If you'd like to keep up with Lee and "Facting and Purging," he's moved to:
http://leestoops.com
All the blogs, stories, news, etc can be found there. Enjoy!!
Lee
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Frogs Cannot Swallow With Their Eyes Open
Because, if one were able to, it would suck its eyeballs backward into its body, resulting in a vacuum style loss of pressure in its eye sockets that would offset the balance of atmospheric pressure around the globe. This simple, TINY event would set in motion a chain of similar tiny events in turn creating a snowball (metaphoric) of catastrophic proportion, the conclusion, of which, would be the earth, surrounding solar system and entire galaxy (of course, followed by the universe) "winking" out of existence instantaneously, being replaced by a black hole. And, it's a scientific fact that, when this happens, the only sound that one could hear (if one were still in existence TO hear) would be a single "ribbit."
Fascinating.
I don't know about you, but if I were to be winked out of existence, I'm pretty sure being swallowed by a black hole would be the most agreeable method. One second you're matter, and then "poof" you're anti-matter...or, really tightly packed matter...or, zipping through alternate levels of the universe what scientists call a "worm hole." Worms holes are like the tubes at the bank, only you're that funny cylinder that whooshes away from your car. (And, like at the bank, you want to make sure your loose change is tightly stowed before a foosh through a worm hole...trust me.)
This morning, on the Swiss-French border, physicists (a type of scientist--the name comes from Greek origins and means "observer of the stuff smashing into other stuff) from around the world waited eagerly (some for two decades (that's over 50 years for any of you that struggle with math and want to punch Albert Einstein for inventing it)) for the first test run of the LHC (or, Large Hadron Collider). The potential for this machine might show them what existed billionths of a second after the big bang. The first tests include shooting sub-atomic particles (protons) around the 17-mile track buried in the earth. Supposedly, they have the ability to send these guys wizzing around the track almost 11,000 times a second...that's approaching light speed. (Electrons, other sub-atomic particles, are the orbital pieces of atoms. If it helps to picture them like little lighting bolts, please do. They circle the nucleus of an atom (comprised of neutrons and protons) 15 billion times a second. They're the original Lance Armstrong. It's kinda like seeing light speed at the atomic level.)
Then, after testing the LHC by sending protons in both directions, they'll start sending them in both directions at the same time, forcing them to collide. Kind of reminds me of that question, "If you're driving at the speed of light, what happens when you turn on the headlights?" Only this time, they're not accelerating the protons from each other near the speed of light, they're crashing them into each other.
Bang.
Not big bang, like we think happened 15 (ish) billion years ago, but little bang (no crass humor from me on this one...at least, not printed, this is a family community). This little bang might show them (the physicists) what kind of goo came flying out of the big bang. If they can determine that, they say they can more definitively conclude how the universe was created.
I'm not a scientist, but I'm just as curious as the rest. Some speculate a huge breakthrough. Others criticize the machine and the effort as a gigantic waste of money (in the billions). Doomsdayers think that the machine, running balls to the ...er...full steam ahead, has the power to create a marble sized black hole that will, not unlike a Dyson vacuum cleaner, suck the earth and everything around it through a HEPA filter and into oblivion (or, worse, drop us at the business end of some cosmic worm-hole). The physicists say that if anything goes wrong, the only thing that will be in danger is the machine as the beam will likely just shoot into the rock surrounding the tunnel.
So much for drama.
But, if they know what could happen if something goes wrong, why are they spending time building this machine to do something that none of them really understand? They can predict what will happen if the machine malfunctions, but they're all eagerly awaiting some huge surprise that might happen when the machine functions? Huh?
What if, and this is a big what if, the original Big Bang was the successful end to physicists trying to recreate another original Big Bang? What if we're on a 14 (ish) billion year cycle and this is our scientific glass ceiling? Of course, I don't believe that, but, it sets up one hell of a story, right?
And, now, the really fundamental question: when is one of these physicists going to try using this proton accelerator to shoot something else? When will it be available in hand-gun size? You think two protons smashing into each other near the speed of light is illuminating, try shooting a Dr. Pepper can off a fence post 60 feet away. What kind of bang would that be?
While the world is watching, waiting for the beginning of the end to take place in Switzerland, cows around the world are releasing more greenhouse gasses (methane, CO2, etc) into the atmosphere than all the cars, planes, boats, lawn mowers and politicians combined. I love beef, and I'm not about to sacrifice my love of tenderloin (don't think about where tender loins come from) to help reduce my carbon footprint. If we can re-create the immediate after-effects of the Big Bang, why can't we harness methane escaping bovines world-wide? (Escape is one of the many PC versions of the word "fart." Other PC synonyms include "cut the mustard," "squeeze the duck," "release the hounds," "liftoff," "getting ready to unload the truck," and several others I can share if anyone is curious.) Gasoline and methane, though in different forms, share many of the same combustion properties. Until we can really grab significant energy from geo-thermal, solar or wind power, I think we should seriously consider the efficiency (and comedy) of cars that go "pthbthbthbthb."
Both heifer release and subatomic particle acceleration/collision have the potential to adversely affect our quality of life on Earth. When you realize the air is getting more and more flammable and you start to feel gravity's pull more substantially, you can't argue that we're not living in exciting times.
Whether it's the combustion of cow farts or protons smashing at nearly twice the speed of light, bring on the bang!
Large Hadron Collider
Fascinating.
I don't know about you, but if I were to be winked out of existence, I'm pretty sure being swallowed by a black hole would be the most agreeable method. One second you're matter, and then "poof" you're anti-matter...or, really tightly packed matter...or, zipping through alternate levels of the universe what scientists call a "worm hole." Worms holes are like the tubes at the bank, only you're that funny cylinder that whooshes away from your car. (And, like at the bank, you want to make sure your loose change is tightly stowed before a foosh through a worm hole...trust me.)
This morning, on the Swiss-French border, physicists (a type of scientist--the name comes from Greek origins and means "observer of the stuff smashing into other stuff) from around the world waited eagerly (some for two decades (that's over 50 years for any of you that struggle with math and want to punch Albert Einstein for inventing it)) for the first test run of the LHC (or, Large Hadron Collider). The potential for this machine might show them what existed billionths of a second after the big bang. The first tests include shooting sub-atomic particles (protons) around the 17-mile track buried in the earth. Supposedly, they have the ability to send these guys wizzing around the track almost 11,000 times a second...that's approaching light speed. (Electrons, other sub-atomic particles, are the orbital pieces of atoms. If it helps to picture them like little lighting bolts, please do. They circle the nucleus of an atom (comprised of neutrons and protons) 15 billion times a second. They're the original Lance Armstrong. It's kinda like seeing light speed at the atomic level.)
Then, after testing the LHC by sending protons in both directions, they'll start sending them in both directions at the same time, forcing them to collide. Kind of reminds me of that question, "If you're driving at the speed of light, what happens when you turn on the headlights?" Only this time, they're not accelerating the protons from each other near the speed of light, they're crashing them into each other.
Bang.
Not big bang, like we think happened 15 (ish) billion years ago, but little bang (no crass humor from me on this one...at least, not printed, this is a family community). This little bang might show them (the physicists) what kind of goo came flying out of the big bang. If they can determine that, they say they can more definitively conclude how the universe was created.
I'm not a scientist, but I'm just as curious as the rest. Some speculate a huge breakthrough. Others criticize the machine and the effort as a gigantic waste of money (in the billions). Doomsdayers think that the machine, running balls to the ...er...full steam ahead, has the power to create a marble sized black hole that will, not unlike a Dyson vacuum cleaner, suck the earth and everything around it through a HEPA filter and into oblivion (or, worse, drop us at the business end of some cosmic worm-hole). The physicists say that if anything goes wrong, the only thing that will be in danger is the machine as the beam will likely just shoot into the rock surrounding the tunnel.
So much for drama.
But, if they know what could happen if something goes wrong, why are they spending time building this machine to do something that none of them really understand? They can predict what will happen if the machine malfunctions, but they're all eagerly awaiting some huge surprise that might happen when the machine functions? Huh?
What if, and this is a big what if, the original Big Bang was the successful end to physicists trying to recreate another original Big Bang? What if we're on a 14 (ish) billion year cycle and this is our scientific glass ceiling? Of course, I don't believe that, but, it sets up one hell of a story, right?
And, now, the really fundamental question: when is one of these physicists going to try using this proton accelerator to shoot something else? When will it be available in hand-gun size? You think two protons smashing into each other near the speed of light is illuminating, try shooting a Dr. Pepper can off a fence post 60 feet away. What kind of bang would that be?
While the world is watching, waiting for the beginning of the end to take place in Switzerland, cows around the world are releasing more greenhouse gasses (methane, CO2, etc) into the atmosphere than all the cars, planes, boats, lawn mowers and politicians combined. I love beef, and I'm not about to sacrifice my love of tenderloin (don't think about where tender loins come from) to help reduce my carbon footprint. If we can re-create the immediate after-effects of the Big Bang, why can't we harness methane escaping bovines world-wide? (Escape is one of the many PC versions of the word "fart." Other PC synonyms include "cut the mustard," "squeeze the duck," "release the hounds," "liftoff," "getting ready to unload the truck," and several others I can share if anyone is curious.) Gasoline and methane, though in different forms, share many of the same combustion properties. Until we can really grab significant energy from geo-thermal, solar or wind power, I think we should seriously consider the efficiency (and comedy) of cars that go "pthbthbthbthb."
