It Only Hurts in My Brain

Occupational Hazards

2011-04-20T11:21:00.000-07:00

Mathematicians have the circle-squarers and angle-trisectors. These are amateur mathematicians who have heard that among the unsolved problems of Greek antiquity are creating a square with the same area as a given circle, and splitting a given angle into three equal parts, with a straightedge and compass. They play with it and work on it and eventually come up with something they are convinced solves the problem, usually unaware that it's been proven for a very long time that these things just can't be done.

And then there are those who have a new, short proof of something like Fermat's Last Theorem, which was recently proved by Andrew Wiles in something like 100 pages or so. Or maybe a proof of the Riemann Hypothesis, which is currently unproved (or un-disproved, depending on how it all turns out). Mathematicians get these things in the mail, or probably now in their email, maybe two or three a year. People hope to have solved the "big problem." They almost never do.

Writers, dramatists, producers, and publishers all have their "will you read my manuscript?" people. And there it is, in a manila envelope (if it fits in just one), full of hopes and flowery prose and reading like, well, like this blog, probably. People hope to have written the next great book/play/script. They almost never do.

And don't get me started about vitamins, strange tropical berry juices, or herbal supplements. They almost never solve any big health problems. Sorry, and sorry for your downline, but it's true.

Math Educators like me have this: "I've developed a math curriculum based on using the abacus. All the kids I've tried it on jump 3 grade levels, and their parents want to canonize me." And they can't understand why you aren't excited, getting out your wallet, writing a check or something.

Sigh.

Most of the time, the proofs get thrown away, the manuscripts go unread, and the juices finally get thrown away. And most of the time, the new curriculum gets ignored, because we're pretty sure that this particular curriculum, like almost any curriculum, works great on wealthy suburban kids, and somehow fails to do its magic with inner-city poor kids.

And the moral of all four stories is, unfortunately, "It really is harder than you think."

What the Well Dressed Man is Wearing at My House

2011-01-25T20:14:00.000-08:00

Like most people who work for a living, I look forward to coming home, kicking off the shoes, plopping down in the easy chair and letting some of the day's bad mojo drip off of me. I don't have a Ward Cleaver complex or anything, but there's no doubt that the fire, the pipe (purely metaphorically), and the slippers call to me. Maybe a compressed - sawdust - and - petrochemical - log fire in the fireplace.

Man with more hair and less girth than me, but with the right idea.

So in an effort to be comfortable, of course I like to change into appropriate lounge wear. and this is where things get difficult. I imagine many men might think of donning a pair of slippers, say, like these:

But when I think of evening footwear I think more of something like this:

Or maybe like this:

These are what the well-dressed gentleman wears in the evening around my house, if he's smart, anyway. Jeeves might say, 'Not the ski-boots, sir." And I'd have to say, "Nonsense, Jeeves, they're the only thing." And it might cause some tension, but I'd have to hold fast on this point.

Why? Because of this:

A small kitty? A little kitty with a puff ball? Don't be fooled. Sure, he makes it look like he's really just interested in chasing the little puff ball around. But he's strategic. Get the ball on one side of the foot, and then you can pretty much do whatever you want to the foot itself:

Step 1: Carefully place puff ball on other side of foot

Step 2: Go ahead: Bite, scratch; rend with tooth and claw.

And pretty soon, it's everlastingly too late:

I'm keepin' the boots.

Make us Proud, Wal-Mart!

2010-12-30T08:30:00.000-08:00

"Hey! There are hungry people all over the country! Let's have a contest and feed the winners!"

That's why we love ya, Sons-and-Daughters-of-Sam.

And Lo! The Word Came Down from On High

2010-10-13T12:57:00.000-07:00

To simplify things and avoid my getting into trouble, let's just say that I am a level 3 administrator in the organization. Every month, my supervisor and his assistants (levels 5 and 4, respectively) call all the level 3's together to deal with problems, seek advice, and preach the gospel (from levels 6, 7, 8, 9, etc.). It's a good system, and the level 4- and 5-ers above me are good folks. We 3's don't always like what gets preached, but we're basically obedient and do our best to comply.

So about 6 months ago, in our meeting, the word came down that we could no longer do X. Sure, we had been allowed to do X in the past, but those days were over. No more X. They were serious. X causeth a multitude of problems, apparently, so just stop it. Now.

And in the months since then, we have been reminded at least a half-dozen times, in various contexts, that X was a thing of the past. Thou Shalt Not X. Remember? Remember how we said no more X? Well, better get used to it, 'cause NO MORE X.

I got it.

Only here's the problem: It soon became apparent that the best, most logical way to solve a problem in my department was to do . . . you guessed it: X. But I knew better. But I really needed to X. But I knew I couldn't. But. . . .

So I went to #5, and I said, "I know I can't do X. I know that. It's clear that X causes warts and communism, so X is Right Out. But you see, I need to do this certain thing, and is seems to little ol' me that the easiest thing to do would be XbutIknowIcan'tdothatsoyoudon'thavetotellme, so what do you think I should do instead?" Number 5 listened carefully and came up with a plan. He'd take the problem to #7.

So it turns out that #7 agreed that I was in a sticky situation all right, and maybe we could solve it by doing Y. Well, Y was actually a good idea. It was not something I knew about, and Y would work just fine to solve my problem. "So that's why #7 gets the big bucks," I thought. So I did as I was asked, and wrote up a case for Y, explaining why I needed to do Y and what a good idea it would be. And #5 added his support, and we sent it to #7, and #7 took my case to #8.

And I waited.
Then, today, I got an email from #7! And it said that #7 and #8 weren't really ready to do Y, it seemed a little drastic. No need for such draconian action. They suggested that X would be simpler. So I just needed to write a memo explaining why I wanted to do X, and that would be that.

Of course, I hit "Reply" immediately.

"But, you silly ass," I wrote, "X is what I wanted to do all along but you've been telling me over and over and over and over that I couldn't and now you say to me thas;dlkjfgaspoiuga;la;rua."

Those of you with who have trod the administrative boards will recognize the "s;dlkjfgaspoiuga;la;rua" part as where my vast administrative experience of two years kicked in and saved my backside. My instincts told my fingers to just quit working. Then my instincts told me to hit the delete key until my whole reply disappeared. And I walked away.

So I will write the memo, and get permission, and do X, and all will be well.

But the real question in my mind is, how long do you have to be an administrator before you start understanding things like this? Before you understand that Of course, you can't apply Y to a PS-55/J17, but that a PS-55/J17 is the only really acceptable exception to the "NO MORE X" rule?

Cause I have to retire before then.

Xlent

2010-09-08T21:50:00.000-07:00

I have a couple of new favorite places, both of which floated, cream-like, to the top of the milk glass of my life this past week.

Disclaimer: Madison, Wisconsin, still holds large pieces of my heart. There's still no place like Woodman's. There's still no place like Dotty Dumpling's Dowry. Or Brennan's. But thinking about that from this far away -- well, it just doesn't do any good. So I'm trying to move on and do the best I can with the cards I've been dealt.

Anyway, the new Winco opened a while ago in Orem and it's really, by local standards, a pretty nice store. Prices, selection, ambiance, all above average. Also, Smashburger, a Denver-based hamburger franchise, also recently opened in Orem and, by golly, their burgers are pretty good. Gives In-n-Out reason to fear.

But what sealed the deal for both of these establishments was what I found in the restrooms: the world's most nearly perfect hand dryer, the Xlerator. I thought perhaps I had left these wonderful machines far behind in Wisconsin, as the only other one I knew about was in Woodman's in Madison.

Why all this bother about a hand dryer? For one thing, because it actually works. It dries your hands completely. Honest. But for another thing, they're just cool.

You know how the Mythbusters always examine a myth like, "mixing gasoline and alcohol by your water heater can blow your roof clean off" and when they find out that no, it doesn't blow your roof off, it just picks it up and moves it over a few feet, they then ask the fateful questions, "Well, what would it take to blow the roof clean off?" And then the fun starts?

The Xlerator is what would happen if the Mythbusters took on the question, "Do lavatory hand dryers ever really get your hands dry? And if so, would they have to deform your hands permanently to do it? Could it actually remove the tissue from the bones?"

Yeah. I like 'em. I like 'em a lot.

Ozzie

2010-08-26T07:09:00.001-07:00

`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'

Just Say "NO." Or, "Eeeeew!"

2010-08-21T09:06:00.000-07:00

I try to keep the blog more or less family friendly, so I feel the need to provide a

------------ PARENTAL ADVISORY -------------

This blog contains adult language like "athletic supporter" and "nether regions" and "the boys."

---------------------------------------------------

OK. So I was in Sports Authority the other day, in the area of knee braces and tape and other things needed to treat or prevent athletic (or in our case, dance) injuries. As I wandered down the aisle, I noticed the athletic cups, those used to protect the nether regions of young men from grounders that take a bad bounce, soccer balls that can't be avoided, or full on kicks in a karate class.

I saw these:

OK. Now I am NOT, like, "Mr. Athlete." But I have participated in sports, both when I have had to wear one of these and when I have really, REALLY wished I had. But I have never known anyone who needed either a "Left" or a "Right" (or ~SHUDDER~ both). So this is a very scary development, I tell you what.

I can only assume it's caused by the increased use of anabolic steroids. I've taken enough biology to know that anabolic steroids act as hormones, and hormones affect the, uh, boys. So steroids must be causing some very strange stuff.

And don't even try to tell me that L stands for Large and R stands for Regular or something. Regular is not a size for things people wear. It's a size for french fries. The sizes for things like this would be Small, Medium, Large, Extra-Large, and Yeah, Right. There ain't no Regular.

So, young men, let this be a warning. When it comes to steroid use, it isn't worth it. Just say NO. Or, as my wife said when I showed her and asked why anyone would need a "lefty" or a "righty,"

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwww!"

El Matador

2010-08-18T10:11:00.000-07:00

There’s a perfectly rational explanation. I am a scholar, a man of (social) science, I expect logic and order in the universe. So it’s a matter of faith that there is a rational explanation.

I spent most of Monday evening wrestling with El Toro. El Toro mowed one swath of my lawn with my daughter at the helm, quit, and wouldn’t start again.

So it fell to El Matador to set things right again.

I started with the usual things: repeatedly pulling the starting cord and using power words, questioning the lineage of El Toro. That only made him mad. Mad enough to offer one little “cough” out of every 17 pulls, just enough to keep me pulling and pulling and pulling again.

I checked the air filter, I used starter fluid. I completely drained and replaced the oil. I drained the gas and replaced it with new gas in case it had gone bad. Nothing.

After dark, in the safety of my house, and drawing on my extensive mechanical know-how gleaned from “Benny and Joon” I reviewed the possibilities. Either I didn’t have fuel or I didn’t have fire. Having checked the fuel (at least as much as I could) I decided to check the fire at my earliest convenience.

So this morning I was about to take out the ol’ plug and check it out when I thought (and this shows the depth of my lunacy), “I’ll just give it one more pull.”

It started. One pull. No cough, no hesitation, nothing. One pull.

El Toro had become El Ferdinand.

Not only did it start, it mowed my whole yard, including the jungle that had once been my back lawn, and started with one pull pretty much every time.

There is a rational explanation. My current hypotheses include:

1. It don’t like Mondays.

2. El Toro doesn’t like to see my children actually doing work. It likes to wait until 8 am in the morning when all my children are asleep to start. “C’mon,” it says to me, “Let’s do some mowin’!”

3. So maybe my mower likes me. Me, personally. Great. My mower has a man-crush.

4. Bad gas gummed up the jets and the good gas reversed it over the course of two nights.

5. Roughly equivalent to #4, but involves the curse of a bad fairy and the good fairy coming to undo it. But the good fairy has a second job as Lady Gaga’s guardian angel Tuesdays, and so couldn’t make it until this morning.

So science marches on. I’ll keep you posted. Maybe I’ll have the Car Whisperer give it a once-over. I hope he can get to the bottom of it. When it comes to machines, I don’t mind pure cussedness, but inconsistency drives me nuts.

Should I Be Worried About This?

2010-08-04T22:47:00.000-07:00

Although I don’t consider myself an uneasy sleeper, I have never really gone easy into that good night, either. Too often in my life, surrendering to sleep just means that the next thing I’m aware of is morning, with its attendant responsibilities and unpleasantness. As John Fogarty puts it, “night time is the right time” as far as I’m concerned.

So this means that I usually have to read myself to sleep. Or maybe do some crossword puzzles or sudokus or something. And before you want to tell me that sleep experts would suggest that’s only going to keep me awake, remember that’s just the point: to pretend I’m staying up while actually I’m slowly getting sleepy but don’t notice it. Anyway, the upshot is that I have piles of various reading materials by my bed, ranging from newspapers and magazines through novels and textbooks and back to Bloom County collections. And occasionally I have to break down and gather them up and put them away.

Not a pleasant task, but I discovered something both entertaining and unnerving the other day as I was doing this: I could sort the reading material into piles based on the seven deadly sins:

Gluttony: Various cookbooks, Cook’s Illustrated

Pride: Strength Training Anatomy, Body by Science, other books on weight training. As if.

Sloth: Crosswords. Sudokus. Get Fuzzy. Dave Barry. Patrick McManus.

Wrath: Most of my professional books on education, most of which make me angry.

Lust: Sorry, I gave this up when I got married, unless you throw it in with:

Greed and Envy: Consumer Reports, especially when it deals with off-road vehicles.

Oh well. I wish I could honestly say that I’m surprised. But I’m not. I couldn’t find a single piece of bedtime reading material that I could throw in a “cardinal virtue” pile.

No, I really can’t count holy writ. It isn’t bedtime reading, after all. It puts me to sleep.

Can’t have that.

Wayne Smith

2010-07-09T19:39:00.000-07:00

I got a call from my credit card company this morning with an exciting new offer to protect my identity from theft. It won't surprise you when I tell you that the gentleman who talked with me had a rather pronounced Indian accent. I assume he was in fact sitting somewhere in India in a call center when we conversed. The best part, though, was that he told me his name: Wayne Smith.

"My name is Wayne Smith," he said. He repeated it a couple of times so I'd be sure to catch it. The second time, he said it fast, so it was like one word: "WayneSmith."

Why, he was just an ordinary guy like me, Joe Sixpack himself.You could trust him, a guy named Wayne Smith. Listened to Lee Greenwood a lot, no doubt. And calling little ol' me up with real concern about my identity being safe. Made me feel really bad to tell him I wasn't interested and hang up.

But it did get me thinking about the many employees of my credit card company, who I can just picture:

Wayne Smith

Wayne's brother Carl

Nguyen Bao

Magnús Guðjmansson

Kalepo Malielegaoi

And of course:

Or,
The Artist Formerly Known as Madonna

Makes me think they have a little bit of trouble with identity, themselves.

A Matter of Proportion

2010-05-31T08:35:00.000-07:00

We recently discovered an infestation of mice in our downstairs storage area (here, "infestation" is defined mathematically as "a number of mice greater than or equal to 1"). Those of you who know this family will wonder how that can be possible, given that we have been associated with so very many cats in the past. But the fact is that we are down a few cats from, say, last year at this time, since two have passed on to that big easy chair in the sky, one has apparently wandered off as suddenly as he wandered in, and a fourth has been reclassified as an "outdoor" cat for reasons that good taste preclude a complete description of (i.e., I can't say he peed on things). So, that leaves us with one actual indoor cat.

Ming, also known occasionally as "Catness," and "Ouch! You little snot!"

(I will add two comments here unrelated to the real story: First, as I type this, Ming has assumed her usual position lying between the keyboard and the monitor, this time with her twitchy little tail covering the keys from the I to the Backspace. Every time I have to backspace, it pulls her tail hair a little. Eventually she will bite me. Second, as with a fourth or fifth child, I find that I can find fewer pictures of this fourth or fifth or sixth cat than of the first two or three.)

Now Ming is pretty much an indoor cat, and so you'd think we could maintain a fairly mouse-free environment. But that would be assuming that Ming is a useful cat, whereas in truth she is largely decorative. Also, she is no dummy. She has figured out the rudiments of multiplicative mathematical structures, and has at least this basic picture in mind:

"Hmmm. I wonder which one has the most bacon?"

Now I can't honestly say that Ming is waiting for a pig to appear in the downstairs food storage room, thinking that she'll save her energy for that moment and then eat for a year. But I do know she turns up her nose at fresh fish, but positively dances on her hind legs for bacon. She is not a maritime cat, more like a cat from America's heartland, say Iowa, where pork is king and there's plenty of it. Just sayin'.

So, until a herd of wild boars runs through our basement, Ming will remain largely decorative, and we will have to deal with the mice ourselves. Time to lay in more peanut butter.

Doin' Jack

2010-05-13T05:39:00.000-07:00

It's a little embarrassing that my personal hero is not a religious figure, great person in history, or famous academic. Respectable LDS academics should try to choose their personal heroes wisely, but I have not. And don't get me started on my favorite books, movies, or TV shows. Ugh.

But the fact of the matter is, my personal hero is Adam Richman. He hosts Man vs Food on the Travel Channel and has what is unquestionably the best job in the known universe, which is eating for a living. For the uninitiated, Man vs Food has Adam visiting a different city each episode, eating in some great pig-out places, and then undertaking one selected restaurant's food challenge, which he often wins (especially if it involves very hot food) but sometimes loses (mostly in cases that involve sheer volume of food).

