Thursday, November 22nd, 2018

I started to ween myself off caffeine this week because I was drinking way too much of it. I used to drink a cup of coffee in the morning before work, then a cup of Earl Grey tea in the afternoon to get me to the end of the day. That used to be more than enough caffeine to get me through a typical day at the office.

Then someone at work started a coffee club. They used plain old Folger’s coffee, but it smelled so good as it was brewing that one day I found I couldn’t resist any longer, dropped the requested donation into the tin can next to the pot and poured myself a cup. Couldn’t resist the next day, either. Or the next. Or any other day after that, to be completely honest. A cup of coffee when I got to work (after my cup of coffee at home but before my cup of tea in the afternoon) became the norm.

I should take a moment to note here that my “cup” is a mug so big that holds sixteen ounces when it’s filled to the brim. I don’t mess around when I make tea, although I usually fill it to within about an inch of the top, sip tea until its too cold to drink, then re-heat it in the microwave to finish it off. Cold Earl Grey is not a poison I would wish on anyone. Lovely tea when it’s hot; dank sewage when it’s cold.

There were a couple of high-pressure weeks last month when I skipped the tea in the afternoon so I could drink coffee all day long. I was so highly caffeinated most days that my tinnitus got loud enough to break glass. Fun fact: Most people say their tinnitus gets louder when they drink caffeine or alcohol, or when they’re stressed. I can confirm that all three of these cranks my tinnitus up to eleven. Sadly, it cannot break glass, though. If tinnitus could actually break glass, I would probably be okay with it. It would be like having a superpower.

Then I got the headaches if I wasn’t constantly caffeinated. A beer or two in the evening usually dulled the ache, but I didn’t want to have to depend on alcohol to kill my caffeine downer, so I bought some green tea, which is supposedly very lightly caffeinated, to get me through the evenings. To my grateful surprise, it worked.

This week, I started substituting green tea for coffee: a cup in the morning, another at work during my morning break, and a third after lunch. Whatever amount of caffeine there may be in green tea, I get no buzz from it at all, but I don’t get the headaches, either. Could be a placebo effect, although I don’t think so because my tinnitus is still ringing off the hook.

coming down | 9:37 am CST
Category: daily drivel
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Saturday, November 17th, 2018

I avoid clickbait. It’s never as interesting as the link makes it sound. Almost never.

I can’t explain why I clicked on “129 Ways to Find a Husband.” I don’t know why I spent precious minutes closing the pop-ups that all but obliterated the web site I found this story on. And I loathe “stories” that turn out to be a string of images scanned from a magazine that take forever to load. It’s not normal for me to respond this way to internet stories.

But. This article. Wow.

If this is at all reflective of the way single women were expected to find eligible men in the 1950, it explains so much that is wrong with our society today. And if there are people still around who think these are good suggestions (sadly, it turns out there are — never read the comments), then I feel a lot better about my hermit-like existence.

Starting with #1, “Get a dog and walk it,” this is a list of the most deviously manipulative suggestions for single women to meet single men. I don’t think I’m going over the top when I say any woman who would take these suggestions seriously should seek medical help. A woman who would consider getting a dog primarily to use it as a prop to meet men is a woman who needs therapy.

Most of the suggestions are merely reprehensible, but a few of them border on sociopathic, no exaggeration. How else am I supposed to feel about a suggestion like, “Be friendly to ugly men — handsome is as handsome does,” which is the equivalent of “Hold your nose — you’ll be able to swallow the worst medicine that way.” Or how about, “Be nice to everybody — they may have an eligible brother or son.” I’d have to agree that “be nice to everybody” is good advice, but if your advice is “be nice to everybody in order to advance your agenda,” I’m obliged to point out that’s a pretty fucked-up reason for being nice.

“Make a lot of money” is about the shallowest and possibly the most unreasonable advice I’ve ever heard, and I don’t even know what to make of “carry a hatbox.” Were men turned on by women carrying hatboxes in the 1950s? Why? Were hatboxes a way for women to carry their sex toys in public as a way to signal their kinks? I don’t know why that was the first thing that popped into my head, but “carry a hatbox” is so cryptic I had to go there.

Most of the suggestions, though, are flat-out psycho. “Read the obituaries to find eligible widowers.” I don’t think I have to explain why that’s about creepy as it gets.

The bell tinkled and suggestions on ‘How To Find a Husband’ began to fly. Hands waved for recognition. Fingers snapped briskly to indicate an idea that was hitch-hiked from a previous suggestion. Occasionally a suggestion brought irrepressible giggles or snorts of laughter, but for the most part, participants worked at a panting pace. Finally the bell rang once more and the brain-storming session was over.

The results were astonishing — a total of 404 suggestions! Some are tried and true but good to remember. Some are new and daring enough to set the most sophisticated bachelor in a gyroscopic spin! Weeding out ideas that seem repetitious, impractical or too, too wild, we present 129 of the best suggestions.

Even a quick glance at the list will show you that the day has passed when a reasonably pretty girl can sit, hands folded, on her front veranda waiting for Mr. Right to come along. As our brain-storming panel sees it, getting married today is a problem in social engineering.

129 ways to get a husband

WHERE TO FIND HIM

1. Get a dog and walk it.
2. Have your car break down at strategic places.
3. Attend night school — take courses men like.
4. Join a hiking club.
5. Look in the census reports for places with the most single men. Nevada has 125 males for every 100 females.
6. Read the obituaries to find eligible widowers.
7. Take up golf and go to different golf courses.
8. Take several short vacations at different places rather than one long one at one place.
9. Sit on a park bench and feed the pigeons.
10. Take a bicycle trip through Europe.
11. Get a job in a medical, dental or law school
12. Become a nurse or an air-line stewardess — they have very high marriage rates.
13. Ask your friends’ husbands who the eligible men are in their offices.
14. Be nice to everybody — they may have an eligible brother or son.
15. Get a government job overseas.
16. Volunteer for jury duty.
17. Be friendly to ugly men — handsome is as handsome does.
18. Tell your friends that you are interested in getting married. Don’t keep it a secret.
19. Get lost at football games.
20. Don’t take a job in a company run largely by women.
21. Get a jog demonstrating fishing tackle in a sporting goods store.
22. On a plane, train or bus don’t sit next to a woman — sit next to a man.
23. Go to all reunions of your high school or college class. There may be widowers there.
24. Don’t be afraid to associate with more attractive girls; they may have some leftovers.
25. Go back to your home town for a visit — the wild kid next door may have become a very eligible bachelor while you were away.
26. Don’t room with a girl who is a sad sack and let her pull you down to her level.
27. Get a part-time job in a convention bureau.
28. Change apartments from time to time.
29. When traveling, stay at small hotels where it is easier to meet strangers.
30. Lean to paint. Set up easel outside engineering school.

HOW TO LET HIM KNOW YOU’RE THERE

31. Stumble when you walk into a room that he’s in.
32. Forget discretion every once in a while and call him up.
33. Carry a hatbox.
34. Wear a Band-Aid. People always ask what happened.
35. Make a lot of money.
36. Learn several funny stories and learn to tell them well — but make sure you don’t tell them to him more than once.
37. Walk up to him and tell him you need some advice.
38. Dropping the handkerchief still works.
39. Have your father buy some theater tickets that have to be got rid of.
40. Stand in a corner and cry softly. Chances are good that he’ll come over to find out what’s wrong.
41. Don’t let him fish for your name the next time you meet. None of this “guess who” stuff.
42. If you’re at a resort have the bellboy page you.
43. Buy a convertible. Men like to ride in them.
44. Learn how to bake tasty apple pies. Bring one in to the office and let the eligible bachelors taste it.
45. Laugh at his jokes.
46. If there’s a wallflower among the men you know, why not cultivate him? For all you know, me may be a diamond in the rough.
47. “Accidentally” have your purse fly open, scattering its contents all over the street.

HOW TO LOOK GOOD TO HIM

48. Men like to think they’re authorities on perfume. Ask his advice on what kind you should wear.
49. Get better-looking glasses — men still make passes at girls who wear glasses — or try contact lenses.
50. Practice your drinking with your women friends first.
51. If you dye your hair, pick a shade and stick to it.
52. Wear high heels most of the time — they’re sexier!
53. Unless he happens to be shorter than you are!
54. Tell him he’s handsome.
55. Take good care of your health. Men don’t like girls who are ill.
56. If you look good in sweaters, wear one on every third date.
57. Dress differently from the other girls in the office.
58. Get a sunburn.
59. Watch your vocabulary.
60. Go on a diet if you need to.
61. When you are with him, order your steak rare.
62. Don’t tell him about your allergies.
63. European women use their eyes to good advantage. Practice in front of a mirror.
64. Buy a full-length mirror and take a good look before you go to greet him.
65. Change the shade of your stockings and be sure to keep the seams straight!
66. Get that fresh-scrubbed look by scrubbing!
67. If he has bought you any trinket or accessory, wear it.
68. Use the ashtray; don’t crush out cigarettes in coffee cups!
69. Polish up on making introductions; learn to do them gracefully.
70. Don’t be too fussy.
71. Stick to your moral standards.
72. Don’t whine — girls who whine stay on the vine!

HOW TO LAND HIM

73. Show him you can have fun on a cheap date — but don’t overdo it!
74. Don’t let your parents treat him like a potential husband.
75. Ask your parents to disappear when you’re entertaining!
76. Double-date with a gay, happily married couple — let him see what it’s like!
77. Tell his friends nice things about him.
78. Send his mother a birthday card.
79. Ask his mother for her recipes.
80. Talk to his father about business and agree that taxes are too high!
81. Buy his sister’s children an occasional present.
82. On the first date tell him you aren’t thinking of getting married!
83. Don’t talk about how many children you want.
84. If he’s a fisherman, learn how to scale and clean fish.
85. Don’t tell him everything about yourself at the start. Hold something in reserve.
86. When you’re out strolling with him, don’t insist on stopping at every shopwindow.
87. Don’t tell him how much your clothes cost.
88. Learn to sew and wear something you have made yourself.
89. Don’t gossip about him.
90. Never let him know he’s the only one, even if you have to stay home one or two nights a week!
91. Don’t be a pushover when he’s trying to make a date.
92. Very early in your dating, why not get a favorite song that you both regard as your own?
93. Find out about the girls he hasn’t married. Don’t repeat the mistakes they made.
94. Don’t discuss your former boy friends.
95. If you are widowed or divorced, don’t constantly discuss your former husband.
96. Be flexible. If he decides to skip the dance and go rowing on the lake, go — even if you are wearing your best evening gown.
97. Hide your Phi Beta Kappa key if you own one — later on junior can play with it.
98. Turn wolves into husband material by assuming they have honor.
99. Resist the urge to make him over — before marriage, that is!
100. Learn where to draw the line — but do it gracefully.
101. Remain innocent but not ignorant.
102. Make your home comfortable when he calls — large ashtrays, comfortable chairs.
103. Learn to play poker.
104. If he’s rich, tell him you like his money — the honesty will intrigue him!
105. Never let him believe your career is more important to you than marriage.
106. Buy him an amusing or particularly appropriate present every once in a while. But don’t make it too expensive.
107. Clip and mail him a funny cartoon that means something to both of you.
108. Don’t tell dirty jokes.
109. Stop being a mama’s girl — don’t let him think he’ll have in-law trouble, even if you know he will!
110. Point out to him that the death rate of single men is twice that of married men.

WILD IDEAS — ANYTHING GOES

111. Go to Yale.
112. Get a hunting license.
113. If your mother is fat, tell him you take after your father. If he’s fat too, tell him you’re adopted!
114. Stow away on a battleship.
115. Rent a billboard and post your picture and telephone number on it.
116. Paint your name and number on roof and say, “Give me a buzz, pilots.”
117. Start a whispering campaign on how sought-after you are.
118. Sink at a fashionable beach at high noon!
119. Ride the airport bus back and forth from the airport.
120. Bribe Ferris-wheel operator to get you stuck on the top of a Ferris wheel.
121. Stand on a busy street corner with a lasso.
122. Carry a camera and ask strange, handsome men if they would mind snapping your picture.
123. Ask your mother to take in male boarders.
124. Make and sell toupees — bald men are easy catches!
125. Advertise for male co-owner of a boat.
126. If you see a man with a flat, offer to fix it.
127. Carry a tow chain in the trunk of your automobile.
128. Let it be known in your office that you have a button box and will sew on bachelors’ loose buttons.
129. Don’t marry him if he has too many loose buttons!

129 ways | 10:22 am CST
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Friday, November 9th, 2018

As we were coming home from work the other day, the 70s pop song “I’d Really Like to See You Tonight” by England Dan & John Ford Coley started to play on the radio. We were already talking back to the radio, so I took a shot at this song, saying something like, “What ever happened to these one-hit wonders?”

