goldberg Trap A few years ago, when I still lived in Pleasant Grove, UT, Kim left town for a weekend, leaving me with the 3 kids. In those days, we had the master bedroom and two other bedrooms upstairs, and another bedroom in the basement. Holden, who was about 5 years old at the time, slept in the room across the hall from me.
I have trouble getting to sleep when Kim’s out of town, and so I was up late reading, but I finally managed to nod off around 1:00 am. And, I’m not positive this is relevant to the story, but maybe it is, but anyway, in those days too, I often slept in my birthday suit. There, I said it.
So on this night, Holden started making noise about 2:00 am. I woke up, and stumbled across the hall toward his room to see what the matter was, still very groggy, since I’d only just fallen asleep an hour before.
I crept across his floor toward his bed, but he was silent, so I figured nothing was wrong. I reached down to pick up and replace his blanket which had fallen off his bed.
Whoops. I reached down too far and smashed my forehead on the corner of his desk, which was next to his bed. I grabbed my head with both hands and took a step back, right onto a stack of slick comic books. The comic books acted a bit like ball bearings, shooting my leg forward, and my shin right into the drawer. I wish the drawer would have stopped my leg, but it only slowed it down, so as my foot slid under the desk, my shin scraped, from ankle to knee, along the bottom edge of the drawer, peeling off all of the skin on the front of my leg, until my ungainly knobby kneecap stopped its progress.
I shouted a couple of very naughty words and jumped back, only to slip again on the now scattered comic books, and I fell hard on the floor. Which wouldn’t have been so bad if that portion of the floor weren’t strewn with jacks. You know. JACKS! As in little metal landmines that don’t blow up but do have about a million pointy ends. Which can end up actually EMBEDDED in your ASS if you fall hard on them. While you’re NAKED!
That one really sucked. I’m pretty sure that’s where Holden learned every sailor word in his vocabulary. I guess you gotta learn it somewhere. You know. For situations like this one.
--dug Review of Possible Tangents in Human EvolutionIf the good folks at Random Reviewer really do intend to evaluate everything eventually, I’m hoping they’ll appreciate a few thoughts on a rather expansive topic: the future of all humankind. Our big super-ape brains may make us wonder what will ultimately play out, evolutionally speaking. We’re all taught (outside of Kansas, at least) that evolution is a very real but gradual process involving mutations and their suitability for survival. My wife tried explaining the piecemeal nature of this to our daughter when she was a pre-schooler. “It takes a long, long time – like a million years – for a monkey to turn into a man.” Our girl was excited by the prospect that it might soon be the millionth year for some monkey so she could see that happen to him. I guess it hadn’t occurred to her that the changes would manifest themselves in small increments one generation at a time. Or maybe she was just extrapolating Stephen Jay Gould’s arguments, thinking there’d be one big punctuated burst of transmutation. The truth of the matter is, with so many chemicals, viruses, genetic manipulations, and technological innovations now upon us, the impetus for change has never been greater (except maybe when a giant meteor is headed our way). So a quasi-scientific analysis may be timely. With that in mind the following is a list of possible directions these mutations could take us and an assessment of their odds in Darwin’s Natural Selection Sweepstakes. Sensory Upgrades It’s certainly plausible that the future will confer advantages to those with either heightened acuity in the existing senses or entirely new tools for gauging the physical world. For instance, what if some variant of the human species could detect pheromones in the opposite sex? They’d be quicker to pick up on coupling clues while poor Joe “No Pheromo” Schmo’s swimmers would be shut out of the gene pool. Or maybe some subset of Californians will be sensitive to the subtle warnings given by fault lines just before an earthquake. They’d be the ones to high-tail it out of there before large chunks of populated earth fall into the ocean, and thus live on to perpetuate their ilk. That is, unless they’re too preoccupied making big budget disaster films. [Vegas line: 4-to-1] Societal Beneficence and Altruism Many scientists believe that behavioral traits such as niceness are baked in to our genes. Some expect more of the same going forward. They reason that those who are helpful and caring are more attractive to mates and less likely to incite the hot-heads of the world. A more dystopian view maintains that nice guys finish last. “Scum of the Earth Cads and the Women Who Love Them” is a popular theme, after all. Consider, too, how future saints could be lulled into thinking that goodness had prevailed and prove themselves incapable of sniffing out dirt-bags. The world could be overrun by goose steppers. I wonder: if the forces of evil write the next chapters of history, will they say they were the ones wearing the white hats? Has this ever happened before? Is it all relative? Discuss. [Odds: 8-to-1 on Good, 9-to-1 on Evil – a slight edge for virtue, but the more likely scenario being a balance of power between them.] Enhanced Prevarication