Of course, being a member of the Fraternity of the Crossed Forks (Motto: "Cardiologist? What's a Cardiologist?") I would love to visit those same places and eat those same wonderful things. Maybe more slowly, but still. So when I went to Denver a couple of weeks ago and had a chance to go to Jack-n-Grill, scene of the Denver episode's "Seven pound burrito challenge," well, you know I had to go, dragging my unwitting travel companions along if necessary.

Of course, the need to go there was particularly acute because my son had actually gone there last May during a road trip involving a Decemberists concert. His adventure is documented in his own blog post, which I will let you find if you care enough, but won't provide a link for because I think Colin Maloy sings like a goat and don't want to encourage him (my son, not Colin). However, the relevant pictures are these:

Left, my son about to do battle. Below, the battle being waged with the help of friend Tucker. Notice that, despite three refills of Mt. Dew, Tucker still appears to be falling asleep.

Anyway, my son had been-there-done-that so I saw this as a chance to bond a little, long distance, using food, which is my usual method of bonding with pretty much everyone. This one's for you, son.

We arrived at the Jack-n-Grill full of expectations, and after a 45 minute wait for a table, I found myself sitting in what I now know was the same spot my son's party occupied -- right by the glass door. Indeed, I was sitting right where Tucker sat.

Apparently there is something about that particular seat that makes you sleepy, despite three refills of Diet Coke.

We detected a theme in the decor. A certain Jack-iness, including but not limited to: Nicholson, Sparrow, Hungry, One-Eyed, Links, Broken Crowned, and Nimble.

No, I did not order the burrito. A man needs to know his limits, an old man even more so. I settled for a couple of smothered chimichangas, of which I only ate one.

The Divine Ms B, however, was the hero of the day. She ordered a Juarez Burger.

In case like me you have old eyes and can't read that, it says:

A full 10 oz. patty of fresh ground chuck, ham, hot-dog, fresh green chile, cheese, guacamole, mayo.

And so it was.

I consider it a work of art, sort of awe-inspiring, but no more so than the Divine Ms B's dedicated assault on it:

And the final result was commendable.

At this point in the meal, the Divine Ms B leaned over to me and said, "I want you to know I could have finished it, but I wanted to save some for later." I believe her. She is an honest person.

The Hero of the Day, in my book.

And to Dan and Roni Jo: thanks, you were good sports.

Just Call Me Homer

2010-05-08T07:54:00.001-07:00

Mr Burns: "Who was that young hellcat, Smithers?"
Smithers: "Homer Simpson, sir."
Mr Burns: "Simpson, eh? I'll remember that name."

Mr Burns: "That man who's getting all the laughs, Smithers ... who is he?"
Smithers: "Homer Simpson, sir, one of the carbon blobs from sector 7-G."

Mr Burns: "Why is that man in pink?"
Smithers: "Oh, that's Homer Simpson, sir. He's one of your boobs from Sector 7-G."

Mr Burns: "Smithers, who is this saucy fellow?"
Smithers: "Homer Simpson, sir. Sector sieben-Grueber, I mean, sector 7-G."

Homer: "Hey Burns! Eat! my! shorts!"
Mr Burns: "Who the Sam Hill was that?"
Smithers: "Why it's Homer Simpson, sir. One of the schmos from sector 7-G."

Mr Burns: "Who is that lavatory linksman, Smithers?"
Smithers: "Homer Simpson, sir. One of the fork and spoon operators from sector 7-G."

Mr Burns: "Who is that firebrand, Smithers?"
Smithers: "That's Homer Simpson."
Mr Burns: "Simpson, eh? New man?"
Smithers: "Actually, sir, he thwarted your campaign for governor, you ran over his son, he saved the plant from meltdown, his wife painted you in the nude..."
Mr Burns: "Doesn't ring a bell."

Mr Burns: "Really Smithers, I'll be fine. I'm sure your replacement will be able to handle everything. Who is he, anyway?"
Smithers: "Uh, Homer Simpson, sir. One of your organ banks from sector 7-G. All the recent events of your life have revolved around him in some way."
Mr Burns: "Simpson, eh?"

Mr Burns: "Who the devil are you?"
Homer: "Homer Simpson!"
Mr Burns: "What?"
Homer: "Homer Simpson!"
Mr Burns: "What are you talking about?"
Homer: "Homer..."
Mr Burns: "You're not making sense, man!"
Homer: "Shut up! Homer Simpson!"
Mr Burns: "I can't understand a word you're saying!"
Homer: "My name is Homer Simpson!"
Mr Burns: "You're just babbling incoherently..."

There's nothing quite like going to a professional meeting to remind me of my place in the universe. So many people who are important in my field, many of whom I've met, some of whom I've spent several days with in various conferences and meetings, broken bread with, and published their papers in a journal I edited. And, as nearly as I can tell, none of whom recognize me or remember my name.

OK, I admit that it's partly my fault. I tend to be sort of retiring, and actually prefer to stay in the background. I don't schmooze well. I certainly don't go out of my way to get noticed. On those few occasions when I've put myself out to meet someone or talk to them, I've usually wondered whether I came off as too eager or presumptuous. But there are a few people who I really think ought to know me, and it stings a little when they don't. Yes, they are well-known in the field, and I'm not so much. Yes, they meet a lot more people than I do. Still, even carbon-blobs like me like to think they are significant to people who are significant to them.

Oh well. There's not much I can do about it, and it really only matters once or twice a year anyway. But there's one case that stands out that I can do something about. One person in my own university. Like me, he's a department chair. We've talked several times. I've introduced myself at least three times. We've spent time at meetings together. There are several different contexts in which we have mutual acquaintances. And when I call him by name, and say hello, he looks at me like I'm a complete stranger. Never laid eyes on me. Like maybe I have broccoli growing out of my ears.

So I'm going to take every possible chance to say hello to him as I pass quickly by, so that he has to keep wondering who I am and why I know him. Eventually, he'll ask his companions, "Who is that bald fella?" And they'll say, "I'm not sure, but he reminds me of someone. Except I think his skin should be more yellow."

The Unrequiteds

2010-04-10T19:27:00.000-07:00

I am the father of three daughters (and one son, but that’s another blog-- or seven). The oldest is married, and she’s been through it. The youngest is 13 and she’s just getting started. The middle one is a high school senior, and in the prime time for collecting young men. I refer here to the young men who like her but who, for various reasons, she does not quite like back so much. We could call them the UO’s, the Unrequited Ones.

I have some sympathy for them, partly because I was one myself for a good part of my youth. I did have a few steady girlfriends, but in between them I spent a lot of time mooning over some girl or other who just didn’t moon me back. (OK, bad choice of words, but you get the idea.). So I’ve been there. I know that sometimes it’s easier to love someone from a distance, especially because then you don’t have to deal with the everyday reality of her not loving you in return. Sometimes it appeals to your angst-y teenage sensibilities to watch from afar and just enjoy the stomachache. (Be careful! You might be prompted to write some very, very bad poetry.) Sometimes you even convince yourself that “its bigger than both of us,” and that eventually, things will come around your way. This is a very seductive way of thinking, but trust me, it’s also very dangerous. You sometimes see the object of your adoration in a somewhat idealized way.

But, as I said, I’m sympathetic. My daughters, who are always kind, bless them, are nevertheless not so sympathetic. They talk of wearing “The Sign.” This is a sign they believe is written on their foreheads that says, “If you are pathetic, I’d make a great girlfriend!” They do NOT like The Sign. I think they blame me for it, somehow. Or maybe just my gender. I’d have to plead guilty to the last one. But I digress. My youngest is now afraid of that time when The Sign will appear on her forehead. The middle one recently told me she wants to replace The Sign with one that reads (or screams, or uses flashing neon and possibly spotlights, clowns, and dancing bears to convey the message) “Hey, I’ve GOT a boyfriend. DON’T EVEN START!” The oldest, safely and happily married, just watches from the sideline, shakes her head in sympathy, and occasionally gives me a hard stare. In later years, when they get together, they will tell stories that begin, “You think you’ve had strange boys fall in love with you? Let me tell you about. . . .” It’s already started with the two older ones (so far, the oldest one is ahead in points).

I’d like to help, I really would. I’ve wanted to take these young men aside and say, “Son, I know how you feel. It isn’t easy, but trust me – this dog don’t hunt.” But I know it wouldn’t really do much good. I’m an old man now, and so they know I don’t understand love. Besides, I’ve had conversations with one particular UO who, believing God was on his side, was determined to keep plugging away until Right Won Out. I think this happened right up to the night of the wedding reception, I’m not sure. And of course, cold Reason knows nothing of the affairs of the heart. And I’ve got the folder full of bad poetry to prove it.

So, if any of my daughters’ UO’s happen to read this, I’m sorry. But don’t stalk them. Trust me when I say you’re wasting your time. And, as I have done a few times, take some comfort in the words of Three Dog Night: “Rearrange, boy. Make yourself strong. You’re not the first or last who’s lost everything.” Take a few deep breaths. Find a hobby. Go out with the boys and shoot some hoops or spit or scratch or something. And as a founding member of the Unrequited Ones Club, rest assured that things do usually get better. Very often, everything eventually works out, and sometimes you get married to a beautiful woman, and have three beautiful daughters (and a son).

One more small piece of advice: under no circumstances allow those children to find that very, very bad poetry you’ve been writing. I’d just burn it now, if I were you.

Spode

2010-03-26T20:32:00.000-07:00

I think P. G. Wodehouse has provided me with a wonderful way to describe how I feel about living in Utah County, a place dominated by Republicans, Libertarians, and Constitutionalists, and also a few people not nearly so liberal.

Understand, it's not that I've necessarily identified myself with the Left-of-Centers, either. I don't really think of myself as a liberal. But that being said, I have to also say I'm tired of the arrogant, self-important, know-it all conservatives that run Utah, or at least try to. I would throw every one of the bums out, if I could and if I thought there weren't three more lined up behind each one of them just as bad.

OK, done with that rant. And now for my wonderful quote. If you are not familiar with P. G. Wodehouse, well, you're missing out. In the Jeeves and Wooster books, there is a character named Roderick Spode, loosely fashioned after Sir Oswald Mosely, the leader of the British Union of Fascists. Spode's followers wear black shorts instead of black shirts, and his political policies are laid out thusly:

Our policies are: one, the right, nay the duty of every freeborn Englishman to grow his own potatoes; two, an immediate ban on the import of foreign root vegetables into the United Kingdom; and three, the compulsory scientific measurement of all adult male knees! Nothing stands between us, and our victory, except defeat! Tomorrow is a new day, the future lies ahead!

Roderick Spode, the Earl of Sidcup

Spode spends a lot of his time blustering, and threatening, and throwing his weight around, not unlike the Utah Legislature. At one point in the novel The Code of the Woosters, our hero Bertie Wooster has the temporary upper hand over Spode, and gives the following little speech:

"The trouble with you, Spode, is that just because you have succeeded in inducing a handful of half-wits to disfigure the London scene by going about in black shorts, you think you're someone. You hear them shouting "Heil, Spode!" and you imagine it is the Voice of the People. That is where you make your bloomer. What the Voice of the People is saying is: 'Look at that frightful ass Spode swanking about in footer bags! Did you ever in your puff see such a perfect perisher?'

Couldn't have said it better myself, Bertie. You're my new hero.

Well, That's Yer Trouble, Right There

2010-03-22T18:46:00.000-07:00

Question: How many times can a man's basement flood because of a broken hose bib?

Answer: Shut up. I don't want to talk about it.

Sweet Talkin' Guy

2010-03-20T20:47:00.000-07:00

A wise man knows how to please a woman. And Dex has caught on really quickly. Some young suitors might waste time on flowers or perfume, writing poetry or serenading their young lady as she stood on her balcony. (OK we don't have a balcony, but big deal. Why won't you people ever give me a break?)

Not Dex. He knows. This is what he brought Em the other day when he came to visit:

No, not the quarter; stay focused here, people. The one-foot-long rusty hunk of solid metal from an old fire hydrant. He probably dodged traffic to get it. Em was delighted. Eventually, it will end up on her bedroom wall. Which will eventually fall over, but that's another story.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

2010-03-17T09:48:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I'm amazed at the degree to which my children respond to my generation's culture and music. My youngest playing CCR or Clapton on the guitar. My son enjoying the Beatles. My daughter responding to Beluchi's Samurai. It's kind of fun.

But then they go and spoil it all by doing something stupid (sorry, Frank) like staring at me blankly when I make a perfectly reasonable cultural reference. Take last night for example. My wife was walking down the stairs and asked me, "Do you have a hammer?" I had to say "No, but if I had a hammer. . . . ," and at this point I looked at my two daughters. Expectantly. Invitingly. They stared back at me.

"I'd hammer in the morning," I said. Nothing.

"I'd hammer in the evening," I went on. Silence. They looked at me as if I had broccoli growing out of my ears.

"All over this land!" I finished.

"Oh!" my daughter said, "it's a song!" It was clear that she didn't actually know the song. She had never really heard it, or anything. But she finally figured out that I must be saying the words to one of "my songs."

"Ohhhh!" the other daughter said, also catching on. "You are so weird, Dad."

But I will get even with them. Someday, I will be a grandpa. I'll be a grandpa with some money. Not a lot, you understand. Just enough to bribe my grandchildren. I will have them come over to my house a lot. Every day, if possible.

"Aw, c'mon, Grandpa, can't we play with the Wiiiiiiiii yet?" (That will be the name of the 4th generation Wii I will have bought to lure the little rascals over to my house.)

"Not until you've learned today's song," I'll say. "All right, let's try it one more time: Jeremiah was a bullfrog. . . . "

Plant a Radish, Get a . . . . Well, I Don't Know.

2010-02-27T07:53:00.000-08:00

Well, I suppose every parent occasionally has to wonder What Happened? The bottom line is, we just don’t know. In the end, we just do the best we can, and hope that things turn out. But right now, I’m not so sure. Of course, there are two sides to every issue: from the front, it looks as though it must be something she picked up from her friends. From the back side, it may be our fault. It’s just hard to tell.

The point is, Erynn has started displaying a certain behavior around the house. In order to avoid embarrassing anyone, I’m not going to say what it is here. No. I won’t even drop any hints, not if you threatened to torture me or set my pants on fire. But let’s just say it reveals a certain disregard for accepted social moires.

It used to be relatively infrequent, maybe once every blue moon. But now it seems to be happening more and more often. I know some of you are thinking it's just a result of being spoiled, that as parents we bent over backwards for her. Maybe you're thinking, it shows a crack in our family armor. But I don't think so.

Well, there's nothing for it but to move on and hope it gets better. No use mooning about, crying over spilt milk. It's time to move on. Be optimistic. Keep the sunny side up. Wish us luck.

Parent Trap

2010-02-13T10:02:00.000-08:00

For many adults, the words "Parent Trap" might summon up images of Lindsay Lohan when she was still reasonably human,

or maybe even Haley Mills, if you're old like me.

This is a cute and innocent image associated with "Parent Trap." But I want to introduce you to a version of parent trap more like the "non-vintage" Lindsay. Not quite so innocent.

This is the version of the parent trap set for the Divine Ms B and me by our loving daughter Em at the bottom of the stairs.

It can work in any of several ways. Perhaps the unsuspecting parent will try to leap over the pile of clothes, bump their head of the door jamb and knock themselves senseless. Or, in trying to avoid that route, they might step on the pile of clothes, which would immediately slip out from under them and BAM! there they are on the stairs, with, in the best case scenario, a couple of broken vertebrae.

You get the idea. I suppose it's even possible that the plan is to just discourage us from going down the stairs at all, thereby cutting us off from the pantry and weakening us, over time, from lack of food. I'm not sure. But I just wanted to document this publicly so when Em shows up in court to gain control of my assets, pushing me in wheelchair as I drool and stare blankly ahead, there will be a trail of evidence to help uncover the truth.

Follow the clothes, people. Follow the clothes.

The Thumbies

2010-02-06T17:12:00.000-08:00

I propose a new award ceremony be held each year to award large golden thumb-shaped statues to those teenaged children who write the best texts in various categories. As a pioneer in this area, I feel that my family and I should provide an example and a guide to scoring.

Today I accompanied my two teenaged girl-children to the mall. As a father who knows his place, I made myself scarce for an hour while they went shopping. After about 50 minutes I texted Em, "Are you about ready to go?" Her reply was:

"Yeah. . . "

Now you will recognize first thing that there should be a mandatory 0.5 deduction for answering the first time instead of having her phone turned off, or just ignoring me and pretending she had her phone turned off. But beyond that, it was a pretty good reply: ambiguous, tentative, almost completely lacking in helpful information. She avoided another mandatory 0.5 deduction by not following up with another explanatory text or (this would have been a 1.o deduction) calling me.

Notice the use of ellipsis at the end of her monosyllabic reply. While not adopted by the International Teenage Text Governing Board as a required textpiece, it certainly earns some stylistic points. It actually implies that there might be more information coming, thus raising some questions about whether the parent should wait, or try to call, or send another text inquiry. It kept me quiet for another 5 minutes. Very good, really.