“Oh, they must have had more than one hit song,” My Darling B answered.

Arching my eyebrows at her, I leveled the challenge, “You really think so? Name one.”

When she couldn’t, she asked The Google, which actually came up with three more songs we both recognized by the titles alone: The first was “Nights Are Forever Without You” and the second was “We’ll Never Have to Say Goodbye Again.” We thought that was all we would recognize, because none of the other titles sounded familiar, and when B played them on her phone we both shook our heads and she went on to the next one.

Then she played the third song we both knew. I don’t remember B reading the title of it before she played it, but as soon as I heard the piano playing the opening I recognized “Gone Too Far,” and as soon as they started to sing I even recalled most of the words. I remember liking this song quite a lot when I was a kid. Still like it now, as it turns out, but I hadn’t heard it since probably the 1970s. I don’t think it got a lot of play back then; it was one of those songs that would get me to pounce on the volume to turn it up.

So I was unnecessarily harsh on England Dan and John Ford Coley: They weren’t one-hit wonders at all. They wrote at least four songs that both B and I remembered and, according to the Wikipedia article I called up while I was writing up this drivel, they released 11 albums in ten years, hardly the work of slackers. That’ll teach me to watch my mouth in the future.

gone too far | 4:50 am CST
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Sunday, November 4th, 2018

Author Chuck Wendig gives me the motivation to get things done:

YOU CAN DO THE THING
GO DO THE THING
DO
THE
THING
SOMETIMES IT IS HARD TO DO THE THING
AND THAT’S OKAY
THE THING ISN’T ALWAYS EASY, IF IT WAS EASY, YOU ALREADY WOULDA DONE THE THING
NOBODY WANTS YOU TO DO THE THING BECAUSE OTHER PEOPLE HAVE NOT DONE THE THING AND THEY’D RATHER YOU BE WITH THEM, IN THE COMMONWEALTH OF NOTDOINGSHITSYLVANIA
SPITE THEM AND DO THE THING ANYWAY
CORRECTION: PEOPLE WHO LOVE YOU WANT TO DO THE THING AND I LOVE YOU AND I WANT YOU TO DO THE THING
I MEAN I DON’T LOVE-LOVE YOU, I WOULDN’T CHECK THAT BOX, BUT I THINK YOU’RE SWELL, IS THE POINT
(NOT SWOLLEN)
(SWELL)
SO DO THE THING
IT DOESN’T MATTER IF THE THING IS GOOD OR THE THING IS BAD THE POINT IS THE DOING, NOT THE ANXIOUS WORRYING OVER THE END RESULT OF THE THING
PERFORM THE ACTION
EXECUTE THE PROCESS
ACTIFY YOUR SOULDONGLE
DO THE THING
YEAH I KNOW THE WORLD IS DUMB
THE WORLD ISN’T GETTING LESS DUMB BY YOU NOT DOING THE THING
AND MAYBE YOU DOING THE THING WILL MAKE IT A TINY BIT AWESOMER
DO THE DAMN THING
THE THING YOU GOTTA DO COULD BE ANYTHING
I DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS
A THING YOU MAKE
A PERSON YOU LOVE
A TRUTH YOU TELL
A BODY YOU NEED TO HIDE
(whispers: do the thiiiiiiing)
MAKE THE TIME FOR IT
TIME DOESN’T MAKE ITSELF, IT’S NOT AN EARTHWORM SHITTING DIRT
YOU GOTTA STEAL TIME FROM THE TIME WIZARDS ON MOUNT TEMPORIS
STEAL TIME AND USE IT TO
(wait for it)
[Anime gif: do the thing]
GIVE FEWER FUCKS
TAKE SOME FUCKS OUT OF YOUR FUCK BASKET
CAUTION: NOT ALL THE FUCKS, YOU NEED SOME OF THEM, AFTER ALL
BUT TOO MANY FUCKS MAKES YOUR FUCKBASKET HEAVY, AND THEN IT BECOMES FUCKBAGGAGE
GIVE FEWER FUCKS AND BE FREE TO
*sings: doooo theeeeee thiiiiiing*
THAT STORY WON’T WRITE ITSELF
THAT DESK WON’T CLEAN ITSELF
THIS BODY DEFINITELY WON’T BURY ITSELF trust me I’ve hoped
REMOVE THE POSITIVES AND NEGATIVES
SIMPLY REALIZE THE THING MUST BE DONE AND WILL NOT GET DONE WITHOUT YOU DOING IT
*training montage ensues*
THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING HELP ME HIDE THE BODY THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING THE THING
do it
do the thing
WAIT WHO SAID SOMETHING ABOUT A BODY
THERE’S NO BODY
YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT A BODY NOT ME
I DEFINITELY DID NOT MURDER A STRANGER IN THE WOODS LAST NIGHT WITH MY HALLUCINATED DREAM HATCHET
THIS ISN’T ABOUT ME THIS IS ABOUT YOU
YOU, WHOEVER YOU ARE, HAVE THE CAPACITY TO DO THE THING, NO MATTER WHAT THE THING IS
I BELIEVE IN YOU
WE ALL BELIEVE IN YOU
THE DREAM HATCHET BELIEVES IN YOU
NOW GET OUT THERE, TIGER
SLUGGER
BUDDY PAL COWPOKE HOSS BOSS SCOOTER CHAMP SCAMP
GET OUT THERE AND DO THE GODDAMN THING
DO IT NOW — DON’T WAIT
YOU MIGHT NOT HAVE TOMORROW
THIS STRANGER I KILLED IN THE WOODS DEFINITELY DOESN’T
HE SHOULDA DONE THE THING
do. the. thing.
WAIT HOLD STILL I’M BACK WITH MORE
THINK ABOUT AN OWL
OWL’S GOTTA WHAT?
FLY EAT SHIT RAISE SOME OWLBABIES BARF UP SOME BONEPELLETS
WHAT DOES THE OWL NOT DO?
HESITATE
OWL DOES THE THING
BE LIKE THE OWL AND DO THE THING
[gif of owl: OWL SAYS DO THE THING OWL ALSO SAYS TO HELP CHUCK HIDE THE BODIES HURRY]
wait “bodies?”
plural?
uh oh guys I gotta go, uhh, do the thing, I hope you’re doing the thing too have a great friday shit shit shit
*saddles up Giant Owl*
*hauls sack of dead bodies up onto back of said Giant Owl*
*flies away*

do the thing | 7:29 am CST
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Tuesday, October 23rd, 2018

A canvasser came to our door last weekend to remind us to vote. B was out shopping. I answered the door. The canvasser rang the doorbell, then stepped back onto the walkway to talk to me.

When I opened the door and said hi, she answered, “Hello,” looked down at her clipboard, then back up at me and said, “Barb.”

I must have made a funny face or hesitated a moment too long, because she looked down at her clipboard again, then back up at me. “David?”

I nodded. “Yes, I’m David. Hi.”

She laughed a little nervously. “It’s all the hair, I guess.”

Okay, sure. I wear my hair long. I was also wearing a t-shirt, and my chest is flat as a board. Maybe that’s the problem: I need to work on my pecs.

mix-up | 5:52 am CST
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Sunday, October 21st, 2018

My Darling B and I went to the Madison Story Slam last night, a monthly event at the Wil-Mar Community Center where people gather to listen to stories told in an open-mike format. I learned about the story slam through Adam Rostad, whom I met at last weekend’s picnic for the motor vehicle employees and who not only hosts the event, but records it for a podcast he makes available online.

We got there as soon as the doors opened at six, because Adam told me all the available seats usually filled up in fifteen or twenty minutes, so if we got there closer to seven it would be standing room only. He later came to our table in the half-filled room to clarify that this was not a typical night: they were competing with three other community events last night, including a fundraiser for Senator Tammy Baldwin.

We stayed for a little more than two hours, then had to duck out before the end of the show to pick up a few items from the grocery store before it closed at nine-thirty. That still gave us lots of time to hear plenty of stories. Some of them were funny, some of them were serious, a lucky few had a wild combination of both. One guy had me laughing so hard I was almost in tears; he was in the same condition nearly all the way through his story. All in all, it was a very agreeable way to spend the evening.

story slam | 9:42 am CST
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Saturday, October 20th, 2018

One of my favorite ways to wind down at the end of the day is to watch YouTube videos of Trevor Noah’s The Daily Show, Stephen Colbert’s The Tonight Show, and Seth Meyers’s The Late Show. All the shows post highlights of the previous night’s show the next day, so I can catch up on all three in about an hour; longer, if they have a guest interview I’m interested in (normally, I’m not).

Although our flat-screen TV is supposed to be a “smart TV,” it’s pretty stupid until it logs in to our home wifi network, which normally takes a couple minutes. While it’s doing that, I surf the broadcast television channels to see what’s on. It’s almost all pretty bad reruns of the crappy TV I used to watch as a kid, including the original Star Trek television show with William Shatner, Leonard Nimoy, and the rest of the crew. Over a 3-year period they made 79 episodes of this show, and I’ve seen each and every one of them so many times that I usually know which one I’m watching within seconds of changing the channel, no matter which scene is playing.

The other night the scene was Kirk and his crew on the bridge, but Kirk was the only one moving; everybody else was still as a statue. Ah-hah! This is the episode (“Wink Of An Eye”) where the Enterprise responds to a distress call from the Scalosians, a race of beings who move so fast they cannot be perceived by the human eye! Which is kind of a cool premise, if you don’t think about it too much. I mean, even if they can move as fast as a bullet, they spend a lot of their time in this episode just standing around talking. So even though they can move too fast to be seen, you’d think someone would notice them when they stand still.

At one point, though, the pretty girl (there’s always a pretty girl, because Kirk) steps out of the way of a phaser beam, which crawls through the air at sloth-like speed. It gives her a really awesome-looking superpower but it means she can move faster than light, assuming phaser beams move at the speed of light. (I have no clue what a “phaser” is, but it rhymes with “laser” so I think we all assumed the pretty glowing beams from phasers were moving at the speed of light, didn’t we?) If these beings are moving faster than the speed of light, or even if they move at the speed of light, then how do they talk to one another? Sound moves at a pretty slow speed, a lot slower than light, slower than a bullet, even. If one of them said something to another one of them, it would take ages for the sound to move from the talker to the listener. And yet they yak yak yak at each other without having to wait around for the sound to move between them, somehow.

The pretty girl, called Deela, takes Kirk prisoner by slipping a mickey into his coffee that alters his metabolism, making him move as fast as her. They smooch a couple times right there on the bridge in front of everybody (because Kirk), there’s some yadda yadda yadda from the pretty girl to explain what’s going on, and finally Kirk storms off to see what he can to to fight back against these invaders from outer space. My question: How the hell does Kirk get off the bridge? The only door opens to the elevator, which they call a “turbolift” because, I guess, it moves pretty fast, but not as fast as a bullet, so not nearly fast enough to get Kirk (or Deela, for that matter) off the bridge before he croaks from old age. He must have used the secret back stairway that’s never been shown in any episode before.

Kirk confronts the other super-fast beings, they fight (because Kirk), there’s some more yadda yadda to explain what’s going on, and then Kirk and Deela do it. You never see them do it, thank goodness, you only see them smooching just before, then they cut away to another scene, and when they cut back, Kirk is pulling on his boots and Deela is fixing her hair. And I’m sorry to put this image in your head, but if they’re moving faster than bullets, how do they not suffer deadly blistering from the friction of rubbing against one another? Their heads should be literally bursting into flame just from the smooching. Well, they should all be literally incinerated just by walking through the air. They would be like meteors streaking through the atmosphere. One step forward at that speed and POOF! They would never get close enough to smooch.

There’s a lot more that’s wrong with this episode, but I’ve already written way too much about it. It’s just Star Trek, after all. You’re supposed to just sit back and enjoy it. But damn.

fast forward | 2:39 pm CST
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I really ate way too much fried foods last night, starting with an appetizer that was so weird I had to point it out to My Darling B: deep-fried macaroni & cheese. I couldn’t even imagine what that would look like. “Let’s get some and see,” was B’s reply, so we did. They brought us a basket of what looked like fish fingers, right down to the little bowl of white dipping sauce flecked with green seasoning on the side. When I bit into one, though, it was very clearly macaroni & cheese on the inside. They’d simply poured mac & cheese into a rectangular mold, probably frozen it so they could coat it in batter and panko, then deep-fried it. I have to admit I liked it & ate two of the damn things.

For the main dish, I ordered a Cuban sandwich, which I’m almost certain they fried on a griddle in a pool of vegetable oil. Delicious, but. It came with a side of fries, the kind that are dipped in batter before they deep-fry them. I just love those fucken things, even though I have this gnawing feeling I’m probably way past the age when I should have stopped eating them. Ate every one.