Awareness A more sensitive needle on the internal bullshitometer could mean any number of evolutionary advantages. Important aspects in life such as picking mates, choosing leaders, winning poker, and avoiding scam artists would be impacted favorably. Perhaps they’d pick up on a slight dilation in the pupil or a faint tremor in the voice, but this sensitized bunch would read people like an owner can read a naughty dog. [Odds: 5-to-1. The outlook for this offshoot would be better, but recent experience with BALCO, Barry Bonds, and the like suggests that cheaters usually stay a step ahead of the detectors.] Hypertrophic Attractors What I’m talking about here is super-sized sexy bits. You’ve no doubt heard that size doesn’t matter. But what if people do indeed vote with their bedsheets and choose more well-endowed partners, causing a sort of au naturel selection? A professor of mine enjoyed telling us it’s less about survival of the fittest and more about survival of the sexiest. While his theory makes sense, I could see how this particular version of it could fail. What if these organs get in the way of other everyday functions like sitting in an airline seat or standing without tipping over? Also, might these mega-endowed mutants cease procreating for fear of jeopardizing their adult film careers? Remember, success in evolution requires some actual baby-making. [Odds: 7-to-1] Digital Dexterity and Celerity If WWIII is fought with what is essentially video game weaponry, we’ll soon see two groups – the quick clickers and the dead. The long-term viability of this demographic is far from assured, though. They may lack the diversified skill set to survive. Who, for instance, would keep them supplied with Biggie Cokes? [Odds: 15-to-1] Rapidly Accelerating Changes in Lower Primates Researchers have noted some remarkable achievements in ape-to-ape language and education recently. It might make us wonder if monkeys could ever catch up to us. The genetic overlap between humans, chimps, and orangutans is already well over 90%. A few more tweaks here and there, maybe a little cross-breeding with Homo sapiens, some radiation, and who knows – maybe we’d have some serious competition. I’m imagining the Geico cavemen (who are evidently getting their own show now). Then again maybe the better cultural reference would be those cautionary tales about hierarchical social orders where the underclass rises up against “The Man”, in this case, man. [Odds: 12-to-1 – though it would be funny to hear their jokes about hairless backs.] Augmented Gray Matter Braininess is supposed to be one of the top 3 traits a woman looks for in a man. It might even crack the top ten on many a man’s list. The ability of this gifted set to attract mates, clean up in Jeopardy, and vanquish a rival in a battle of the wits would, all else being equal, provide huge selection potential. But would all else really be equal? Might these big lobes, in the extreme, correlate with nerdiness (anathema to reproduction)? Plus, imagine the hips on the mothers who might need 10 inches of dilation rather than 10 centimeters to push out their cranially outsized offspring. [Odds: 6-to-1 – of course this may play out in varying degrees – we wouldn’t necessarily see a world full of Einsteins, maybe just one with fewer Bushes.] Technological Enhancements Man merged with machine – it’s not just the stuff of sci-fi anymore. A wide array of cyborgs will undoubtedly exist in the future. Whether this is considered a part of the evolutionary process or not depends on the ability of the imbedded technology to self-replicate. Recent strides in nano research suggest that this is possible. If silicon can improve the brain circuitry and nanotechnology can be grafted into stem cells, there’s a helluva lot we humans could do better. Of course the costs could make the six-million-dollar man look like a blue-light special. There are other risks to the success of such an entity, too. If a guy has the whole internet planted in his head, would he soon be surfing himself all day long? Would employers look to overload the lightening fast workers with extra projects? How many TPS reports would Lumbergh expect over the weekend? [Odds: 5-to-1] Some of you may be questioning this whole exercise. You may imagine we’ve done enough evolving. Then again, chances are the pre-human ape-men believed the same thing. (Ironically enough, many of them thought that they were the pinnacle of God’s grand design and that evolution was just a bunch of hooey.) That was back in the days when the sine qua non of the whole thing seemed to be walking upright. In retrospect, given all the people there are with bad backs, I’m not so sure that’s right. Odds of anything I’ve said being right: 66-to-1. --Guest Reviewer Steve Review of the Best Practical Joke Ever Played On MeI’m not really a practical joker. The closest I come is hiding in closets or behind shower curtains or under beds to try to scare my kids. That kind of backfires, though, because then they can’t sleep, and guess who takes the hit for that?
Neither have I been the target of a huge number of practical jokes. Oh, sure, Elden used to put macros on my computer in the old days, slowing down keystrokes, or making WordPerfect type a “g” whenever I pressed “h.” Hilarious.
But, I have been the victim of one particularly subtle and carefully executed joke. In fact, I didn’t find out it was a joke until years later, and even then, only inadvertently.