I believe that the reply could only have been made stronger had she chosen

"Uh. . ."

instead. It would have reduced the actual text length by 2 characters, and eliminated the marginally useful affirmative connotation that "yeah. . ." carries with it. Consider that "Uh. . . " could mean anything from "I'm standing behind you, Dad," to "I'm sitting in the Mall Security Office right now" or even "There is a live bear chasing me past The Gap." The only real information it carries is acknowledgment of the parental unit's text being received, (something my phone does automatically, so there's really no use in it) and a marginal assent to parental authority, since it does constitute, technically, a reply.

Overall, I would rate Em's performance a strong 8.9, and I believe we will certainly be hearing more of this young texter in the future. One syllable at a time.

Honest, There's a Simple Explanation

2010-01-20T21:02:00.001-08:00

Disclaimer:Some of the images on this post may be disturbing to some viewers.

OK, it is true that the casual visitor to our front door may encounter some bird feathers on the welcome mat. Or sometimes, something worse than feathers. Sometimes there might be some blood, or even a few spare parts.

Random Bird Parts

I know it looks like the results of ritual sacrifice, some kind of Voodoo thing. But really, there's a simple explanation.

It's a cat. Really. It likes to catch birds and eat them on the front porch. Honest. The fact that it is a three-legged black cat should not prejudice the case. No Voodoo.

The Offending Cat, Bathing After a Feast

Now it is also true that the casual observer might find in our downstairs shower a suspicious red stain, something out of Bones or NCIS. But I assure you, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Tie-dye. Really. Em tie-dyed her shoes in the shower. That's it. Nothing to see, here, people. Move along.

Although to be honest, I think just to be safe, Erynn would like to have Booth come visit our house and investigate it. Sort of check it out.

Agent Seeley Booth.

Just to be safe, you understand.

Correction

2010-01-11T20:54:00.001-08:00

I have been asked to point out, relative to the last post, that Erynn did not actually mean to drool on her pants.

The management regrets any error.

STOMP!

2010-01-11T20:31:00.000-08:00

We went to see STOMP tonight. Wow. I think two quotes from Erynn sum it up best:

"It was the best Monday I've ever been to."

and

"I drooled on my pants."

It was pretty good, all right.

Not That It Matters, But. . .

2010-01-03T18:46:00.001-08:00

I really have a deep-seated resentment about the new semester starting tomorrow.

On my way to teach Calc I

Becoming My Father

2009-12-26T10:46:00.001-08:00

It’s a pretty standard source of Baby-Boomer comedy that we occasionally stop and realize we are acting just like our parents. Sometimes we are horrified by the discovery; sometimes it makes us a little wiser or more compassionate. It has happened to me before, of course. Most often it shows up in little things, like the way I rest my head in my hand, with two fingers supporting my cheek, and a thumb under my chin. Or how I sound like my dad when I get out of bed in the morning. Now and then I run into one I purposely try to fight against, like my dad’s hermit-like tendencies. Most of the time it’s no big deal.

Dad and Mom on Their Wedding Day, 1940

I found another one yesterday. My son, five months into a two-year proselyting mission in California, got to call home and talk for 45 minutes on Christmas day. We gathered the family together, used two handsets so one could talk and one could listen in, used the speaker phone for a while. I didn’t talk to him nearly as long as anyone else did. Most of my conversation consisted of making a joke and asking if he was OK.

Part of it was letting everyone else go first (now, that behavior is from my Mom, and the jury’s still out on whether it’s good or bad). But part of it was discovering, as I was listening to my son talk to his mom and others, that I was so choked up I probably couldn’t talk anyway.

When I used to call home from college, I’d talk to my mom for 20 minutes, and my dad might get on for a minute total, ask if I needed money, if everything was OK. Later Mom told me that Dad was just too emotional to talk; sometimes he’d go back into his bedroom and break down. It helped to know that it wasn’t indifference that made my dad seem so aloof sometimes. Today, I understand it even better, and I feel closer to my dad. I know how he felt. So proud of your kids, too choked up to tell them. I’m not quite where my dad was, but I could throw a rock and hit it from here, I think.

So I guess I’ll try to do my generation one click better than my dad, and at least tell my son myself why I didn’t talk to him. It was because I had way too much to say.

A Change in the Wind (With Apologies to Mary Poppins)

2009-12-02T21:30:00.000-08:00

My mother used to recite a little poem to me, about a little girl with a little curl right in the middle of her forehead (and when she was good she was very very good, and when she was bad she was horrid). I don't know what Mom was getting at, since I was neither a little girl nor did I have a curl, on my forehead or otherwise. Maybe it was the good vs horrid thing.

Or perhaps it was by way of prophesy. No one would now mistake me for a little girl, but, darn it all, I do have a little curl right in the middle of my forehead. . .

. . . and quite frankly I'm tired of it. It's kind of like a front comb-over that just doesn't work. I am not afraid of baldiness; I long ago came to grips with what time inevitably does to the human body. I can deal with that.

What I'm not quite sure about is how far to go down that path on my next visit to the barber. I sort of want to just flop into the chair and say, "take it all off," but I'm not sure about the consequences. Sometimes things can go wrong.

On the other hand, I'm not sure half-measures are much better.

So I'm struggling with what to do.

It needs to be done soon, so I have Christmas break to recover. Any advice will be welcome.

Wisdom from the Erynn

2009-11-26T08:15:00.001-08:00

Mom and Dad, admiring their youngest who, as a 13 year old girl, is undergoing growth spurts:

"How did she get to be this young lady standing before us?!"

Erynn: "It kind of sucks, you have to go to a LOT of school."

The Epic Battle of The Fat One and the Almonds

2009-11-13T04:57:00.000-08:00

It happened on a quiet November morning in a quiet neighborhood. The neighbors driving past on their way to work or school were probably not aware of what was brewing. But any who walked past and listen closely might have heard the rustling in the almond trees: "The Fat One has no Ninja skills."

The foe, talking trash

Of course, the Fat One is known throughout his immediate family as having some of the best Ninja sounds in all of Provo, including a throaty "Hoaaah-Rah" and the ever-popular "Toah-Cha!" The Fat One also has a pretty scary Mad Dog face:

Knowing that, it will come as no surprise that the Fat One also handles the 3/4-inch PVC Bo staff with some degree of skill. And so it was that the challenge to his Ninja-manhood was taken up.

Pre-battle meditation.

At the ready

The Fat One, executing one fancy move, I tell you what.

The difficult ninja"pool cue" maneuver

The foe, now trembling and begging for mercy

A couple of moments of unbridled passion

The foe, vanquished utterly
And some leaves that were going to fall anyway
I mean, it's November for heaven's sake

A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do

Suffrage. Or Sufferage. Or Something.

2009-11-02T14:58:00.000-08:00

In the hotly contested Provo mayoral race, it comes down to a choice between two very conservative Republican white Mormon males (VCRWMM's). OK, so that is not really surprising. But it presents me with something of a dilemma.

Oh, it's not that I think either one of them would do a bad job. On the contrary, I think either of them would probably do an adequate job. One of Dave Barry's list of 25 things he's learned in 50 years runs something like,

The value of advertising is that it tells you the exact opposite of what the advertiser actually thinks. For example: If Coke and Pepsi spend billions of dollars to convince you that there are significant differences between these two products, both companies realize that Pepsi and Coke are virtually identical.

Similarly, the fact that each candidate wants us to believe they will do a much better job than their opponent points to the likelihood that really, they will do about the same things for the same reasons. Especially in this case. Both are businessmen turned politicians, family men, church men, good citizens. Both would do a much better job of being mayor than I would.

So, you ask, with so little at stake, why the dilemma?

It's a matter of principle. Three principles, actually:

1. I think some Utah Republican State Representatives and senators are inflexible and arrogant and have control issues, and they bother me quite a lot. (I say "some" here because I don't really know about all of them, and this way any of them reading it will actually think "he doesn't mean me" so s/he won't call for a general audit of my state taxes for the last 16 years. ) I think they are an example of "too much power corrupts too much."

2. A few other people bother me on general principles. Not to name names, but some of them write management/self-help books in which the number 7 figures prominently.

3. Principles. People who hide behind principles, as though that was always the moral high ground, really bug me.

So this means I obviously would rather not vote for a person who is in, or is endorsed by someone in, one or more of these three categories. It is true that being endorsed by someone doesn't mean you act like them or believe what they believe. But you can't be too careful.

And there's the rub. One of the candidates is a Utah Republican State Representative. But the other has the endorsement of several members of the Utah House and Senate that I would classify as having such unbelievably large control issues that they have a hard time walking. On the other hand, the first one has the endorsement of some Highly Effective people that bug me on general principles.

One accuses the other of once having been a (gasp) Democrat. As an aside, sometimes that's the only way to run for public office in Utah, if you aren't quite far enough right for the party elite. Of course, you won't win, but you can run. But anyway, it seems the accuser is playing "more Republican than thou," which also bugs me. But to balance things out, our allegedly-once-Democratic friend believes that "It is wrong for government to do for people what they, their families or private charities can and should do on their own." And that "Free markets produce better outcomes than government programs." Both of which sound to me a lot like Principles That Aren't Always True But I'll Stand By Them With A Foolish Consistency. I think public schools are one example of something the free market shouldn't get their hands on, for example.

Are you beginning to catch my dilemma? If I vote for either of these candidates, it would seem to validate one thing or another that (as I believe I've mentioned) bugs me. So it's a matter of the lesser of two irritants. But it's a tough call.

Right now Candidate A has a slim edge over Candidate 2. We'll see what will happens tomorrow when I'm alone with my conscience. And my quarter.

Waiting for the Third Strike

2009-10-22T12:39:00.001-07:00

The count is 0 and 2.

I was informed about the first strike a couple of days ago, when I informed Mr. S. Moosebutt that money had flowed from my daughter, through my bank account, and into the coffers of an organization selling Yankees memorabilia (specifically, a brick from the now no-longer-among-us Yankee Stadium, or whatever they call it back there). This tangential and probably fairly hygienic association with the Yankees was enough to cast a cloud of doubt over my general character. Thank heavens I didn't tell him the offending brick actually passed through my mailbox, and probably even spent some time on my kitchen table (I pretty much let my wife handle that part of the transaction). Honest, I cleaned the table off with bleach. What more does he expect from me?

The second strike will probably come later today, when I will likely be accused of "having lunch" with a certain Senior Senator from Utah, whose name I will not mention except to say that it rhymes with "foreign match." In reality, he was in the same big room with me, but at a different table. And we did eat the same roast beef and potatoes. I'm not sure if he had the kiwi dessert or the chocolate (mine was chocolate). But that's all. The trouble is that this nameless senior senator is not on Mr. Moosebutt's "A" list. He's more like on the "S" list, if you take my meaning. Thus anything that involves breathing the same air as this senior senator will once again be viewed as reason to question my character.

I'm assuming I get three strikes. I'm waiting to see what the third one might be. It will probably involve the Republican Party in some way. Or noodles. Moosebutt really likes noodles. But I'm scared that I might get left out of the malt-ball runs if I cross the line again. I guess I'll lay low for a while, until the Yankee Brick scandal blows over.

P.S. I got no problem with noodles. Noodles are great. Really.

Fall Classic

2009-10-18T19:43:00.000-07:00

Well, it's that time again. Pennant races, playoffs, the roar of the bats, the crack of the crowd.

What's different this year is that the good ol' Dodgers are actually in the race. This, together with the Yankees (Booo!) and the Angels (Yay!) being there too, pulls me into the baseball world after a comfortable multi-year hiatus of not really caring much. Because my friend is an Angels fan (and much to his credit, introduced me to the Power of the Rally Monkey), and because my son-in-law and nephew are both Yankees fans (it can happen in good families, folks), I feel like I have to stand up and be counted as a true-blue Dodger fan.

Now the trouble is that although I'm a Dodger fan, I'm a Dodger fan more in principle than in practice. I'm a lapsed Dodger fan, an inactive Dodger fan. A Jack-Dodgerfan. I grew up as a believer, but drifted away. Haven't been to church for years. Actually, I've been to a Cubs game and an Angels game since I've been to a Dodgers game. If I went to Dodger Stadium, it would fall in on me. That sort of thing.

So the unhappy reality of the matter is that I really don't lose much sleep over baseball, even Dodger baseball, these days. I can name exactly one player on the current roster, and that's because Manny Ramirez was suspended. So I can't really say I follow the Dodgers anymore. (Of course, I can name off the top of my head a number of players from the 1975 roster: Steve Yeager, Steve Garvey, Ron Cey, Bill Russell, Davey Lopes, Don Sutton, Andy Messersmith. I'm not a complete infidel.)

Nevertheless, something in me has to stand up and state boldly and unequivocally that, despite wins and losses, despite payrolls and steroids, despite that fact that pretty much all of them are paid way more than they should be in any rational world, the Dodgers are basically Good. . . .

(Steve Finley pausing in a game to pray)

and the Yankees are basically Evil:

'Nuff said.

It is true that I've learned to sleep at night by accepting the presence of evil --like you accept the presence of cockroaches without necessarily liking it -- but I still feel obliged to stand up and weigh in on the issue.

So: Go Dodger Blue! Go Angels! Defeat the forces of evil! I probably won't be watching, but I'm sure Jacob will keep me posted, and that's about as much baseball excitement as I really need these days.

Letting Off Some Steam

2009-10-10T21:55:00.000-07:00

I was listening to a local radio talk show a few nights ago. The topic was drug addiction and treatment, and they had as guests both some recovering addicts and some people who ran treatment programs. One of the program's hosts mentioned that the stories of addiction they were listening to that night could be used as "cautionary tales," so that, presumably, people could see where things went wrong for these recovering addicts and escape their fate.

One of the guests both ran a recovery program and was himself a recovering addict. During their interview with him one of the hosts the guest asked whether he could identify some moment in time he'd like to go back to and somehow change -- maybe make a different decision. When he asked this, the host even acknowledged that the guest had become addicted by taking a legally prescribed drug for a real medical condition. But somehow the host still assumed that there was some point where things went bad, some decision to regret. I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but something about that question seemed to show both an ignorance about addiction and an underlying attitude that bothered me.

The guest's response brought it into focus for me. Basically, his answer was: "No, I can't identify any moment in time like that, because I don't believe addiction is a moral decision." He simply took the morphine he was prescribed because he didn't want to be in pain anymore. There wasn't any moral lapse involved.

Wow. To see the world in that way is kind of refreshing. Undoubtedly, there are plenty of times that people make immoral choices and royally screw up their lives, and the lives of innocent people as well. I've made bad choices before, and I've seen basically good people brought down by decisions both stupid and morally wrong. I do believe in good and bad, right and wrong. That's not the point.

The point is that sometimes, even things that look like they must be the result of character flaws or moral weakness probably just happen to people without their ever making a consious decision to do something bad. Maybe some addicts never purposely take a wrong turn. Maybe some people file for bankruptcy because they are unlucky and not because they lack integrity. Maybe, on occasion, people get in trouble because they're naive or ignorant instead of evil. And on the whole, I'd rather hang out with folks who see things that way, instead of folks who are always pointing out the moral of the story.

Why? Because it seems like a less stressful way to live when you don't have to figure out which moral principles have been violated, and instead just try to help and understand a little more. In my experience, "I told you so" doesn't help as much as you'd think. It's less burdensome when you don't have to figure out how each episode of human misery grew from some violation of moral law. Instead, you can just see people in trouble and try to help. There's plenty of time to root out the causes later.

I really think I'd be happier living and thinking that way. And it would be fun to find some like-minded people. I think I'd enjoy talking and working with them. Of course I've run across a few. A certain family of canoe lovers comes to mind, for example. But they are a long ways away, in a mystical land of cheese and waterways. If only there were some people like that in Utah. If only. . . .

Ah, but wait. I can hear the voice of my good friend S.M, telling me about just such a group of people. He claims they walk among us. I'm not sure whether to believe him or not. It seems like the stuff of legends, almost, and yet there he is, himself a living example of a person in Utah who actually thinks that way. I suppose there could be more. He claims they are organized and even have a name. At least here in Utah, he says, they are usually called Democrats.

Feelin' Wimpy

2009-09-06T10:30:00.000-07:00

Wimpy /ˈwɪmpi/.

1. n. Nickname for a character from the Popeye cartoon strip whose full name is J. Wellington Wimpy. Of this character, Wikipedia states, "Wimpy is very intelligent, and well educated, [OK, I like where this is going. . . .] but very lazy and gluttonous." Hmmmm.

Well, I have to admit that I do enjoy a good hamburger, for which I would gladly pay you Tuesday. And the mustache fits. The hair is getting closer all the time. I guess this is your call, gentle reader.

2. adj. Not Hefty, Hefty, Hefty. Also not Hefty, Hefty. Not Hefty. Not even hefty. At all.

As in, "wimpy, wimpy, wimpy." Falling apart. No holding power. Bottom drops out. Weak. Having holes.

Yeah, that seems vaguely descriptive as well.

3. adj. Puny. Weak. Easily tired. Lacking ability to get going when the going gets tough. Without grit, fortitude, or guts. Unable to resist the Call of the Laz-E-Boy. Just about empty by 3 p.m.