Both heifer release and subatomic particle acceleration/collision have the potential to adversely affect our quality of life on Earth. When you realize the air is getting more and more flammable and you start to feel gravity's pull more substantially, you can't argue that we're not living in exciting times.
Whether it's the combustion of cow farts or protons smashing at nearly twice the speed of light, bring on the bang!
Large Hadron Collider
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Each Of Us Shares Our Birthday With Nine Million Other People On The Planet
But it doesn't mean your not special. You're still the only one conceived by your parents 9-ish months before your birthday delivery. Unless you're half of twins. Or a third of triplets. Either way, maybe a little less special. But, still you.
I can't stand hyper-opinionated people. It's probably the reason I don't like the mirror. I know, I know--lots of people have said something along the lines of "the flaws you see in others are the flaws you refuse to admit you possess." Actually, reminds me of Jesus talking about the speck and the plank.
I'll be the first to admit...okay, not the first, but I won't (always) deny that I'm stubborn, strong-willed, opinionated and egotistical. And handsome. Sometimes clever. Almost always only barely tolerable.
My world is changing.
If merits were awarded for dealing with irritating or obnoxious people, my beautiful bride would receive one every August on our anniversary. Our wedding vows were sweet, but hers should have simply said, "I'll deal with him till you take him, God." I'm not a jerk, I'm just steadfast. In my ways. The right ways. You see?
Humility is a rip-roaring force. Embarrassing moments instill a sense of humble, albeit temporary. Mistakes, if broken into a series of still shots, reveal absolute humiliation. Again, temporary. You learn from your mistakes. Unless you're perfect. Like me.
Until now. Discoveries are made when one is searching for something. Revelations are had when one experiences a revealing of truth. The all-powerful "Ah HA!" is achieved when one achieves realization.
Humility accompanies the "oh shit" feeling of inadequacy. (Pardon the language. As a good friend once shared, "Vulgarity should only serve to add color to a chromatized language palette.") Embarrassing moments and mistakes, as observed, serve a slight and fleeting dose of humility.
Perpetual humility can only be earned...really, it's more like you're thrown into a sticky vat of the stuff and the lid is welded on...through the news of impending fatherhood.
To a little girl.
A little female combination of Kenna and Lee. (Yes, that is the first time I've used italics...that means serious emphasis)
I will never have control again.
Truthfully? I don't think I'll miss it. There is honesty in the school of thought regarding flaws in others = flaws in self.
Besides, I'm trading in my flaws for a whole new set come the end of November. Good bye stubbornness, ego, righteousness and good taste in clothing. Hello overprotective father, enduring nerd, sappy goof. I feel like the Grinch must have felt at the moment his heart broke through the view frame.
Perspective is a ridiculous gift. Gift because we have the freedom to develop it in reaction to our experiences. Ridiculous because it changes without our permission. Nothing like a shifty contingency to keep us on our toes.
My shift has encouraged empathy--again, polar to my typical self. For instance: yesterday I witnessed (and was later accosted by) a young lady (20-ish?) strolling the streets of downtown Hailey. That's not the atypical part...stick with me. She had on: black combat boots, two different color striped knee socks, black and baggy cropped pants, over sized black shirt with what I can only describe as "arm stocking-tights" (which were also black). Her hair was dyed black, but had light roots showing (it was, as you pictured before I said this, greasy). Her face was decorated with Marilyn Manson's personal line of make-up for the undead. There was metal, but I'm not certain how much...I was trying not to stare. She carried a cardboard sign: "FREE HUGS."
She rushed me with the sign in front of her like I was a cancer patient and she was eager with the cure. "Free Hugs!" she actually growled at me as she said it. I had to back away and put my hands up. "No, thank you, absolutely not." Unkind to add the last two words, but they were out of my mouth as if I'd urked them. She walked away, smile gone, almost dejected.
Old Lee (in head): "Yikes! Good riddance."
New "Soon-to-be-Daddy" Lee (in head): "Jeez, that's someones daughter. She was once someones little girl. What could have possibly happened to make her act this way?"
No, I didn't stop her, didn't try and talk to her, didn't apologize. I pitied her from a safe distance. After all, "Daddy" is still more heavily cognitive at this point--still a transition from "she's coming" to "I'm at your service."
The swing of perspective affects not only me, my hardened heart and my ability to be right all the time: it's very probable that it will erode Kenna's steadfast empathy and flighty nature. I become empathetic, soft and, most likely, always wrong. She'll be Mom--which actually means "boss" in several languages.
Sure, I'm humbled. I'm unprepared. If I'm left alone long enough to ponder, I freak myself out.
A mixture of Kenna and my little girl suddenly owning discipline and authority in my house. Mildly unsettling, yes, but it sounds ultimately liberating.
I've spent my entire life growing up so I can have a child teach me how to be young. I can't wait.
I can't stand hyper-opinionated people. It's probably the reason I don't like the mirror. I know, I know--lots of people have said something along the lines of "the flaws you see in others are the flaws you refuse to admit you possess." Actually, reminds me of Jesus talking about the speck and the plank.
I'll be the first to admit...okay, not the first, but I won't (always) deny that I'm stubborn, strong-willed, opinionated and egotistical. And handsome. Sometimes clever. Almost always only barely tolerable.
My world is changing.
If merits were awarded for dealing with irritating or obnoxious people, my beautiful bride would receive one every August on our anniversary. Our wedding vows were sweet, but hers should have simply said, "I'll deal with him till you take him, God." I'm not a jerk, I'm just steadfast. In my ways. The right ways. You see?
Humility is a rip-roaring force. Embarrassing moments instill a sense of humble, albeit temporary. Mistakes, if broken into a series of still shots, reveal absolute humiliation. Again, temporary. You learn from your mistakes. Unless you're perfect. Like me.
Until now. Discoveries are made when one is searching for something. Revelations are had when one experiences a revealing of truth. The all-powerful "Ah HA!" is achieved when one achieves realization.
Humility accompanies the "oh shit" feeling of inadequacy. (Pardon the language. As a good friend once shared, "Vulgarity should only serve to add color to a chromatized language palette.") Embarrassing moments and mistakes, as observed, serve a slight and fleeting dose of humility.
Perpetual humility can only be earned...really, it's more like you're thrown into a sticky vat of the stuff and the lid is welded on...through the news of impending fatherhood.
To a little girl.
A little female combination of Kenna and Lee. (Yes, that is the first time I've used italics...that means serious emphasis)
I will never have control again.
Truthfully? I don't think I'll miss it. There is honesty in the school of thought regarding flaws in others = flaws in self.
Besides, I'm trading in my flaws for a whole new set come the end of November. Good bye stubbornness, ego, righteousness and good taste in clothing. Hello overprotective father, enduring nerd, sappy goof. I feel like the Grinch must have felt at the moment his heart broke through the view frame.
Perspective is a ridiculous gift. Gift because we have the freedom to develop it in reaction to our experiences. Ridiculous because it changes without our permission. Nothing like a shifty contingency to keep us on our toes.
My shift has encouraged empathy--again, polar to my typical self. For instance: yesterday I witnessed (and was later accosted by) a young lady (20-ish?) strolling the streets of downtown Hailey. That's not the atypical part...stick with me. She had on: black combat boots, two different color striped knee socks, black and baggy cropped pants, over sized black shirt with what I can only describe as "arm stocking-tights" (which were also black). Her hair was dyed black, but had light roots showing (it was, as you pictured before I said this, greasy). Her face was decorated with Marilyn Manson's personal line of make-up for the undead. There was metal, but I'm not certain how much...I was trying not to stare. She carried a cardboard sign: "FREE HUGS."
She rushed me with the sign in front of her like I was a cancer patient and she was eager with the cure. "Free Hugs!" she actually growled at me as she said it. I had to back away and put my hands up. "No, thank you, absolutely not." Unkind to add the last two words, but they were out of my mouth as if I'd urked them. She walked away, smile gone, almost dejected.
Old Lee (in head): "Yikes! Good riddance."
New "Soon-to-be-Daddy" Lee (in head): "Jeez, that's someones daughter. She was once someones little girl. What could have possibly happened to make her act this way?"
No, I didn't stop her, didn't try and talk to her, didn't apologize. I pitied her from a safe distance. After all, "Daddy" is still more heavily cognitive at this point--still a transition from "she's coming" to "I'm at your service."
The swing of perspective affects not only me, my hardened heart and my ability to be right all the time: it's very probable that it will erode Kenna's steadfast empathy and flighty nature. I become empathetic, soft and, most likely, always wrong. She'll be Mom--which actually means "boss" in several languages.
Sure, I'm humbled. I'm unprepared. If I'm left alone long enough to ponder, I freak myself out.
A mixture of Kenna and my little girl suddenly owning discipline and authority in my house. Mildly unsettling, yes, but it sounds ultimately liberating.
I've spent my entire life growing up so I can have a child teach me how to be young. I can't wait.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
There Are One Million Ants For Every Person In The World
Aren't you glad it's not the other way around.
Also, I hate Wal-Mart.
The five biggest economies on the planet are no longer exclusively countries. Corporations control monetary existence and transience on a larger scale than do nations. As always, I will keep my promise not to delve into political waters.
Instead, let's visit Wal-Mart in Mountain Home, Idaho.
Take a moment. I'm not asking you to come up with words to describe whatever feeling you get when you think about Wal-Mart. Some people absolutely love it. "Save money, live better." Nothing wrong with that. Some people refuse to shop there...making a statement of "I will not support your ridiculous labor practices, and I won't share my hard-earned American dollars with a gigantic slice of the Chinese economy." Again, totally fine. Every single person in our country (and anywhere, if you want my opinion) has the right, given by God in enigmatic contingencies, to develop his or her opinion and act upon it.