I’ll start at the beginning, and just tell the story. I’m guessing you all will be smarter than me, and you’ll know right away when the joke starts. I didn’t. The lesson, as always: I am an idiot.
Kim and I have been married for a month shy of 17 years. Before we got married, Kim had lived all over the country, and had graduated high school in Chicago. I, on the other hand, lived in the same house pretty much my whole life, in a suburb of Minneapolis. Kim was hip, cool, worldly. I was, well, not. Kim had followed the Grateful Dead a bit during some of her high school summers. I played a lot of basketball in my backyard.
The summer after Kim and I got married, the Grateful Dead were on tour, and were scheduled to play Las Vegas, and since I was such a schmuck, Kim insisted we road trip to Vegas to see them play. After all, it was inconceivable that the only concert I had attended to that point was the Styx, Paradise Theater tour, and the woman I was married to had seen, well, EVERYTHING. I needed educating.
So we piled into my 1980 Mazda RX 7, and headed south, planning on hanging out on the Vegas Strip until the wee hours, then parking in the desert and sleeping in the car, true Deadhead style.
Somewhere around Cedar City, 3 hours south of Salt Lake City, I was driving, and since Kim and I had been married less than a year, well, er . . .
Let’s just say, the mouse was out of the house for a bit. More exactly, the mouse was out of the house, for a bit, Kim went to sleep, and we arrived in St. George and stopped at a gas station to fill up the tank and get some Diet Coke and other sundries.
Kim kept sleeping, and I filled the tank, walked inside, filled my coke cup, bought my Twizzlers, paid for my stuff, and went outside. I decided to use the rest room since there’s not much between St. George and Las Vegas, so I went back inside. I stepped up to the urinal, went to unzip and free the mouse, and lo and behold, THE MOUSE WAS ALREADY LOOSE! That is, apparently I’d been driving for an hour, and then walking around a crowded gas station buying coke and treats, with my junk aired out. No wonder the clerk behind the counter gave me the stink eye.
I told Kim about my gaffe back in the car, we had a good laugh, and drove away. And that, as they say, was that.
Except.
Flash forward about 5 years. I am now working at Novell, in Provo, UT, in the technical documentation group, as a writer. My boss, Susan Salgy, heads up a team of about 10 writers and editors, a mixed bag of loose screws and uptight tools.
We meet every week for an hour or so to go over projects, deadlines, workloads, movies, and restaurants. During the big meeting, Rebecca, I’m pretty sure that was her name, is telling a story about the time she was in St. George for Spring Break with a bunch of her girlfriends, and there was some guy walking around a gas station/convenience store wearing ratty baggy shorts and a big tie-dye Grateful Dead shirt, with his junk hanging out.
Mark Talbot, privy to the story of my Las Vegas pilgrimage, immediately cries out “It was Doug!”
“Shut up!” I say tightly, kicking him under the table. Miraculously, he does.
Nobody seems to notice our exchange, and the meeting progresses apace and concludes without further incident.
But soon after, I decide the opportunity for comedy is too great to pass up, so Mark and I go to Rebecca’s office and I blurt out, “Rebecca, I’m sorry to say this, but I think I may have shown you my penis. I apologize.”
In retrospect, she was remarkably cool about the whole thing. “What, that was YOU?”
“Yes, yes it was. Well, probably.” So I tell her the story of my Las Vegas trip, and we decide that yes, the timeframe matches up, and I was almost certainly the junk dealer from her spring break in St. George. Crazy coincidence. And no big deal, really, except explaining to my peers why my junk might have been loose in the first place was a bit awkward. But other than that, no big deal. Funny story. Crazy coincidence.
Not.
Is the hallmark of a good practical joke that the chump involved never be let in on the joke? Maybe not, maybe that’s just one way to measure a good joke. Cuz other times, it’s the immediate reaction that’s funny, like with Candid Camera, or these jokes.
It would be another several years before Mark would accidentally let it slip that I was set up. Susan Salgy is a genius. And I will never tell her another embarrassing story again.
Wait, is this on the Internet? Damn it.