Yeah! That's IT! That's me, almost three weeks after my operation. Even those last two exclamation marks have pretty much exhausted me. No more bold face or italics for the rest of the blog.

I'm still eleven days away from my official surgical follow-up and the sanction to lift things heavier than a gallon of milk (8.6 lbs for whole milk, more for skim). That should probably clue me in to the fact that maybe I'm not supposed to feel back to normal yet, but somehow I'm always surprised at how wimpy I feel each afternoon. And evening.

The good news is, I can sleep. In a bed. On either side, or my back, or my stomach. None of the pain I used to have. I guess I can live with a couple more weeks of puniness for such a gift.

PS. For those of you who were thinking that "hefty" still describes me pretty well, Thanks A Lot. Kick a man while he's down, why dontcha?

Yes, But Is It Art?

2009-08-02T15:19:00.000-07:00

I suppose quite a few parents have "But when I came home from work and opened the door, my children had..." stories. Thankfully, mine are not too catastrophic. But occasionally I do come home to find something a little different sitting on the end table by the front door:

When this happens, it is never in question what has transpired: Em has been on a walk somewhere and found more treasure.

And more treasure.

And more treasure.

And one of my personal favorites, here shown with a dime in order to illustrate relative size:

Now, the astute reader will be asking her/himself, "But what does she do with all her treasure?" I'm so glad you asked.

She attaches it to the wall of her bedroom:

And, if she's really lucky, and stumbles across a pile of rusty old metal out in the desert, she uses it to make a mobile:

The finished product:

(In the background is the sun-figure what was handed to me by a nice man on the streets of St. Louis one evening while I was walking to a restaurant; but that's another blog post. Maybe.)

I'm still waiting to see what these turn into:

(We had to stop the car and wait so she could go get these.)

But I do take some comfort in knowing where she will be in another 10 years: living in New York, or San Francisco, or Seattle, in a little house with an attached studio, working in -- well, some medium or another:

It brings a little tear to my eye.

Toot Toot, Hey, Beep Beep

2009-07-04T09:50:00.000-07:00

I admit that musically, I am stuck in the past. I came of age in the 70's, and so did my musical tastes (and maybe even the 60's, as I frantically tried to figure out what I had missed -- the Sixties came to Emery County quite late). So yeah, people have some fun with the songs I listen to as well as those that spontaneously appear in my brain and come out in hummed snippets during the day.

I was proud when my daughter learned to play Bad Moon Rising, Knocking on Heaven's Door, Born to be Wild, and Smoke on the Water in her guitar class. And I was gleeful when my son discovered I Am the Walrus. (We both agree it doesn't get much better than "Yellow matter custard, dripping from a dead dog's eye.") Every now and then, I can dismiss something my children are listening to by a wave of the hand and "Bah! That's just a cover of the real version!" And occasionally I have to admit that some of my music is silly, and less frequently I have to admit that I kind of like something they listen to (They Might be Giants, for example, or Mika. Of course, both of them are silly, too). So go the battles and truces of the Culture Wars in my family.

By now the astute reader will have discerned the real Achilles' Heel in my position, and that is Disco. As I was living through the Disco Era, I thought it likely represented the Beginning of the End of All Things. I didn't set foot into a disco until once in 1982, and haven't since. To me, the Bee Gees were the artistic equivalent of the Three Stooges. Donna Summer was a musical Mata Hari. I had to agree with the cast of Doonesbury when, in late 1979 they held an "End of Decade" party, and Mark Slackmeyer proposed a toast to "A Kidney Stone of a Decade." Disco had almost made me forget that the mid-seventies had brought me "Band on the Run" and "Benny and the Jets." I just wanted Disco out of my musical life.

Of course, I tried not to listen to it. I had my music at home but was still years away from having a car cassette player. And I was in college. I wasn't about to drive without music. So like it or not, it was there in the background, a soundtrack to my Bachelor's Degree: Alicia Bridges wanting some "Ack-shaaawn" mixing in with Zorn's Lemma. Can't be healthy. And as it turns out, it wasn't.

Now, years later, thanks to online music services like Rhapsody and iTunes Music Store, I have been able to deplete my children's college funds by buying up music from the 60's and 70's (OK, and a few from the early 80's). Sometimes I remember a song and go looking for it; other times I vaguely remember the name and need to listen to it; if I like it, I buy it. The problem is, I'm finding that I can listen to some of the disco songs from that era and like them. I've even spent good money on a few. These are songs I wouldn't have walked across the street to spit on in 1980. But today, they sound pretty good. Boy, do I feel like a sheep.

It was the radio, you see. Repetition and familiarity break down your natural defenses until your brain mistakes liking something for being familiar with it. It's like the first time you taste beer. It's bitter and nasty. The second time, too. But taste by taste, you get used to it. And then you like it. And then you're in trouble. I'm living proof that revulsion can become reverence through repetition (with disco, not beer. Honest). You can use that alliterative "revulsion-reverence-repetition" phrase in Sunday School lessons if you want, but please send me a nickel each time you do.

So people; if something is nasty, don't try it again. It will only lead to heartache. The second time you watch "Dancing with the Stars," your head won't hurt quite as much. Midway through the season, you'll start thinking that "According to Jim" is really funny. Just Say No.

PS. Don't inhale, either.

The Problem with Math: Problems

2009-05-20T22:28:00.000-07:00

I am a math teacher, and it quite frankly amazes me that my life insurance rates are not prohibitively high because of it.

Periodically, I tutor young men and women in my neighborhood. Often they are having some trouble because they missed a few days of math clas, or maybe they just don’t quite understand their teacher as well as they’d like. So they come to me, and we do some problems together at my kitchen table.

I get angry. Not at the kids; they are generally doing the best they can with whatever they have been given. But I get angry at the problems they are assigned. And I figure if I, as a math teacher – as someone who is not afraid of sentences that begin, “Let H be a compact Hausdorff space. . . .,” as someone who periodically integrates secant cubed just to see if I still “got it” – if I get angry, what chance do the kids possibly have?

See, it isn’t ever enough to teach a concept, then see if kids can apply that concept. No. We have to teach several concepts, then make horrible examples in which they all apply at once. And throw in some ugly fractions at the same time. I’ll give you an example of what I mean:

Problem: Graph y = 7 + sin x.
Student: “No problem; that 7 just moves the graph up 7 units.” (Hums happily while sketching graph)

Problem: Graph y = 3sin x.
Student: “Easy. That 3 just stretches the graph 3 up and 3 down. I can do that.” (More happy humming)

Problem: Graph y = cos 4x.
Student: “OK, I know that 4 makes the period – uh, longer? Shorter? Let’s see. Oh, yeah, I divide the period 2 pi by that 4, and the new period is pi over 2, and so I just scruntch it all into pi over 2 instead of 2 pi.” (Proceeds to sketch graph. No humming this time.)

Problem: Graph y+7/3 = 5/2 tan (3x + 7/4).
Student: “Mr. Math Teacher, sir? Please come over here so I can beat you up.”

See? Anger. Anger is a perfectly rational reaction to that. Admit it. You wouldn’t take that kind of abuse from anyone, let alone some old guy who talks through his nose and is half covered with chalk dust. So why do we expect kids to take it?

Sigh. Good thing nobody reads this blog, or I’d have a lot of angry math teachers to deal with.

Channeling Carnac the Magnificent

2009-05-19T21:37:00.000-07:00

I take the hermetically sealed envelope out of the mayonnaise jar, and holding it to my ornately turbaned head, I say:

"A camel with one too many straws, a movie with two gay cowboys, and me."

Tearing open the envelope, I reveal the question:

"Name three things with a broke back."

Yeah, apparently I have a stress fracture in one of my vertebrae. Which would explain some of the back pain. Maybe not all, but some.

Why do I have a stress fracture? I don't know. Honestly, I have no idea how it happened. No recollection of anything that could have done it. I'd like to think that it came from my performing some superhuman feat of strength, like lifting a bus off of an orphan. But no. More likely it was because I have the bones of a 70-year-0ld woman. I was going to sell them on Ebay, but they wouldn't let me (rimshot).

So it looks like maybe there will be less Diet Coke, more weight-bearing exercise, and more calcium-rich foods in my future. It figures. My doctor visits have this nasty habit of returning to the theme of exercising more, eating better, and getting more sleep. Perhaps I'll try it this time.

The Williams Way

2009-05-13T21:18:00.000-07:00

I saw my cousin at the hardware store today. He lives about two hours away, and we see each other maybe once a year, at the family reunion. And of course, because we are roughly the same age and on good terms, we always exchange a few words -- maybe twelve. Let me count: "Hi, Tom, how you doin'?" "Fine. How are you guys doin'?" "Fine."

Yup, twelve.

Actually, our conversation at the hardware store was rather involved, by comparison, ranging over such topics as what project I was doing that brought me to the hardware store ("Oh, just fixing some stuff") and how Tom's parents, my aunt and uncle, were doing ("Real good."). I didn't ask him what brought him to the hardware store two hours from his home. If he wanted me to know, he'd have told me. But overall, it was really pretty chatty by our usual standards.

I think both of us are kind of relieved that we've pretty much taken care of our social obligations for the year. I figure this June, at the family reunion, we'll probably just nod at each other as we pass by. Don't want to overdo it. Besides, we both know how we'll be doin': Fine. We'll be doin' just fine.

And that's all a Williams really needs to know.

Erynn and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day(s)

2009-05-10T14:51:00.001-07:00

Just over a week ago, Erynn had a very very good day. She has been taking ballroom dance as an after-school class this year, and has therefore been dancing with the Dixon Middle School ballroom dancers at various concerts this year. Last week, the two Dixon teams went to a competition involving several local middle schools. Long story short, Dixon walked away with two gold ribbons and the trophy for overall best dancers. Erynn was justifiably happy and proud. I was originally planning to write a blog complaining about how everything needs to be made into a competition in our society. But I figured since my daughter's team won, I'd let it slide.

HA! In your face, Other Local Middle Schools!

Anyway, she's had a good week. And then, yesterday, the Dixon team had one dance at a Provo High School dance concert. As I found out later, Erynn (as she says), "biffed it" as she was walking into the school just before the concert. Scraped and bruised both knees and both elbows. Must have been quite a biff. It included a face plant, so that her upper lip came between her braces and the sidewalk, resulting in blood and puffiness.

Trooper that she is, she bandaged up and got ready to dance. And dance she did. We didn't know any of this, sitting in the audience, videotaping our daughter's one performance, which as near as we could tell went well. However, if you examined closely the videotape, you would be able to find, as we did later, the exact moment when her dress fell off, and she was scooting to the back of the stage in her black undies, there in front of God and everybody.

As spectators, we honestly didn't notice it at the time. I'm not sure if anyone did, really. Except, of course, Erynn and her fellow sufferers up on stage. But it's there, on tape. It brought a smile to our faces last night as we watched it. In fact, it brought loud guffaws and snorts of laughter. Erynn wasn't convinced it was that funny.

She managed to get her dress fixed in the intervening 15 seconds or so, while the dancers were in two lines (her in the back, thankfully enough), doing hand jives. And the rest of the dance went off without any major wardrobe malfunctions.

As if that wasn't bad enough, the luck continued to today, which, of course, is Mother's Day. Erynn spent her last package of -- well, it's some kind of crafty plaster-like substance -- in making a pretty heart-shaped present for her Mom. And when she was working on it, she picked it up to move it and it broke. Likely beyond redemption.

Sad indeed. But the saddest thing is what she said to me last night, as we contemplated the dance debacle. She said, "Well, I guess it was just getting back at me for being so happy last week." If you're not quite sure what "it" was, then you probably haven't spent your life convinced that "it" was keeping score, and trying not to be too obviously happy or worry-free, because you knew beyond doubt that "it" would pay you back if you were. I have spent my life that way, so I recognized the symptoms immediately. It's part of my family heritage. I got it from my dad, who gotit from his mom, and on back, somewhere into Denmark, which gave us, after all, Hamlet, and goodness knows he knew better than to get too happy. I'm not sure, but I think "it" lives somewhere near Copenhagen.

Anyway, I have a few words of advice to give my daughter: You don't have to be another dismal Dane. First, you have every right to be happy when good things happen. Second, nobody is keeping score but you. Third, if you don't believe what I just told you, then start right now to fight that feeling. Fight it for all you're worth. It might be too late for me, but you can still save yourself.

Of Hatana and Gach

2009-04-10T17:16:00.000-07:00

We had an interesting guest this week, and with him came some interesting food. A nice mixture of Cardassian, Klingon, and Taresian.

The cook, who hails from the planet Madison

Gagh (Klingon Worms) with (Cardassian) Yamok Sauce

Rokeg Blood Pie
(Plenty of iron for growing Klingon boys!)

Hatana

Jimbalian Fudge Cake

All washed down with Klingon Blood Wine, of course.

And finally,

The cook again, this time sizing up a small furry life form for a possible Klingon Stew, I think.

Good Grief, Starshine!

2009-03-20T19:20:00.000-07:00

Let us consider as Exhibit A the following list of some of the silliest songs ever written:

1. Good Morning Starshine by Oliver
2. Gimme Dat Ding by The Pipkins
3. I Wanna Dance Wit Choo by Disco Tex and the Sex-O-Lettes
4. How Do You Do by Mouth & MacNeal
5. Chick-A-Boom by Daddy Dewdrop
6. Jam Up and Jelly Tight by Tommy Roe
7. Yummy Yummy Yummy (I've Got Love in My Tummy) by Ohio Express

If it did not violate numerous international copyright laws I would love to give you a link to these songs so those of you not of my particular generation could listen to them and see exactly how silly they are. These are songs that would make my children roll on the floor, howling with laughter.

Example:

Dad's Stereo: "Glibby-gloob-glooby, nibby nobby nooby, la-la-la lo-lo"
Children: (rolling on the floor) "Har! Har! Har! Hoooo! *Snort*, *Choke*, Har!"

Anyway, the thing you need to understand is that these songs have almost no artistic merit, make very little sense, and are extremely un-hip, if I can be so un-hip as to use that term. They would make many people's ears bleed spontaneously. They could kill Simon Cowell at 300 yards.

The other thing you need to understand is that I personally own all of these songs. Worse, I just paid 99 cents for one of them this very week. If I didn't already own them, and many others only marginally less abhorrent, I would be actively looking through iTunes and Rhapsody and Amazon.com, seeing if I could snap them up. Such is the pathetic nature of my taste in music.

Next, as Exhibit B, let us consider the following list of . . . Well, let's have you make your own. Go ahead: make a list of the most maligned musical acts of the 60's and 70's. No, really, go ahead and jot a few down. I'll wait.

*Hums the Pina Colada Song while waiting. . . .*

OK. Now I know your list contained at least the following three:

1. Barry Manilow
2. Neil Diamond
3. The Carpenters
4. Barry Manilow

(Yes, I know, but some of you really hate Barry Manilow.)

As you have already guessed, I own the complete collected works of all three of these artists -- well, the complete works up until 1985 or so when they quit recording the really good stuff. But the point is I really like them, despite what you and your sophisticated musical taste might think of me.

Finally, as Exhibit C, we have: The Entire Genre of Bubblegum Music. I like it. Quite a lot. This is how bad I am: I recently worked hard and long to procure the song "You Are The One" by the Sugar Bears. It was actually an MP3 taken from vinyl, and you can hear the pops of the needle hitting the dust and scratches.

The Sugar Bears are not real. They are animated characters. They are actually designed to sell cereal. But they cut an album in the early 70's. In the words of Frank Larosa:

Of course there is Sugar Bear himself, kingpin of the Post Super Sugar Crisp franchise back in the wild days when you could say "sugar" on national television. The marketing folks at Post cereals must have realized that Sugar would need a few companions to fill out his band. After consulting the top 40 charts of the day, they decided that what he needed was a tambourine-playing prostitute bear and a couple of drug-addled hippie bears to complete his musical ensemble.

According to Dr. Mark Hill, the vocals were actually performed by Kim Carnes (of Bette Davis Eyes fame) and Mike Settle, one of her partners from The New Christy Minstrels. They were backed by the same studio group and backup singers as The Partridge Family.

It is sick that I know that.

The point is, I actively sought out, and was delighted to find, a bad recording of a song ostensibly performed by a group that made The Archies look like The Rolling Stones (Archie would be Mick; Jughead would be Keith).

So there you have it: The ugly truth about my musical tastes. Perhaps in the future, I will blog more about some of the other music in my collection, not all of which is as lame as what you've seen here. In the mean time, if any of you have a song even worse than the ones I've talked about today, I'd like to hear about it. There's still some money left in one of my music store accounts.

Channeling Mr. Goodwrench

2009-03-15T18:15:00.000-07:00

Prologue

As I have explained before, my relationship with mechanical devices, especially cars, is not always friendly. And honestly, it's not because I'm completely incompetent mechanically. At various times in my life, I have replaced stabilizer bolts, shocks, rotors, and thermostats. I can change my own oil, put on new brake shoes, and set the gap on spark plugs. Once or twice, I have even fixed other people's cars. So I'm not a complete idiot.

But apparently, in a previous life, I somehow set fire to an entire fleet of chariots or something. And now modes of transportation in general are out for revenge. Of course, my cars don't do anything too blatant -- no failing brakes or fiery tumbling down cliffs. No, they attack my blood pressure instead.

