Lowest common denominator

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Rant of the day

I know that I've written on this topic before, but things have only gotten worse with the merger of Sprint and Nextel. I'm referring to the societal scourge of walkie-talkie mobile phones. It was bad enough when it was only Nextel that had them and mostly businesses that used them. But now telecom giant Sprint has thrown its weight behind the walkie-talkie network and these phones are showing up in the hands of gabby teenagers and a whole lot of other folks, too.

Isn't it enough that we have to listen to the blather of just one person on a regular mobile telephone while riding the bus or standing in line at the supermarket? Must we now endure both sides of the conversation? And then there is that annoying little chirping noise wedged in between the two chatterboxes indicating that the other person has stopped talking. <chirp>

Okay, so it's not the most important thing in the world. It's actually a pretty small thing <chirp> compared to the fact that we are a nation at war <chirp>, that politicians keep lying to us <chirp> and that religious zealots are redefining the nature of science <chirp>. Maybe I'm just overreacting <chirp> to this petty little nuisance. <chirp> It's just that <chirp> little nuisances <chirp> tend to grow into <chirp> bigger nuisances <chirp> eroding away <chirp> at our quality of life. <chirp> Then again <chirp> maybe it's only me that is bothered. <chirp> I look around <chirp> and no one seems to notice <chirp> except me. <chirp> I just wish it would stop <chirp>, disappear like so many failed fads. <chirp> But I doubt that it will. <chirp> Not this time. <chirp> You can't stop progress. <chirp> You can't stop the chirp. <chirp>

Mimes: my kid could be right!

"I'm afraid that one will break out of his box and try to kill me."

- Conor, 10.

Spot the looney

Take your time. It's not as easy as it looks!

Fractionated beverages

The guy in front of me at Starbucks today ordered a "quarter-caff." The girl behind the cash register seemed puzzled, so he explained. "Fill the cup with one-quarter caffeinated coffee and the rest with decaf." Just as she went off to prepare his drink, he said, "Oh, and leave some room for cream." It occurred to me that by the time all three liquids were mixed together, what this man really had was a one-eighth-caff or perhaps a three-sixteenth-caff. This raised some interesting questions in my mind: Just how low will Starbucks go when you order a fractionated beverage? Is a quarter-caff the lower limit? Or would they attempt a fifth-caff? Would they think you were messing with them if you ordered a 0.25-caff? And finally, at what point does this guy admit that he has a problem with caffeinated beverages and switch to herbal tea?

Happy Halloween!

The numbers have been tabulated for Halloween goodies dispensed at our house this evening. There were a few surprises in the mix this year.

Snickers bars 24%
MilkyWay bars 23%
Air Heads 20%
Fatty Ratty (rodent shaped gummy candy with tails!) 12%
Skittles 11%
Starbursts 10%
Frozen microwaveable mini-quiches 0%
One-a-Day vitamin supplement kits 0%
Chapstick 0%
Pennies (including some wheat ones) 0%

A Killer Ad

It's Hitchcock week on the Turner Classic Movies channel. I thought this advertisement (from last week's New Yorker) was just, well...

...classic.

Oh those crazy Canadian pre-teens

Grandma was looking for a gift to bring home to Conor from her Canadian vacation. She said she liked the bears on the t-shirt. She thought they were cute. She...didn't look too closely. Conor is only ten, eh?

The bug on my rug: Day 8

Midway through game six of the National League Championship Series, Karl the bug came out of his hole in the wall and strutted across the rug to a spot in the middle of the room in front of the television. Only, this time he wasn't alone. Following Karl was a gang of unsavory insects, the likes of which you might find in a back alley of the Bronx in the midst of a lengthy garbage strike. There were cockroaches and millipedes and crickets and pill bugs, and they walked around as if they owned this place.

"What the hell?" I murmured to myself. I didn't have any shoes on, which I realized pretty quickly, as instinct had me on my feet ready to start stomping. Karl and his entourage scattered when they sensed I might do them harm. Then as soon as I sat back down they gathered again in front of the television and did a little superiority dance to see if they could taunt me some more. These friends of Karl were not nice bugs.