I don't like Wal-Mart at all. As a bread-winner and a consumer, I'm a hypocrite subject to inflation. I make a really good living, and we live within our means. We also save--for the future, for our unborn child, for unseen disasters, you name it. I don't subscribe to justification doctrines, and I won't make excuses for any of my actions. I shop Wal-Mart for unbeatable prices. Yes, in spite of what happens when my dollars go there instead of anywhere else. And you bet I feel guilty about it. But, I would feel guiltier in 19 years when my son/daughter is preparing to go to college and I'd say, "Good luck! We have no money to help pay the tab, but I'm glad you spent the first 2 years of your life in clothing that cost more than my college education." So, we compromise.
And "compromise" is a dirty word. Filthy. Ugh.
During a recent compromise, I was given one of those few "nugget" experiences we get in life. If you've left it, go back to your moment. Put yourself in Wal-Mart (and, no, I don't care who you are or what you choose to do--I know that you know what it looks like inside Wal-Mart). It's a Sunday afternoon. Is it busy? Are there more than five languages being used? Can you hear the hum of electrified chairs? How about the grunt of gelatinous beings crashing into one another?
This Sunday was different.
After quickly gathering my short list from a nearly vacant store, I approached the bank of cash registers. Six in a row had illuminated number cubes at the top of their poles, but none had even one customer checking out. The six checkers (five old ladies and one pubescent teen) stood shoulder to shoulder on the store side of the aisles, chatting, likely joking about some of the crap they'd been able to trade for currency (and likely without regard for the hours they were trading for crap wages/experience). I approached the first lighted aisle and the 17-ish year old stepped up to the plate. Complete with Wal-Mart uniform (2 sizes too large), scraggly facial fuzz, and a lateral lisp (think John Leguizamo as Sid the Sloth from the "Ice Age" franchise films), he asked me, "Hey, why didn't you step into line with one of the ladies?" I assumed he meant the 5 octogenarians he'd been commingling with prior to my giving him something to do.
"You know, I just got in to the first line I walked to and I'm trying to get back out to my car as quickly as possible." I smiled while I responded. I try really hard not to be rude or snobbish while in Wal-Mart; I wait until I'm safely behind a keyboard and can use bigger words.
"Yeah, I get you," he said, half smiling. "Hey, I've been playing this game all morning, it's called "Guess Your Price" (pronounced "geslth your prislth"); you wanna play?!"
"Wow, um, I guess. How do you play?"
"Well, it's really great. You guess what your total price will be, then I guess, and then whoever's closest wins!" He smile at this point rivaled Bob Barker's. No, not on "The Price Is Right." In "Happy Gilmore" while he's winning the fight, right before he gets clocked by Adam Sandler--the price is wrong, bitch.
"Okay, I'll bet it comes in between $43 and $44."
"Oh man, you're WAY off! The stuff you got here's gonna be closer to $70 for sure!"
"I don't think I'll be anywhere near $70, but okay."
If Wal-Mart cashiers rang customers through as fast as this kid could, the lines would never have received their stereotypes resembling that of time spent in the waiting room for a dentist in hell.
"And your total is...$43.80? Holy cow! How'd you do that? You're the first one to win all day!!"
"Well, I'd bet, looking around, that you've haven't had many opportunities to play today."
"Yeah, I get you."
He had bagged most of the items and only had two 8 pound bags of Purina's "Healthful Life" cat chow to stow.
"Hey, you got a cat?" He asked me.
Bill Engvall, thank you for giving us "Here's Your Sign."
I replied, straight faced: "Nope, I like to pour milk over it in the morning and eat it like cereal."
He stopped and straightened up, connected his widened, inquisitive eyes with mine. "Is it good?"
Deadpan. He was serious. He didn't pick up any of the sarcasm I'd laid on thicker than the eight coats of lead-based paint we stripped from the interior doors of our 1945 Seattle home.
I am not a nice guy.
"Shoot, yeah! And, there's more nutritious stuff in there than in Cap't Crunch or Corn Flakes!"
"Hey, I should try that!" He said excitedly.
"Sure! Have a nice day!" I scooped up my bags and walked out, smiling.
You don't have to tell me I'm a terrible person. I compromised my morals when I decided to shop there. And, no, the kid was not disabled or impaired (with the exception of his speech impediment, which I would never, NEVER use for humor--he can't help that). He was just a happy soul in the twilight of his youth working for an honest dollar, having a little fun with a relatively friendly stranger.
On the other hand, maybe I should have also suggested some floss or Listerine...
Also, I hate Wal-Mart.
The five biggest economies on the planet are no longer exclusively countries. Corporations control monetary existence and transience on a larger scale than do nations. As always, I will keep my promise not to delve into political waters.
Instead, let's visit Wal-Mart in Mountain Home, Idaho.
Take a moment. I'm not asking you to come up with words to describe whatever feeling you get when you think about Wal-Mart. Some people absolutely love it. "Save money, live better." Nothing wrong with that. Some people refuse to shop there...making a statement of "I will not support your ridiculous labor practices, and I won't share my hard-earned American dollars with a gigantic slice of the Chinese economy." Again, totally fine. Every single person in our country (and anywhere, if you want my opinion) has the right, given by God in enigmatic contingencies, to develop his or her opinion and act upon it.
I don't like Wal-Mart at all. As a bread-winner and a consumer, I'm a hypocrite subject to inflation. I make a really good living, and we live within our means. We also save--for the future, for our unborn child, for unseen disasters, you name it. I don't subscribe to justification doctrines, and I won't make excuses for any of my actions. I shop Wal-Mart for unbeatable prices. Yes, in spite of what happens when my dollars go there instead of anywhere else. And you bet I feel guilty about it. But, I would feel guiltier in 19 years when my son/daughter is preparing to go to college and I'd say, "Good luck! We have no money to help pay the tab, but I'm glad you spent the first 2 years of your life in clothing that cost more than my college education." So, we compromise.
And "compromise" is a dirty word. Filthy. Ugh.
During a recent compromise, I was given one of those few "nugget" experiences we get in life. If you've left it, go back to your moment. Put yourself in Wal-Mart (and, no, I don't care who you are or what you choose to do--I know that you know what it looks like inside Wal-Mart). It's a Sunday afternoon. Is it busy? Are there more than five languages being used? Can you hear the hum of electrified chairs? How about the grunt of gelatinous beings crashing into one another?
This Sunday was different.
After quickly gathering my short list from a nearly vacant store, I approached the bank of cash registers. Six in a row had illuminated number cubes at the top of their poles, but none had even one customer checking out. The six checkers (five old ladies and one pubescent teen) stood shoulder to shoulder on the store side of the aisles, chatting, likely joking about some of the crap they'd been able to trade for currency (and likely without regard for the hours they were trading for crap wages/experience). I approached the first lighted aisle and the 17-ish year old stepped up to the plate. Complete with Wal-Mart uniform (2 sizes too large), scraggly facial fuzz, and a lateral lisp (think John Leguizamo as Sid the Sloth from the "Ice Age" franchise films), he asked me, "Hey, why didn't you step into line with one of the ladies?" I assumed he meant the 5 octogenarians he'd been commingling with prior to my giving him something to do.
"You know, I just got in to the first line I walked to and I'm trying to get back out to my car as quickly as possible." I smiled while I responded. I try really hard not to be rude or snobbish while in Wal-Mart; I wait until I'm safely behind a keyboard and can use bigger words.
"Yeah, I get you," he said, half smiling. "Hey, I've been playing this game all morning, it's called "Guess Your Price" (pronounced "geslth your prislth"); you wanna play?!"
"Wow, um, I guess. How do you play?"
"Well, it's really great. You guess what your total price will be, then I guess, and then whoever's closest wins!" He smile at this point rivaled Bob Barker's. No, not on "The Price Is Right." In "Happy Gilmore" while he's winning the fight, right before he gets clocked by Adam Sandler--the price is wrong, bitch.
"Okay, I'll bet it comes in between $43 and $44."
"Oh man, you're WAY off! The stuff you got here's gonna be closer to $70 for sure!"
"I don't think I'll be anywhere near $70, but okay."
If Wal-Mart cashiers rang customers through as fast as this kid could, the lines would never have received their stereotypes resembling that of time spent in the waiting room for a dentist in hell.
"And your total is...$43.80? Holy cow! How'd you do that? You're the first one to win all day!!"
"Well, I'd bet, looking around, that you've haven't had many opportunities to play today."
"Yeah, I get you."
He had bagged most of the items and only had two 8 pound bags of Purina's "Healthful Life" cat chow to stow.
"Hey, you got a cat?" He asked me.
Bill Engvall, thank you for giving us "Here's Your Sign."
I replied, straight faced: "Nope, I like to pour milk over it in the morning and eat it like cereal."
He stopped and straightened up, connected his widened, inquisitive eyes with mine. "Is it good?"
Deadpan. He was serious. He didn't pick up any of the sarcasm I'd laid on thicker than the eight coats of lead-based paint we stripped from the interior doors of our 1945 Seattle home.
I am not a nice guy.
"Shoot, yeah! And, there's more nutritious stuff in there than in Cap't Crunch or Corn Flakes!"
"Hey, I should try that!" He said excitedly.
"Sure! Have a nice day!" I scooped up my bags and walked out, smiling.