--dug Review of Automatic Light Switches in Public RestroomsOnce upon a time, my friend Elden and I worked for Fawcette Technical Publications (FTP), a small technical magazine publishing company based in Palo Alto, CA. Neither of us wanted to move to Palo Alto, although, to be fair, Palo Alto is a fabulous little town, and our monthly trips there invariably involved excellent food and obscure movies. Anyway. Elden and I worked for FTP from Provo, UT, and we each had an office we leased in an office park in the Riverwoods area. The office had a common bathroom out in the entry area—the usual, sink, urinal, and a couple of sit down stalls. Oh, and the light was one of those automatic lights, where it comes on when it detects motion, and automatically shuts off after a pre-determined period of, well, NOT detecting motion. No big deal, unless you like to read the paper while you sit in the bathroom stall. I don’t think I’m alone in liking to do this, am I? I mean it’s not like I’m in there with my Blackberry, sending emails or texting you while I sit there. As far as you know. I’m just reading the paper. Anyway, one particular time I became pretty engrossed in whatever article I was reading and lost track of time. The automatic light switch, alas, did NOT lose track of time. When the pre-determined period (and who determines this? Is there a product manager somewhere who does research on this, and writes it into his PRD, and browbeats the development team into abiding by his research? Where does this pre-determined time come from?), apparently, elapsed. Lights out. The building we occupied was sparsely, um, occupied, so traffic in the bathroom could be pretty infrequent. And I wasn’t done with my other bathroom business. I mean, I had completed the obvious part, was taking a break reading the paper, but hadn’t completed the, er, the cleanup part. And let me tell you, that’s not something that can be done blind, in the dark. You gotta have evidence. Or, more specifically, a LACK of evidence. Right? Can we all agree on this? Let’s just move on. I’m engrossed in some scintillating article when the auto timer/motion detector thingamabob detects that nothing is moving in the bathroom, and promptly, and suddenly (no subtle dimming, no klaxon sounding) shuts off the light. This presents a dilemma. To stand up and exit the stall to create detectable motion risks contamination of areas that should not come in contact with debris. If you follow. Don’t wanna go there. So I crumple a section of the newspaper, and throw it over the wall of the stall. I admit, in the darkness, this takes a couple of attempts. First attempt bounces back off the stall wall, second attempt hits the ceiling and comes back down inside the stall. Still dark. I grab a spare roll of toilet paper, still wrapped up in its crinkly wrapper, and chuck it over the stall wall. No dice. My only recourse seems to be to stand and exit the stall to get some, any motion detected. But I want to stand in such a way that minimizes the risk of debris contamination. So I keep the pants around the ankles, and sort of crouch/shuffle to the stall door, feeling for the handle. I open the door and wave my arms. Nothing. I shuffle a little further out into the absolutely dark bathroom (no windows, of course) and wave my arms. Nothing. One last shuffle, and at last the light flashes on. Success! Unfortunately, not because I had created detectable motion. The door opens, and there stands a complete stranger, hand on the handle, mouth terribly agape, eyes as wide as the great outdoors. I smile weakly, wave nonchalantly, and shuffle back into my stall to finish my business. Outside, the door closes, the stranger clearly wanting no part in whatever disgusting ritual is going on inside the bathroom. Rating for Automatic Light Switches in Public Bathrooms—They suck. 1 out of 10 stars. --dug Review of the Top 12 Major Forms of Humor
Other (lesser) forms of humor to be considered in a future post: Misdirection, Scatalogical Humor, Political Satire, Mother-in-law Jokes, Guys Walking Into Bars Jokes, Shaggy Dog Tales, Lightbulb Maintenance Humor, Sarcasm, Meta-Humor Humor, and Representatives of Major Western Religions Jokes. --Robert Review of My Neighbor
I didn’t want to have to do this, but I feel I must review my neighbors. Not all of my neighbors, just the ones across the street from me. To be more specific would be pointless, because, on the one in a trillion chance (so yes, there’s a chance) that my neighbors ever read this page, much less even know who I am, well, everybody on my street will know exactly which neighbor I’m talking about. Anyway. I guess what I’ll do is just list the incidents, the stuff, the grist, that sort of thing. First, the house. The neighbor, let’s call him, hm, George Webber. George built across the street from us, on the view side of the street (we couldn’t afford the view, so we’re stuck on the lame side of the street), so he has the walkout basement, the huge deck overlooking the valley, the hot tub on the deck, the works. George’s house is cool, lots of cool colors, cool paintings, cool lighting, all