I didn't take the bait. I decided to sit back and see what would happen next – on the carpet, not the baseball field. After all, I'm still rooting for the Chicago White Sox in the World Series. All that this evening's game would decide for me was who I would be rooting against. The Houston Astros had a comfortable lead and it appeared they would win the National League title on this night. The bugs on the rug were clearly thrilled by this. Every big play by the Astros was met with dancing and jumping (especially the crickets) and congratulatory mating. In the 8th inning, when the St. Louis batters went three and out, the bugs lined up in a row and did a tiny bug wave – with old Karl right in the middle, joining in the fun. This really surprised me because I was certain that Karl was a White Sox fan. What could possibly have changed in him to switch allegiances and, worse, to bring these bug thugs into our home?

The answer became clear when I leaned forward to get a better look at Karl. I couldn't believe my eyes. It wasn't Karl the beetle down there. This was a different beetle. It suddenly dawned on me what happened. I brought home the wrong bug from the Renaissance festival last weekend. I just assumed...I mean, what are the odds...Oh, what a mess.

But that meant Karl was still out there in rural Maryland fending for himself at the Renaissance fairgrounds. And who was this beetle? When I was finally able to get a close enough look, I realized that the new beetle looked like Karl, too. Only a different Karl. Not Karl Malden, but Karl Rove.

The resemblance is amazing, don't you think? So this beetle would have to be called Karl as well. Karl II. Only not for long, I hoped. The bugs scattered as I got up from my chair and went looking for my shoes.

The bug on my rug: Day 7

I took my son to the Maryland Renaissance festival on Sunday. Conor has been to the event five years in a row with his mother. I never went with them (preferring instead to have a day to myself). This year, though, I offered to give Cynde a break and she gladly accepted.

Conor took a friend along and I brought Karl the bug. The stress of the White Sox-Angels baseball series was taking its toll on the little guy. I figured a day away from pacing around on the carpet in the basement could only help take his mind off things. Besides, traveling back in time 500 years to the Renaissance period was just the thing for a beetle. No exterminators back then. No Roach Motels. No No Pest Strips. No insect sprays. Bugs were a part of life. Nobody got upset during the Renaissance when a bug crawled out and warmed himself by the fire. If people were hungry enough they might eat him, but otherwise bugs were pretty much left to themselves. I assured Karl that nobody was going to chow down on him in Maryland. Surely, there would be plenty of food and ale available at Ye Olde Hooters Tavern to keep folks satisfied.

I have to be honest with you here. I have always found the whole concept of dressing up in costumes and pretending to live in a different era to be more than a bit strange. For some people, life is a hopscotch of one Renaissance festival after another. Definitely, not my thing. Still, after just a few minutes at the fairgrounds, I found myself more relaxed than I have been in ages. People were laughing and having a good time. They may have been pretending to be something they weren’t, but they were happy. And why not? Combine the simpler way of life of the 15th and 16th centuries with the life expectancy and indoor plumbing of the 21st century. How can you go wrong?

We had a great time. We wandered aimlessly and enjoyed the many jugglers and acrobats and comedians and hucksters. I bought Conor a wooden sword and his friend, Derek, a magic trick. Everything was going along great until we stopped for lunch and I noticed that Karl the bug was gone. He had been up on my shoulder much of the time, ducking under my shirt collar occasionally when he was frightened by the pushed-up cleavage of a particularly well-endowed “wench.” (Who could blame him? If a bug were to fall into that black hole he might never be seen again!) As the boys munched on their Renaissance cuisine (chicken fingers and French fries), I scanned the ground for Karl. It felt hopeless. How would I ever find a beetle in this crowd? But he couldn’t have gone far. I looked and looked. Then, as if by providence, I spotted him: a little black smudge on a turkey leg in the hand of a kid at the next table. Just as I saw Karl, the kid did, too. “Ewww,” he cried, “a bug.” The kid shook the turkey leg back and forth until Karl could hang on no longer. He tumbled across the table close enough for me to grab him and stuff him into my shirt pocket (a distinctly non-Renaissance button down oxford).