You don't have to tell me I'm a terrible person. I compromised my morals when I decided to shop there. And, no, the kid was not disabled or impaired (with the exception of his speech impediment, which I would never, NEVER use for humor--he can't help that). He was just a happy soul in the twilight of his youth working for an honest dollar, having a little fun with a relatively friendly stranger.
On the other hand, maybe I should have also suggested some floss or Listerine...
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The Temperature of the Sun Can Reach 15 Million Degrees Fahrenheit
93 million miles and approximately eight minutes later, light and UV radiation (along with other radiation) produced from the extreme temperatures of the Sun's chemical interactions reach Earth--sucking the water out of our skin and leaving us a maroon shade of pain and peeling.
110-120 degrees is hot. I don't care if it's a Las Vegas or an Arizona "dry heat;" it's hot. And while we may not hit those numbers here in Sun Valley, Idaho, we can see high nineties and low 100's as early as late June.
Not only a place of extravagant weather, Sun Valley is home (well...second home) to some of the most elite wealth in the world. And, those that have not yet paid premiums for second or third homes here make it a destination for long summer vacations, reunions and weddings.
Four or five day binging tours usually accompany a Sun Valley destination wedding.
Four of five days of binging for all 28 members of the bridal party.
The locomotive party reaches full steam just in time for the culmination: 300 guests; 56 service staff; 5 enormous tents; two FULL open bars (each staffed by a minimum of three people); 4 "wine stations;" a five course meal that engages beasts of the air, sea and field; an "estate" setting ("estate" is a word rich people insist be used in regards to their 10,000+ square foot mansions nestled amongst dozens of manicured acres that used to be home to a large number of ecosystems) complete with several ponds, streams, groves of pine, and innumerable "nookie" spots; a funk cover-band flown in from the bay area (yes, the San Francisco one) and contracted to play three hours of the best funk music on the planet; and a bill in excess of $750,000.
Unreal.
I've catered my fair share of destination weddings. I've seen large groups of people imbibe enough distilled spirits to power a developing country. I've even witnessed party guests pressing wads of hundred dollar bills into the hands of pubescent valet drivers. But I have never been a part of anything so unbelievably excessive in my entire life.
And, aside from the guilt of association with a party producing more waste than my household will in 10 years, I enjoyed it.
The bathrooms were located in a trailer. From the outside, one might think, "Okay, portapotty style toilets confined by fiberglass trailer walls." Wrong. Once up the steps, you'd open the door to a loo rivaling some of the nicest ski lodge facilities in the world. Black marble walls, granite pedestal sink, mahogany paneled doors, and, through small, recessed ceiling speakers, Perry Como and Dean Martin gently crooning, as if urging, "Sit, stay awhile. Don't rush it, you'll hurt yourself."
And, after serving more than 300 bottles of wine and champagne, 600 bottles of beer, two dozen cases (yes, cases: six one-gallon bottles in each case) of hard liquor and giving "last call" at 12:15 AM, the guests were 50/50 on returning to the Sun Valley lodge for sleep (and by sleep, I mean tossing their $150 meal and passing out in the bathtub of a room that likely runs more than $300 a night) or riding the bus (charter bus, of course) into Ketchum for continued celebration at Whiskey Jacques or The Roosevelt Tavern.
Nothing screams success to a bartender like a thousand high fives, hugs, and "Lee is my MAN!" from the exodus of the lubricated party.
Several stragglers managed to get turned around and wander back towards the woods and river. While loading what was left of the massive bar kit into the back of the caterer's van, I called out to a couple of young ladies who were within striking distance of the trees, unaware that six or seven more steps would deposit them into the dark of an Idaho forest at night.
Turning around, one grabbed my arm and leaned into me. "Come with us!" she gushed, the scent of Kuwait escaping her words. "We're not going to the bars, we're going back to the hotel!"
"Gosh, thanks, ladies, but I'm not sure my wife would appreciate that." I tried to pull my arm back so I could resume my cleanup.
"Hey! Bring her, too!" she replied and the other agreed with the enthusiasm of a bobble head on the dashboard of a Gremlin slamming nose-first into a Pinto.
"Sure thing," I agreed with no intention of following-through, "I'll meet you there, make sure you get to the bus before it leaves!" I shouted over my shoulder, on my way back to the main tent to continue breaking down a bar that would offer a mushroom cloud to the sky if someone were to light a match and toss it on the saturated cloth that covered the abused surface of the table top.
Amazing things happen in the heat of a Sun Valley summer. But when the money leaves town for depressing, cutthroat finance and development jobs in the busiest and budding metropolises on the globe, the natives and locals take full advantage of living here, with our car/boat/bike payments and our rented homes, financed by grueling labor paid for with money earned by big-city grunts pushing other money around, free to explore the home we've made in the wilderness of the Rockies.
110-120 degrees is hot. I don't care if it's a Las Vegas or an Arizona "dry heat;" it's hot. And while we may not hit those numbers here in Sun Valley, Idaho, we can see high nineties and low 100's as early as late June.
Not only a place of extravagant weather, Sun Valley is home (well...second home) to some of the most elite wealth in the world. And, those that have not yet paid premiums for second or third homes here make it a destination for long summer vacations, reunions and weddings.
Four or five day binging tours usually accompany a Sun Valley destination wedding.
Four of five days of binging for all 28 members of the bridal party.
The locomotive party reaches full steam just in time for the culmination: 300 guests; 56 service staff; 5 enormous tents; two FULL open bars (each staffed by a minimum of three people); 4 "wine stations;" a five course meal that engages beasts of the air, sea and field; an "estate" setting ("estate" is a word rich people insist be used in regards to their 10,000+ square foot mansions nestled amongst dozens of manicured acres that used to be home to a large number of ecosystems) complete with several ponds, streams, groves of pine, and innumerable "nookie" spots; a funk cover-band flown in from the bay area (yes, the San Francisco one) and contracted to play three hours of the best funk music on the planet; and a bill in excess of $750,000.
Unreal.
I've catered my fair share of destination weddings. I've seen large groups of people imbibe enough distilled spirits to power a developing country. I've even witnessed party guests pressing wads of hundred dollar bills into the hands of pubescent valet drivers. But I have never been a part of anything so unbelievably excessive in my entire life.
And, aside from the guilt of association with a party producing more waste than my household will in 10 years, I enjoyed it.
The bathrooms were located in a trailer. From the outside, one might think, "Okay, portapotty style toilets confined by fiberglass trailer walls." Wrong. Once up the steps, you'd open the door to a loo rivaling some of the nicest ski lodge facilities in the world. Black marble walls, granite pedestal sink, mahogany paneled doors, and, through small, recessed ceiling speakers, Perry Como and Dean Martin gently crooning, as if urging, "Sit, stay awhile. Don't rush it, you'll hurt yourself."
And, after serving more than 300 bottles of wine and champagne, 600 bottles of beer, two dozen cases (yes, cases: six one-gallon bottles in each case) of hard liquor and giving "last call" at 12:15 AM, the guests were 50/50 on returning to the Sun Valley lodge for sleep (and by sleep, I mean tossing their $150 meal and passing out in the bathtub of a room that likely runs more than $300 a night) or riding the bus (charter bus, of course) into Ketchum for continued celebration at Whiskey Jacques or The Roosevelt Tavern.
Nothing screams success to a bartender like a thousand high fives, hugs, and "Lee is my MAN!" from the exodus of the lubricated party.
Several stragglers managed to get turned around and wander back towards the woods and river. While loading what was left of the massive bar kit into the back of the caterer's van, I called out to a couple of young ladies who were within striking distance of the trees, unaware that six or seven more steps would deposit them into the dark of an Idaho forest at night.
Turning around, one grabbed my arm and leaned into me. "Come with us!" she gushed, the scent of Kuwait escaping her words. "We're not going to the bars, we're going back to the hotel!"
"Gosh, thanks, ladies, but I'm not sure my wife would appreciate that." I tried to pull my arm back so I could resume my cleanup.
"Hey! Bring her, too!" she replied and the other agreed with the enthusiasm of a bobble head on the dashboard of a Gremlin slamming nose-first into a Pinto.
"Sure thing," I agreed with no intention of following-through, "I'll meet you there, make sure you get to the bus before it leaves!" I shouted over my shoulder, on my way back to the main tent to continue breaking down a bar that would offer a mushroom cloud to the sky if someone were to light a match and toss it on the saturated cloth that covered the abused surface of the table top.
Amazing things happen in the heat of a Sun Valley summer. But when the money leaves town for depressing, cutthroat finance and development jobs in the busiest and budding metropolises on the globe, the natives and locals take full advantage of living here, with our car/boat/bike payments and our rented homes, financed by grueling labor paid for with money earned by big-city grunts pushing other money around, free to explore the home we've made in the wilderness of the Rockies.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Frowning Burns More Calories Than Smiling
Small comfort for anyone slightly overweight but happy most of the time. Happiness sometimes come with a relaxed metabolism. It's okay!
Also explains why a lot of joggers are so skinny. Exercise? Yeah right. It's the ridiculous angry, painful look they make the entire time they're jogging.
It also raises, in the curious mind, the question: do we burn more calories when we're angry than when we're happy? Are facial expressions tied directly and uncontrollably to our emotions? In that, do we have any say in our body's fuel consumption connected to emotions and our countenance's reaction?
This might offer answers to these important musings: is it okay to enjoy an entire tub of Ben & Jerry's ice cream if you're depressed (or, if you're a lady, pissed with a side of dejection)? Do hors d'oeuvres at a cocktail party you didn't want to attend count? Do the calories from a late night snack cancel out if you know you shouldn't snack before the insomnia starts and recognize your unfortunate, complete lack of will power?