that. The problem is the color. Sort of. The base stucco is a nice earthy yellow color. But in a botched attempt to make the house look like an Italian villa, George had the stucco done with dark streaks, to simulate 500 years of sitting in a Mediterranean climate. That didn’t work out so well--it looked more like a child had taken black oil and splashed it on every wall. For a year we referred to it as “the haunted house.” Made it very easy to tell people where we lived—“oh, we are across the street from that gross haunted house.” Slam dunk. After about a year, George went out with his kids and painted over the stucco using the base, earthy yellow color. Not professionally done, but still. Better than haunted. Last year, George had the yard landscaped, but he burned through several landscape companies, because he kept changing his mind, en medias rex--they couldn't stand the flip flopping. He also spent some time shopping for a landscape company that wouldn’t balk at violating all of the HOA’s rules and regulations. Just when he got the yard about, but not quite, done, his last landscape company up and quit on him--They’d had enough. Let’s do the family. I don’t really have much of an idea, after two years, what exactly the family make-up is. At first I thought I knew, I thought it was George, his kids from previous marriage who only came up to visit, and George’s girlfriend, hairdresser girl, and her kids from previous marriage, who seemed to live there during the week, but not on weekends. But this last winter, girlfriend disappeared, George came and went sparingly, no kids, and another crazy man seemed to live there, coming and going only during the oddest of hours. Not that there’s anything wrong with any of that. Except the oddest of hours part. That can be a problem. More on that in a minute. Oh, and recently, George seems to be back, with girlfriend hairdresser girl, but no kids. But now with an entourage. Okay, how about some of the, er, activities. First, crazy winter guy. All during the winter, crazy winter guy would come out of the house at about 3am, and fire up the generator and the water compressor, and start power washing the driveway. Seriously. Like 3 times a week. I should mention that January was very cold, sub zero for many days at a time. So crazy winter guy would power wash the snow and ice from the driveway, and create large piles of ice at the bottom of the driveway, on the sidewalk, from all the power washing. The power washing was particularly fun, because we would be fast asleep, and awakened by the generator, only to go to the window to see crazy winter guy in boxer shorts and a white sleeveless t-shirt, power washing his driveway. In January (about 0 degrees). At three in the morning. Good times all around. Speaking of three in the morning. George, in his infinite wisdom, spent well above $50,000 (you read that right, fifty thousand dollars. American.) on a house-wide custom sound system, with wall mounted flat screens, the works. Who wouldn’t want that? Especially with the hot tub overlooking the valley in the backyard. Well, there is a downside. The axiom we live by is, the more expensive the sound system, the harder to figure out. Which isn’t a problem when it’s your neighbor’s sound system, unless he’s installed very large, very expensive speakers in the eaves of his front porch. Pointing roughly at my front door and bedroom window. The first time Kim and I were awakened at 3am, it was to the strains of the Carmina Burana. And it was so loud our windows were shaking. I stomped across the street, banged on the door, rang the doorbell, and stomped around a good ten minutes until crazy winter guy finally saw me through the window. He sheepishly came to the door, dressed in his traditional sleeveless white t-shirt and boxer shorts. I mutely pointed up at the speakers. He held out his hands, helplessly, and said “dude.” Except he said it like it was a 20 letter word—“ddddduuuuuuuuuuude. It’s a $50,000 sound system. I don’t know how to turn it off.” Eventually we got it turned off. Only to have it turn on when I got back to bed. And then off again. And so on. This happened several times over the winter. We called the cops a few times, since it was way too cold to go stomping over each time. But the cops would show up, bang on the door, flash their flashlights in the window, and nobody would ever come to the door. But the music would turn off, and the cops would just shrug and leave. Nice. I've seriously considered going over with a hose, and spraying the speakers until they short out, or even just a broom handle, and punching out the woofers, but i figure anybody with a sound system like that also has closed circuit security cameras, and i don't fancy starring on America's Dumbest Criminals. A month ago or so, we got into bed around 11pm, only to be jolted back awake by the soundtrack to the movie “300.” I knew it was that movie, because it was the scene where the Spartans push the Persians into the ocean. I stomped across the street, and a teenage girl answered. “How’s the movie?” I said. “WHAT?” she yelled. “I don’t live here!” “I don’t care! I just don’t want to watch the movie with you!” She figured out how to turn it off. I don’t want to go into each incident. But the most recent one was pretty good. Last week, again, around 11pm, we had just gone to bed, and the music started up. Each time this happens, we lay there in bed for a minute, waiting to see if they’ll realize the problem (they never do). So I got up and started across the street. Lots of cars, lots of noise (the new thing, now that George is back with entourage, is hot tub parties). I got across the street, and was starting up the driveway, when a dwarf in a swimsuit came running around the side of the house, soaking wet, and ran right in front of me, then disappeared behind the other side of the house. Like I said, hot tub party. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Oh, and he may not have been an actual dwarf, but at first I sure thought he was. Turns out he was more like an 8 year old boy. Same diff. Just as I started back up the driveway, a woman came around the side of the house, clearly in pursuit of the boy. She was also soaking wet, but unlike the boy, she had no swimsuit. Instead, she was stark naked, and in a full run. She saw me, and without breaking stride, she placed both her hand over her breasts, muttered “this is just too much,” (amen, sister) and continued her way around the house. Normally that would have been enough to send me back home, but there was no way I wasn’t going to the front door now. I knocked for a minute or two, and when the door opened, I was greeted by a woman I had never seen before, dressed in just a towel, and not a big one. Oh, and Kid Rock’s hat. No kidding. Kid Rock’s black top-hat, except it was furry. I said “Hi. Do you think you could keep the music on the inside of the house?” She just smiled, said “sure,” and closed the door. No invitation to stay. I’m quite offended. Funny thing is, now when I tell people about the neighbors, the women laugh, but the men invariably ask for the address. --dug Review of Some of the New U.S. CoinsIdaho Quarter US Mint Designer: Spuds are just intrinsically boring. Sorry. Idaho Governor's PR person: Yeah, believe me, I know. US Mint Designer: You got anything else? A flower or anything? Idaho Governor's PR person: Um (leafing through reference work), it's the Syringa. US Mint Designer: Nobody's ever heard of that. Bird maybe? Idaho Governor's PR person: Mountain Bluebird. US Mint Designer: Yeah, uh, can't really do blue on a coin so well. Idaho Governor's PR person: Now we have been doing an endangered species project with peregrine falcons. I just read something about that. US Mint Designer: Keep talking. Thus you end up with a falcon, a little teensy Idaho (gotta fill up that quarter-sized space somehow), and the state motto: Esto Perpetua. Because both of the people in Idaho who speak Latin will appreciate that. The official translation is: "May it be forever." A less generous rendition might be: "This (Idaho-ness?) just goes on. And on, and on, and on. And on." Rating: 15 cents (out of a possible 25, of course) Utah Quarter Because unless you're actually from Utah, and even then, you may not know that Utah happened to be the spot out in the sticks where a railroad they were building from the West finally met a railroad they were building from the East, and that someone at the time, at least ceremonially, drove a golden spike, aka The Golden Spike, into a railroad tie to commemorate the momentous event--the first transcontinental railroad. You'd think they'd want to use some metal other than gold. Because gold is soft and all. Rating: 18 cents Kansas Quarter We, Kansans, hereby honor this mighty buffalo. Er, bison. American bison, no less. Even though we, um, well, we slaughtered pretty darn near all of them. We're good shots in Kansas! Also, this animal played an important role in sustaining the noble savages that preceded us. Who we also, er, slaughtered. Also because we're good shots in Kansas! And we like to focus on the positive, you nay-saying hippie liberal glass half empty blogger types. Sheesh. Rating: 12 cents (for the sunflowers, which are very pretty) Peace Medal Nickel Also, through means of the ax (on our side) and the peace pipe (on their side, which in no way constitutes an endorsement of smoking tobacco!). Rating: 1 cent (out of a possible 5) Ocean in View! Nickel Rating: 4 cents (because it's purty) The Jeffersons And before we leave the nickel (and our thoughtful perusal of U.S. coin designs), let's examine the progress of the Jefferson image on the nickel: --Robert Review of Zen KōansZen kōans, for the less Zenified among you, are little stories or statements or questions that are supposed to cause your brain to go haywire. If you think about them, they're supposed to cause your thinking process to go all higgledy-piggledy, thus reminding you that rational thinking is pointless, in deference to simply being. Zen masters used to tell them to Zen students (probably still do, I assume). They're also great for things like Kung Fu B movies (and TV shows), during those flashback sections where the student remembers his training.