And paid for it with indigestion that lasted all night, and nightmares about trying to make sense out of dozens and dozens of spread sheets.

bleh bleh bleh | 12:03 pm CST
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My Darling B and I went to see “A Star Is Born” at a place called Flix Brewhouse, which is just what it says on the can: A movie theater that also brews beer. I have to say, I would never have thought of that combination, even though brewpubs are sprouting up everywhere and it probably won’t be long before there’s one in your local gas station.

The one in Madison (it’s a chain, natch) is a multiplex with about a dozen screens. I’m for multiplexes in theory because they offer a wide variety of movie-watching opportunities, but I’m against them in practice, because the movie in the theater next door always seems to feature lots of explosions at the same time the movie I’m watching has reached the quiet part. Kinda ruins the mood.

That said, we’ve enjoyed both our visits, first to see “First Man” last week, and again to see “A Star Is Born” this weekend. The theaters are laid out well; we sat in the back row and still had an excellent view of the screen. The seats are comfortable and there’s lots of legroom, owing to the dinner trays between each row of seats.

We ordered beers at the bar in the lobby both times & took them in with us. One of the staff stopped by to take our dinner order minutes after we sat down, and the food was brought to our table within ten minutes. They seem to have a small army of wait staff on hand to make sure you get what you want fast, then get out of your way. If you need something during the movie, you write it on a pad, press a button on your dinner tray, and the waiter comes to make sure you’re taken care of. Pretty neat.

The food is good, not great. A lot of it is fried. I only mention it because I gotta stop eating fried food. They serve salads and wraps, too, which I’ll have to try next time.

“A Star Is Born” was pretty good. Not great, but I didn’t expect it could live up to all the hype I’m hearing: “Greatest movie I’ve ever seen!” What really? I mean, I liked it, and I was pleasantly surprised by how good Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper are, but this is a story I’ve seen about a dozen times by now. There wasn’t a scene in it that made me think, “Well, I didn’t expect that.” And the music was good but, again, couldn’t live up to the hype people are giving it. I liked it, but I couldn’t whistle a phrase from any one of the songs now.

No, wait: I can whistle “La Vie En Rose.” It was a treat to see Gaga belt out that one.

A Star Is Born | 8:02 am CST
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Sunday, October 14th, 2018

Movie time! We watched two movies in the past two days: A Wrinkle In Time just last night, and First Man on Friday evening.

After an afternoon spent at the office picnic, we were in the mood to stay in and watch something in the warmth & comfort of our living room, so I clicked on the first episode of The Romanoffs, because I’ve seen good reviews of it online. Watched about twenty minutes of it before deciding it just wasn’t for me.

After five or ten minutes of scrolling through the new movies, we settled on Lady Bird, because, again, it got a lot of good press and I think we even heard from some people we knew who liked it, although I couldn’t say right now who said that or if they did. I stuck with Lady Bird for about twenty minutes before I announced, “I’m out,” and started gathering my things up to go to another room.

“Yeah, it’s just not doing it for me, either,” My Darling B said.

So I shut off the TV but My Darling B asked for the remote. She scrolled for maybe another five minutes before clicking on A Wrinkle In Time.

We watched it all the way through, although I sat for the whole thing mostly out of stubbornness. I can’t say I’d recommend it. It looked great, meaning the production values were obviously unlimited. I can’t fault it for looks at all. And the talent was great, too, although I have to say I thought the actors weren’t given much to work with. I thought the dialogue was stilted, disjointed. The scenes didn’t seem connected to one another. There wasn’t much of a flow. And the plot was rudimentary: Daughter goes searching for her lost father with the help of her brilliant brother. Love conquers all. But honestly, I didn’t see a whole lotta love between the characters, other than a few tropes, like sister punches mouthy girl who insults brother. And when daughter finally finds father in the farthest reaches of the universe, father does something so heinous, but daughter forgives him because, I guess, love conquers all. I just didn’t feel it. One star.

First Man is a film based on the biography by James R. Hansen of astronaut Neil Armstrong. I read the book a few years ago and liked it a lot, but when I heard about a year ago it would be the basis of a film, I boggled at the idea of how exactly they would do that. The book is exhaustively detailed. Condensing Armstrong’s life into a two-hour movie would require a Herculean effort.

First Man is not your typical “astronaut conquering space” movie. If you expect to see something like Apollo 13 or The Martian, you might go away disappointed. I thought it was great at showing how well Armstrong met the challenge of what turned out to be a monumentally daunting job, while at the same time dealing with the personal conflicts of friends and family. I’d recommend it. Four stars. I’d give it five, but anybody who knows what a space geek I am wouldn’t take that seriously. Four seems realistic.

movie time | 3:55 pm CST
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Sunday, September 16th, 2018

I’m currently reading “The Fated Sky” (sequel to “The Calculating Stars”) by Mary Robinette Kowal and I’m really enjoying it. The characters are relateable and I love the story because it’s all about PEOPLE IN SPAAACE!

If I had one gripe to make about it, just one teensy-weensy little niggle, it would be with the McGuffin of the story, the idea that we colonized planets because global warming was going to kill us here on Earth, instead of doing it to beat the Russians to the moon.

The global warming in this story is triggered by a meteorite that zaps Earth just off the eastern coast of the United States in 1955, goosing the space program into high gear in order to establish colonies in orbit, on the moon, and on Mars and Venus before Earth’s biosphere becomes too inhospitable to live in.

It’s a trope that gets used a lot in science fiction stories, and it’s not a deal-breaker, as far as I’m concerned. If you’ve got a good story, I’ll suspend disbelief for a lot of reasons. I’ve got bookshelves filled with stories about traveling to the stars at faster-than-light speeds even though that’s pretty much against the most fundamental laws of the universe. I love stories about going to space. And I love the idea of an alternative history which makes America’s space program more than just a race to beat the Russians to the moon for the sake of national prestige.

But over the years I’ve gone off the idea that humans must colonize Mars or Vesta or whichever celestial body because the Earth will become inhospitable due to a natural or a man-made disaster.

There is no place in the heavens that will ever be more hospitable to human life than Earth. I mean, sure, we could go live on the moon, but we would have to live in caves to avoid an ugly death from long-term exposure to the sun’s radiation. And anybody who was on the surface of the moon to experience one of the sun’s frequent coronal mass ejections would be killed instantly.

I’m pretty sure the same goes for Mars. It’s got an atmosphere, but it hasn’t got a magnetic field, so the sun’s full radiation beats down on the surface all day long. I don’t know how long humans could stand up to that, but I doubt they could do it all their lives.

Atmosphere. The moon hasn’t got one. Mars has a tenuous atmosphere, but it’s so close to a vacuum as to make no difference. So whether we establish a colony on the moon or on Mars, everybody would have to live in airtight cans buried beneath yards and yards of dirt. Some of the cans would be small, some would be large, but I think exactly none of them would be large enough to make me feel like I was outside. I could live in a can for a while, but eventually I would have to walk under an open sky, and feel the sun and wind on my face. I find it hard to believe engineers would be able to build any structure big enough that it wouldn’t feel like an enclosed space. I don’t know how long I could live in an enclosed space before I went ga-ga, but I feel certain it would only be a matter of time before I collapsed mentally and had to be put out of my own misery, and I feel just as certain that most people are just like me in that sense.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe people could live in an airtight can all their lives. But I doubt it.

It’s just one niggle, as I said. And as I said, I can suspend my disbelief because I enjoy reading the story. It’s a wonderful story.

colonists in spaaaaaace | 12:33 pm CST
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Saturday, September 15th, 2018

A Twitter thread from author Gabrielle Blair, who tweets using the handle @designmom:

I’m a mother of six, and a Mormon. I have a good understanding of arguments surrounding abortion, religious and otherwise. I’ve been listening to men grandstand about women’s reproductive rights, and I’m convinced men actually have zero interest in stopping abortion. Here’s why…

If you want to stop abortion, you need to prevent unwanted pregnancies. And men are 100% responsible for unwanted pregnancies. No for real, they are. Perhaps you are thinking: IT TAKES TWO! And yes, it does take two for _intentional_ pregnancies.

But ALL unwanted pregnancies are caused by the irresponsible ejaculations of men. Period. Don’t believe me? Let me walk you through it. Let’s start with this: women can only get pregnant about 2 days each month. And that’s for a limited number of years.

That makes 24 days a year a women might get pregnant. But men can _cause_ pregnancy 365 days a year. In fact, if you’re a man who ejaculates multiple times a day, you could cause multiple pregnancies daily. In theory a man could cause 1000+ unwanted pregnancies in just one year.

And though their sperm gets crappier as they age, men can cause unwanted pregnancies from puberty till death. So just starting with basic biology + the calendar it’s easy to see men are the issue here.

But what about birth control? If a woman doesn’t want to risk an unwanted pregnancy, why wouldn’t she just use birth control? If a women can manage to figure out how to get an abortion, surely she can get birth control, right? Great questions.

Modern birth control is possibly the greatest invention of the last century, and I am very grateful for it. It’s also brutal. The side effects for many women are ridiculously harmful. So ridiculous, that when an oral contraception for men was created, it wasn’t approved…

… because of the side effects. And the list of side effects was about 1/3 as long as the known side effects for women’s oral contraception.

There’s a lot to be unpacked just in that story, but I’ll simply point out (in case you didn’t know) that as a society, we really don’t mind if women suffer, physically or mentally, as long as it makes things easier for men.

But good news, Men: Even with the horrible side effects, women are still very willing to use birth control. Unfortunately it’s harder to get than it should be. Birth control options for women require a doctor’s appointment and a prescription. It’s not free, and often not cheap.

In fact there are many people trying to make it more expensive by fighting to make sure insurance companies refuse to cover it. Oral contraceptives for women can’t be acquired easily, or at the last minute. And they don’t work instantly.

If we’re talking about the pill, it requires consistent daily use and doesn’t leave much room for mistakes, forgetfulness, or unexpected disruptions to daily schedules. And again, the side effects can be brutal. I’M STILL GRATEFUL FOR IT PLEASE DON’T TAKE IT AWAY.

I’m just saying women’s birth control isn’t simple or easy. In contrast, let’s look at birth control for men, meaning condoms. Condoms are readily available at all hours, inexpensive, convenient, and don’t require a prescription. They’re effective, and work on demand, instantly.

Men can keep them stocked up just in case, so they’re always prepared. Amazing! They are so much easier than birth control options for women. As a bonus, in general, women love when men use condoms. They keep us from getting STDs, they don’t lessen our pleasure during sex…

… or prevent us from climaxing. And the best part? Clean up is so much easier — no waddling to the toilet as your jizz drips down our legs. So why in the world are there ever unwanted pregnancies? Why don’t men just use condoms every time they have sex? Seems so simple, right?

Oh. I remember. Men _don’t_ love condoms. In fact, men frequently pressure women to have sex without a condom. And it’s not unheard of for men to remove the condom during sex, without the women’s permission or knowledge. (Pro-tip: That’s assault.)

Why would men want to have sex without a condom? Good question. Apparently it’s because for the minutes they are penetrating their partner, having no condom on gives the experience more pleasure.

So… there are men willing to risk getting a woman pregnant — which means literally risking her life, her health, her social status, her relationships, and her career, so that they can experience a few minutes of _slightly_ more pleasure? Is that for real? Yes. Yes it is.

What are we talking about here pleasure-wise? If there’s a pleasure scale, with pain beginning at zero and going down into the negatives, a back-scratch falling at 5, and an orgasm without a condom being a 10, where would sex _with_ a condom fall? Like a 7 or 8?

So it’s not like sex with a condom is _not_ pleasurable, it’s just not _as_ pleasurable. An 8 instead of a 10. Let me emphasize that again: Men regularly choose to put women at massive risk by having non-condom sex, in order to experience a few minutes of slightly more pleasure.

Now keep in mind, for the truly condom-averse, men also have a non-condom, always-ready birth control built right in, called the pull out. It’s not perfect, and it’s a favorite joke, but it is also 96% effective.

So surely, we can expect men who aren’t wearing a condom to at least pull out every time they have sex, right? Nope. And why not?

Well, again, apparently it’s _slightly_ more pleasurable to climax inside a vagina than, say, on their partner’s stomach. So men are willing to risk the life, health and well-being of women, in order to experience a tiny bit more pleasure for like 5 seconds during orgasm.

It’s mind-boggling and disturbing when you realize that’s the choice men are making. And honestly, I’m not as mad as I should be about this, because we’ve trained men from birth that their pleasure is of utmost importance in the world. (And to dis-associate sex and pregnancy.)

While we’re here, let’s talk a bit more about pleasure and biology. Did you know that a man CAN’T get a woman pregnant without having an orgasm? Which means that we can conclude getting a woman pregnant is a pleasurable act for men.

But did you further know that men CAN get a woman pregnant without HER feeling any pleasure at all? In fact, it’s totally possible for a man to impregnate a woman even while causing her excruciating pain, trauma or horror.