Karl stayed in my pocket for the rest of the day. As the sun started to go down, we made our way out of the fairgrounds and on home. We were all dead tired from the excitement of the day. I had dinner with Karl still in my pocket. He was so quiet I forgot he was even there. Conor went to bed early dreaming of his fun Medieval day. I went down into the basement and turned on the television. The baseball game was on. The deciding game between the White Sox and the Angels. Suddenly remembering Karl, I reached into my pocket and pulled him out. I set him down on the arm of the chair so he could see. Strangely, he didn’t seem interested at all in the game, even though his favored White Sox were ahead. After a few minutes, Karl crawled down the side of the chair and walked away, disappearing into the crack in the baseboard on the wall. It was only the sixth inning of a tight match-up. The White Sox went on to win the game, and with it, a spot in the World Series. I’m not sure Karl even knows. I haven’t seen him since.

The bug on my rug: Day 5

Karl the bug has been pacing around on the carpet all evening. He's called Karl now because of the uncanny resemblance to Karl Malden. See for yourself.

Anyway, Karl did not like the way the last White Sox-Angels playoff game finished. Did you see the game? Let me recap. It's the bottom of the 9th inning. The score is tied 1-1. The White Sox are home, so they are at bat. There are two outs. AJ Pierzynski is at the plate. There are two strikes. One more strike and the game goes to extra innings. Angel's relief pitcher Kelvim Escobar throws a low pitch, but Pierzynski swings anyway. And misses. Inning over, right? Wrong! Pierzynski thinks the pitch hit the dirt and he sprints to first base. Why? Because of one of baseball's dumbest rules. If a batter strikes out on a ball that hits the dirt, he is not out until he is tagged or thrown out at first base. Stupid rule or not, the problem here is that the ball didn't hit the dirt. Pierzynski thought he heard it hit the dirt so he ran. The umpire, Doug Eddings, had called him out. There is nothing in Eddings reaction to indicate that he believed the ball hit the ground. But when he saw Pierzynski running to first, he changed is ruling. Safe at first. Pierzynski ultimately made it home and the game was won by the White Sox.

Karl the bug is concerned, I think (who knows what really goes on in the mind of a beetle?), that the White Sox could go on to win the World Series and all people will remember is that play in that game. He's wearing a path into the carpet as he wanders back and forth. This is one nervous bug.

Game three has just begun and already Chicago is up 3-0. Karl got up on his back legs and did a little dance. After the home run by Paul Konerko, I could swear that Karl offered one of his sticky little legs for a high five. I love this bug. I'm glad that I didn't squish him in a tissue.

Spring mix

Ten year olds and vegetables are an ill-fit. Ours eats them as long as there are no surprises. Green beans need to look like green beans with nothing stuck to them - no mushrooms or almond slivers, for example - and broccoli, boiled or microwaved, needs plenty of butter to help it go down. Peas and corn kernels should come from a bag in the freezer. Salad should be simple green leaf lettuce with some yellow peppers and cukes, tomato wedges. Tonight we served a "spring mix" salad with various leafy vegetables including spinach, red leaf lettuce, endive and mustard greens. Our ten year old did not revolt, but he did ask if he could finish the salad dressing, which still had about a quarter of its contents in the bottle. "Of course not," we said. Still, he applied a generous amount. Halfway through his salad, he reached for the salad dressing bottle again. "Why are you adding more?" we asked. Vigorously shaking the dressing into his bowl and with a puckered look about him, he said, "I can still taste the lettuce."

The bug on my rug: Day 2

The bug on my rug was back tonight for game one of the Los Angeles Angels vs. Chicago White Sox American League championship series. There was more spring to the beetle’s step this evening, leading me to believe that he was not a fan of the New York Yankees. Call me crazy, but this insect seems more self-assured knowing the Yankees are out of the playoffs. I may be misreading his body language, but, if I had to guess, I’d say my bug is a Chicago fan. He seemed to stop more and face the television set when the White Sox were at bat. And when they scored a run he did these little bug pushups and ran around in a circle. When the Angels were at bat, he turned his back to the television and did some other bug stuff. I wish I could ask the beetle on my rug what he thought about the magnificent 53” high definition television picture with full Dolby Digital 5.1 surround sound. Oh, he’s impressed all right. This is one lucky bug.

The bug on my rug

I’m watching a small beetle crawl along the floor in front of me. That and the Yankees-Angels playoff baseball game on television. Normally I would grab the bug in my hand and relocate him outside (if I was feeling charitable), or squash him with a tissue (if he was a menacing spider that would bite me in the ass given half a chance), but not this time. Not this beetle. He has given me a simile: “Watching baseball on television is about as interesting as watching a bug crawl across the carpet.” He has earned a reprieve. This bug stays.