For example, my Sentra decided not too long ago that it would be really funny if the spring that opens the hood when I pull on the release lever would just quit opening the hood. So now it takes two people to open it, one to work the lever inside and one to pull up on the hood at the same time. Doubtless my car had visions of my pulling the lever, then trying to run out real quick to pull on the hood. As if. I knew that wouldn't work after the third time.

So I outsmart it by sticking a pry-bar under the hood, which gives just enough leverage and weight to pull up the hood when I pull the lever.

And then the pry bar falls to the ground, ready to pick up and use again.

Additionally, in the "blood pressure" department, the Sentra has a driver's side window that sometimes works and sometimes doesn't, so you don't dare open it in case the switch decides to short out and not close it. We also have a fan switch with two speeds: off, and high. Talk about two high-end "dealer only" repairs (I don't do electrical).

Chapter 1

Three weeks ago, on a Friday night about 11:30, my car decided not to start. It had been parked in my driveway for about 10 minutes, and it wouldn't start. After arranging rides for everyone who needed them in the next 8 hours, we made plans to tow it down to Firestone the next day.

Luckily enough, my family now has in it a Car Whisperer. There are those who call him. . . . Jake. And he came over the next morning just to take a look. Before he came, he called and said that if it was the starter, sometimes it helps to tap the starter with a hammer. So my brother and I tried to decide where the starter might be. I should point out that my brother is always willing to help with these matters, and in this case we took it in turns to frown, peer into the engine, poke at something, and walk around the car.

Now, I should point out that most of my good mechanical work has been on older cars, whose engines did not have to exist partly in hyperspace in order to fit into their allotted space. So it turns out finding the starter in a 99 Nissan is not as easy as it looks. Nevertheless I gave it the old college try. I found something near the front of the car that looked to me sort of like a canteen, which is vaguely reminiscent of a can, which is sort of what a starter ought to look like. It was underneath an aluminum shield, but you can see the side of it here:

In my defense, I want to point out that it did look like it had some electrical power going to it:

So I tapped on it, and wonder of wonders, the car started! Well, you can't imagine how happy I was. "Real Man, Armed with Claw Hammer (I don't own a ball peen), Repairs Own Car." All I was waiting for now was official validation from Jake the Car Whisperer.

Validation, in this particular case, came in the form of Jake telling me I had been tapping on the exhaust manifold.

Chapter 2

But, darn it, the car started, and that was worth something. To be on the safe side, I accepted Jake's offer to look it over, run some tests, etc. We took it up to AutoZone (AutoZone figures heavily in the story) and hooked it up to the meter. Turns out the battery was good, the starter behaved admirably under a load, and all seemed right with the world. Jake suggested that sometimes this (not starting) happens, and may never happen again. Goodness knows I was willing to believe that my car was capable of not starting just out of cussedness. So I chalked it up to sunspots and put it behind me.

Now, to understand the next part of this story, you need to know that about 16 months ago, in Red Oak, Iowa, the very same car decided not to start after I had driven it through a car wash. We let it sit for a while, hoping that whatever got wet would dry out and work again. And so it seemed to be. It started, and we rode merrily on to Nebraska. Where the "Check Engine" light came on. It seemed to run a little rough, so when we stopped for gas in -- Lincoln, maybe? -- we drove into town to an AutoZone to have them read the code. The code said we needed a new idle air control (IAC) valve, but they assured us that it wouldn't hurt us to keep driving and make it to Utah before we really replaced it. So we kept on westward, and eventually the "Check Engine" light went out, and we chalked it up to water or something.

But psychologically, the damage was done. In my subconscious, the IAC, the Check Engine light, and the car not starting were all tied together.

The Check Engine light had actually come on a couple of weeks before the "not starting' incident, and we had again taken it to AutoZone, and they told us that the code could mean any number of things, including the IAC, but maybe not, so there. And it started running better, so we made a mental note to have it checked out in March, when we needed to have it inspected anyway.

Until the car didn't start again.

Chapter 3

Well, I figured, if tapping on the manifold made it start, so might tapping other places. So I tapped away, and the car started, and I thought, "Well, my hammer and I can make it to payday, anyway. " Eventually, we started tapping it up by the IAC, and then eventually on the IAC, and lo! it suddenly became clear to me. For some reason, the faulty IAC was making the car not start. It was clear I needed to replace it. Back to AutoZone, and $160 later I had a brand new IAC to put in the next day, when it was light again.

That night, I made a run to Rite Aid with my son. The Divine Ms B, being sensible in most matters, warned us not to turn off the engine. But, as two males who had each tapped the car back to life numerous times, we were confident of what we could do with a claw hammer.

My brother came to our rescue in the Rite Aid parking lot when no amount of tapping would make the car start. I put the new IAC in by flashlight. The new IAC was clean and shiny. Hopes were high. My brother and I had given it our very best frowns.

The New IAC

The car wouldn't start. So of course we called the Car Whisperer. He came, he tapped (this time on the real starter, with his long pry-bar) and it started. So it was now clear that the starter was, in the words of The Princess Bride, "only mostly dead." And getting deader. Jake estimated it would start about 6 out of 10 times, until we replaced the starter. Still a few days left until payday, too.

Jake showed me the little gap in the manifold that was the only access to the starter from the top:

And I learned to use my pry bar to tap, tap, tap.

For a while, I seriously considered using a toilet plunger handle to tap the starter, under the not-as crazy-as-it-sounds belief that the Car Gods would be somewhat appeased if I just admitted that I had to carry a toilet plunger to start my car.

Chapter 4

In a couple of days, the Car Whisperer came over, and put a new starter in my car. We got it at AutoZone, of course. He had to do it from underneath, and bend a cross-beam to get at it, and probably had to use his tricorder to do a little work in hyperspace, but he got it done in less time than he thought (given my Car Karma, it's good to double the estimated time and go up one unit, e.g. 2 hours -> 4 days). But it all worked, and Jake has earned an assured place in heaven, if I have anything to say about it.

Postlogue

1. I claim I needed to replace the IAC anyway, and the check engine light hasn't come on again. So let me have that small bit of comfort, OK?

2. Last week, I dropped $2000 to rebuild the transmission.

Apparently the blood pressure route was taking too long.

Emergency Blog Challenge

2009-03-07T12:09:00.000-08:00

Having just learned of this unique activity from the Discovery Channel this morning, I'm shouting out to Canoelover to see if he would care to comment on Interpretive Freestyle Canoeing.

Trying to spread some sunshine,

SRW

Admit One

2009-02-19T22:44:00.000-08:00

I’m lucky enough to have a few friends that I’ve known most of my life. One is the Vicious and Abhominable Delrog (VAD), who was also my college roommate. One night when we went to a movie, seeing the ticket that said “Admit One,” VAD turned to me and said, “Once I used your toothbrush to clean the gunk off the sink.” So I told him, “I drink out of the milk jug.” Having admitted one each, we turned our attention to other topics, such as girls and astrophysics.

Anyway, this blog is in the spirit of “Admit One.” And the thing I have to admit is this: Even though I hold advanced degrees from very reputable institutions, and make my living teaching at a university, there is a deep core of white trash that runs through me, affecting my taste in music, reading, food, recreation, and so forth, and giving lie to the thousands of dollars my parents, taxpayers, tithe-payers, my wife, and I myself have invested in my education.

Want some examples? I knew you did:

Coke and peanuts. Even though I’m likely to get caught at it, and then have to explain it, and then have to live it down, sometimes I can’t help pouring some peanuts into my bottle of Diet Coke at work. I can trace this back to my friend Lloyd, who turned me on to Coke and Peanuts back in the 7th grade or so. We would drink Coke and peanuts (and eat beef jerky) while we played poker.

Which brings me to:

Games. I know how to play chess, and once I learned how to play go (an ancient game of Chinese origin played with black and white stones on a grid – very popular among analytical, left-brained math types).

I hate them both.

Moreover, some colleagues in my previous department tried to get me interested in bridge, another somewhat analytical game where most of the action seems to be pre-determined by complex strategic rules. I never could get interested. See, I believe that when you engage in recreation, you should be able to tell it from work. Fun should be. . .well, fun. Like, for example, a friendly game of poker. Oh, don’t talk to me about the trendy poker stuff: Texas Hold-em and televised poker tournaments. I’m talking blue-collar poker, here, something you can still play and enjoy even after consuming massive amounts of beer (not that I ever did that, of course, not even in 7th grade). Nothing fancy; maybe five card draw. I don’t need to think too hard about that.

So, summary: games of strategy, especially those patterned after war: 0. Games of chance: 1.

PS. I think there is a special place in Hell reserved for the person who invented the Parker Brothers game of Risk, which not only combines the worst aspects of both strategy and chance, but also takes hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and hours to play, so it is like settling slowly to the bottom of a very deep, very boring ocean.

Quiz: Which of the following would I be most likely to enjoy:

a. Backgammon
b. Blackjack

Tune in next time, when we discuss my deplorable taste in music.

What Two Women Might Do To One Man's Blog If They Found it Unattended (or something like that)

2009-02-06T19:39:00.000-08:00

The Man Pedicure

Step One: Wax.

Step Two: Find a basin for presoaking

Step Three: Fill basin and soak feet.

Step Four: Buff away hardened, calloused skin. This may take several attempts.

Step Five: Moisturize.

Step Six: Cuticle removal.

Step Seven: Trim the toenails.

Step Eight: Select polish color. Note the industrial size container; enough for
Elder's Quorum Spa Night.

Step Nine: Apply color.

Step Ten: Apply top coat (that means "sealant" in guy talk).

Step Eleven: Dry.

If, after completing the pedicure, your feet are not as baby-bum soft as you wish, you can try the super strength callous remover:

Although this should only be done by trained professionals, as the risks of using such equipment at home are well-documented.

The Best Procrastivus EVER!

2009-01-26T10:52:00.000-08:00

Procrastivus Carol #3

Sleep in, ye merry gentlemen
Let nothing you awake.
Remember it’s Procrastrivus,
Sleep in, for goodness’ sake!
For 10’s as good as 8 o’clock,
And 12 is better still,
Then we’ll dive on those presents
With a will, oh yes we will,
And we’ll open our presents with a will!

(What? Surely you didn't expect the last Procrastivus Carol before Procrastivus, did you?)

Well, Procrastivus has come and gone (at least, the parts of it we aren't planning on finishing up next week sometime). The day started with the traditional Groaning of the Old Man as he got out of bed, followed by the Making of the Biscuits and Gravy (The Divine Ms B had toast and cocoa or something). Next came the Dispersal of the Teenagers (play rehearsal and a debate meet). The Awakening of the Girl-Face was followed by the classic Treasure Hunt for the Already-Discovered Present. Upon finding it, the Girl-Face participated in the Watching of Several Episodes of Bones, Season Two. Meanwhile, the parents engaged in the Making of the Greek Food, and the Shopping Trip for Stuff We Forgot.

At about 4 pm, the Gathering of the Tribes was held. Gyros and pastitso were consumed (Boozle made the pitas). Baklava was eaten with reckless abandon. And finally, we opened the Procrastivus Booty.

Ethan's booty ran toward books of plays, although his pride and joy was the DUNDER MIFFLIN SCRANTON MEREDITH PALMER MEMORIAL CELEBRITY RABIES AWARENESS PRO-AM FUN RUN RACE FOR THE CURE T-shirt.

Emily's booty ran high on clothes and accessories.

Once Erynn opened Bones, Season 2, nothing else much mattered. Some quiet, alone time with Special Agent Seeley Booth is all she really needs.

The Divine Ms B got a box of spices from Penzey's, because I threw away a lot of her "classic, vintage, heirloom" (ie. OLD) spices when I cleaned out the food room. So I had to replace them. She's sharing them with Boozle, who also got a nice bread knife so Jacob's sandwiches will no longer have trapezoidal cross-sections.

And me, I ended the day with the traditional Reading of the Get Fuzzy.

So all in all, a success. As Tiny Ethan Cratchit said, "This was the Best Procrastivus EVER!"

A Few Quotes on Friendship

2009-01-16T20:11:00.000-08:00

Those truly linked don't need correspondence. When they meet again after many years apart, Their friendship is as true as ever. – Deng Ming-Dao

I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Friends are God's way of taking care of us. – Anonymous Wise Person

As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country. – Proverbs 25:25, KJV.

Even better than cold waters to a thirsty soul, is a box of Cheesy Comestibles from our friends in Mad City. – Proverbs 25:25, SWV.

Thanks. We miss you.

New Year's Resolutions

2009-01-09T06:29:00.000-08:00

This year I’m taking a hint from my good friend S. Moosebutt and choosing my New Year’s Resolutions more carefully, to improve my chances of success.

Therefore, in 2009, I hereby resolve to:

1. Continue my boycott of parsnips, under the assumption that they are not actually food. Indeed, I have watched Bear Grylls, Les Stroud, and Andrew Zimmern carefully for some time, and although I have seen one or more of them eat a number of awful things like grubs, scorpions, bats, live snakes, raw camel kidneys, decaying zebra, almost every kind of farmyard genitalia, and (in Bear’s case) human urine (his own) from a snake skin, I have never seen any of them eat a parsnip. Case closed.

2. Never use any grooming product that has the word “hegemony” on the label.

3. Have an occasional staggering but completely unimportant insight. For example, in the Pogo song, “Deck Us All with Boston Charlie,” if you pronounce “Charlie” with a Boston accent, it’s more like “Cholly” which then makes it a better rhyme with the third line, “Nora’s freezin’ on the trolley.” Wow. You think ol’ Walt planned it that way?

4. On average of once a week, have some uncomfortable dealing with someone who believes in their heart of hearts that it is their job to set the rest of us straight. So far this year, I think I’m good through mid-March. Just last night, I talked on the phone with someone who had an anatomical relationship with a large stick, so situated that it was miraculous that they could bend enough to tie their shoes.

5. Each and every day, be in a position to wonder which cat did it.

Traditional Procrastivus Fare

2009-01-05T20:07:00.000-08:00

I know that many of you readers (Hello? Anyone? Anyone?) are wondering what the traditional foods of the Procrastivus Season are. According to my exhaustive research completed just this evening, a typical Procrastivus meal can be made in this way:

Take about a half pound of good quality ground beef, form in into a patty, and grill it to desired degree of doneness (ideally, medium rare). When almost done, top it with sliced pickled jalapenos, and a lot of shredded cheese. Let the cheese melt. Some Tabasco at this stage is optional, but it's a nice touch. Then, pop it all on a home-made hamburger bun with some sour cream. Do a happy little dance of anticipation. Devour.

It's a tradition worth starting, I tell you what.

Procrastivus Carol # 2

2009-01-02T12:26:00.001-08:00

All ‘round the house-top, lights still blink.
Sort of pretty, don’t you think?
Christmas is over, but they can wait
I think April will be just great.

Chorus:
Oh - Ho - Ho, To - morr - ow,
Oh - Ho - Ho, To - morr - ow!
Tomorrow is good, next week is great,
Next month is better. Procrastinate!

O’er on the table, the cards still sit,
One is signed, but that’s about it.
The holiday letter will be done soon,
In time to get out by the end of June.

(Chorus)

We’re making cookies and fudge and more
Ready to pass out door-to-door.
If they’re too late as a Valentine,
Saint Paddy’s day will do just fine.

(Chorus)

Presents are hidden under the bed,
In closets, trunks and in the shed.
There’ll be something for all of us
If we can find them by Procrastivus.

Pigging Out in Utah

2009-01-01T10:16:00.000-08:00

Now, I should make it clear from the start that I am a proud Utahan by birth and by choice. I really don't have much patience for people who, for one reason or another, end up in Utah (or sometimes have just passed through) and spend their conversational time bagging on it because it isn't someplace else:

It doesn't have as much rain as Washington
It doesn't have beaches and surf like Hawaii
It doesn't have musical theater like New York
It doesn't have complete nut-jobs like California
It doesn't have as much corn or soybeans as Nebraska
It doesn't have commercial-grade politicians like Illinois

And so on. Those people make me a little grumpy. But in the Spirit of the Holidays I have decided to cut them some slack and ease their burdens a little. So I offer them this:

____________________________________________________

Valuable Coupon! Clip and Carry in Purse or Wallet!

I, Steverino, do hereby completely absolve the carrier of this coupon from any and all obligation to live in, pass through, or even think about, the State of Utah again. Really. You are free to go. We have felt your pain, and have Torn Down the Wall. No hard feelings.
____________________________________________________

But: to show I am actually a reasonable and fair-minded person, I am now going to admit one of Utah's failings. It became patently clear last night when I went to shop for New Year's Eve Pig-Out food. And I had to say to myself, "Toto, we aren't in Wisconsin anymore!"

I had to go to two different stores to buy brie. I found one brand of summer sausage. I had to settle for Western Family Swiss cheese. I'm almost embarrassed to admit what I had to resort to last night. The smallest little hamlet in the northernmost part of Wisconsin has a vastly better selection of sausage, cheese and crackers than the largest supermarket in Salt Lake. As I stood in the middle of Macey's, tapping my heals together and saying, "There's no place like Brennan's, there's no place like Brennan's," I knew in my heart that I was sunk. I wended my way slowly home with with my paltry Utah offerings, and vowed that my next visit to Madison would involve a large ice-chest. Maybe a refrigerated tractor-trailer.