In contrast, a woman can have non-stop orgasms with or without a partner and never once get herself pregnant. A woman’s orgasm has literally nothing to do with pregnancy or fertility — her clitoris exists not for creating new babies, but simply for pleasure.

No matter how many orgasms she has, they won’t make her pregnant. Pregnancies can only happen when men have an orgasm. Unwanted pregnancies can only happen when men orgasm irresponsibly.

What this means is a women can be the sluttliest slut in the entire world who loves having orgasms all day long and all night long and she will never find herself with an unwanted pregnancy unless a man shows up and ejaculates irresponsibly.

Women enjoying sex does not equal unwanted pregnancy and abortion. Men enjoying sex and having irresponsible ejaculations is what causes unwanted pregnancies and abortion.

Let’s talk more about responsibility. Men often don’t know, and don’t ask, and don’t think to ask, if they’ve caused a pregnancy. They may never think of it, or associate sex with making babies at all. Why? Because there are 0 consequences for men who cause unwanted pregnancies.

If the woman decides to have an abortion, the man may never know he caused an unwanted pregnancy with his irresponsible ejaculation.

If the woman decides to have the baby, or put the baby up for adoption, the man may never know he caused an unwanted pregnancy with his irresponsible ejaculation, or that there’s now a child walking around with 50% of his DNA.

If the woman does tell him that he caused an unwanted pregnancy and that she’s having the baby, the closest thing to a consequence for him, is that he may need to pay child support. But our current child support system is well-known to be a joke.

61% of men (or women) who are legally required to pay it, simply don’t. With little or no repercussions. Their credit isn’t even affected. So, many men keep going as is, causing unwanted pregnancies with irresponsible ejaculations and never giving it thought.

When the topic of abortion comes up, men might think: Abortion is horrible; women should not have abortions. And never once consider the man who CAUSED the unwanted pregnancy. If you’re not holding men responsible for unwanted pregnancies, then you are wasting your time.

Stop protesting at clinics. Stop shaming women. Stop trying to overturn abortion laws. If you actually care about reducing or eliminating the number of abortions in our country, simply HOLD MEN RESPONSIBLE FOR THEIR ACTIONS.

What would that look like? What if there was a real and immediate consequence for men who cause an unwanted pregnancy? What kind of consequence would make sense? Should it be as harsh, painful, nauseating, scarring, expensive, risky, and life-altering…

… as forcing a woman to go through a 9-month unwanted pregnancy?

In my experience, men really like their testicles. If irresponsible ejaculations were putting their balls at risk, they would stop being irresponsible. Does castration seem like a cruel and unusual punishment? Definitely.

But is it worse than forcing 500,000 women a year to puke daily for months, gain 40 pounds, and then rip their bodies apart in childbirth? Is a handful of castrations worse than women dying during forced pregnancy & childbirth?

Put a castration law on the books, implement the law, let the media tell the story, and in 3 months or less, tada! abortions will have virtually disappeared. Can you picture it? No more abortions in less than 3 months, without ever trying to outlaw them. Amazing.

For those of you who consider abortion to be murder, wouldn’t you be on board with having a handful of men castrated, if it prevented 500,000 murders each year?

And if not, is that because you actually care more about policing women’s bodies, morality, and sexuality, than you do about reducing or eliminating abortions? (That’s a rhetorical question.)

Hey, you can even have the men who will be castrated bank their sperm before it happens — just in case they want to responsibly have kids some day.

Can’t wrap your head around a physical punishment for men? Even though you seem to be more than fine with physical punishments for women? Okay. Then how about this prevention idea: At the onset of puberty, all males in the U.S. could be required by law to get a vasectomy.

Vasectomies are very safe, totally reversible, and about as invasive as an doctor’s exam for a woman getting a birth control prescription. There is some soreness afterwards for about 24 hours, but that’s pretty much it for side effects.

(So much better than The Pill, which is taken by millions of women in our country, the side effects of which are well known and can be brutal.)

If/when the male becomes a responsible adult, and perhaps finds a mate, if they want to have a baby, the vasectomy can be reversed, and then redone once the childbearing stage is over. And each male can bank their sperm before the vasectomy, just in case.

It’s not that wild of an idea. 80% of males in the U.S. are circumcised, most as babies. And that’s not reversible.

Don’t like my ideas? That’s fine. I’m sure there are better ones. Go ahead and suggest your own ideas. My point is that it’s nonsense to focus on women if you’re trying to get rid of abortions. Abortion is the “cure” for an unwanted pregnancy.

If you want to stop abortions, you need to prevent the “disease” – meaning, unwanted pregnancies. And the only way to do that, is by focusing on men, because: MEN CAUSE 100% OF UNWANTED PREGNANCIES. Or. IRRESPONSIBLE EJACULATIONS BY MEN CAUSE 100% OF UNWANTED PREGNANCIES.

If you’re a man, what would the consequence need to be for you to never again ejaculate irresponsibly? Would it be money related? Maybe a loss of rights or freedoms? Physical pain?

Ask yourselves: What would it take for you to value the life of your sexual partner more than your own temporary pleasure or convenience?

Are you someone who learns better with analogies? Let’s try this one: Think of another great pleasure in life, let’s say food. Think of your favorite meal, dessert, or drink.

What if you found out that every time you indulge in that favorite food you risked causing great physical and mental pain for someone you know intimately. You might not cause any pain, but it’s a real risk.

Well, you’d probably be sad, but never indulge in that food again, right? Not worth the risk!

And then, what if you further found out, there was a simple thing you could do before you ate that favorite food, and it would eliminate the risk of causing pain to someone else. Which is great news!

BUT the simple thing you need to do makes the experience of eating the food slightly less pleasurable. To be clear, it would still be VERY pleasurable, but slightly less so. Like maybe you have to eat the food with a fork or spoon that you don’t particularly like.

Would you be willing to do that simple thing, and eliminate the risk of causing pain to someone you know intimately, every single time you ate your favorite food? OF COURSE YOU WOULD.

Condoms (or even pulling out) is that simple thing. Don’t put women at risk. Don’t choose to maximize your own pleasure if it risks causing women pain.

Men mostly run our government. Men mostly make the laws. And men could eliminate abortions in 3 months or less without ever touching an abortion law or evening mentioning women.

In summary: STOP TRYING TO CONTROL WOMEN’S BODIES AND SEXUALITY. UNWANTED PREGNANCIES ARE CAUSED BY MEN. The end.

Gabrielle Blair on unwanted pregnancies | 9:22 am CST
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Saturday, September 8th, 2018

My hair’s quite long now, although when I say “quite long,” I mean it’s grown past the top of my collar in back, covers my ears, and hangs in my eyes if I don’t comb it back.

That’s as long as I’ve ever worn it in my life.  I used to wear it about as long while I was in junior high and high school, then cut it a bit shorter while I was in college.  The reason?  There was a barber on my college campus who would cut my hair the way I asked him to.  In my experience, this kind of barber is a rare bird indeed.

The first barber I remember going to was the kind who asked me what I wanted when I sat down, then hung a sheet around my neck and did a rough approximation of what I told him without ever stopping to ask if he was doing what I liked.  What I ended up with was his idea of what a teenage boy’s hair should look like.  Keep in mind this guy was born in the 1930s.

This has happened at virtually every barber I’ve ever tried: I sit down, they ask what I want, I give them what I think is a description that’s good enough to start with, and that’s the last time they ask before giving me the haircut they think I ought to have. I end up looking nothing like I did when I came in.  Getting my hair cut is nearly always an unsatisfying experience.

There was this one guy I went to a couple years ago who did a great job on my hair.  Weirdly, barbering wasn’t his lifelong career.  He told me he had sold electron microscopes all his life and, after he retired, he took up barbering to keep busy.  He was really good at it, too.  He was one of those  people who could effortlessly keep a conversation going and, while he did, he would continually ask me about whether he was cutting my hair the way I liked.  Eventually I saw him often enough that he knew how I liked it, and we just had interesting conversations after that.  And of course he stopped barbering and I haven’t had a decent haircut since.

But back to my college campus barber.  He was a classic.  I think his name was Jerry.  He didn’t talk much, but he knew what to ask, he got my haircut just right, and after one or two visits he didn’t have to ask how I liked it.  That was the first time in my life getting my hair cut wasn’t a huge pain in the ass.

For the middle twenty years of my life, I was in the military, where I was prohibited by federal regulation from letting my hair grow longer than an inch and a quarter.  During those years, I didn’t think of a visit to the barber as “getting my hair cut,” but rather as “getting my head mowed.”  Cutting hair is a learned skill.  Mowing hair is not.  The approaches used by military barbers to mow hair differed a bit, but most of them simply put a number three comb on an electric clipper and swept it up my head from the sides to the top.  When all my hair was more or less the same length, they would switch out the number three comb for a number two and work on the sides, then blend the back and sides with a number one comb.  I was so sure this took no skill at all that, for the last five years I was in the military, I did this to myself in the mirror once a week.  As far as I could tell, I got about the same results.

When I got out of the military, I did what most guys do: grew a beard and let my hair grow.  When my hair got a little too shaggy, I’d visit a barber to see how he did with it.  Or her; I’ve been to almost as many women and men to get my hair cut.  I must’ve visited dozens of barbers around town by now, but I can think of just three who cut my hair in a way that I was really happy with.

After a couple years with the beard, I ditched it, but kept getting my hair cut.

For the past two or three years, getting my hair cut has been a chore that I haven’t looked forward to, so two or maybe three months ago I stopped doing it.  The hair in the back is now so long that it’s got an amazing flip to it that I never knew it had.  I have to admit I like it.  If I keep growing it out, I have the feeling that I’ll eventually have to find a stylist to maintain it.  Or maybe not.  I saw an older guy at a tavern the other day with hair as white as new-fallen snow that fell past his shoulders.  He’d obviously been growing it out for years.  It didn’t appear to be styled at all, just combed and brushed, and it looked pretty good.

hairy | 8:51 am CST
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Tuesday, August 28th, 2018

I found a cemetery of black ants in the basement this morning.  There must have been about two dozen of them, squashed and mangled, in a pile in the center of the room.  One of the cats must have been the killer, probably Sparky because he spends hours and hours down there doing who knows what.  Well, I guess we know what now.  But why would he pile up the bodies like that?

dead ant | 6:13 am CST
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Sunday, August 26th, 2018

I went looking for replacement blades for my electric razor week before last.  My very first razor before I switched to disposable cartridges was an electric Norelco triple-header.  My parents gave it to me for Christmas and I used it through college but gave it up sometime after I joined the Air Force.  I returned to civilian life and an electric shaver at the same time and, being a creature of habit, I bought another Norelco.  Shaved with it for years and years until it finally got to the point that I had to replace the razor or replace the blades.  I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to learn I couldn’t buy new blades anywhere but through the god of retail sales, Amazon.

First, I went to Shopko, the store where I bought the electric razor in the first place.  They were selling newer models that didn’t look anything like the one I was using, except they all had the trademark of Norelco razors, three rotary cutting heads.  Shopko sold replacement blades for one of the newer models they were currently selling, but that was it.  I bought a set just to see if they would fit my razor. They fit, but the notches in the back of the blades didn’t fit the points on the posts that were supposed to turn them around.  Seemed to me like a bit of planned obsolescence.

Next, I went to Kohl’s, the store next door.  It’s mostly a clothing store, but they sell small kitchen appliances like coffee makers and blenders, so I figured why wouldn’t they sell razors, too?  Nope.  No razors.  Just socks and ties.

I also went to the local Walgreen’s, a drug store with a eye-widening selection of disposable razors and cartridge razors.  They sold a handful of electric razors, and even a brand of safety razor I never heard of, although, to be completely fair, the only brand of safety razor I’ve ever heard of is Gillette.  But even though Walgreen’s sold a wide variety of razors, there were no replacement blades for any electric razor in stock.

Out of sheer desperation, I went down the street to the Kwik-Trip, a gas station and convenience store.  They stocked disposable razors and some cartridges, but no blades for electric razors.  Unsurprisingly.

Disappointed, I headed home to search online for replacement razor blades.  Amazon sells the blades I need for my razor, but they cost two-thirds the price of a new razor.  So, really, I ought to have bought a new razor at Shopko to save myself all the time and gas I burned running around looking for replacement blades, to say nothing of the time I would have to wait for a package from Amazon.

I recalled a conversation I had with Tim some months ago, in which he told me he switched from a cartridge razor to a safety razor, so when he came over for dinner last weekend, I asked him if he was still using a safety razor.  He not only confirmed he was, he said it was the best shaving decision he ever made.  The safety razor gave him a better cut, he said, and was more comfortable than any cartridge razor he had ever used.  “I actually look forward to shaving,” he said.