I think the more important musing here is: who cares? If you're upset, go for it. If you're "burning inside," you're not just smoldering emotionally, you're raging through calories! I'm sure any scientist, doctor or nutritionist would agree--when you frown, frown hard, that way you can smile more as you've already created a calorie-deficit, and you won't have to stress about lazy internal combustion during happiness.
Yesterday, I burned at least a year's worth of visage-related calories. Yes, calorie vomiting on one hell of an emotional roller-coaster.
We're looking for a new place to live. We need less space but a smarter layout. We don't care if it's old as long as it's well cared-for. Most importantly, a home where the carpets don't smell like dog pee when it warms up outside would feel "homey." And, we need to put together a nursery. I promise to expound on THAT topic at another time.
Some close friends suggested we call a mutual acquaintance--one that is renting a charming house in a sweet family neighborhood. After a visit, innumerable "oohs" and "ahhs" inside what can only be described as our dream home, some term negotiation and interview questions, we were hopeful. The owner made it clear that she wanted to rent it to people she knew and could trust, that she wasn't in a "pinch to rent it right away," and that we could negotiate on the terms as well as the move in date--and if we needed 30 days to break our current lease, we could have it. "I want to make sure that it's not just a gut feeling, but a good 'God' decision."
The next morning (yesterday), the call came. Amid all the interest and bidding war on rent, we'd made the cut. We were it. We were an "answer to prayer."
Elation. This is a dream come true! You have no idea how much it will mean to my wife for us to live in this house.
"Well, I'm so happy that we can all be so happy about this! I'm so excited to have you two and your soon to be family living in my house! It'll be great to have friends as tenants, and you two are so responsible. How good is God?"
Discussion turns to more details regarding care of the property, move in date, payment arrangements, etc, but is cut short by a lunch appointment for the owner. Two viable options had been discussed (one of which met the terms--even though they were different than the previous day's discussion). We were willing to make several concessions considering we'd beat out dozens of other interested parties.
Five hours pass.
She calls again. "You know, with all the interest and people ready to pay now and move in immediately, I really need to require that my terms be met."
Okay, I understand, option one it is. I can get a check to you tonight.
"Well, I already accepted a check from someone else and took their offer. I hope you're not angry. It's just business."
What? No, business is a verbal contract with the right of first refusal if you've decided to change the contract. What happened to "trusting God to help with the decision?"
"It may not have been a 'Godly' decision, but it's the one I made. It's just business; it's not personal. I need to make a profit."
Out of my mouth came strong, but clean, safe arguments and questions rooted in confusion. In my head, the censorship noise would have rivaled the Jerry Springer Show.
I understand how some people can make the decisions they make. In business, I witnessed, was even victimized by, slimy "business" deals. In "business" you have to be prepared for the occasional nasty--even if you're the uncompromising straight-shooter. "Business" always involves the other side of the transaction, and it's bound to happen.
But I can't understand how someone as seemingly authentically principled as she appeared could do something so...cruel. One hundred eighty degrees in personality and integrity.
I think the most upsetting element of the experience was the use of the "God card." "Christians" that use it to trump rationale in "business" decisions only end up trumping relationship opportunities.
I'd hoped that sharing this would have been more cathartic. I'd love to say that I'm not looking for empathy or sympathy, but I'm not a huge fan of false modesty. In truth, step onto my side in this matter, tell me you're as pissed about it as I am, affirm my disbelief and mired naivete regarding the universal goodness of people. Burn some serious frown calories with me!
And, don't use the "God" card. When you use your faith as a tool, you become a tool.
Also explains why a lot of joggers are so skinny. Exercise? Yeah right. It's the ridiculous angry, painful look they make the entire time they're jogging.
It also raises, in the curious mind, the question: do we burn more calories when we're angry than when we're happy? Are facial expressions tied directly and uncontrollably to our emotions? In that, do we have any say in our body's fuel consumption connected to emotions and our countenance's reaction?
This might offer answers to these important musings: is it okay to enjoy an entire tub of Ben & Jerry's ice cream if you're depressed (or, if you're a lady, pissed with a side of dejection)? Do hors d'oeuvres at a cocktail party you didn't want to attend count? Do the calories from a late night snack cancel out if you know you shouldn't snack before the insomnia starts and recognize your unfortunate, complete lack of will power?
I think the more important musing here is: who cares? If you're upset, go for it. If you're "burning inside," you're not just smoldering emotionally, you're raging through calories! I'm sure any scientist, doctor or nutritionist would agree--when you frown, frown hard, that way you can smile more as you've already created a calorie-deficit, and you won't have to stress about lazy internal combustion during happiness.
Yesterday, I burned at least a year's worth of visage-related calories. Yes, calorie vomiting on one hell of an emotional roller-coaster.
We're looking for a new place to live. We need less space but a smarter layout. We don't care if it's old as long as it's well cared-for. Most importantly, a home where the carpets don't smell like dog pee when it warms up outside would feel "homey." And, we need to put together a nursery. I promise to expound on THAT topic at another time.
Some close friends suggested we call a mutual acquaintance--one that is renting a charming house in a sweet family neighborhood. After a visit, innumerable "oohs" and "ahhs" inside what can only be described as our dream home, some term negotiation and interview questions, we were hopeful. The owner made it clear that she wanted to rent it to people she knew and could trust, that she wasn't in a "pinch to rent it right away," and that we could negotiate on the terms as well as the move in date--and if we needed 30 days to break our current lease, we could have it. "I want to make sure that it's not just a gut feeling, but a good 'God' decision."
The next morning (yesterday), the call came. Amid all the interest and bidding war on rent, we'd made the cut. We were it. We were an "answer to prayer."
Elation. This is a dream come true! You have no idea how much it will mean to my wife for us to live in this house.
"Well, I'm so happy that we can all be so happy about this! I'm so excited to have you two and your soon to be family living in my house! It'll be great to have friends as tenants, and you two are so responsible. How good is God?"
Discussion turns to more details regarding care of the property, move in date, payment arrangements, etc, but is cut short by a lunch appointment for the owner. Two viable options had been discussed (one of which met the terms--even though they were different than the previous day's discussion). We were willing to make several concessions considering we'd beat out dozens of other interested parties.
Five hours pass.
She calls again. "You know, with all the interest and people ready to pay now and move in immediately, I really need to require that my terms be met."
Okay, I understand, option one it is. I can get a check to you tonight.
"Well, I already accepted a check from someone else and took their offer. I hope you're not angry. It's just business."
What? No, business is a verbal contract with the right of first refusal if you've decided to change the contract. What happened to "trusting God to help with the decision?"
"It may not have been a 'Godly' decision, but it's the one I made. It's just business; it's not personal. I need to make a profit."
Out of my mouth came strong, but clean, safe arguments and questions rooted in confusion. In my head, the censorship noise would have rivaled the Jerry Springer Show.
I understand how some people can make the decisions they make. In business, I witnessed, was even victimized by, slimy "business" deals. In "business" you have to be prepared for the occasional nasty--even if you're the uncompromising straight-shooter. "Business" always involves the other side of the transaction, and it's bound to happen.
But I can't understand how someone as seemingly authentically principled as she appeared could do something so...cruel. One hundred eighty degrees in personality and integrity.
I think the most upsetting element of the experience was the use of the "God card." "Christians" that use it to trump rationale in "business" decisions only end up trumping relationship opportunities.
I'd hoped that sharing this would have been more cathartic. I'd love to say that I'm not looking for empathy or sympathy, but I'm not a huge fan of false modesty. In truth, step onto my side in this matter, tell me you're as pissed about it as I am, affirm my disbelief and mired naivete regarding the universal goodness of people. Burn some serious frown calories with me!
And, don't use the "God" card. When you use your faith as a tool, you become a tool.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
It's Possible to Lead a Cow Up Stairs but Not Down
But, once you're at the top, you wouldn't have to lead it down, you could just push it and trust gravity to do the hard work of leading it down.
If you're like me (and I hope you are, I like people who are like me), saying this fact in your head probably leads your brain to remember the metaphor "you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink." There are thousands of these so-called "adages" floating around out there: cultural ones, generational ones, non-sensical ones. And, my favorite--the ones used in wacky combinations by people who have absolutely no idea what they mean, where they came from, or even how they are actually meant to sound. Commonly referred to as the "mixed metaphor."
For example: "Up a creek without a sail." Hmmm... Or, how about: "I don't want to beat this horse to death." Yeah... "What an idiot! Bet he feels like he's eating a pie full of birds." What? "That's it, I'm drawing my foot!" Uhh...?
I'm the first to admit: when I don't know the right words for something, I'll try and fill in the blanks with something that sounds right. And, if I'm called on it, I'll own up to it--but you better know what is correct.
Euphemisms and metaphors have existed as long as people have been using language and making up slang. We are a creative species--and we enjoy receiving credit for new turns of phrase. What feels better than creating a better way to express something (whether it's complimentary, clever, or pointedly ignorant)? Sexual euphemisms illicit some of the best "shock" responses in conversation and humor (I flew past first, jumped over second, slid through third and before I knew it, I'd scored!). Abbreviations as euphemisms have given us the ability to appear holier in our judgment (That SOB is SOL!). Professional euphemisms have saved dignity for countless thankless jobs (Sanitation Engineer = Custodian...or janitor if you wanna be a dick about it).
Perhaps the most politically incorrect euphemisms are the cultural ones. You know, the ones our grandparents used to label every other person in their orbit. I don't like them, I don't agree with them, and I hate some of the stereotypes that exist to this day.