So, you Utah-haters, I'll let you complain about the cheese and sausage. And maybe even the wine. I might even commiserate. Just be careful about the other stuff.

Procrastivus It Is, Then!

2009-01-01T10:07:00.000-08:00

Procrastivus Carol #1

Procrastivus, Procrastivus,
The holidays are past of us.
Procrastivus, Procrastivus,
You are not for the Fast of us.

You come when winter's almost done
With belated gifts for everyone!

Procrastivus, Procrastivus,
You're waiting for the last of us!

X-Festikwanzaaweenikah

2008-12-26T09:16:00.000-08:00

I have long maintained that if God had wanted us to celebrate Christmas on December 25, he would not have made Fall Semester grades due in December. Oh, of course that's not my only problem. There's also every level of public education deciding it would be nice to have a holiday-time concert extravaganza, in which my children participate extravagantly. Throw in a few church functions, and you've got an effective barricade to our family having a timely and joyous Christmas.

I will admit that all this seems to affect my family more than others. But the fact remains: here it is, the day after Christmas, and we have about 1/3 of our Christmas lights up, half of our tree decorations up, NO goody plates distributed to neighbors and friends, and an unacceptably small amount of wrapping paper left over from yesterday's festivities, all because we just didn't have time. Or energy. Or perhaps money, but that's beside the point.

So as a family we decided, as we often do with birthdays, to postpone the real party to a later date, in this case, January 24. Our problem has been what to call the celebration. We could just borrow a holiday, of course, but the problem with all the existing holidays is that they occur mostly in December, which doesn't really address our issue at all. Kwanzaa, for example, is held from December 26 through January 1 (although it does have the strong support of the Boy Child mainly because he wants to wear a cool hat).

And of course, we are about as African American as Thor Heyerdahl.

In the tradition of made-up holidays, there is also Festivus. It is more philosophically aligned with what we are tying to accomplish, having been created by a single family for their own purposes (though popularized by one of their sons, who wrote for Seinfeld). It also has the advantage of requiring only a single aluminum pole for decoration:

A commercially available Festivus Pole kit. Really.

But alas, it too is celebrated in December, in fact, usually on December 23, so we've already missed it. Admittedly, the traditional Airing of Grievances may have livened things up a bit.

Hanukkah runs from December 21 - 29 this year. Also I really like bacon. Also the note above about Thor Heyerdahl applies here too.

Which brings us to Decemberween. It does have the right feel to it, what with Brundo the Decemberween Yak and the Sword of St. Olaf. At least St. Olaf sounds Scandinavian. But once again, we are thwarted by the fact that clearly, Decemberween is celebrated 55 days after Halloween, placing it on December 25 (although, apparently, it can be celebrated in July, time permitting ("Decemberween, Decemberween, you're 7 months after you should've been...").

(L to R: Strong Bad as Archibald, Bubs as Dr. Christmas, Marzipan as The Angel, and Homestar Runner as The King of Town)

So that's the problem. Nothing really captures the spirit of our family celebration and occurs naturally in January. And before you leave this blog and run off to Google, let me just say I've tried that already. January 24 is Beer Can Appreciation Day. No good.

So we need some help. I need my faithful readers (both of you) to help us name our holiday. Procrastivus? Winterween? Januarymas? Also, an idea for some official decorations might help, so we can take our Christmas tree down.

The lucky reader whose idea we end up using will be promised a place at our table for the traditional X-Festikwanzaaweenikah dinner of . . . I don't really know. Spaghettios? But don't let that stop you.

I'll Probably Get in Trouble for This, But. . .

2008-12-02T21:19:00.001-08:00

Something snapped today. I heard it once too often. You know, the little quote by Karl G. Maeser:

I have been asked what I mean by word of honor. I will tell you. Place me behind prison walls—walls of stone ever so high, ever so thick, reaching ever so far into the ground—there is a possibility that in some way or another I may be able to escape, but stand me on that floor and draw a chalk line around me and have me give my word of honor never to cross it. Can I get out of that circle? No, never! I’d die first!

I'm sorry, but I just have think that if Brother Maeser is stupid enough to make such a promise, he probably deserves what he gets.

*Sigh*

I'll probably burn for that one.

It Is (Was) Thanksgiving, After All

2008-11-29T10:57:00.000-08:00

So here's my list of some things I'm really thankful for:

1. The Divine Ms B, who puts up with my failings as a husband and a human, and who really doesn't think jewelry, cruises, trips to Europe, vacation homes, designer -- well, designer anything, or any of the other manias that have seized the upper middle class, are necessary for a full and happy life.

2. Good kids on whom I have spent money for tuition and books and orthodontia and various trips, but never any money for bail, legal council, or rehab.

3. Still having some friends that I've known since as far back as fourth grade, with whom I therefore share experiences that would assure our mutual destruction should they ever become public knowledge. And being able to spend a day with them a few times a year.

4. Having other friends that, despite miles and years, are just as wonderful as they ever were. Just a little balder, maybe.

5. Having a job I enjoy going to most days, and working with people that I really like to be with.

6. Modern medicine. Say what you will, it's much better than the alternative. And it's probably saved my life more than once.

7. Indian food.

The Cat is Out of the (Gucci) Bag!

2008-11-26T09:47:00.000-08:00

Well, what must be one of the worst-kept secrets in the history of the world is now floating about in cyberspace, thanks to the Mommy Muse. In a recent post she suggested that my sense of fashion isn't quite what it could be. But before I get to the main subject of this entry, I do have to take exception with one of her points: she offered as conclusive proof of my bad fashion sense the fact that I wore red sweat pants in public. Now I am clearly guilty of that, but as it unequivocally states in Section 7-XXXVII-9.5.3.1 of the International Fashion Code Scoring Book:

Any article of clothing, no matter how egregiously unfashionable or how obviously in bad taste, does not count against the FS [fashion sense] of the wearer if there is a professional or college team logo on it, and said person can reasonably be said to be a fan of or is otherwise affiliated, however loosely, with said team.

As anyone who saw me could attest, those red sweatpants were Wisconsin red sweat pants, and so are really irrelevant to the discussion at hand. Go Badgers!

(By the way, just for the record, the same section quoted above also allows for the following items:

There is also a Cheese bra available for sale , but I'm not out to start World War III here, just make a little point about team apparel.)

Anyway, back to the real issue, which is, basically, "Duh!" Let's look at the pure, unvarnished facts:

I was once asked by my date to change my clothes before we went out in public together.
During a college practicum experience when I visited and helped teach a high school math class, students made fun of my clothes. They sent me notes about it. I thought those blue and red plaid pants were the snappiest thing I could find at DI.
My wife destroyed most of my wardrobe when we got married.
My own web page contains the following audio clip which plays when you click on my handsome face: Audio.
At a professional meeting a few years ago, I explained to one of my friends from graduate school that I had reached an age when comfort was more important to me than fashion. He replied, "Steve, I can never imagine a time when comfort wasn't more important to you than fashion." Thanks, Randy.
I wear socks with sandals. Often, I wear black dress socks with sandals. I have worn that particular combination to Church. My reasons are simple and unassailable: 1) feet are ugly (at least mine are), and 2) sandals are comfortable. And to all of you members of the Fashion Police whose knickers are knotting up as you read this, let me make these two cogent arguments: 1) get a freakin' life, and 2) bite me.
I am absolutely and fully in favor of all university teachers wearing their academic robes to teach in. It would, for me, cover a multitude of sins, including partially un-tucked shirts. If they were long enough, they would cover my socks-and-sandals.
My adopted Pirate name for International Talk Like a Pirate Day is "Cap'n Scruffy."
My fashion hero is Professor Peter Schickele, of the University of Southern North Dakota at Hoople, shown here standing next to Lyric Tenor Vale Rideout, a normal human being with fashion sense. I often really look like this. Honest.

As you can now deduce for yourself, it is clear to me and to everyone who knows me that I feel about fashion like pigs feel about breath mints: blissfully ignorant.

See, "fashion" deals with questions like, "Which of these two ties should I wear with my new charcoal sports jacket?"

My problem is more likely to be in the area of choosing, "Which of these ties should I wear to my daughter's wedding?"

So there you have it. My being accused of having bad fashion sense is like being a Democrat in Utah County: I'm already numb from abuse, and one more jab just doesn't make that much difference.

The "Queen" part hurt a little, though.

The Family Rule

2008-11-26T09:06:00.000-08:00

Everyone knows that families have to have rules. If there isn't order and clear limits, the experts tell us, children grow up feeling insecure and become cross-dressing Democrats or worse, Yankee Fans. But despite our best efforts, reading numerous books and taking the occasional parenting class, the Divine Ms B and I have never really achieved much in the "house of order" department. Dinner time is often a matter of personal choice. Bedtime? Flexible in the extreme. And despite the fact that (I swear!) each of our children has their own, designated bed complete with sheets, blankets, and pillows, the late evening will often find my children wandering about the house, dragging a blanket, looking for a couch, recliner, floor, or someone else's unused bed, to sleep in. It seems that no matter what we do, we remain largely Bohemian, with a bag of chips.

So it is with some pride that I announce today solid empirical evidence that at least one rule has been established in our family. I have verified its existence on several occasions, and I feel safe in announcing to the world proof of the fact that our house is not ruled by utter chaos.

Figure 1 below shows the amount of milk that needs to be left in the bottom of the milk jug so that the person leaving said milk is not obligated to go out to the other 'fridge and bring in a new gallon of milk.

So, there you have it. Social order and reason prevail, and democracy is safe. Watch out, Pike Family! Our star is rising!

Trouble Brewing in the Garage

2008-11-13T18:49:00.000-08:00

I have been a homeowner (and a car owner) long enough to recognize an epic battle when it is brewing. I have had a few. For example, we owned a '90 Plymouth Voyager whose engine would shut off while we were driving down the road. Then it wouldn't start again for anything between one and six hours. About half the time this shutting down was preceded by the engine overheating. Of course, it would shut off without overheating sometimes, and it would overheat without shutting off sometimes. We came to dread going through the mountains because it might overheat and if so it might shut down. Or it might make it over Mount Timpanogos only to die on the way to the store later that night. Yes, we took it to several mechanics. But somehow we could never seem to get it to a mechanic while it was still misbehaving. So over the course of 5 years or so we just replaced everything. Never did fix the problem. Eventually it died for good. Now, two cars later, my eye still twitches when I start driving uphill. And the Divine Ms. B still turns the AC off and the heater on, even in the middle of August, just to keep the engine cool

Of course, the maddening thing was the seemingly random nature of it. No one ever figured out why, or when, or how, or if, the stupid thing was going to shut down.

Now the garage light is starting.

We've lived for a long time with a balky shop light in the garage. It acted up when the weather got cold, because of course the framastat or the freemulator or whatever it is that gets the gases in the long florescent bulbs excited enough to start glowing wouldn't work if the temperature was too low. But then I finally broke down and bought a new shop light rated for cold weather, and hung it up. Now, the shop light has to plug in to a grounded three-prong power outlet, and of course the light switch controls a regular old single-bulb light socket. So we had used one of those screw-in adapters, screwed into another of those screw-in adapters, and a three-prong to two-prong adapter.

Voila! There was light!

Until there wasn't.

Of course, I took things apart and frowned at them, and reassembled them and tried it again. And there was light. Until there wasn't. So I took out the most suspicious looking adapter, since I only really needed one, and tried it again. And there was light. Until there wasn't. I eventually replaced all the parts with other parts we found in my toolbox. Each time it worked, for a while. So I frowned and tightened and wiggled things with reckless abandon. And, after various combinations of new and old adapters, we have finally arrived at the state where sometimes the light works, and sometimes it doesn't. I scratched my head and told the Divine Ms. B, "That'd be an electrical problem. Yup." And there we stand, until I make a trip to Lowe's and buy another adapter, one that hasn't had a chance to catch a bad attitude from the other spare hardware in my toolbox.

Results of the Procedure

2008-11-03T15:17:00.000-08:00

Well, my friends were right. The preparation was by far the worst part. In fact, the part where they put the sleepy juice into my IV was really rather pleasant, at least the six seconds of it that I remember. And afterward, I got crushed ice in a Styrofoam cup. Beat that!

But the best part is, despite what many of you might think, there was NO STICK!

And I've got the picture to prove it:

So there.

An Attack of Modern Medicine

2008-11-01T20:44:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I begin preparations for a medical procedure. I am having this procedure on Monday morning, but preparations begin tomorrow. I am having this procedure for two reasons. The first is, my wife's friend's husband had some health problems, and so I had to go get a physical. (You married men will understand this.) The second is, when you get a physical and you are past the age of 50, your punishment is to go get this procedure. Even if your doctor himself admits, in front of your wife, that he has sort of been putting it off himself -- that's how much fun it is, this procedure -- you still have to go get it because apparently That's The Rules.

So anyway, preparations begin with nothing but clear liquids tomorrow, and then a couple of pills about noon, then drinking a lot of something that as near as I can tell turns into Scrubbing Bubbles. And from what I'm told, it tastes like it, too.

Friends and relations who have had this procedure already assure me that the day of preparation for it is by far the worst part. Considering the procedure itself bares a striking resemblance to what happens when people are abducted by aliens (probes, sharp things, etc.), that is really saying something. You can imagine what a comfort that has been to me.

So no matter how bad your Sunday is, you will still be having a better day than me. And a better morning Monday, too, although it may take hypnosis for me to really remember that part.

From Utah Valley Digestive Health Center, or Area 51?
You decide!

If a Tree Falls in a Barber Shop . . .

2008-10-24T05:32:00.000-07:00

I realized yesterday that there are some questions I don't know the answer to. Oh, I'm not talking about the classic toughies like "What is truth?" and "If a tree falls in the forest. . . ." I mean questions I should know how to answer, in the not-exactly-rocket-science category. I encountered one such question yesterday, when the young lady swung my chair around to face the mirror and asked, "How would you like your hair done?"

You might as well ask a pig, "Do you think the paella needs a pinch more saffron?" Except the pig would have an unfair advantage in that he got the Yes/No question and I got Short Answer. If the pig just nodded his head, he would look more intelligent than I did, staring stupidly into the mirror, my mind searching in vain for an answer. A paradigmatic deer in the headlights moment for Steve.

The honest answer, of course, is "well, I want it to look kind of like it does now, only shorter.' But saying that, I fear, would insult the skill and intelligence of the young lady. She wants to hear something like "layer the left side, and I'd like filigree on the right side, and shave 'J-Lo' into the back, and can you weave some beads across the bald spot?" Now that's an order worthy of those two years of beauty school.

As it was, all I could come up with was, "well, make it shorter." She looked into the eyes of my reflection in the mirror, saw panic, and resorted to the "ask some questions" technique (Lesson 17, "Dealing with the Hopelessly Clueless Client"). "How much shorter?" She had me there. "About an inch?" she asked helpfully/hopefully. "Yeah, " I said, trying to portray the image of a devil-may-care man of the world, who had been places and seen things and could tell you that when the rhino is charging and you have to make the shot, nobody cares if your hair is three-quarters of an inch shorter or an inch and a half, and so an inch would be fine, because I had better things to do, like go home and clean my elephant gun.

The rest of our business was transacted pretty much in silence, until she asked, "Does that look short enough?" The truth was, it looked like it always looked after a haircut, which was blurry, because my glasses were in my pocket. "Looks great!" I said. "Do you want some product in it?" "Nah," I said, trying once again to project the idea that it isn't product in your hair that will save you in the jungle. She released me, I threw a $20 at her and bolted for the door.

People have complemented me on my haircut. I thank them graciously, and give them a smile that says, "It's all in letting the stylist know what you want. You've just got to be firm."

At Last! Corporate America Understands Me!

2008-10-11T10:29:00.000-07:00

Warning to Church Ladies and Utah Republicans: This blog contains pictures of partially nekkid women. You might try http://seriouslysoblessed.blogspot.com instead.

I’m used to dealing with junk mail and “$-$-$-$AVE BIG!” offers. You know the type: “This coupon good for $300 off a New Lexus!” (Just what I was waiting for. I had the other $79,700 sitting in the bank, biding my time.) Living as I do with wives and daughters I’m also used to various free samples of pantyhose and aloe-intensive razors. I get a LOT of pink junk mail. I could wallpaper the house with JoAnn Fabric flyers. You get the idea.

So I wasn’t particularly thrown off my game when I saw the following piece of pink junk mail last week:

My major concern was finding out what kind of cosmetic or perfume was going to find its way into the bathroom menagerie as a result. So I opened it to find out. Attached was this little card.

Ah. Victoria's Secret. OK. I could live with that. What kind of damage could be done with $10 in Victoria's Secret? Like $300 off on a Lexus. So I announced to the assembled females, "Anybody want $10 off on some underwear?" Yeah, my wife agreed that someone could use that, and I shouldn't throw it away.

I examined the fine print more closely. "...any purchase during the month of your birthday." That would mean we'd have to wait until (straining the small part of my male brain that remembers birthday months) . . . uh, June (got that one easy, you got to remember the wife's birthday, after all) or April or July or August. Hmmm. I started to wonder how long it was good for. I looked on the back of the card for the finer fine print.