Forearmed with a few tips from Tim, I went online to order some shaving supplies.  They arrived a couple days later and I gave myself the first wet shave of my life last Thursday morning.  After working up a thick lather across the lower half of my face, which I had only ever seen in the movies before, I gently took the razor to my skin, specifically my right cheek, gave it a couple pulls, and stopped to admire my work.  Smooth and pink and not a nick in sight.  In fact, I shaved my face from my neckline to my ears without a single nick anywhere, and felt pretty well chuffed about it.

The safety razor I bought is known as a twist-to-open: the top is split down the middle the long way, and the two halves clamshell open from the outer edges when you twist the handle.  Then you drop a razor blade in from the top and give the handle a twist in the other direction to close it up.

As you twist the handle, the clamshells are drawn down against the base, pushing the blade against the clamshells and bending it in a gentle arc.  I noticed this the first time I used the razor, turning the handle firmly but not aggressively until it stopped.  I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to bend the blade like that or not, even though I got a great shave from it, so the next morning I didn’t turn the handle all the way, bending the blade only slightly.  Still a good shave, although I did give myself a bit of a nick.  Backed it off a little more the next morning with similar results.

This morning, I turned the handle only as far as I needed to press the blade against the clamshells without bending it.  Huge mistake.  Not only did my face looked like a bloody piece of steak after I was finished, my face felt as if I’d sandpapered it.

When Tim came over a little later, I asked him if he had the same experience.  (Odd feeling, the dad asking the son for tips on shaving.)  He didn’t, but not because he was as careless as I was.  His razor doesn’t twist to open.  Instead, the top of his unscrews from the base.  He hasn’t noticed whether or not his bends the blade the way mine does.

But after this morning’s experiment, there’s no way I’m going to shave with that razor again without torquing the clamshells all the way down, bending the blade.  My guess, and it’s only a guess at this point, is that slight bend is critical to giving a close shave that won’t nick the skin.  If my face isn’t a bloody mess tomorrow morning, I’ll feel a little bit less like I’m guessing and more like I’m right.

bloodied | 12:51 pm CST
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My Darling B and I traveled to Milwaukee yesterday to look at art.

love and art

“To look at art” is possibly not the first thing you think of after “Travel to Milwaukee,” but they do, in fact, have a collection of art in a museum there, and it’s art by artists so well-known that even a country bumpkin such as I has heard of them. Right now, for instance, they are featuring the art of Georgia O’Keefe, who is not an artist I have heard of but My Darling B has, and she is just as much a bumpkin as I am, if not more bumpkinish, so there you go.

I talked B into going to Milwaukee to look at art yesterday because it was the 29th anniversary of our marriage, which I wanted to spend doing something special with her all day long. We have always had fun visiting art museums, partly to look at the world-famous art, but also to make fun of the silly art, of which every typical museum we have visited always possessed by the truckload. At the Milwaukee art museum, for instance, they had several of those wall-sized canvases painted a single primary color, one enormous canvas that was black, and one that was white with a slit down the middle of it. I imagine that last was created by an artist who stared at it for hours until, out of sheer frustration, he slashed at it with the pointy end of his brush, then set it aside in his studio where it remained until his death when it was sold by his estate for a million dollars.

After taking in the art at the museum, we did a bit of people-watching as we walked along the lakefront. The art museum seems to be the place to go with your wedding party to get photos of them. We saw no fewer than six different wedding parties outside the museum, and one of the parties was headed for a reception in the main entrance hall. Our best estimate for renting the main hall of the art museum for your wedding reception: All the money we would ever make in our lifetimes.

After walking around the museum for hours, we both decided we could use a cool, refreshing drink, so we drove a couple of blocks into town to visit The Broken Bat, a craft brewery that came highly recommended by a friend of mine, and he wasn’t wrong. They served what I thought was perhaps the best Belgian ale I’ve had in a long time. We had them line up tasters of almost every one of their beers and passed a happy hour or so sipping away the rest of the afternoon.

To finish off the evening, we had dinner a little further uptown at the Rumpus Room. As coincidence would have it, a hen party showed up while we were there, and another passed by on the sidewalk just outside the window where we were sitting. It seemed weddings were in the air this weekend.

The sculpture in the selfie photo above is, of course, the world-famous artwork of Gustav Dusseldorf Stopfurnose Von Runnen, who is perhaps most well-known for making bracelets out of old typewriter keys but whose real passion is carving alphabets out of full-size sheets of Styrofoam insulation which he mails at his own expense to municipalities across the country, and that’s why you see these “L O V E” sculptures no matter where you go.

love and art | 7:48 am CST
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Saturday, August 18th, 2018

The office I work in moved into a newly-constructed building last March.  Shortly after we moved, I took this photo of the view out the window over my desk:

March 13 2018

That was on March 13, 2018, in the early morning hours. I was so pleased to finally have a window. My first paid job was developing photographs in the darkroom of a small-town newspaper and, ever since then, I’ve worked in one job or another that required me to work in a building with no windows at all.

The next photo was taken April 23, 2018.  The only difference you can note, other than that the snow’s melted, is that the windows have been removed from the building to the right.  That’s the “B Building,” an annex to the office building I used to work in, and although you can’t tell, they’re already demolishing it by driving a miniature bulldozer around inside the building, pushing the piled-up masonry and metalwork out through holes punched in the walls on the other side of the building.

April 23 2018

In this rainy-day shot taken on May 1, 2018, you can see one of the little bulldozers on the roof, and the wind blowing the window blinds through the open frames where the windows used to be.

May 1 2018

Nothing obviously new going on in this photo from May 7, 2018:

May 7 2018

By May 10, 2018, excavators with jackhammers mounted on the ends of their hydraulic arms were knocking down the walls of the B Building.  The guy with the fire hose is apparently trying to keep the dust down.  The main building in the background is where I used to work, up on the eighth floor, about where the big hole has been punched in the wall.

May 10 2018

About half the B Building was down by May 11, 2018.

May 11 2018

A bit more than half the building was demolished on May 14, 2018.

May 14 2018

Only the corner of the B Building remained on May 15, 2018.

May 15 2018

We were out of town when the last of the B Building collapsed.  I was told it made quite a noise when it fell on its own.  By the time we got back to work on May 21, 2018, all that was left of the B Building was a pile of rubble.

May 21 2018

On May 22, 2018, a half-dozen excavators roam the rubble, sorting the metalwork from the stonework.  The crane in the background is using the shipping container to hoist demolition equipment up to the building and bring stuff down that they don’t want to just shove out the hole to the ground.

May 22 2018

May 24, 2018: Sorting through the rubble continues.

May 24, 2018

May 29, 2018: They’ve removed the window glass from the second floor.

May 29, 2018

May 30, 2018: They’ve removed the window glass from the third floor.

May 30, 2018

May 31, 2018:

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June 1, 2018:

June 1 2018

June 6, 2018:

June 6 2018

June 13, 2018: All the window glass has been removed.

June 13 2018

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August 17 2018

all fall down | 12:39 pm CST
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Wednesday, August 8th, 2018

So how come brain-eating amoebas aren’t killing everybody?

A little background:

My Darling B uses a neti pot to irrigate her sinuses when they become clogged because of her allergies.

A neti pot looks like a doll’s teapot.  She fills it with warm water, sticks the spout in one of her nostrils, tips her head to the side so the nostril with the teapot spout stuck in it is up top, and lets the water run through her sinuses and out the lower nostril.  It’s pretty gross, but it helps relieve the pressure in her head and clears her sinuses of whatever gunk gets stuck in there after an allergic reaction.

I’ve read that it’s very important to use only distilled water when irrigating your sinuses with a neti pot.  Ordinary tap water has all kinds of microscopic bugs in it, including amoebas that would really like to eat your brain.  The FDA says it’s okay to swallow tap water with brain-eating amoebas in it because your stomach acid will kill them, but you shouldn’t get tap water up your nose unless you boil it first to kill the bugs in it.

Okay, so why don’t the amoebas get up our noses when we shower in ordinary tap water?  I get water up my nose all the time when I shower.  I assumed everybody did.  I know my kids got water up their noses almost every time they took a bath.  Are there amoebas eating their brains right now?  Well, in the case of my kids, probably yes.  Sorry, kids.

My Darling B doesn’t see why we don’t all have amoebas eating our brains, either, and furthermore she says she’s going to use this as her excuse for every future mess-up she gets caught at.  Didn’t get her work done on time?  Amoebas are eating my brain.  Cop pulled her over?  Sorry, officer, it must be the brain-eating amoebas.  It could be a pretty slick defense.

brain bugs | 6:50 am CST
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Tuesday, August 7th, 2018

The guy ahead of me in line at the grocery store paid for his sandwich and coffee with the pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters he dug out of his pocket one at a time.

It was even more excruciating than it sounds, for the cashier and for the people in line behind him.

pocket change | 6:00 am CST
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Monday, August 6th, 2018

Listening to the radio as I drove to the coffee shop in the morning, I heard an advertisement that began something like this: “It can be so easy to forget to change your refrigerator filter.”  My ears pricked up, because I didn’t realize refrigerators might have filters.  What would the filter be filtering?  “Just text ‘filter” to 005005 and we’ll send you a new filter every six months!”  Didn’t explain much.  Is this some kind of scam?  “Did you know that if you don’t replace your refrigerator’s filter regularly, it will get clogged with clogged with warm air? Keep your fridge running efficiently! Replace its warm air filter every six months!”  But no, it turned out they were talking about replacing water filters for fridges that dispense water and make ice.  Our fridge is a boring old fridge that only keeps food cold.  If I could get them to come clean the lint out of the radiator coils, that would be worth taking a chance on a phone scam.

fridge angst | 8:27 am CST
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Sunday, August 5th, 2018

After finishing the second volume of Connie Willis’s time-travel epic, “All Clear,” I felt a driving need to re-read another Willis novel, “To Say Nothing Of The Dog.” I checked a copy out of our local library when I read it for the first time many years ago, so I paused as I was reading the final chapters of “All Clear” long enough to order a hardbound copy of “To Say Nothing Of The Dog” through Amazon, which arrived in the mail the next day.

Although the book’s cover was technically what I would have to admit is hard, what I was thinking of when I ordered it was a full-size book with a stitched binding. What I got was a small paperback book with a hard cover grafted on to it, the way libraries used to (still do?) recover paperbacks to give them a second lease on life.  I sealed it back up in the box, called up Amazon’s web site and marked my purchase “returned,” then started a new search for a full-size hardbound copy, slightly used.

I have a memory (maybe false; my memory’s kinda dodgy these days) of scrolling through long lists of used books on Amazon.  If it’s not a false memory, then apparently you can’t do that any longer, or at least I couldn’t figure out how.  I tried searching with Google, thinking that might take me to the lists I remember through some back door, but no luck that way, either.  I could choose new or used, I could choose hard-bound or paperback, but no matter what I checked, I didn’t get a list, just the option to purchase and no way of knowing that I wasn’t going to end up with another dinky paperback strapped to a hard cover.

So I hopped in the car and hit the streets.  The number of book stores in my area has been steadily decreasing, more’s the pity, but there are still a few worth driving to.  First, I went to the Half Price Books store on the west side of town.  They usually have a pretty good selection of science fiction, and they even had a full-sized hardcover copy of “All Clear” (the copy I have is a trade paperback) for just eight bucks, which went home with me.  Sometimes you don’t get the Connie Willis you’re looking for, but you still get the Connie Willis you need.  Pretty happy with that find, although now I’ll be trolling the shelves looking for a matching copy of “Blackout” for months, maybe years to come.

Back in the car, I cut through town to get to the Half Price Books on the east side, stopping off for a quick look through A Room Of One’s Own to see if I could score a copy there.  No luck on the shelves, and the woman at the desk very helpfully did a computer search of their inventory of used books but had to report they had no copies in stock.  Worth a try.

Saint Vinnie’s on Willy Street used to have one of the best selections of used books in the city.  I brought home armloads of books every weekend back in the day, but now I rarely bother to even look.  I stopped today anyway because I was going up Willy Street anyway and Saint Vinnie’s is one block over from the grocery store, where I stopped to pick up a few things for supper, then crossed the street and ducked in, fingers crossed.  The science fiction section is just sad.  It doesn’t even fill the shelves of one book case.  And no Connie Willis at all.

I couldn’t find “To Say Nothing Of The Dog” at the Half Price Books on the east side, either, but did snag a copy of Gardner Dozois’s 10th Annual collection of science fiction which coincidentally included the Connie Willis short story, “Even The Queen,” a laugh-out-loud gem that I read as soon as I got home.  Another example of finding the Connie Willis you need.

In the end, I had to order a copy of “To Say Nothing Of The Dog” through the web site Alibris, which not only let me browse through a long list of used books, it even provided descriptions of the books: which printing, what condition they were in, whether or not they were signed by the author.  I got a first printing, signed, in good condition, for just eighteen dollars.  Gonna hold my breath until it comes in the mail to see if I really get that.