Stepping off my soap-box, I'd like to share a story that reinforces a stereotype birthed from a cultural euphemism. No disrespect is intended in any direction. Disappointment in someone for taking advantage of the political incorrectness and forced trust in opposition to an age-old cultural stereotype is all I wish to communicate (and hopefully entertain and educate!).
For your consideration: The Smooth-Talking Black Man.
One warm Friday afternoon, while I was still at work, my wife answered the call of the doorbell. Behind the seldom locked entry of our abode stood a tall, smiling African-American gentleman. My wife and I hold no prejudices and enjoy meeting new people. Fear doesn't exist in our home. However, we have discussed the need to exercise responsibility: i.e. the reality that crime does exist and she should be wary of opening the door to strangers (ANY stranger) when home alone (she's only 5'1" after all--our Shitzu/Yorkie mix can overpower her!).
She's also a sucker for door-to-door solicitors. Make it a skinny, smiling guy in loose-fitting clothes (being watched by another dude in an unmarked white van parked on the street in front of the house) and she's the mark for any and all foot-soldiers for overpriced crap.
After some sweet talking--"you are so beautiful"--and some philanthropic flings--"we don't make profit on this stuff; we create jobs for kids and keep them off the streets and out of gangs"--my lovely bride's over-sized heart caved. She wanted to create jobs for urban street youth by supporting this former urban street youth. And why not--the cleaning solution is concentrated! It'll last forever! At $35 a bottle, it's practically paying the customer to use it based on the money he/she will save not having to buy any other cleaning products between purchase and the rapture of God's church!
Smooth Talking Black Guy (STBG): "Here, lemme see your cell phone; I'll place a call to our distribution center so you can securely place your order with a credit card and don't have to worry about giving the number to me."
Wife: "Okay!"
STBG: Takes the pink razor phone, dials an 877 number into it. (Sounds legit, right? I mean, only real businesses -- like psychics and phone sex operators -- start with 877 numbers, so this is safe.) Hands phone back to wife after someone has answered.
Wife: "Here's my credit card number.....here's my name as it appears on the card...here is the expiration date...3 digit number on the back of the card (the CVV2 code--included on all cards for security--making it impossible to have a transaction online/over the phone without as it "proves" the person requesting the transaction has the card in hand...)?...sure it's...great! Thanks!" Hangs up, takes bottle, thanks gentleman, closes door and starts scrubbing the inside of the fireplace screen with new miracle citrus-based wonder cleaner.
Not long after, I pull into the driveway at the end of a particularly long day at the end of a particularly long week. I was tired, but in a good mood--looking forward to seeing Iron Man at the movie theater later in the evening.
Walking up the steps, I notice a ratty red gym duffel next to the door. As I push it around with my foot, examining a sharpie-scratched name, my wife comes to the window--huge smile on her face. I opened the door and she proudly shared with me her contribution to the war on urban gang progress.
Me: Did you give them our credit card?
Wife: No. He had me call to place the order securely.
Me: How did you call?
Wife: He dialed the number on my phone for me.
Have you ever suddenly remembered something terribly important and realized in that moment that you think you forgot a part of it? Example: right before a final exam in a college course, you look at the syllabus and realize that there is a 10 page research paper due prior to the exam and you walked in empty handed and confident? Can you relate to that anxiety? That moment of panic?
And, that's only part of one grade in one class. The panic I felt was the assurance that we'd just compromised our near perfect credit.
Well, STBG appeared in our window while I was dialing our bank's fraud-report phone number. I threw the phone, leaped down the stairs, flew through the front door, and opened up one hell of a confrontation with two former street thugs.
Me: 160 pounds, 5'7", angrier than the rock a cow pissed on.
Them (STBG & Creepy Unmarked White Van Watcher Associate): 6'+, all smiles and scars from who knows how many urban street youth scuffles.
It nearly came to blows, but in the end, they took their bottle of wonderwater back, ran across our front lawn, jumped into the idling, unmarked white van and peeled away from our driveway.
Two phone calls: one to the bank to report the transaction (which they couldn't do anything about until it cleared on Monday night--three days away), and one to the number that was saved on my wife's phone. And, I got to talk to the operator she'd spoken with. She assured me she could reverse the charges, but needed to call our bank and then call me back with a confirmation number. The return call originated in Georgia.
Watching our account online like a hawk on Monday and Tuesday, no $35 transaction appeared -- either as placed or as reversed. Relief, while temporary, distracted me from immediately noticing the other, smaller transactions that started showing up among our other, smaller transactions. Then: wait, what did we pay $9.40 in Illinois? The phone number alongside the transaction went to an automated system asking me to leave a message. The other transactions did the same. Small amounts from seemingly safe vendor names.
Bastards.
Thankfully, we have protection built into our credit line, so the transactions are covered. And, unfortunately, we have to change our account numbers, which means I have to sit on hold with every vendor we patronize.
New rules at home: no solicitors, no infomercials, and use only cleaning products we can get at Wal-Mart for less than $10 a bottle. Yes, even if we need two different cleaners for stains on white pants and creosote in the chimney.
If I ever see those guys again, I hope their wondercrap will clean their van after I'm done selling it my golf irons.
If you're like me (and I hope you are, I like people who are like me), saying this fact in your head probably leads your brain to remember the metaphor "you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink." There are thousands of these so-called "adages" floating around out there: cultural ones, generational ones, non-sensical ones. And, my favorite--the ones used in wacky combinations by people who have absolutely no idea what they mean, where they came from, or even how they are actually meant to sound. Commonly referred to as the "mixed metaphor."
For example: "Up a creek without a sail." Hmmm... Or, how about: "I don't want to beat this horse to death." Yeah... "What an idiot! Bet he feels like he's eating a pie full of birds." What? "That's it, I'm drawing my foot!" Uhh...?
I'm the first to admit: when I don't know the right words for something, I'll try and fill in the blanks with something that sounds right. And, if I'm called on it, I'll own up to it--but you better know what is correct.
Euphemisms and metaphors have existed as long as people have been using language and making up slang. We are a creative species--and we enjoy receiving credit for new turns of phrase. What feels better than creating a better way to express something (whether it's complimentary, clever, or pointedly ignorant)? Sexual euphemisms illicit some of the best "shock" responses in conversation and humor (I flew past first, jumped over second, slid through third and before I knew it, I'd scored!). Abbreviations as euphemisms have given us the ability to appear holier in our judgment (That SOB is SOL!). Professional euphemisms have saved dignity for countless thankless jobs (Sanitation Engineer = Custodian...or janitor if you wanna be a dick about it).
Perhaps the most politically incorrect euphemisms are the cultural ones. You know, the ones our grandparents used to label every other person in their orbit. I don't like them, I don't agree with them, and I hate some of the stereotypes that exist to this day.
Stepping off my soap-box, I'd like to share a story that reinforces a stereotype birthed from a cultural euphemism. No disrespect is intended in any direction. Disappointment in someone for taking advantage of the political incorrectness and forced trust in opposition to an age-old cultural stereotype is all I wish to communicate (and hopefully entertain and educate!).
For your consideration: The Smooth-Talking Black Man.
One warm Friday afternoon, while I was still at work, my wife answered the call of the doorbell. Behind the seldom locked entry of our abode stood a tall, smiling African-American gentleman. My wife and I hold no prejudices and enjoy meeting new people. Fear doesn't exist in our home. However, we have discussed the need to exercise responsibility: i.e. the reality that crime does exist and she should be wary of opening the door to strangers (ANY stranger) when home alone (she's only 5'1" after all--our Shitzu/Yorkie mix can overpower her!).
She's also a sucker for door-to-door solicitors. Make it a skinny, smiling guy in loose-fitting clothes (being watched by another dude in an unmarked white van parked on the street in front of the house) and she's the mark for any and all foot-soldiers for overpriced crap.
After some sweet talking--"you are so beautiful"--and some philanthropic flings--"we don't make profit on this stuff; we create jobs for kids and keep them off the streets and out of gangs"--my lovely bride's over-sized heart caved. She wanted to create jobs for urban street youth by supporting this former urban street youth. And why not--the cleaning solution is concentrated! It'll last forever! At $35 a bottle, it's practically paying the customer to use it based on the money he/she will save not having to buy any other cleaning products between purchase and the rapture of God's church!
Smooth Talking Black Guy (STBG): "Here, lemme see your cell phone; I'll place a call to our distribution center so you can securely place your order with a credit card and don't have to worry about giving the number to me."
Wife: "Okay!"
STBG: Takes the pink razor phone, dials an 877 number into it. (Sounds legit, right? I mean, only real businesses -- like psychics and phone sex operators -- start with 877 numbers, so this is safe.) Hands phone back to wife after someone has answered.
Wife: "Here's my credit card number.....here's my name as it appears on the card...here is the expiration date...3 digit number on the back of the card (the CVV2 code--included on all cards for security--making it impossible to have a transaction online/over the phone without as it "proves" the person requesting the transaction has the card in hand...)?...sure it's...great! Thanks!" Hangs up, takes bottle, thanks gentleman, closes door and starts scrubbing the inside of the fireplace screen with new miracle citrus-based wonder cleaner.
Not long after, I pull into the driveway at the end of a particularly long day at the end of a particularly long week. I was tired, but in a good mood--looking forward to seeing Iron Man at the movie theater later in the evening.
Walking up the steps, I notice a ratty red gym duffel next to the door. As I push it around with my foot, examining a sharpie-scratched name, my wife comes to the window--huge smile on her face. I opened the door and she proudly shared with me her contribution to the war on urban gang progress.