CARD VALID OCTOBER 1-31, 2008 it said on the back. Now THAT posed a conundrum. Why would they send out a card to a household of women that (with probability 0.70606674... -- no, really!) would not have a birthday in October? Sheesh. What morons.

So I cast my mind about to determine whether I knew a woman with an October birthday. As I was reeling my mind back in I started to shuffle through the other mail. An uncomfortable little feeling started to stretch in the back of my mind. Then it did some hopping about in place, then a few jumping jacks, a push-up or two, and then ran really fast up to the front of my mind.

MY birthday is in October. I slowly turned over the pink mailer. There it was:

It was me. I got to go spend $10 at Victoria's Secret. Me.

Well, that put a new perspective on the question, "What kind of damage could be done with $10 in Victoria's Secret?" I started to think about it. My wife gave me a funny look. I don't think she liked the gleam in my eye.

Red vs Blue

2008-09-20T14:04:00.000-07:00

Utah and especially Utah County is a place that takes Red vs Blue very seriously. First, and perhaps most important, Red vs Blue symbolizes the rivalry between the University of Utah (Red) and Brigham Young University (Blue). I went to BYU, I work for BYU, I used to visit BYU as a child and play with the vending machines. It's not surprising that I have arrived at a fairly Blue state of being. (I have a niece and nephew who are Red, but seem otherwise normal.)

I am also Dodger Blue, as in the Los Angeles Dodgers. For the Red counterpart, you can pick Cincinnati or the Cardinals, I guess, but any true Dodger fan knows that the real issue, the one that really matters, is Blue vs Pinstripe (or perhaps Blue vs Orange--you know who you are, and no, we still haven't forgiven you). This is because the New York Yankees are (and I say this with complete objectivity) Evil Incarnate. (I have a son-in-law who is a Yankee fan but seems otherwise fairly normal.)

For me, the interesting question is Why? Why do I still get a small thrill when the Minnesota Vikings win? (Yes, they are Purple, but work with me here. I'll be back to Red and Blue in a minute.) My association with the great state of Minnesota consists of 1) a total of maybe 30 hours spent in the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport waiting for connecting flights over the past 15 years, 2) driving across it in a rental truck and staying one night in a motel, and 3) listening to Garrison Keillor. But I still think the Vikings are cool, and have a better defense than most teams and are much, much better than the Dallas Cowboys, who are evil and smelly and a bunch of convicts anyway. I have absolutely no evidence for any of that, and I don’t even care enough to look up the facts and make a case. Why, then, do I believe it?

Well, because in junior high, my friend was a Viking fan. He was a Viking fan because he went to visit his cousins, who live in Minnesota, for a couple of weeks once. That's it. Because of that two week visit, I had to suffer the agony of watching the Vikings lose to the Cowboys on a last second Hail Mary from Roger Staubach to Drew Pearson in the NFC playoffs in 1975. I remember going on a long lonely walk in the cold and snow after the game. Not that that has anything to do with my feelings about the Cowboys, of course.

I am a Dodger fan probably because my brother is a Dodger fan, and he is a Dodger fan because our older sister is. She followed the Brooklyn Dodgers on the radio in the 40's and 50's. He followed them from Los Angeles in the 60's, and I followed them in the 70's. I hate the San Francisco Giants because of the New York Giants and the 1951 Pennant game. I wasn't even alive then; I caught it from my siblings.

This is irrational under any possible definition of the word. Of course, I'm as good as anyone else at coming up with excellent reasons why my particular team is the best. If they don't play better, they have more heart. Or more class. Or at least they aren't dirty players. Or unlike others, they play for love of the game instead of money. Or they have more tradition. Or God loves them more. Or something. But all of it-- and here is my point -- all of it is justifying the choice I made after I made it.

Now, back to Red vs Blue, which has also come to symbolize the political spectrum, at least in the last couple of elections. Utah and especially Utah County takes this particular Red vs Blue very seriously as well. True, Utah County ranked only 27th on the list of the 100 most Republican counties in the 2000 presidential election, which I'm sure is a source of embarrassment to Utah County conservatives. But political opinions are pretty deeply held here, and they are definitely heavily slanted toward the Red side.

More and more, I am thinking that the foundations of all these Red vs Blue battles are pretty much grounded in the same kind of logic, that is, essentially none. I know we all like to think we stand on principles, and that while the other guys are knee-jerk-whatevers, we really see things clearly. But I’m not so sure. I think I may have been a Republican most of my life for the same reason I’ve been a Dodger fan and a Viking fan: my family and my friends.

In 1980, a social psychologist named Robert Zajonc (ZY-awns) published a paper called “Feeling and Thinking: Preferences Need No Inferences.” He talked about his experiments that showed people don’t need to process things cognitively at all before making an affective (emotional) decision about them. In other words, we often judge what we like and don't like before we think about it at all. So I’m suggesting that maybe we decide about baseball teams, and political parties, based on what feels good (being part of the family, agreeing with friends, sensing which group is more fun to hang out with) and only then begin to justify the choice with our reason. And of course, over time, it becomes a habit to react positively to Red, and negatively to Blue, and to justify it more loudly and with more conviction.

Of course, we can and do change our opinions after studying things out, and we probably should do that a lot more than we do. But it only happens if we are willing to take seriously the possibility that just maybe, the other guys don’t suck as much as we thought.

So in that spirit, here’s to you, Yankee fans, Cowboy fans, and accursed Utes: Just for today, I’m gonna pretend you’re as smart as I am and maybe, just maybe, you have a valid point to make.

Monday morning, you’ll probably suck just as much as usual.

An Olive Branch

2008-09-02T20:48:00.001-07:00

I need to hurry and apologize to all the Stephanie Meyer fans out there, because I really can't fight on two fronts and I'm planning to aggravate a lot more people in my next post. So, using the time-honored methods employed by a man when he knows he's defeated (especially by women), let me just say:

I'm sorry. I now recognize that Stephanie Meyer deserves a Nobel Prize for Literature, and Peace, and probably Medicine and Economics as well. I see nothing but genius in the literary device of having a teen-aged girl fall in love with a vampire, and I fully recognize that there is only nobility in the feelings women might have for Edward. I personally have witnessed readers of her books cured of leprosy. Go buy the books. Buy several, one for each room of the house.

As for me, I'm going to put reading Eclipse right on my list of things to do. After I lose weight and get in shape and get the family finances under control once and for all and read the Old Testament and clean out the garage and refinish all the furniture and run a marathon and schedule a colonoscopy and learn to play jazz harmonica, you won't be able to keep me away from it.

A Response to SMUTS

2008-08-17T09:04:00.000-07:00

It will not have gone unnoticed among loyal readers of my blog (both of them, if you count my wife) that my recent ruminations about women and vampires injured the tender sensibilities of a group of women (all three of them, if you count two of my daughters). A recent blog entry, available at:

http://lifewithducks.blogspot.com/2008/08/organizing-smuts-or-in-defense-of.html

was posted in response, and made several cogent observations:

I am a big fat idiot.
I obviously haven't read the book(s)
I should read the book(s).
Far from being an old-fashioned "evil" vampire, Edward is a new breed of vampire, who is willing to fight for what's right, and who apparently is the moral center of the whole book series; he could probably give Obama a run for his money if he made a bid for president. (Note: He wouldn't run for president, of course. No, he would prefer to be free of political obligations in order to save the life of young women who wouldn't need their lives saved in the first place if he hadn't impregnated them. But I digress.)
I sure am a big fat idiot.
I'm probably compensating for something.
Wow, am I a big fat idiot, or what?!?

I want to offer some responses to these observations.

First, about not reading the book(s): Ms. Mommy-Very-A-Musing suggested I had no right to critique the books unless I had read them. I could trot out a classic if somewhat cliched argument here, of course:

I also have not smeared Vaseline on my tonsils, or spent time in a South American prison. However, even without first-hand experiences in these two matters, I feel relatively safe in proclaiming that I would not enjoy them, and further, in venturing a guess as to how others might react to them as well.

Now I happen to believe this is a pretty good (even if cliched) argument, but I will leave it alone for now, because somehow it sounds too much like "If all your friends jumped of a bridge, would you do it too?"

In fact, I have not read the books. But in my defense I want to point out that, among the arguments given against my blog was the claim that women don't love Edward because he's a "bad boy," as I implied; they love him because he's gorgeous. Well. That certainly gives me motivation to read the books. Throw in Fabio and a few bodice-rippings and I'm there, I tell you what.

Also, I see now that I way over-analyzed the matter. I thought that instead of mere physical attraction there was a deeper, perhaps socioculturally-based reason for women falling in love with an overgrown mosquito. But no. It all comes down to physical attraction (or, as the Vampire Defense League would have it, being "hot"). Sorry. I'll try to keep it more shallow next time. I am gratified, at least, that there was an open admission of the importance of hotness in this case, rather than the usual cover-ups about "personality" and "sense of humor" and "no really, I think bald men are sexy."

It was also suggested by Ms. SMUTS that Edward was not an evil blood-sucking tick in human form but was in fact a very moral character, practically a Saint. This was offered in the spirit of genuine literary analysis, which I can certainly respect. The problem I have with it is that the teen-age girls who read this stuff do not sit around at night and discuss the Twilight series based on its literary merits: "Well, of course, Bella represents the primal subconsciousness's rebellion against the hegemony of the Every Woman. . ." etc. etc. as English teachers are wont to do. No, it is much more like something out of Tiger Beat: "OMG, OMG, he's so cute!" or "I have E.C.D. -- Edward Cullen Disorder! (followed by several squeals from friends). " So if you were to put questions about the characters in the books to the average 14 year old girl, it would go something like this:

Question: Who was the absolutely hottest character ever?

Answer: Duh! Edward!

Question: Who is the luckiest girl in the world despite the fact that giving birth was much more like something out of Alien than otherwise?

Answer: Bella. Duh, again!

Question: Who was the character best representing morality and a sense of duty?

Answer: Huh?

So, to sum up: No, I haven't read the books. But I don't think literary analysis is the critical issue here. Rather, the critical issue is the juxtaposition of 1) the single most important fact that all the women who read these books seem to agree about, which is that they are just all tingly for Edward, and 2) a fact that I think anyone would have to agree with, whether they've read the books or not, which is that Edward is a freakin' vampire.

Next, I would like to address the not-so-subtle implication that I am a big fat idiot, or as Ms. EDWARDLUV would have it, a "Nintendo-playing couch potato" (after extensive literary analysis involving the search function on my Web browser, I was able to conclude that she used that exact phrase three times). Of course I can quickly dispense with this by arguing that it has no material merit: 1) Neither I nor anyone in my household has ever owned a Nintendo, 2) there are no video game consoles of any brand in my house now, and 3) I couldn't possibly be a couch potato because the couch is always already covered with between 2 and 5 cats, and I never get to sit there, let alone vegetate on it.

Now it could be that some would claim that they have seen me in my house, reclining in my La-Z-Boy with my eyes closed and making noises that could be misinterpreted as snoring (if no one can really claim that, then forget I said anything, and skip to the next paragraph. Otherwise, read on). But I would assert that such people cannot distinguish between my snoring while asleep and my repeating the nasal manta of a little known type of deep meditation which I use to relieve the stresses of working so hard, especially around the house. This is a technique I learned under an oath of secrecy and unfortunately I cannot divulge even the name of the technique, especially since then you would try to look it up on Wikipedia. So you see that this accusation is wholly without merit and is simply an attempt to cloud the issue with personal attacks. Besides, you can't believe everything my wife tells you. So there you are; you see the couch-potato accusations are totally fallacious. And taking care of that only leaves one last issue.

There seemed to be a subtle implication that somehow I'm only mad about this because I'm not as hot as Edward is portrayed to be, and perhaps I have a history of being spurned by members of the fairer gender. On this point I realize I may not succeed in convincing the Sisterhood of the Traveling Vampire. But I will say this: although it is true that I didn't have a date to my own junior prom, it is also true that I pretty much hit the pinnacle of coolness as a senior in high school and my white '63 Impala and I did all right for a few years. But I have no proof for my coolness other than pictures in my high school yearbook, and I'm not about to publish any of those in public. So you'll just have to take my word for it: my picture with the rest of the debate team shows me with a very sexy sneer on my face.

So that's it; the arguments go down 1 - 2 - 3. I think there is only one thing left to say, and that is: How many vampires does it take to screw in a light bulb? Two. One to screw it in, and the other to stand around and look hot, apparently.

He's a Freakin' Vampire, You Idiot!

2008-08-03T13:47:00.000-07:00

Someone has to take a stand here, and I'm willing to do it. With this blog I formally announce the founding of the Guys Against Vampires, Elves, and Leprechauns (GAVEL). OK, I really don't have anything against Leprechauns (unless and until Stephanie Meyer announces the publication of "Irish Spring," the first book in her new series, in which I assume the heroine, Brunhilde, will be torn between her love of Brian, the Leprechaun, and the love that Brian's arch-rival, George the Griffin, has for her). I just needed the L because GAVEL sounds better than GAVE.

Why Elves? One word: Legolas. Hmmm. Maybe I should've used that L and avoided the whole Leprechaun thing.

Anyway, you guys know what I'm talking about here. It is no secret that a lot of women are attracted to "bad boys." Of course, they won't admit that. They ask, "Where have all the nice guys gone?" while they are busy staring at the Sopranos on TV. They say what they really want is a sense of humor, but they spend a lot more time watching Johnny Depp than they do Drew Carey. They say they want someone kind and thoughtful and caring, just before they leave with Killer to go watch the cage fights. (Ladies: before you dismiss me here, ask yourselves: Who do I really like to watch: Dr. Gregory House, or Dr. James Wilson? Case closed.)

Sure, most of us guys have learned to deal with that. Dealing with it usually involves playing Nintendo until, eventually, the women come to their senses and realize you can make more money programming computers than you can riding motorcycles. So we can handle real, flesh-and-blood bad boys. Wait long enough, and most of them end up on an episode of Cops anyway.

But now Edward Cullen comes along and ups the ante by a factor of 10. This takes the concept of "bad boy" to a whole new level, and I think it's gone way too far. See, a few years ago it was just pirates: Captain Jack Sparrow may have given us guys some heartburn, but at least he wore eye-liner. Also, pirates seemed to drink a lot and never shower, which, from a guy perspective, is a step in the right direction. But a vampire?!? I remember when many women thought it was a genuinely BAD thing to be a vampire. Now it's "well, yes, he may hunt humans and drink blood, but at least he dabs his ruby lips with a napkin afterward." The napkin, by the way, matches his bronze hair and sets off his ivory skin. Gimme a break.

So I say, to heck with vampires and the women who love them. I am turning my unofficial boycott of the Twilight Series into an official boycott. And the movies too. Although I have to admit, I was a little surprised when I found out Kristen Stewart was cast as Bella. I would have assumed that only Paris Hilton could project the depth of thought and moral strivings that characterize a woman who falls in love with, and then becomes, a freakin' Vampire.

Buffy, come back! We need you!!

More Brain Pain

2008-07-29T22:15:00.000-07:00

A friend dropped by to visit me a few weeks ago, someone I've known since I was 11. I am unusually lucky, I think, to have a few life-long friends, people I've known since 5th, 6th, 7th grade that I am still close to. Anyway, he dropped by, and we had fast food and unhurried conversation. The conversation ranged over No Child Left Behind, salvation by grace, and economic theory. I was commenting on the fact that, contrary to the old saying (never trust a young conservative or an old liberal), I seemed to be getting a little more liberal in my old age.

He told me a story of when the first liberal seeds were planted in his heart. About 10 - 15 years ago, in the midst of an economic downturn, he happened to be the employment specialist for his local church. His assignment was to help those who needed it to find work; some he was able to help and some he wasn't. But he mentioned in one meeting that things must be tough for a lot of people. He had been walking in downtown Salt Lake City and had been approached by an unusually large number of people asking for money. And he let it slip that he had given them some.

The leader of the meeting immediately chided him for handing money to beggars, and began a recitation about how many of them had chosen that kind of life by their actions, and so forth. My guess is he eventually got around to the part about not giving people fishes but instead teaching them to fish.

Intermission

Is anyone else feeling a little uncomfortable at this point? Anybody think that seems a little strange in a Christian church? Yeah, me too.

End of Intermission

My friend, to his credit, just let his eyes glaze over and started to think about the story of the Good Samaritan. But the seeds were planted. The Gospel of Utah Republicanism was never quite the same for him.

See, stuff like that makes my brain hurt. I happen to be familiar with this particular religious tradition, and I know there's a revered old King named Benjamin who had some fairly peppery advice for anyone who would say, "The man has brought upon himself his misery; therefore I will stay my hand, and will not give unto him of my food, nor impart unto him of my substance that he may not suffer, for his punishments are just."

Another thing that melts my Jello is that there is no way that guy could have provided any proof for what he said: how would he possibly know what those people had chosen or not chosen? How could he have known what was in the hearts and lives of so many people -- to say nothing of what was in my friend's heart? But that didn't keep him from spouting off the party line as though it was true beyond dispute. Alas, it is a common malady, even among people who should know better. In the words of Slim Pickins in Blazing Saddles, "I am depressed."