In the meantime, I snagged a paperback copy at Barnes & Noble because I can’t wait to start reading until the hardbound copy arrives.  Cracked it open and got through the first chapter and halfway into the second chapter before I had to turn out the lights last night.

in search of a hard cover book | 10:36 am CST
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Saturday, August 4th, 2018

Scored a bit of coffee cake and a hot cuppa at Crema Cafe this morning, because I needed coffee cake.  Needed it.  There is sustenance in coffee cake that I cannot go without, and it must be unlocked through the catalytic chemistry of coffee, or something like that.  You correct it so it sounds right; I didn’t pay attention in chemistry class.

I got a large cup of coffee to go because “small cup of coffee” didn’t sound adequate.  I asked the barista how big a large cup was.  “Sixteen ounces.”  Shrug.  “It’s not much.”

SIXTEEN OUNCES OF COFFEE IS NOT MUCH TO HER.  I may have found the high priestess of my tribe.

mucho coffee | 8:50 am CST
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I asked my coworker Romona yesterday if she drank coffee.  I suspected he was not a coffee drinker.  I never see her drinking coffee at work.  She occasionally goes down to the vending machines with Sarah, another one of my coworkers, to get a soft drink.  She eats a lot of fruits & veggies, sometimes a bowl of oatmeal in the morning, that kind of healthy stuff.  And I know she’s a gardener.  Not that any of those things is an indicator that she’s a more health-conscious person than I am, or that she has sworn off coffee.  Mostly it was just that I never saw her drinking coffee.  This is in an office where everyone drinks some kind of caffeinated beverage.  It seemed off that she didn’t.  So I boldly asked her, as I was walking to my desk with a steaming-hot cuppa, “Romona, do you drink coffee at all?  Because I never see you drinking coffee.”  And I didn’t say it, but it was implied: “How do you get out of bed every day and drag yourself to the office if you don’t drink coffee?  How is that even possible?”  And as it turns out, she’s not some magic fairy who gets her energy from the scent of flowers and the warmth of the sun.  She brews a pot of coffee first thing in the morning and downs one or two cups “just to get my heart going,” like the rest of us normies.  OR SO SHE SAYS.  Is there a way to confirm coffee consumption?  I have some intense googling to do on this subject.

Coffee drinking confirmed | 8:13 am CST
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Thursday, July 19th, 2018

I texted this message to My Darling B last weekend, while I was out riding my bike: “OMG IT IS HOTTER THAN A BURNING HOT THING OUT HERE”

She was not sympathetic.  “It’s only 80 degrees.  That’s not hot.”

“OH IT IS TOO HOT YOU BIG FIBBER” I answered.  I don’t usually text in all caps, but the situation seemed to require it.

“I seem to remember SOMEONE saying 80 degrees is not hot – pleasant even.  Huh.”

Yes, it is true I said 80 degrees is not hot.  It’s on the warm side of a pleasant summer’s day, but only when the humidity is somewhere south of fifty percent.   I don’t believe there’s a jury of my peers who would disagree with me on that, so long as that jury does not include My Darling B.

B and I are at that point in our lives when the days that make us both feel comfortable are rare indeed.  In winter, I am always too cold.  In summer, she is always too hot.  Very occasionally, like maybe six or seven days a year, the temperature will hover around seventy-two and we can both agree that, yes, this is the perfect day.  On the other 359-ish days, B is dripping sweat or I’m slowly freezing solid and we are looking at each other like, What Is Wrong With You?

hot and cold | 6:16 am CST
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Sunday, July 15th, 2018

Piers Morgan: What is the incentive for America to do a great deal with the United Kingdom?

Trump: We would make a great deal with the United Kingdom because they have product that we like.  I mean, they have a lot of great product.  They make phenomenal things, you know, and you have different names. You can say, “England.”  You can say, “U.K.”  You can say, “United Kingdom.”  So many different.  You know, you have, you have so many different names.  “Great Britain.”  I always say, “Which one do you prefer? Great Britain?”  You understand what I’m saying?

Morgan: You know Great Britain and the United Kingdom aren’t exactly the same thing?

Trump: Right.  Yeah.  You know I know.  But, a lot of people don’t know that.

Trump believes the United Kingdom has “product” that “we” would like. Trump believes the “product” is “great,” “phenomenal.”   Trump uses the word “product” the way hairdressers talk about shampoo and hair gel.  Maybe he thinks the U.K. makes hair gel?

Trump believes a lot of people don’t know the difference between “England,” “United Kingdom,” and “Great Britain,” so it doesn’t matter if he uses them interchangeably.  “We” are just a bunch of dumb bunnies who buy “product.”

you know I know | 8:44 am CST
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THIS is what makes my head spin: The president is not a moral figure in any idiom, any land, any culture, any subculture. I’m not talking about the liberal enlightenment that would make him want the country to take care of the poor and sick. I mean he has no Republican values either. He has no honor among thieves, no cosa nostra loyalty, no Southern code against cheating or lying, none of the openness of New York, rectitude of Boston, expressiveness and kindness of California, no evangelical family values, no Protestant work ethic. No Catholic moral seriousness, no sense of contrition or gratitude. No Jewish moral and intellectual precision, sense of history. He doesn’t care about the life of the mind OR the life of the senses. He is not mandarin, not committed to inquiry or justice, not hospitable. He is not proper. He is not a bon vivant who loves to eat, drink, laugh. There’s nothing he would die for — not American values, obviously, but not the land of Russia or his wife or young son. He has some hollow success creeds from Norman Vincent Peale, but Peale was obsessed with fair-dealing and a Presbyterian pastor; Trump has no fairness or piety. He’s not sentimental; no affection for dogs or babies. No love for mothers, “the common man,” veterans. He has no sense of military valor, and is openly a coward about war. He would have sorely lacked the pagan beauty and capacity to fight required in ancient Greece. He doesn’t care about his wife or wives; he is a philanderer but he’s not a romantic hero with great love for women and sex. He commands loyalty and labor from his children not because he loves them, even; he seems almost to hate them — and if one of them slipped it would be terrifying. He does no philanthropy. He doesn’t—in a more secular key—even seem to have a sense of his enlightened self-interest enough to shake Angela Merkel’s hand. Doesn’t even affect a love for the arts, like most rich New Yorkers. He doesn’t live and die by aesthetics and health practices like some fascists; he’s very ugly and barely mammalian. Am I missing an obscure moral system to which he so much as nods? Also are there other people, living or dead, like him?

– Virginia Heffernan, as reprinted in Roar

missing something | 8:12 am CST
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Monday, July 9th, 2018

I woke up at about four o’clock this morning after waking from a dream in which My Darling B came straight to my desk at work from a meeting where she got a copy of a report that I wrote.

She handed her copy to me. Even though I wrote it, I didn’t recognize it, probably because I couldn’t read it. Whenever I’m given anything to read in my dreams, I can’t read a word of it. It’s all just gibberish, like this: Etaoin shrudlu epsi mundus feri abundus wubba dispi lorem ipsem. Except I can’t even make the sounds of the words in my head, because I don’t know the sounds the letters make. Like if I were show Chinese ideograms and asked to say them out loud. I don’t have language any more. I become totally illiterate.

The report was filled with columns of numbers that she said didn’t add up. She had scribbled notes all over it to point out the errors. I tried to add them up in my head, but had the same problem with the numbers that I had with the words: I had no idea how to add. I tried over and over, but I simply couldn’t do it.

And then I woke up. And I thought, Geeze, that was stupid. I would never try to add numbers in my head in real life. In real life, I would just go to my computer, find the report and the spread sheet that I used to add up all those numbers, and figure out where I went wrong.

When I dozed off, I was right back in that dream again, trying to add up the numbers. That went on for quite a while before I woke up again to berate myself some more for not looking up the report on the computer.

And I dozed off. And I was right back in the dream. And so on.

So what I’m saying is, I feel like I started work at four o’clock this morning. I’m a little tired now.

illiterate | 6:25 pm CST
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Now this is a meme I can get behind:

Bob and Sally meme

Neither Bob nor Sally | 6:00 am CST
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Sunday, July 8th, 2018

Overwrought comparisons [of Donald Trump’s administration] to the Nazis are both historically illiterate and an extreme strategic misstep. The president’s critics have crossed a rhetorical line from which there can be no turning back.
The Hill, 6/24/2018

Couldn’t agree with you more, The Hill. Which is why, each week, I compare Trump to a *different* authoritarian nightmare of a leader. Last week, it was Manuel Noriega. Did you know Panamanians called him ‘Pineapple,’ sort of like the way Americans compare our feckless leader to orange foods like Cheetos, Doritos, and mangos? Next week, I’m going to compare him to Pol Pot, because they both put people in camps, and the week after that I’m thinking Nicolai Ceausescu. I don’t know how he’s like Ceaucescu yet, other than they’re both despots, but I like the satisfying way Nicolai Ceausescu rolls off the tongue. More satisfying, even, than Hitler but, as you say, that’s so last year. Anyway, nice work calling out the libs! Keep it up!

Trump as Hitler | 4:41 pm CST
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Wednesday, July 4th, 2018

Ouch.  My crotch hurts.

I went for a bike ride this morning that, according to the Google, which tracked my every move thanks to the cell phone in the pouch under my bike seat, was 19.3 miles from start to finish.  I hadn’t gone much more than 2.75 miles before my crotch hurt.  Google didn’t tell me that.  That’s my best scientific wild-ass guess.

My crotch kept on hurting after I’d ridden five miles, then ten miles.  Past ten miles, my crotch felt kind of numb.  But now that I’ve been off my bike for almost three hours, my crotch hurts again.

My question to you today is: Why can’t anybody make bike seats that don’t hurt my crotch?

When I bought my bike, a Trek old enough that it comes from the era when they still made them in the United States, it came with one of those butt-cleaving saddles so narrow that only my thirty-year-old ass could ride it for any length of time, although, to be honest, even at thirty my butt complained about it.  At some point early in my bike’s career, I replaced it with a generic bicycle seat I bought from a generic store like Target, I forget.  Then, maybe five years ago, I took it into a bicycle shop here in Monona for a tune-up and, while I was there, I spoke with the owner of the shop about the problem my butt had with bicycle seats and asked him if he had a more posterior-friendly seat.  He showed me a few models that might answer my needs, I picked one, and he installed it when he did the tune-up.

I’ve been riding on that seat ever since.  Much of the time, it was a pleasing experience, but in the last few years of bicycling I’ve noticed that I don’t have to go very far for my crotch to start hurting.  My fifty-seven-year-old butt is really very soft and bony compared to my thirty-year-old butt.  Like many people, I’d give almost anything to be thirty years old again, if for no other reason than it wasn’t agony to sit on a wooden bench or a bicycle seat back then.  This wouldn’t be a huge problem if I wasn’t such a big van of riding a bicycle for the sheer pleasure of passing the time.  I’ve also recently acquired a kayak I like to paddle around but, once again, the seat is a problem:  it’s make of fiberglass, basically a hard plastic bucket, and so not very comfortable.  I bought a gel-filled seat cushion this spring and it helps, but only a little bit.

The problem, in the end, is my butt.  It’s an old butt, and it’s only getting older.  There’s no replacing it.  There may be a way to beef it up, but that’s likely to require a lot more work than I’m willing to put into it at this point.  It’s just not a butt made for long bike rides.  Not that that’s going to stop me.

crotchhurt | 3:03 pm CST
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Sunday, July 1st, 2018

I gave Number One Son Sean a call one night earlier this week.  He’d promised he would call me on Father’s Day but never did, nor did he call the weekend after that, so I decided to take matters into my own hands.

He picked up on the second ring.  “Dad?”  His voice had a note of trepidation in it.  I don’t call him very often; he usually calls his mother and I listen in, commenting occasionally.  Nobody who was familiar with the frequency of my phone calls to anyone in my family would think Sean was overreacting if he thought the only reason I would call him on an odd week night would be to tell him someone was dead or gravely injured.

Dear reader, I confess that I messed with him a little bit. “Sean?” I asked, in the same trepidatious voice he used when he answered.

“What’s up?”

“Not much,” I said light-heartedly.  “I just called to chat.”

He guffawed in a ‘don’t ever do that to me again’ kind of way and said, “Oh.  Okay.”  And then we had a nice conversation.

non-emergency | 5:37 pm CST
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Andries du Toit is a professor at the University of West Cape in South Africa. He posted this series of chilling tweets on 6/27/18:

Thread. Some thoughts from a white South African, directed at friends in the USA.

I have been thinking about the Kennedy resignation, and what it looks like from here.

I know that historical analogies are dangerous, but here goes.