Joshu asked: `Have you eaten your rice porridge?' The monk replied: `I have eaten.' Joshu said: `Then you had better wash your bowl.' At that moment the monk was enlightened. This kōan sets the mind reeling, because at first it seems too easy. If you've just eaten your rice porridge, then you need to wash your bowl. Well that's just plain old common sense. So common sense is the same as being enlightened? Either that or dish washing. But these answers are much too easy. There must be a trick here somewhere! Are common sense or dish washing the opposite of enlightenment? Dammit, what did the monk realize from these statements that made him suddenly become enlightened? Perhaps it was a complete coincidence, and Joshu could have said anything at all. Hmm, that doesn't seem like that's it. Is the bowl a symbol for something else? You see, I've just started in on this baby, and already I'm nonplussed. Nonplussed like a fox. Because Zenliness is next to um, enlightenment. Steps Towards Nirvana: Yellow. "I'll try" said the monk, and he cupped his hands in the air. "That's not very good," said Sekkyo. "You haven't got anything in there!" "Well, master," said the monk, "please show me a better way." Thereupon Sekkyo seized the monk's nose and gave it a great yank. "Ouch!" yelled the monk. "You hurt me!" "That's the way to get hold of Emptiness!" said Sekkyo. All stories that end in someone's nose getting seized and yanked are good stories, but stories about enlightenment that end this way are pure genius. It's a little known fact that Larry, Curly, and Moe, in addition to being top notch entertainers, were also Zen masters. Steps Towards Nirvana: You cannot reach Nirvana on foot, grasshopper. 4. The wind was flapping a temple flag, and two monks started an argument. One said the flag moved, the other said the wind moved; they argued back and forth but could not reach a conclusion. The Sixth Patriarch, overhearing their conversation, said, "It is not the wind that moves, it is not the flag that moves; it is your mind that moves." The two monks were awestruck. Though it is not well known, this story has a continuation. At that point, a man wearing a suit and tie and sunglasses appeared and cracked his knuckles and he and the Sixth Patriarch began having an elaborate and unbelievably cool looking fight, intermittently in slow motion. The two monks continued to be awestruck. Steps Towards Nirvana: Let's just dispense with this Nirvana nonsense, shall we? 5. Bashõ Osho said to his disciples, "If you have a staff, I will give you a staff. If you have no staff, I will take it from you." Your first reaction is to think that somebody made a typo, right? You can admit it. But then you realize, "Hey, wait just a cotton-picking second...this is starting to sound familiar." And you would of course be right: Good old Bashõ Osho (know amongst his friends as B.O.) was no mere Zen master, but the inventor of economics! --Robert Review of Drivers (Not Golf Clubs)I keep hearing about “Utah drivers” and how bad they are. You know what’s funny? Everybody who tells me about the lousy Utah drivers are, surprise surprise, Utah drivers (imported or not). Crazy how that works. It’s like saying that people are stupid. Of course, when you say people are stupid, you mean OTHER people, THOSE people, not you. You’re quite obviously intelligent, good looking, and an excellent driver. And, of course, you never fart. You know, think about it for a sec. How many drivers are there, say, along the I-15 corridor of the Wasatch front, an area roughly 50 miles long and by far the most populous area in Utah (admittedly not saying much)? Let’s say 1,000,000. Just for fun. Okay then, now let’s say you, dear reader (renowned far and wide as an outstanding driver), are not perfect. Let’s say you make an average of ONE driving error per month. One time per month, you get distracted by the box of Krispy Kremes on your lap; once per month you stay in the left lane for a little too long when you want to exit and have to cross a few lanes of traffic; ONCE in a month, you are in a hurry because you got distracted by your spouse as you were leaving the house in the morning, and you’re late for an important meeting, and you spend the entire commute running yellow lights and weaving in and out of traffic and crossing the double white line barring you from the carpool lane. Well, if there are a million of us here, and each of us makes ONE mistake a month, how many driving errors does that make? Lots, right? Okay? Do we agree? Lots? Enough maybe to account for the stupid drivers we see every day? Anyway. I grew up in Minneapolis, a decent sized city. I’ve driven quite a bit in places like Los Angeles, San Francisco, Houston, Dallas, Chicago, and Miami. Hell, I’ve even driven in London, Paris, Rome, and Munich. I’m here to tell you—just like people everywhere are a little bit dumb (yup, you and me included), people everywhere are often sucky drivers. No matter where you go, people reserve their right to be rude, arrogant, assholes. Pretty much all over the world. L.A. New York. And yes, Utah. Okay, now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, there are a few particularly egregious errors frequently seen on the roadways that really get under my skin. This isn't any kid of comprehensive list, that would take more than the fifteen minutes I've got to write this post. But these are the ones on my mind today. Mind you, I’m not saying I never commit these sins. I’m just saying they get under my skin. They make me yell loudly into my cell phone, or mistype the message I’m keying into my Blackberry. That kind of egregious. The Enforcer Top of my list is the guy who thinks he’s enforcing the law and making everybody safer by driving at or below the speed limit in the left lane. Not to be confused with the recent immigrant or grandmother who has no idea what lane they’re in, much less how fast they are driving. The Enforcer is a misguided vigilante