Me: Did you give them our credit card?
Wife: No. He had me call to place the order securely.
Me: How did you call?
Wife: He dialed the number on my phone for me.
Have you ever suddenly remembered something terribly important and realized in that moment that you think you forgot a part of it? Example: right before a final exam in a college course, you look at the syllabus and realize that there is a 10 page research paper due prior to the exam and you walked in empty handed and confident? Can you relate to that anxiety? That moment of panic?
And, that's only part of one grade in one class. The panic I felt was the assurance that we'd just compromised our near perfect credit.
Well, STBG appeared in our window while I was dialing our bank's fraud-report phone number. I threw the phone, leaped down the stairs, flew through the front door, and opened up one hell of a confrontation with two former street thugs.
Me: 160 pounds, 5'7", angrier than the rock a cow pissed on.
Them (STBG & Creepy Unmarked White Van Watcher Associate): 6'+, all smiles and scars from who knows how many urban street youth scuffles.
It nearly came to blows, but in the end, they took their bottle of wonderwater back, ran across our front lawn, jumped into the idling, unmarked white van and peeled away from our driveway.
Two phone calls: one to the bank to report the transaction (which they couldn't do anything about until it cleared on Monday night--three days away), and one to the number that was saved on my wife's phone. And, I got to talk to the operator she'd spoken with. She assured me she could reverse the charges, but needed to call our bank and then call me back with a confirmation number. The return call originated in Georgia.
Watching our account online like a hawk on Monday and Tuesday, no $35 transaction appeared -- either as placed or as reversed. Relief, while temporary, distracted me from immediately noticing the other, smaller transactions that started showing up among our other, smaller transactions. Then: wait, what did we pay $9.40 in Illinois? The phone number alongside the transaction went to an automated system asking me to leave a message. The other transactions did the same. Small amounts from seemingly safe vendor names.
Bastards.
Thankfully, we have protection built into our credit line, so the transactions are covered. And, unfortunately, we have to change our account numbers, which means I have to sit on hold with every vendor we patronize.
New rules at home: no solicitors, no infomercials, and use only cleaning products we can get at Wal-Mart for less than $10 a bottle. Yes, even if we need two different cleaners for stains on white pants and creosote in the chimney.
If I ever see those guys again, I hope their wondercrap will clean their van after I'm done selling it my golf irons.
Friday, May 16, 2008
America is the Largest Country Named After a Real Person (Amerigo Vespucci)
He must have been a bad-ass. This is a large country, founded by independent, free-thinking bad-asses. Powder wigs were bad-ass at the time--the bigger, whiter wig you had, the badder an ass you were. I'll bet Amerigo Vespucci had a huge one. I'll bet he would have been president if he hadn't been too busy being so awesome.
"Um, no, thanks, I don't have the time to run the place, just name it after me, I have to go develop street-level justice with my wig."
And even though we've refined our political system to run as a well-oiled (well, at least greasy) machine, we still live life on the streets, oozing patriotism, making sure that, anyone else that wants in has to do it the right way. We spend our paychecks at stores full of Chinese poison toys, we drive super fuel efficient Japanese hybrid SUV's (complete with American flag trailer hitch covers), and we celebrate our independence and fortitude every July with fireworks made in Asia or Mexico. We are a firmly founded democratic melting pot, and we love it as loudly as we can.
In fact, I made an obnoxiously loud statement just today. I have a new friend in Redmond, WA. He imports motorcycles and engines from a new mega-manufacturer in a city in China that I can't pronounce. This company bought a bunch of the old tooling that Honda used back in the 1970's. For what it would typically cost to repair some of the major brands, one can own an exact replica of the Honda Trail 70 (with a 110cc engine) or even one of the Honda Mini Trail Bike (z50, but with a 70cc engine). Clean operating, brand new, and more than 90 miles to the gallon!
I love riding motorcycles. My 650 cruiser is comfortable, but it can't hold onto anything in the miles and miles of back country dirt roads wrapped around this valley. My 200cc dual sport has an insatiable appetite for exploration. Matches my appetite. And, I want to share everything I love with my wonderful and open-minded wife.
So, we imported one of the Mini Trail Bikes for her. Taking it one step further, we made it her own: hot, bright pink enamel on the fuel tank, front fender and fork. It's quite a contradiction, but elegant in its confusion.
The time has arrived for my wife to learn to ride the bike, and to do that, of course, it must be registered. In Idaho, any vehicle from out of state, regardless of size or age, must be inspected at the DMV prior to registration and titling. And, the DMV is only a half mile from our house. The bike needs to be presented at the DMV for registration, but she can't ride it yet.
Open-mindedness might not include my picture in the dictionary, but flexible and semi-secure might. Life loves throwing circumstances for erosion of security at me. Throwing a leg over that little pink and chrome bike, pulling it into first gear with my flip-flopped foot, and drifting out into the neighborhood streets, I felt my security expiring.
6 blocks, two stop signs, a major grocery store intersection, and the sheriff's department stood between me and the DMV. At lunch hour. Crap.
I wonder if Amerigo Vespucci ever felt weak or funny, living life with a name like that. Probably not. But, I'll bet he never rode his wife's pink horse though a tiny town in which everyone knows everyone.
The lady at the DMV wanted one of her own, but wasn't convinced that it wasn't "my" bike. The lady deputy across the street at the sheriff's building told me I "probably shouldn't be riding a bike like that." I was reminded of the unfortunate events in Wyoming following the release of "Brokeback Mountain."
And, on the way home, the coffin was nailed shut. There is a bike path that runs the length of the valley--paved on elevated earth over the trail that the Union Pacific RR used to provide passenger service to Sun Valley. Two ladies were riding their bikes, and we were all approaching its intersection at the same time. Always the gentleman, I slowed to a stop to let them cross the street. Instead, they both stopped as well, and after I motioned and said, "Please, after you!" one of them said, "No, please YOU go ahead!" and they laughed. Not just chiggling (that's "chicks giggling"), but full gales of laughter! I smiled, though I'm sure my face was the shade of the bike.
I rolled a little throttle and said over my shoulder, "It's my wife's bike." Whoops.
"I'm sure she's very proud of you!"
Amerigo Vespucci, thanks for lending our country your name. Too bad Chuck Norris wasn't around back then. Or on my side today for that matter. Of course, unless he understood the chivalry behind my jaunt on a pink motorcycle, he would have shown those ladies how to stop time, end world hunger, and turn my face inside out with one smooth chopping/slicing move. Except for being on a pink motorcycle, it'd be a sweet way to go out. And killer bar story once I got to heaven.
"Um, no, thanks, I don't have the time to run the place, just name it after me, I have to go develop street-level justice with my wig."
And even though we've refined our political system to run as a well-oiled (well, at least greasy) machine, we still live life on the streets, oozing patriotism, making sure that, anyone else that wants in has to do it the right way. We spend our paychecks at stores full of Chinese poison toys, we drive super fuel efficient Japanese hybrid SUV's (complete with American flag trailer hitch covers), and we celebrate our independence and fortitude every July with fireworks made in Asia or Mexico. We are a firmly founded democratic melting pot, and we love it as loudly as we can.
In fact, I made an obnoxiously loud statement just today. I have a new friend in Redmond, WA. He imports motorcycles and engines from a new mega-manufacturer in a city in China that I can't pronounce. This company bought a bunch of the old tooling that Honda used back in the 1970's. For what it would typically cost to repair some of the major brands, one can own an exact replica of the Honda Trail 70 (with a 110cc engine) or even one of the Honda Mini Trail Bike (z50, but with a 70cc engine). Clean operating, brand new, and more than 90 miles to the gallon!
I love riding motorcycles. My 650 cruiser is comfortable, but it can't hold onto anything in the miles and miles of back country dirt roads wrapped around this valley. My 200cc dual sport has an insatiable appetite for exploration. Matches my appetite. And, I want to share everything I love with my wonderful and open-minded wife.
So, we imported one of the Mini Trail Bikes for her. Taking it one step further, we made it her own: hot, bright pink enamel on the fuel tank, front fender and fork. It's quite a contradiction, but elegant in its confusion.
The time has arrived for my wife to learn to ride the bike, and to do that, of course, it must be registered. In Idaho, any vehicle from out of state, regardless of size or age, must be inspected at the DMV prior to registration and titling. And, the DMV is only a half mile from our house. The bike needs to be presented at the DMV for registration, but she can't ride it yet.
Open-mindedness might not include my picture in the dictionary, but flexible and semi-secure might. Life loves throwing circumstances for erosion of security at me. Throwing a leg over that little pink and chrome bike, pulling it into first gear with my flip-flopped foot, and drifting out into the neighborhood streets, I felt my security expiring.
6 blocks, two stop signs, a major grocery store intersection, and the sheriff's department stood between me and the DMV. At lunch hour. Crap.
I wonder if Amerigo Vespucci ever felt weak or funny, living life with a name like that. Probably not. But, I'll bet he never rode his wife's pink horse though a tiny town in which everyone knows everyone.
The lady at the DMV wanted one of her own, but wasn't convinced that it wasn't "my" bike. The lady deputy across the street at the sheriff's building told me I "probably shouldn't be riding a bike like that." I was reminded of the unfortunate events in Wyoming following the release of "Brokeback Mountain."