I grew up in Apartheid days. My family were what these days would be called dissident Afrikaners: opposed to the government. We were white, and therefore privileged, and protected by that, but also to some extent outcast from our community, living each day in a contested reality

I often think back on what those times felt like: to hear of my parents’ colleagues or friends detained or banned, or even murdered. To know that what was happening was evil, even while the surface of everyday life appeared normal, civil, suburban.

Above all, I remember what it felt like to know we were at odds with the state: its police, its soldiers, its spies, its laws; and to know that it could use that might against us.

In my case it was quite personal. I was by law conscripted to the SADF. Those who refused to fight and kill for Apartheid were threatened with six years of jail. I was one of those who refused.

I did not go to jail – long story – but I remember just how scary it was to face the potential of the state’s reprisals. But you know what was even scarier? That all along, most of white society was trying to pretend it was not happening.

You’d go through road blocks, or find riot cops on the street, and on the radio, Bobby McFerrin would be singing ‘Don’t Worry Be Happy’. That song was number one on the South African charts for the longest time.

So, Trump. As I said, historical analogies are dangerous. But what I keep thinking about was the 1948 election, the one in which the National Party first got elected. Seventy years ago. 26 May. That was the turning point for South Africa.

Thing is, if you go back and read the papers at the time, what is so shockingly clear is that no-one realised what was in the process of happening. They all thought it would blow over soon.

You see, the National Party never won the popular vote. They had barely 37%. They only got in because of the electoral system. Rural votes were more heavily represented in Parliament. They barely squeaked in. It was never meant to happen. It was a glitch.

And Apartheid? Read the newspapers of the time. Very few in the English press took it seriously. It was a word and a couple of incendiary and racist slogans. Even the National Party itself did not have any detailed policies. It was clearly impractical, doomed.

In 1953, the NP achieved a solid majority. Still, people did not think they would last.

In those days, coloured people in the Cape still had the vote. The NP passed an act taking them off the voter’s roll.

The Appelate Division struck it down as unconstitutional.

So what the NP then did was to pack the Senate, to ensure a two-thirds majority, and they changed the Constitution. That was 1955. That was the first time that it really became clear that big trouble was coming. Seven years after they got in.

It took 40 years to get them out.

When I was doing my history degree, reading the mainstream press from the 1940s and 1950s, it seemed to me I was seeing people sleepwalking into a battlefield. Floating down the stream of history, not seeing what was right in front of their eyes.

It’s hard to look at Trump’s America, and the GOP’s deliberate obstruction and exploitation of the SCOTUS nominations, and the deliberate galvanisation of all the most racist and violent segments of American society, and not to fear that you all are going down a similar road. [emphasis added]

What that means in practice for your choices, I don’t know. The one thing I am sure of is that it is a big mistake to wish for normalcy to return. It won’t. It hasn’t here.  25 years after freedom came, it looks as if our biggest changes still lie ahead.

A follow-up question in the comments:

Q: Am I reading this thread incorrectly, or do you in fact believe that apartheid (largely) crept up on the white voter unawares? That conscious support for the policy was not widespread, as indeed the narrative seems to suggest now in the memories of our white compatriots?

A: Good question. It’s complicated. Remember that the UP’s policy was segregation. Thus also white supremacist – but inconsistent, paternalistic, ‘civilised’. Many English whites did not like the Nats, but they feared black majority rule more. At most they wanted only gradual change.

If you look at South Africa in the 1940s, it is clear that some whites realised the country was at a crossroads. Urbanisation was gathering steam. There was a sense of historical progress. The inclusion of black people in the democracy seemed inevitable … in the long run.

In the late 1940s, liberals thought South Africa was on a progressive path. Genl Smuts had helped draft the Universal Declaration of Human Rights! Progressive business was calling for black workers to be given more recognition. Change was afoot. Then the Nats shut it down.

Again, the parallels with the USA today are striking. The Dems seem secure in the inevitability of the demographic dividend. The whole establishment, including Sanders and Obama, seems to think that progressive change will come gradually. ‘Civilly’.

I think that’s an illusion. Thoughts about ‘the arc of the moral universe’ are not much help here. When things change, they change quickly. And often you don’t even recognise the critical moment when it appears.

Q: Thanks. What [your] response does is confirm my increasing persuasion that liberalism, historically & at present, has not had the ethical force & single-mindedness of moral conviction & has, in the hands of those who benefit from systemic oppression, been a very poor ally in struggle.

an apartheid story | 3:26 pm CST
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Add “cash and prizes” to the long list of euphemisms for male genitalia, thanks to Dwayne Johnson, who used the phrase on The Graham Norton show:

Graham Norton: “Is it true that in Moana, your character was based on him?”

[photo of a Pacific islander in traditional dress]

Dwayne Johnson: Sure. Correct. So, a lot of the details of that character, Maui, was based on my grandfather with the long hair and very big build, and tattoos. In Polynesian culture and Samoan culture you, to become a high chief you have tattoos three hundred sixty degrees from your knees all the way up to the bottom of your chest. Everything. And it’s hard core, I mean, they do it with a tap.

Guest: Everything everything? Nah, not everything?

Norton: Yeah, that’s what I heard. Everything.

Johnson: Well, ah. Yes, when the cash and prizes is lifted [mimes lifting his junk out of the way WITH BOTH HANDS] and then you —

Host: Awwwohh!

First time I heard that.

cash and prizes | 2:43 pm CST
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Monday, June 25th, 2018

Tim brought me a bottle of Islay scotch for father’s day last weekend.  He was a little embarrassed when he realized that Father’s Day was the weekend before last, but he brought me a bottle of scotch, so who am I to quibble?

 

father’s day | 6:32 am CST
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Saturday, June 23rd, 2018

There was an old Carver motor boat parked in the lot out front of a local auto supply store two weeks ago. Even though it was half-covered with a tarp, I recognized the make of the boat as we sped past at thirty miles per hour because Carver’s logo is unmistakably stylized; the oversized V in the middle makes it look a lot like two words butted up against each other: CarVer.

My Dad used to have a Carver sixteen-foot runabout. If memory serves, he bought it from a farmer who’d kept it in a barn for years, or maybe that was the army jeep Dad bought for no really good reason other than he liked that jeep a lot.  Coincidentally, I believe that’s the only reason he bought the boat, too, although, really, what other reason is there for buying a boat?  He used fishing as a plausible excuse, but really he just liked racing around in a boat.

I know this because when he bought the boat, it had an antique outboard motor that would putt-putt along the river at a top speed of maybe twenty miles per hour, a perfectly respectable speed if all you want to do is fish. Dad ditched it at the first opportunity he got and replaced it with a sixty-five horse motor that made that little boat FLY.  And many times we went out on the river, that’s all we did: Put the boat in at Fremont and fly down the river until we got to Lake Winnebago, then come flying back, with brief stops along the way for gas and maybe lunch.

One year, after the summer ended, he backed the boat into the garage and spent all winter refurbishing it. I remember helping him by doing little things like unscrewing all the cleats and lights and things and helping to sort all the screws and fixtures in coffee cans. He sanded off the old, peeling varnish, re-stained the wood, and laid on a new, thick coat of glossy varnish that shone.  He fixed up a broken seat, and he installed a folding vinyl top to give us some relief from the sun.  It was really a very pretty little boat after he was done.

We took that boat everywhere, and I mean everywhere.  We even went fishing on Lake Michigan in that boat.  On one trip, the waves were so high I couldn’t see over them.  I had to spin the wheel like a dervish to keep it pointed in the direction dad wanted to keep it going, while he and his uncle Adrian calmly fished off the back.  Apparently, Deenie did this all the time in his little sixteen-footer, but my experience was on calmer waters.  We were pitching and rolling so dramatically I was sure they would go over the side.

On a camping trip to upper Michigan, we took the boat to Fayette.  The boat launch was a steep incline down to the water, but the gravel bottom of the shore was much less so, requiring dad to back all the way down until the rear wheels of the truck were in the water.  We had a truck-top camper that was about the size of a big-box Wal-Mart store.  To launch the boat from such a steeply-inclined ramp, the prudent thing to do would have been to dismount the camper, but apparently dad was in a hurry, or he didn’t feel prudent on that trip, because he backed that big damn thing all the way down the ramp until he dipped its ass-end into Lake Michigan.  We got the boat into the water okay, but as he began to climb up the ramp, the rear wheels of the truck repeatedly broke traction until I was sure he would never get back up into the parking lot.  I don’t remember my father as a very patient man, yet he very patiently inched his way up that ramp.  Not only that, but he repeated the performance when we took the boat out of the water later that week.

I took some friends out for a weekend ride in that boat, an act of trust that still sticks in my memory, especially as I came close to drowning every single one of those friends when I crossed the wake of a bigger boat that met us coming down the river.  I’d crossed wakes with other boats dozens of times, but somehow misjudged this one.  When our boat crested the wake and dove into the trough on the other side, the back end of the boat flipped into the air so quickly that for a few moments everyone seated back there was airborne.  By sheer dumb luck, the boat was still under them when they came back down, and they all landed upright in their seats.  I don’t know how I didn’t shit my pants.

I prefer much slower boats, the kind you paddle, these days.  But I have to admit we had a lot of fun in that little runabout.

Carver | 8:45 am CST
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Friday, June 22nd, 2018

Did you have a bad day?  Do you think so?  Oh, no.  No no no.  Your worst day is barely a patch on the worst day the earth ever had.

“The meteorite itself was so massive that it didn’t notice any atmosphere whatsoever,” said Rebolledo. “It was traveling 20 to 40 kilometers per second, 10 kilometers — probably 14 kilometers — wide, pushing the atmosphere and building such incredible pressure that the ocean in front of it just went away.”

These numbers are precise without usefully conveying the scale of the calamity. What they mean is that a rock larger than Mount Everest hit planet Earth traveling twenty times faster than a bullet. This is so fast that it would have traversed the distance from the cruising altitude of a 747 to the ground in 0.3 seconds. The asteroid itself was so large that, even at the moment of impact, the top of it might have still towered more than a mile above the cruising altitude of a 747. In its nearly instantaneous descent, it compressed the air below it so violently that it briefly became several times hotter than the surface of the sun.

“The pressure of the atmosphere in front of the asteroid started excavating the crater before it even got there,” Rebolledo said. “Then, when the meteorite touched ground zero, it was totally intact. It was so massive that the atmosphere didn’t even make a scratch on it.”

Unlike the typically Hollywood CGI depictions of asteroid impacts, where an extraterrestrial charcoal briquette gently smolders across the sky, in the Yucatan it would have been a pleasant day one second and the world was already over by the next. As the asteroid collided with the earth, in the sky above it where there should have been air, the rock had punched a hole of outer space vacuum in the atmosphere. As the heavens rushed in to close this hole, enormous volumes of earth were expelled into orbit and beyond — all within a second or two of impact.

“So there’s probably little bits of dinosaur bone up on the moon?” I asked.

“Yeah, probably.”

Excerpt from “The Ends of the World,” by Peter Brannon

a bad day | 8:25 pm CST
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“I’ve got a stupid Abba song stuck in my head,” I redundantly said to My Darling B the other morning.

“The song stuck in my head is worse,” she answered.

“I doubt that.”

She began to sing: “I’m all out of love, I’m so lost without you, blah blah blah blah …”

“Okay, yeah. That is worse.”

air supply | 6:37 am CST
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Thursday, June 14th, 2018

The use of George Orwell’s name to describe changes in our country got quite a workout today:

This morning, the chairwoman of the Republican National Committee tweeted, “Complacency is our enemy. Anyone that does not embrace the @realDonaldTrump agenda of making America great again will be making a mistake.”

Then this afternoon we were all treated to the revelation that the Attorney General, Jeff Sessions, justified separating children from their mothers by citing the same bible passage used to justify the American institution of slavery: “Persons who violate the laws of our nation are subject to prosecution. I would cite you to the Apostle Paul and his clear and wise command in Romans 13, to obey the laws of the government because God has ordained them for the purpose of order.”

Finally, White House press secretary Sarah Huckabee Sanders responded to the question, “Where in the bible does it say it’s moral to take children away from their mothers,” by answering, “It is very biblical to enforce the law.”

it’s been swell | 8:15 pm CST
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Friday, June 8th, 2018

We’ve been living in our little red house for almost fifteen years now, yet somehow My Darling B still can’t remember which pull chain turns on the overhead fan, cooling the muggy bedroom on a warm summer night, and which chain turns on the light, abruptly waking her dozing O-Man, who went to bed before her because it’s late in the week and he’s a lightweight when it comes to staying up late.

pull chain | 6:29 am CST
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Thursday, June 7th, 2018

Last Tuesday night, I bought a pair of pants that were not khaki, so if you felt the earth tremble at about six pm central time, that’s why.