Mr. Electronics

2008-07-29T12:39:00.000-07:00

Dave Barry once said he didn't believe in the molecular theory of matter until he got the Death Flu one winter, and was able to feel every individual air molecule bouncing off his skin.

Similarly, I have had a hard time believing in certain New Age ideas such as auras and energy fields that are supposed to surround all living things. But now I'm beginning to wonder. If such things do exist, I know that my own personal electromagnetic aura (his name is Ralph) kills semiconductors.

Oh, not immediately. That would be too easy. It's a slower, more painful process, spread out over the life of the extended one-year warranty.

I was reminded of this today as I was attempting to back up my small external hard drive to my medium external hard drive at work (obsessive, you say, backing up my backup? Anal retentive? YOU take Ralph for a while, then we'll talk). Every few minutes it would just quit. Power down. Stop. Kaput. In the middle of trying to transfer files. I was sure it was dead.

See, it would have been the fourth hard drive failure in the past 18 months for me. I had just broken in my new work computer last May when its hard drive failed and I had to re-load everything. My computer before that one also had a new hard drive because its first one failed. I had an external drive at home that quit, too. I managed to save most of that data after spending $80 and most of an evening. Cheap at the price. Today, I thought about trying to save the data on my small drive, too, but I would have had to spend another $80 because all that software and its license was saved -- let's see -- two hard drives ago.

Turns out it was just a bad USB connection. It behaved admirably once I bypassed the USB hub and plugged it directly into my laptop. But I was still shaky all afternoon.

Did I mention that after the disk crash on my latest computer, it only took a few weeks for some files to become corrupted and render my computer un-bootable? Yup. The files couldn't be repaired. Had to re-load everything.

Mr. S. Moosebutt claims that he can hear the PDA's screaming in pain as I walk past them in the university bookstore. He should know -- he's accompanied me for most of the "replace the PDA" runs I've had to make over the past few years. Although the Dell Axim performed well right up until two weeks after the one-year warranty expired, I find that Palm PDAs are good for an average of two repairs during their one year period of functionality. (Hint: always send the Palm PDAs to the repair center Registered Mail. One of mine was lost in transit, and never got the chance to die 10 days after the warranty expired. Sad, in a way. Moosebutt's theory is that it escaped from the truck somewhere near Tucson, and is living in sin with one of my old digital watches. They are currently plotting my death.)

This is a Palm pretending to have just
died, so that I will not take it home.

I should have seen it all coming. It wasn't too long ago that my watch was trying to escape. I had a metal watchband, held together by metal rods. To get a connecting rod out, you had to push really hard with a small pin or something. But routinely, as I would walk across campus, a rod would fall out and my watch would fall off.

I'm on my second watchband now. Its latch quit closing tight, but so far no escapes. Maybe when I turned fifty, Ralph lost a little mojo.

I'm holding my breath now, because I bought a new Blackberry and I really like it. It does everything I ask of it (except sync with Outlook using the Toshiba Bluetooth stack instead of the Windows Bluetooth stack -- Thanks, Blackberry folks!) and hasn't tried to escape even once. I'm cautiously optimistic, but do me one favor. If you see me walking across campus with my laptop case, please don't do anything to make Ralph angry.

Now Where Did I Put That Anthrax?

2008-07-08T05:21:00.000-07:00

When I dropped Em off at the airport this morning for her trip to Madison, she paused for a moment just before entering the security checkpoint. She rustled around in her purse, saying, "Here, Dad, would you take these?" She then produced a smoke bomb and a box of matches.

Daughters. You gotta love 'em.

Good Luck, Loco Parents!

2008-07-07T08:50:00.000-07:00

I'm sending my daughter off to Wisconsin for a while. Our good friends are going to be in loco parentis for about a month. They've already raised a girl-child through to adulthood, and she turned out to be a rugby-player, so you know they're going to be OK. But just in case they've forgotten, or (more likely) our model has a few quirks their model didn't, I have a few reminders.

1. Em communicates in a somewhat different language. To practice understanding her, take a typical Hawaiian word like Keinohoomanawanui, and say it over and over again as fast as you can. Amphetamines might help -- think "chipmunks." Anyway, when you can sing the entire Hawaiian national anthem in about 20 seconds, you'll have the basic idea. Skip over any vowels or consonants that slow you down -- most of them are not important. A schwa can replace any vowel, and a glottal stop works fine for most consonants. Oh, and do your best to start the sentence upstairs, and finish it downstairs -- or better yet, outside. Texting at the same time is optional, but can earn you valuable extra points, redeemable for lip gloss!

2. Em believes there is only one 8 o'clock each day, and it is NOT of the "AM" variety. She knows, technically, that the sun must come up each morning, but it has been years since she has actually seen it. She may take a swipe at you early in the morning if you get too close. Try tempting her our of hibertation with oatmeal. It sometimes works.

3. Em has been busy evolving some extra organs in her inner ear with small magnetic particles that will enable her to pick up text messages and log onto Facebook without cumbersome electronic equipment. Until she has fully evolved, she may still need computer and cell phone access. Like, 24/7.

4. For reasons that are not exactly clear, Em and her friends like to engage in flour fights and whipped cream fights. Keep a hose handy in the back yard, and buy a little extra laundry soap. She is likely to appear at your door white and sticky.

5. The good news is, she eats almost anything as long as it's "good" and not "gross." So following that simple rule will avoid any difficulties.

Well, that's about it. She's really a delightful child, and we will miss her. While she's gone, her little sister will have to fill in for her. Just the other day, we had to tell her to get off the computer and speak slowly. She should do fine.

And to D & S: Thanks for being Em's Loco Parents, and Good Luck. You have our number.

Propisms

2008-06-29T18:35:00.000-07:00

I think I might start collecting propisms. I'm using the word propism to designate a malapropism that turns out to be not so "mal"-- that is, in some way maybe more appropriate than the intended word. For example, tonight I asked my son to aldentify the pasta.

My favorite so far, for those of you from the same religious community as I, is "steadfast and removable." That describes me. Removable as in replaceable. As in, "Johnson, you go in for Williams. Williams, siddown. Better yet, go take a shower."

I like to think of my self as steadfast and removable. I'm on God's second string team, going in now and then to give the starters a rest. Good place to be, on the bench, watching the first-stringers work their magic. Keeping the bench from floating away.

Icelandic Karaoke

2008-06-22T23:14:00.001-07:00

Well, another Iceland Days celebration has come and gone. This one had several high points:

1. A talk by a native Icelander about how to get along when you visit Iceland. Among the tips: Bring plenty of money, don’t try to drive yourself in Reykjavik, let someone at the hotel know where you’re going before wandering off to explore, and for heaven sakes take a real shower before entering a public swimming pool. Where were you raised, a barn or something?

2. Pönnukökur, or Icelandic pancakes, which are getting to be a family favorite. They are thin pancakes sort of like crepes or what my mother called Swedish pancakes, but of course Icelanders will tell you they are really much better, especially their grandmother’s recipe.

They are traditionally cooked in a special pönnukökur pan which can be obtained by mail order for 90 Canadian Dollars (remember that hint about lots of money?) but they are good, filled with strawberry-rhubarb preserves and whipped cream and folded in quarters. Just Google pönnukökur and you can find a recipe. Use any pan you’d cook crepes in.

3. Kleinur, or Icelandic donuts. They are fried and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. At least ours were. Pretty good.

4. Pylsur, or Icelandic hot dogs. Very much like American hot dogs, but made with lamb in addition to beef and pork. I like the way they were smoked, but they reminded B of the smoked sheep’s head we had at Thorrablot, so she didn’t care for them. We had ours with mustard and French-fried onions.

If you order one in Reykjavik, ask for pylsur “eine með öllu,” that is, “one with everything.” (And by the way, thanks to my recent linguistics class, it is easy to see the relationship between “eine með öllu,” and “eine mit alles” or some similar German phrase.) Then you will get one with ketchup, remoulade, French fried onions and mustard, and sometimes raw onions.

5. Ever notice how many of my “high points” deal with food?

6. We sold a lot of Icelandic paraphernalia, including rune pendants and imported ceramic dolls in native costume. My favorite was a book about Viking warfare. We still have one baseball cap left; let me know if you want it.

7. Of course, the highest high point of all was my entire family singing Smaladrengurinn, an Icelandic folk song about a shepherd boy and his sheep. It is a testament to the power of Icelandic folk music that my entire family was up there, singing in public. As I pointed out to the audience, the family that sings Icelandic folk music together could very well be up there on stage next June instead of us.

All in all, a very satisfying Iceland Days. Sjáumst!

Parents of the Year? Nah.

2008-06-17T22:11:00.000-07:00

OK, we're probably not the world's best parents. It has recently been brought to our attention that all four of our children can pinpoint the exact day that they had the argument.

It started innocently enough. Really, it was just a joke, but one that served our purposes as parents. One night when I wanted to convince my oldest daughter to take a bath, I told her that she had to scrub between her toes to get rid of the toe spiders. See, I had this vision of it being so long since she took a bath that the spiders had built webs between her toes. Sort of my version of my mom telling me that my ears were so dirty she could plant potatoes in them.

But she believed it, and toe spiders passed into the pantheon of imaginary entities of our children's world: the Jellybean Fairy (who was sometimes discovered to have left a jellybean in Dad's office during the next visit, and who later lost all restraint and started leaving them all over the place), the Easter bunny, the tooth fairy, and so on. As with other members of the pantheon, occasional expressions of doubt about toe spiders were met with the embellishments and excuses necessary to keep the story plausible. They're pretty small; you're keeping your toes clean enough that you don't have any now. Any little unidentifiable speck between the toes could be a bit of web, you never know.

To be honest, it occurred to us that if this belief went on too long, say, into the upper elementary grades, it could prove to be a social liability. But we felt that, like the Jellybean Fairy, toe spiders would have the good grace to just fade away when the time came.

But no. As it turns out, each of our children told us, some months or years after the fact, that they had had arguments -- serious arguments -- with good friends about whether or not there were toe spiders. They all lost, of course. And eventually they realized that their parents were liars. I think they've all accepted it as a character flaw that isn't entirely our fault: we probably can't help ourselves. But we notice they look at us with funny expressions when we tell them they actually need to file tax returns every April 15, or that it takes 30 years to pay off a typical mortgage. You can see them thinking: Is this another one? If I tell this to someone else, will they laugh in my face?

So it's our fault that our children had these difficult and somewhat embarrassing exchanges with their friends. But we couldn't help but laugh a little -- actually, a lot. It didn't help our case much.

One Man's Feast

2008-06-12T01:59:00.000-07:00

Perhaps I am not a man of passion. I know some. A friend of mine since childhood is passionate about guns. Growing up in a small town in eastern Utah, I’ve done my share of shooting tin cans and old pop bottles with BB guns and .22's. Old toilets are best to shoot with .22's, of course, because they break apart in such a satisfying way--but that’s another story. I’ve even gone to the shooting range with my friend a few times and tried my luck with his .45 and his .357 (do you own a .357? Forgive me: I can’t remember). It was fun. I can understand the appeal and appreciate the skill involved. I hope to go to the shooting range again sometime. Heck, I might even enjoy skeet shooting if I ever tried it.

But I don’t love guns the way my friend does. I don’t love the feel of them. I can’t get the same pleasure out of just holding them and field stripping them and oiling them and reading about them that he does. I don’t fear them, and I’m somewhat inclined to think that if guns are outlawed, well, you know the rest. But they just don’t interest me enough to keep any around, or learn how to use them safely. So I don’t own a gun. (Criminals please note: Not really. I have a loaded M1911A1 with semi-jacketed hollow points by my side at all times.) (Local Police please note: Just kidding.) (Maybe.)

And of course, I own a bicycle, and I enjoy riding it. I was one of the first three kids in my town to have a ten-speed when I was growing up. Granted, mine came from Western Auto and was not as cool as my friend’s Schwinn Varsity. Nor did my brother give me a box full of parts and force me to clean and assemble my own ten-speed, as happened to my other friend. But the point is, I was an Early Adopter (that almost NEVER happened to me when I was young, so I like to dwell on that whenever possible), and I’ve been riding and shifting and getting my chain caught between sprockets and swearing and adjusting brakes and fixing flats and kicking at dogs for a long long time. Today, I own a 17-year old Trek mountain bike. I can appreciate the difference between it and my old Western Auto, and I’m sure there are bikes out there that would be a lot smoother and lighter and more wonderful than mine. I would probably enjoy them even more than I do my Trek. Still, the Trek gets me everywhere I have guts enough to go.

But again, I’m not passionate about it. I don’t own a single pair of black spandex shorts (or whatever new miracle fiber they’re made out of these days) or any special racing-style jerseys. I can go on a Saturday morning bike ride without having to look like Lance Armstrong. My neighbor, a real bike enthusiast and participant in numerous races, once told me he wouldn’t let a bike shop touch his bike – he did all the repairs himself. I not only let them touch it, I pay them good money so I won’t have to. I can’t imagine a possible universe in which adjusting my own shifters would be that important to me.

And of course, there’s my canoeing friend. I’ve been canoeing exactly once. It was a gentle and peaceful float along the Wisconsin river. I got the worst sunburn of my life and had a really wonderful time. I can easily imagine doing it again. I think it would be great to take a canoe down a wide, slow river, listen to the water and the wildlife, and just take a day away from the existential hum of daily life. Very appealing.

Of course, I can’t imagine doing it enough to justify owning my own canoe, nor can I imagine getting anywhere near the Class V rapids that my friend would likely find so appealing.

All I can say is, my life is never going to even vaguely resemble a Mountain Dew commercial. My friends will have to take all my adrenaline hits for me, and welcome to them.

So I am not a man whose passions for toys are easily stirred. If I could afford some four-wheel drive vehicles and the gas to operate them, things could be different. Even then, I suspect that my actual use of them would be far exceeded by my grand plans to use them. Someday, I hope to put it to the test. I’ll keep you posted.

In the mean time, I just want to make one last point: You can have my perfectly balanced high-carbon steel Forschner 8-inch chef’s knife with the Fibrox handle when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers.

What Can Brown Do for You?

2008-06-08T10:17:00.000-07:00

I really can't answer for you. But I can tell you what it does for me.

1. Gives me both a reason and a means of getting up in the morning.

2. Gets my heart rate in my "training zone" while I'm still sitting at my desk.

3. Connects me to my great grandfather Nephi, who loved Coca Cola.

4. Helps me survive Sundays, sometimes even without a headache.

That's what brown does for me. And I say, "God bless it."

PS. Also Mountain Dew.

Face of Jesus Appears on Local Girl’s Leg

2008-06-06T14:54:00.000-07:00

A local girl recently involved in an airbag-deploying collision has been the center of attention in her neighborhood as the image of Jesus has appeared in a bruise on her leg. In the picture below the image of Jesus is clearly visible in the middle of her thigh.

For those of you less spiritually in tune, the second photo shows exactly where the image is located. As you can see, the likeness is uncanny.

Local political leaders are studying the phenomenon to see if there is any way to turn it to their advantage.

When asked about the heavenly sign, the girl said, “I knew it was going to be a good bruise, I mean, really color up and everything, so I was pretty excited, but I never expected this. My Mia Maid class will be sooooo jealous.” She also commented that she thought it was a sign that “Jesus wants us to ride around in cars with boys; he’s telling us all that it’s OK. Also that I need a cooler cell phone.”

Her father was unavailable for comment.

Head-on

2008-05-30T22:42:00.000-07:00

OK, here's one reason it hurts in my brain:

My daughter was in a head-on collision this afternoon. She's fine, except for a large bruise on her leg where part of the dashboard hit her as the air bag deployed. (She's waiting in anticipation for it to turn purple and green and really ugly, so she can send pictures to all her friends.) Everyone else is fine too, for which we are all grateful. The head-on collision took place at about 30 mph in a cul de sac, where one of the drivers listed a bit to port, and the other drifted a bit to starboard, as they went around the curve. Bam! The cars were a mess, but since everyone walked away, well, I feel blessed.

Surprisingly, this is not why my brain hurts. Things like this are going to happen if you let your daughter ride in cars with boys, and basically, these are good kids that made a mistake. It will be a pain for the parents, the insurance companies will lose a little money, and that's about it.

No, my brain hurts because just after the accident, some guy ran out of his house and started yelling at the young drivers: "This is not a highway," he yelled, displaying the keen grasp of the obvious that is often the hallmark of the anal retentive. "You're lucky no one was hurt!" He was genuinely angry that these people smashed their cars on his watch, I guess.

Sure am glad he was there to make a bad day worse for everyone, while accomplishing exactly nothing.

Hoping for the Best

2008-05-29T10:23:00.000-07:00

The title of my blog comes from recent experiences in which my wife had to ask me if I was OK. We were sitting in church or a school assembly or something equally compelling and she noticed the obvious discomfort I was experiencing. She probably wondered if my back hurt or my legs were cramping or I had ten-inch needles run through my eyeballs; such was the look on my face. I leaned over and explained in whispered tones that it only hurt in my brain.

It's happening more frequently as I get older. Certain things just make my brain hurt, and it's getting harder to sit still when it happens. Some would argue that I'm just getting to be a cranky old fart. To these people I say, "Get your own blog."

So, here I am, hoping that if I can empty my brain on this blog occasionally, it will relieve the pressure. A man's gotta dream.