Lovely cheeeeeze, Gromit!

Treat yourself to the latest Wallace and Gromit adventure by Nick Park: "The Curse of the Were-Rabbit." It's like a breath of Stinking Bishop cheese. (And that's a good thing!)

If the spell-binding plot isn't enough for you, then how about the love interest? Lady Tottington is hot!


Yes, those are bandages in her hair. Don't ask, just go see...

Real Men Wear Kilts

My son, Conor, who is ten and a fourth generation American, declared this evening over dinner that he wanted a Scottish kilt. His mother thinks he would look great in a kilt and played right along. “What about a sporran?” she asked. “Sure,” he said, “I want a sporran, too.” A sporran is the little pouch that goes on the kilt, you know, to carry your stuff, because it’s not like a Scottish kilt has pockets. This had to be explained to me. I had never heard of a sporran before. Apparently, they come in all different styles and materials. A lot of sporrans are made from real animal fur. None of us liked that idea. Conor explained that he just wanted something basic; nothing too fancy. “Any old sporran will do.”

Any old sporran will do? I nearly choked on my dinner with laughter. I wondered if an American boy had ever uttered those words before today.

If you try sometimes...

...you just might find, you'll get what you need.



Apparently, what I needed was a better seat!

Then again, a better seat would have meant this view:


Washington Post

Still, it was a great show, even from up in the nose-bleed section. The Stones were one of the few bands from my youth that I hadn't seen live in concert. Not counting the bands in which prominent members died before I could see them. How inconsiderate! (And you know who you are Mr. Dwayne Allman, Mr. Jerry Garcia, Mr. Lowell George.)

At least now I can say that I have seen the Stones. Well, people who looked like the Stones, prancing around on stage, only much, much smaller and much, much more wrinkled.

Been there.
Done that.
Couldn't afford the t-shirt.

~ ~ ~

So many great songs and a "mini-stage" that undocked from the main stage and rolled across the arena floor carrying the entire band as they played. What will they think of next!

The set list:

1. START ME UP
2. YOU GOT ME ROCKING
3. SHE'S SO COLD
4. TUMBLING DICE
5. ROUGH JUSTICE
6. BACK OF MY HAND
7. BEAST OF BURDEN
8. BITCH
9. MR. PITIFUL (Otis Redding)
10. THE WORST
11. INFAMY
12. MISS YOU
13. OH NO, NOT YOU AGAIN
14. SHATTERED
15. HONKY TONK WOMEN
16. SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL
17. IT'S ONLY ROCK N ROLL
18. BROWN SUGAR
19. SATISFACTION
20. YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT
21. JUMPING JACK FLASH

Still waiting my turn

The Forbes magazine 400 Richest Americans list is out and once again I didn't make the cut. Damn! The last guy on the list (and I had to wade 16 pages into the report to find him) was worth about 900 million dollars. This means I would have to rob at least a hundred Brinks trucks to put me in contention. That's starting to sound too much like work. I'm thinking about having a serious accident on Bill Gates front lawn while delivering a pizza. Never mind that he didn't order pizza. These mistakes happen, you know?

(Interesting aside: 4 out of the top 5 on the Forbes list are college drop-outs. That's where I went wrong!)

Depends on the definition of hummer

This week a story that I posted on Peeling Wallpaper almost a year ago suddenly became popular. I had a clue that something was up because I received a few new comments on the piece. More than one comment on a ten month old story usually means that someone has unearthed it and left a link on a forum somewhere.

The story in question was called A Prius meets a Hummer at the gas pumps. On Wednesday of last week it received over 2,000 hits. It’s received probably a thousand more since then. That’s a lot of hits for my blog! What’s interesting is that most of those hits came from one source. A porn site. Well, in fairness, not so much a porn site as a porn forum. Yes, you will find the occasional porn imagery there, and there is a search engine to help you find more of it, but mostly the site is a forum for politics and social commentary (‘cause, you know, after the sex is done, you gotta talk).

It’s difficult to say if the link to my Prius-Hummer story originated at this porn forum. By the time I became aware of what was going on, I found links to the story on a dozen forums – most of them non-porn, mainstream sites. So where did all of this start? Who was the first to find it? What was the original Google search?