I have been a khaki-pants-wearing guy for about fifteen years.  If I wasn’t wearing dress pants, I wore khakis.  Haven’t owned a pair of jeans for so long, I can’t remember the last time I wore them.  After I’d made up my mind that I’d wear khakis forever, I stopped buying them.  I think  I bought my last pair of jeans in the mid-80s.

But last Tuesday after work, I broke down and went to Kohl’s to buy clothes because all the pants I owned were so old they were fraying at the cuffs and wearing thin in the butt.  Added to that, I needed some short-sleeved shirts to wear on the hot summer afternoons we’ve been experiencing lately, but I didn’t have any that would make me look presentable in any setting except maybe if I was stirring a pot of beans in a hobo camp.

For once, shopping took less than an hour and I found everything I wanted, even pants, which are almost impossible for a guy like me to buy off the shelf.  If I were six inches shorter and had a thirty-two inch waist, or six inches taller and had a beer gut that stuck out like the belly of a woman who was no more than five minutes away from giving birth, I could easily find pants.  Most of the pants I see on the shelf are for the beer gut crowd, which makes a certain amount of sense:  I live in Wisconsin, land of men who proudly bear the most well-developed beer guts in the nation.  Either Kohl’s routinely chooses not to stock pants that fit me, or there are a lot of people out there built like me who snatch them off the shelf the moment they’re available, but I think the former is more likely than the latter, because, again, beer gut guys.

But I found two pairs of pants that were close enough to my size to say, “eh, fuck it,” and toss them into my shopping cart.  They weren’t khakis, though, which was the first thing My Darling B noticed when I brought them home.  “OH MY DOG!” she said, or something like that.  Can’t wait to see how she reacts when I bring home a pair of jeans next time I go shopping.

summer wardrobe | 6:24 am CST
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Wednesday, June 6th, 2018

I bought my first hedge trimmer from a second-hand shop last weekend.  The lilac bush out front was getting out of control and I was looking for a quick and easy way to get it back under control.  Ideally, I would have preferred using explosives or, at the very least, FIRE, but ever since I decided to live inside the city limits, I have had to accept that that sort of thing is frowned upon.

There are, however, power tools designed to rapidly disassemble a tangled mess like a lilac bush that are almost as satisfying to use as a flamethrower.  I’ve never owned a hedge trimmer before, but that long serrated cutting blade with about a hundred opportunities to lose a finger make it look like a tool I should have owned for many years.

I didn’t want to pay full price for a hedge trimmer without taking it for a test drive, though, because I’m cheap that way.  Lucky for me, I knew where I could get one for a reasonable price.  The resale shop down the street has a basement full of equipment made for yard work.  I was out running errands Saturday afternoon, so I stopped by on the way home, scrounged through the pile of hedge trimmers until I found the cheapest one, paid a price Scrooge McDuck would’ve been happy with, and took it home.

Guess what?  It turns out, you get what you pay for.  I plugged it in and revved it up at the store and it seemed to work fine, but that little test drive didn’t take into account that the bad bearing in the motor didn’t make warning noises until it warmed up.  After three or four minutes, it screamed like a cat after its tail gets stepped on.

But the five minutes or so I could put up with the noise gave me enough time to whip one of the lilac bushes into shape so easily that I knew I WANTED ONE.  So now my inner McDuck will have to do battle with my gadget-loving guy brain, a battle that it will lose.  It’s only a matter of time.

hedge trimmer | 6:00 am CST
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Tuesday, June 5th, 2018

We heard an advertisement on the radio this morning from a local “health clinic” for a procedure they called a “laser peel,” which I had to google as soon as I got home to see if it’s a real thing.

It is.  Real people really pay real money to have a “health clinician” point a LASER at their FACE on PURPOSE!

Here’s how one of the web sites you probably visit to see if your mildest symptoms are your worst nightmares describes it:

Laser resurfacing is a treatment to reduce facial wrinkles and skin irregularities, such as blemishes or acne scars. The technique directs short, concentrated pulsating beams of light at irregular skin, precisely removing skin layer by layer. This popular procedure is also called lasabrasion, laser peel, or laser vaporization.

I have believed, pretty much since birth, that lasers are about the coolest thing scientists ever came up with.  I have also always believed there are some people in clean, white coats who use lasers in ways that are, at best, sketchy.  Like the guys who propose shooting lasers into my eyes with the less-than-ironclad promise that I’ll be able to see more clearly for an unspecified length of time after the procedure.

Peeling me like a freaking onion is likewise one of the sketchy uses of a laser that I will never voluntarily submit to.

Did you catch the part where they referred to a laser as “short, concentrated pulsating beams of light,” which is technically correct but makes it sound as mundane as a disco ball when it is, in fact, A FREAKING LASER.

I can think of a lot of ways to use a laser that I would describe with the words “laser vaporization,” and the only ones that involve pointing a laser at anybody’s face are also coincidentally war crimes.

 

laser peel | 6:00 am CST
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Monday, June 4th, 2018

A song was playing on the radio as we drove into town this morning, with a refrain that went like this:

I would climb every mountain
I would swim every ocean
Just to be with you

Dude.  Every mountain? Every ocean? I don’t know how to break this to you, but you’re going to be climbing and swimming all your life, which means you will never get any time to be with him/her/them.  I mean, I have to say in all honesty that I feel it’s not possible, these things you’re saying you will do.

Let’s start with just the mountains.  Do you even know how many mountains there are in the world?  I sure don’t, but I’m pretty sure you can’t climb them all in one lifetime.  I used to live in Colorado, where it was considered no small accomplishment to climb the 54 mountains known as The Fourteeners.  Those were only the mountains that were fourteen thousand feet tall.  There were lots more mountains in Colorado, but climbing those 54 mountains was considered a big deal.  And that was just in Colorado.  There were more mountains to the south of Colorado, and one hell of a lot more mountains to the north of Colorado.  And there are mountains in California, and in Tennessee and Kentucky and Pennsylvania.  And there are the Himalayas in Asia, and the Pyrenees in Europe.  I mean, they go on and on and on.

And the oceans.  Has anybody swum across even one ocean?  I’ve heard of people swimming across the English Channel, which is 21 miles, and I think I remember somebody swam from Cuba to Florida, which is maybe 100 miles, but I’m pretty sure nobody has swum the 12,000 miles across the Pacific Ocean.  I’m pretty sure that would kill you.  But let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that you announce you’re going to do it.  Who’s going to believe you, really, much less wait the 143 days (with no stopping to eat or sleep) for you on the other side?

If you want to show somebody you love them by doing something really heroic, my suggestion is to at least set some realistic goals.  Find one of those fundraisers where they climb the stairs of a really tall building.  Or a 10k walk/run.  Or, if you’re already in pretty good shape, sign up for an Iron Man.  It doesn’t sound nearly as romantic, but at least there’s an end that somebody would believe you were going to reach.

But swim every ocean?  C’mon.  Nobody’s falling for that.

extremes | 6:00 am CST
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Sunday, June 3rd, 2018

Prewitt loved the songs because they gave him something, an understanding, a first hint that pain might not be pointless if you could only turn it into something.

— James Jones, From Here To Eternity

pain | 6:22 pm CST
Category: Big Book of Quotations, books
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Few people in the history of written advice have actually been qualified to give it.  There’s no Ph.D. program or certification course or license for the role.  Which means that nobody is ineligible to give advice, either.  … Take Ann Landers and Dear Abby.  Those columns were written by a pair of twins whose parents named them Esther Pauline and Pauline Esther, which establishes off the bat that good judgment isn’t hereditary.  Initially the twins answered letters together under the Ann Landers name before Pauline went rogue and pitched her own advice column to The San Francisco Chronicle.  … For decades the sisters competed viciously, tracking the number of newspapers syndicating their columns and sniping publicly about one sister’s nose job and the other’s writing abilities.  Isn’t it funny to think that decades of Americans relied for behavioral guidance on a single pair of unsportsmanlike twins with inverse names?

— Molly Young, reviewing Asking For a Friend, Three Centuries of Advice on Life, Love, Money and Other Burning Questions From a Nation Obsessed, by Jessica Weisberg

advice | 8:39 am CST
Category: Big Book of Quotations, books, entertainment, play
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Saturday, June 2nd, 2018

“The Shovel Man” is probably my favorite Sandburg poem. He wrote lots of others that come close, but the last four lines of this score a bull’s eye right in the center of my heart.

   On the street
Slung on his shoulder is a handle half way across,
Tied in a big knot on the scoop of cast iron
Are the overalls faded from sun and rain in the ditches;
Spatter of dry clay sticking yellow on his left sleeve
And a flimsy shirt open at the throat,
I know him for a shovel man,
A dago working for a dollar six bits a day
And a dark-eyed woman in the old country dreams of
him for one of the world’s ready men with a pair
of fresh lips and a kiss better than all the wild
grapes that ever grew in Tuscany.

 

The Shovel Man | 9:02 am CST
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No matter how much Kim Jong Un insults Donald Trump, Trump is determined to have a meeting with Kim to make it look like he’s forcing Kim to give up his nuclear weapons, even though Kim will never give up so much as a single bomb without a fight. But the summit’s got to happen, to make Trump look like he’s doing something. And who’s going to pay for this dog and pony show? According to a story in The Washington Post this morning, we will:

At an island resort off the coast of Singapore, U.S. event planners are working day and night with their North Korean counterparts to set up a summit designed to bring an end to Pyongyang’s nuclear weapons program. But a particularly awkward logistical issue remains unresolved … Who’s going to pay for Kim Jong Un’s hotel stay?

The prideful but cash-poor pariah state requires that a foreign country foot the bill at its preferred lodging: the Fullerton, a magnificent neoclassical hotel near the mouth of the Singapore River, where just one presidential suite costs more than $6,000 per night.

When it comes to paying for lodging at North Korea’s preferred five-star luxury hotel, the United States is open to covering the costs … but it’s mindful that Pyongyang may view a U.S. payment as insulting. As a result, U.S. planners are considering asking the host country of Singapore to pay for the North Korean delegation’s bill.

Not only will we pay to set Kim Jong Un up as extravagantly as they require us to, we will also ask a proxy to pay the bill for us, because Kim would be insulted to take money directly from us. But wait! That’s not all!

Figuring out how to pay Pyongyang’s hotel tab won’t be the only unusual planning obstacle … the country’s underused Soviet-era aircraft may require a landing in China because of concerns it won’t make the 3,000 mile trip … alternatively, the North Koreans might travel in a plane provided by another country.

We’ll also send a plane to deliver them to their five-star accommodations, because their fossilized planes can’t make it all the way to Singapore without breaking down. I’m sure it’ll be the biggest plane with nothing but first-class seats from front to back.

scammed | 7:50 am CST
Category: random idiocy, yet another rant | Tags:
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We saw Hari Kondabolu at the Comedy Club on State Street a few weeks ago. He was hilarious, as he always is, and we really enjoyed the night out.

At one point in his performance, Hari used the term “depression beard” to describe a time he let his beard grow out.  I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that term before.

depression beard | 5:09 am CST
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Friday, June 1st, 2018

The song playing on the radio as we ended our commute to work yesterday morning included the refrain, “Hey, pretty thing, let me light your candle, ’cause, momma, I’m sure hard to handle.”

Yet another pop song that refers to a woman as a thing.  *sigh*  Why’s he say “thing,” and not “woman?”  It would scan better if it was “woman.”  The cadence of “hey, pretty woman” keeps on bopping along, but “Hey, pretty thing” comes to a screeching halt at the end.  And, as a bonus, you wouldn’t be referring to a woman as a “thing.”  Just saying.

“Let me light your candle” is a euphemism for sex I hadn’t heard before.  The mental image is confusing.  Wouldn’t he be the one with the candle?  It would make more sense to me if he said, “Hey, pretty woman, won’t you light my candle?”  It would still be crude and obvious, as pick-up lines go, but it would be a lot less clunky.

Is he saying he’s “hard to handle” because he’s a bad boy, or because he’s got a boner?  As a double entendre, it seems kind of obvious, now that I think about it.  Maybe every double entendre that seemed clever was really kind of obvious.

hard to handle | 6:00 am CST
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Wednesday, May 30th, 2018

ee cummings is one of my favorite poets (who are yours?), but this poem used to drive me crazy because I never could figure out what the third line meant, and neither could anybody I asked.

What does little Ernest croon
In his death at afternoon
(kow dow r 2 bull retoinis
wus de woids uf lil Oinis)

I was re-reading some of my favorite poems the other day and, when I came across this one, I realized you can look anything up on the internet now, so I did.

Ernest is Ernest Hemingway, and his last words, according to Cummings, are: “Cow thou art, to bull returnest,” a parody of a line in Longfellow’s “A Psalm of Life”: “Dust thou art, to dust returnest”

And now I’m stuck with trying to figure out what THAT means.

ernest | 6:27 am CST
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