who, in a bit of irony completely lost on him, I’m sure, actually makes the road much more dangerous by forcing everyone to slam on the brakes and careen around him to avoid entering his trunk or truck bed. Who does this? Do you know anybody who does this? Do you let them get away with it? STOP THE MADNESS! Egregiousness Level—10 Punishment—Absolute and Permanent Removal of Driving Privileges. And maybe death. The Blocker Locals call this the Utah Road Block. You know what’s funny? In Minnesota they called it the Minnesota Road Block. In Italy, they call it “el due cupula grande de la catedral.” But the upshot is, you’ve got two lanes, and two cars side by side, driving slower than you want to drive. Aggravating. Egregiousness Level—8 Punishment—Car dies on side of road for 20 minutes, no radio, no cell phone coverage The No Signaler Really, this doesn’t bother me so much. I’m going to give these guys a pass. What does bother me, though, is . . . The Leave Signal On (er) I hate this. Well, hate is too strong a word. I’m annoyed by this. I would be much more annoyed by this, if I hadn’t discovered this morning that I had left my right blinker on for the entire 20 mile freeway drive in to work. My bad. Sorry red Toyota Truck who flipped me off. Egregiousness Level—um, 2? Punishment—some mild embarrassment The Won’t Let Anybody In (er) There are assholes everywhere, even in the grocery store line. But there’s something about riding in a one ton steel cage that inspires confidence, even belligerence. Reminds me of hearts, the card game. You have the King or Ace of Spades, someone is smoking, you have limited protection, so you sweat bullets for a trick or two, but once you’ve dropped that Ace or King, you’re the next one smoking for the Queen. It’s like Kennedy said—Ich bin ein asshole. Or, we are all Berliners. Or something. I don’t ever do this, by the way. Unless you were blocking me earlier. Then I hunt you down like the dickweed dog you are, and keep you from merging. Of course the flip side of this is the “what would jesus do” weenie who lets EVERYBODY in. Not as bad, but close. Egregiousness Level—7 Punishment—Nobody will let you in, and you either have to stay on the freeway until you run out of gas, or drive on the shoulder all the way to your exit. Of course, I’ve just scraped the surface, but I’m out of time, so I’m stopping. I’ve left off “the weaver,” the “stop 10 feet short of the stop sign/stop light er,” the “drive at address hunting speed, but don’t pull over er,” the “zoom around in traffic in order to totally tailgate the semi in front of me er.” And on and on. Not that you or I have ever done any of this. At least not in Utah. --dug Review of Garnier Fructis (with active fruit fortifying concentrate) Fortifying Cream ConditionerSorry I took so long to come out with this review, but I was doing extensive product testing. Normally I wash my hair with whatever bar soap Kim buys and has in the shower, but a couple weeks ago I noticed a big green bottle of Garnier Fructis on the shower shelf, with Active Fruit Concentrate. Apparently it’s a “Fortifying Cream Conditioner. For Dry or Damaged Hair.” Which may the be longest title I’ve seen, just edging out Greystoke, The Legend of Tarzan, Lord of the Apes, a little seen movie who’s chief claim to fame is that they used Glen Close to dubb Andie MacDowell’s unlistenable southern accent. Anyway. Garnier Fructis. On the back of the big green bottle, I’m informed that this “innovative combination of ingredients naturally present in fruit helps give strength and shine to your hair” resulting in “Hair That Shines With All Its Strength!” I admit, as far as exotic magical ingredients go, this is lower on the scale than human placenta, which Nu Skin shampoo contains (seriously, PLACENTA! We’re worried about stem cells? Forget stem cells, write your congressperson about the exploitation of human placenta.), and maybe about the same as washing your hair with beer, but still, I’m intrigued. Really? Fruit makes your hair shiny AND strong? Not to mention the fact that my hair will now shine with ALL its strength, instead of whatever paltry percentage of my strength I was devoting to hair-shininess before. Sign me up! Well, actually, there’s no where to sign up. But here’s what I did—I stopped washing my hair with Ivory bar soap, and started washing my hair with Garnier Fructis. The back of the bottle claims that in very scientific strength and shininess tests, people who use fruit to wash their hair have hair that is FIVE TIMES stronger and smoother. So it looks like they were going for shiny, and ended up with smooth. But the shiny marketing copy was already written and paid for, so they stuck with “For Hair That Shines with All Its Strength.” After a week of using Fructis, I conducted some experiments of my own, which consisted of pulling strands of hair out of my head, and rating my perceived hair pulling exertion level. I found my hair strength unchanged. After another week, I removed all of the hair from the right side of my head, and constructed a suspension bridge, and ran steadily heavier Lego trucks over the bridge to measure strength. Unfortunately, I forgot to try this experiment before I began using Fructis, so I can’t really comment on whether my hair is stronger than before. But Legos trucks are cool. I also conducted extremely scientific clinical tests for shininess, which consisted of holding my head up to the mirror under a light. I have concluded that my hair is two times as shiny as before, at best. And I’m not even sure I like shiny hair. But I’m trying to be impartial here. Finally, I tested for smoothness. I removed all of the hair on the left side of my head, and rubbed it on my cheek. Hmm. Soft. But not really softer than before. Fructis gets 4 apples and 2 mangos. But I think I’ll be going back to bar soap. As soon as my hair grows back and I have something to wash. --dug |
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