I thought for awhile that it might have started with a Google search for “hummer.” Not the vehicle Hummer, but the…well, you know, sexual reference. Or maybe you don’t. (If you don’t know, you can find a definition here.) Anyway, I don’t think “hummer” was the original Google search because my story is nowhere to be found when searching on that word alone. Now, type in “asshole Hummer driver” at Google and my story is the number one hit!

It’s just an interesting aside, all this. Another example of internet wildfire. Indeed, this one is nothing compared to Birdie’s Pledge of Allegiance story. That one literally shut down the Salon blog server for several days! Something the rest of can only strive for…

Just a black bear: A Yellowstone story

Way up in the northeast corner of Yellowstone National Park, I stopped my car at a pull out overlooking a beautiful valley – expansive and deep with a thin blue creek running down the middle. This area of the park is considered prime grizzly bear habitat. It was my last day in Yellowstone and I was hoping to catch a glimpse of a bear before I left. I had seen a lot of animals during my five day visit to the park - bison, mule deer, elk, river otters, coyote - but no bear.

The pull out was a popular place with bear fanciers - both the serious kind sporting powerful spotter's scopes and cameras with massive zoom lenses, and the recreational variety standing on rock outcrops and staring out into the valley with their own two eyes. There was much discussion about what there was to see out there. Unfortunately, the answer, at least on this day, was not much. People had stories, though. The bears they had seen here yesterday or last week. There was also the story of the mother grizzly and her cub that had been feeding on a bison carcass for the past five days. (And we worry when our meat from Whole Foods is one day past the expiration date.)

"Where are they?" some folks wanted to know. "Up in the Lamar valley, way up the hill on a plateau." "Well, where is that?" Maps came out. More stories flowed. Clearly, people get into bear watching up here. As a scientist who frequently works in National parks and wilderness areas, I have taken training on how to defend myself against a bear attack. The gossip about the grizzly-bison kill sighting made me smile. There are three important rules when dealing with bears: don't get between a mother and her cub; don't interfere with a feeding bear; and don't surprise a bear by walking up on it unexpectedly. This particular bear sighting violated all three rules. I'm surprised the witness survived to tell his tale!

In the end, nobody at this pull off was going to attempt to see the mamma bear and her cub. But not necessarily for any of the reasons above. It was just too far away and too far off the road. Someone asked if there was another spot nearby where they could see a bear. A guy who had just arrived at the pull off and was looking out through a pair of binoculars spoke up: "Well, I saw a black bear just up the road feeding on some shrubs." "Really?" People's interest perked up. "How long ago was that?" "Just a few minutes." "How far off the road to you have to hike to see it?" "I dunno. About five feet. He's literally right there."

Several of us jumped into our cars and headed in the direction that the guy indicated. He shouted to us as we were leaving, "It's just a black bear."

Just a black bear? It is so easy to become inured in this park with its rich population of wildlife. I was just minutes inside the Yellowstone park boundary when I spotted my first bison, feeding off the road in a ditch. I pulled my car over and snapped about a dozen pictures. Over time, I saw herds of bison – hundreds at a time. They're as commonplace here as squirrels in my neighborhood at home. I was stopped on the road many times in "bison jams," a common occurrence in which the animals congregate on the blacktop and bring traffic to a grinding halt. After just three days, I found myself getting irritated by the delays. People would confound the traffic woes by getting out of their cars to take photographs. They're just bison, I would mumble under my breath. It’s not a far cry from “just a bison” to “just a black bear.”

And speaking of black bears, the one I was trying to see was still wandering along the road when I arrived. There was a traffic jam, of course. But talk about a great sight. Here’s a picture of the big guy:

Even if I hadn’t taken my bear training, the National Park Service does an excellent job educating people about not getting too close to any of the wild animals in Yellowstone, but especially bears. There are reminders everywhere in the park. Still, when the opportunity arises, there will always be Darwin rejects who are willing to take the risk for a good photo. Note the couple who stepped out of their vehicle for a closer look. That’s about a two second sprint for the bear.

Surely, you know it’s only a matter of time. (Of course, you know where I am heading with this.)

"Ah, man, not another bison jam.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Well, something’s in the road. An elk?”

“No.”

“A moose?”

“Nah.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Just another tourist being mauled by a bear.”

“Damn, we’re going to be late for the old faithful eruption.”