And, on the way home, the coffin was nailed shut. There is a bike path that runs the length of the valley--paved on elevated earth over the trail that the Union Pacific RR used to provide passenger service to Sun Valley. Two ladies were riding their bikes, and we were all approaching its intersection at the same time. Always the gentleman, I slowed to a stop to let them cross the street. Instead, they both stopped as well, and after I motioned and said, "Please, after you!" one of them said, "No, please YOU go ahead!" and they laughed. Not just chiggling (that's "chicks giggling"), but full gales of laughter! I smiled, though I'm sure my face was the shade of the bike.
I rolled a little throttle and said over my shoulder, "It's my wife's bike." Whoops.
"I'm sure she's very proud of you!"
Amerigo Vespucci, thanks for lending our country your name. Too bad Chuck Norris wasn't around back then. Or on my side today for that matter. Of course, unless he understood the chivalry behind my jaunt on a pink motorcycle, he would have shown those ladies how to stop time, end world hunger, and turn my face inside out with one smooth chopping/slicing move. Except for being on a pink motorcycle, it'd be a sweet way to go out. And killer bar story once I got to heaven.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
There is a Town Called "Big Ugly" in West Virginia
I've never visited West Virginia, but I'm assuming they wasted the name before they explored any farther west and discovered Salt Lake City, Utah.
Northern Utah, around the Great Salt Lake, must have been beautiful before it was deemed the second (or third?...whatever) New Zion. The mountains, lakes and valleys are still there, but you'd be lucky to see them through the haze that rises from the swollen city. Arguably, some of the best skiing can be had on the city's surrounding mountains.
I can remember being a kid and floating in the Salt Lake. And, annual summer trips to Lagoon--a tight little amusement/water park in Farmington (just north of Salt Lake City)--helped define my adolescence. If you ski, Alta is the sweet spot, boasting sticks only--no knuckle-dragging.
And, nowhere else in the states have I ever seen smoke stacks that are perpetually burning (we're not just talking smoke, but actual flames!) God-knows what. If you can hold your breath for 45 miles, you can get through the nasty and be on your way south to the Canyon Lands.
Or, in my case, you can voluntarily knock 10 years off your life by spending several hours at a car dealership in south Salt Lake City. (I'm hoping it's the last 10 years)
You've seen those bizarre commercials for the Toyota Yaris, right? You know, at the end, it asexually reproduces and a computerized voice comes on (heavy with the Japanese accent) "Yahlis...flum Toyotaaah?" Well, that wonder of modern self-deprecation was the second generation of the Echo (echo, echo, echo). Small, economic, and zero to 30 in just under 8 miles. In Seattle we loved it. In Idaho, I managed to get it stuck in our driveway...in less than 3 inches of snow. I'd say humiliating, but I'd achieved that when I lifted its keys off the hook before I stepped out of the house.
We decided to trade it in.
Not as much because of the slick/suck factor, but because we needed more space and more doors to access said space.
What I thought at first was a remote control car/toy store turned out to be a dealer (RC Automotive) in beautiful SLC, Utah. They had our ideal replacement vehicle: a gently used Toyota Rav-4. Lockable differential, ground clearance to rival our Subaru, 28-30 miles to the gallon, 4 doors, cargo space--all owned by a geriatric guy in one of the mildest climates on the planet: Phoenix, AZ (yes, that's where the sun goes at night to sleep).
We squared off the deal and I told the rooster to get my ass outta bed before daylight that Saturday morning. By 6 AM, I had my gas-station espresso (which, if you've ever had it, is really just a free cup of bowel lube that you get with a fill up in Bellevue, ID), my cold pizza from the night before wrapped in foil on the floor of the passenger seat, and hopes that it would be a glorious and quick 280 mile drive to the middle of one of my least favorite places in existence. What a way to spend a Saturday, huh?
After a test drive, the sales dude's history of a terrible marriage and even more disturbing and graphic sex-life, followed by some mean haggling (and yes, I won) on the trade value and sale price of the newer (to us) car, I left the dealership with our upgraded Toyota.
North of SLC, there's a little town called Bringham City. Between SLC and that Walmart encrusted jewel, there are some terrific expanses of farm/ranch land. Since the industrial area burns waste 24/7/365, the ranchers in the area burn their fields and fence lines in the spring, pre-tilling, etc. It's really neat--ash and cinders floating through the hazing air like a cancerous snow-storm.
That's when Utah decided to retaliate. Maybe my opinions were too loud in my eyes as I drove through it, judging. Maybe Toyota had done something to piss it off.
Or, maybe it was just another day in a state most people forget to include in a cross-country road-trip, arriving at their destination grumpy and late.
Whatever the case, there was too much traffic and no shoulder, so I had to keep moving, even though the freeway was now covered with hundreds of snakes escaping the smoldering fields.
Nothing like baptizing your new car in snakes' blood after a day of questionable life-experience in a place neglected (for centuries) by good taste and sound judgment.
I had to wait in line for 45 minutes at the car wash across the street from Walmart. The grumbling was audible for miles.
But, I couldn't help but smile. Another unforgettable trip to a place that has the power to make me want to draw a bath of ammonia and scrub myself with a brill-o pad.
Northern Utah, around the Great Salt Lake, must have been beautiful before it was deemed the second (or third?...whatever) New Zion. The mountains, lakes and valleys are still there, but you'd be lucky to see them through the haze that rises from the swollen city. Arguably, some of the best skiing can be had on the city's surrounding mountains.
I can remember being a kid and floating in the Salt Lake. And, annual summer trips to Lagoon--a tight little amusement/water park in Farmington (just north of Salt Lake City)--helped define my adolescence. If you ski, Alta is the sweet spot, boasting sticks only--no knuckle-dragging.
And, nowhere else in the states have I ever seen smoke stacks that are perpetually burning (we're not just talking smoke, but actual flames!) God-knows what. If you can hold your breath for 45 miles, you can get through the nasty and be on your way south to the Canyon Lands.
Or, in my case, you can voluntarily knock 10 years off your life by spending several hours at a car dealership in south Salt Lake City. (I'm hoping it's the last 10 years)
You've seen those bizarre commercials for the Toyota Yaris, right? You know, at the end, it asexually reproduces and a computerized voice comes on (heavy with the Japanese accent) "Yahlis...flum Toyotaaah?" Well, that wonder of modern self-deprecation was the second generation of the Echo (echo, echo, echo). Small, economic, and zero to 30 in just under 8 miles. In Seattle we loved it. In Idaho, I managed to get it stuck in our driveway...in less than 3 inches of snow. I'd say humiliating, but I'd achieved that when I lifted its keys off the hook before I stepped out of the house.
We decided to trade it in.
Not as much because of the slick/suck factor, but because we needed more space and more doors to access said space.
What I thought at first was a remote control car/toy store turned out to be a dealer (RC Automotive) in beautiful SLC, Utah. They had our ideal replacement vehicle: a gently used Toyota Rav-4. Lockable differential, ground clearance to rival our Subaru, 28-30 miles to the gallon, 4 doors, cargo space--all owned by a geriatric guy in one of the mildest climates on the planet: Phoenix, AZ (yes, that's where the sun goes at night to sleep).
We squared off the deal and I told the rooster to get my ass outta bed before daylight that Saturday morning. By 6 AM, I had my gas-station espresso (which, if you've ever had it, is really just a free cup of bowel lube that you get with a fill up in Bellevue, ID), my cold pizza from the night before wrapped in foil on the floor of the passenger seat, and hopes that it would be a glorious and quick 280 mile drive to the middle of one of my least favorite places in existence. What a way to spend a Saturday, huh?
After a test drive, the sales dude's history of a terrible marriage and even more disturbing and graphic sex-life, followed by some mean haggling (and yes, I won) on the trade value and sale price of the newer (to us) car, I left the dealership with our upgraded Toyota.
North of SLC, there's a little town called Bringham City. Between SLC and that Walmart encrusted jewel, there are some terrific expanses of farm/ranch land. Since the industrial area burns waste 24/7/365, the ranchers in the area burn their fields and fence lines in the spring, pre-tilling, etc. It's really neat--ash and cinders floating through the hazing air like a cancerous snow-storm.
That's when Utah decided to retaliate. Maybe my opinions were too loud in my eyes as I drove through it, judging. Maybe Toyota had done something to piss it off.
Or, maybe it was just another day in a state most people forget to include in a cross-country road-trip, arriving at their destination grumpy and late.
Whatever the case, there was too much traffic and no shoulder, so I had to keep moving, even though the freeway was now covered with hundreds of snakes escaping the smoldering fields.
Nothing like baptizing your new car in snakes' blood after a day of questionable life-experience in a place neglected (for centuries) by good taste and sound judgment.
I had to wait in line for 45 minutes at the car wash across the street from Walmart. The grumbling was audible for miles.
But, I couldn't help but smile. Another unforgettable trip to a place that has the power to make me want to draw a bath of ammonia and scrub myself with a brill-o pad.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
A Group of Foxes is Called a "Skulk"
I love dogs.
I wish I could live as recklessly. I wish I could exude joy so naturally. I wish I didn't have to wash my hair all the time, and when it did need to be washed, someone else would do it for me. I wish I would crash every time I tried to cross a beam of sunshine in the middle of the day.
Someone shared with me a list recently, and I have no idea how accurate it was, but it put in order the top ten smartest (domestic) dog breeds. Golden Retrievers were number four. I'd argue that. They're unfailingly sweet, and they learn quickly, but I don't think their obedience should be linked solely to intelligence but credited to a need to please and be rewarded with pats and petting. Regardless, they were in the better half of the top ten. Border Collies were, of course, number one.
But, I've never heard anyone say "Ooh, sly like a border collie!" The fox, left off the list because it's not domestic, received no credit for intelligence. "You were out-German shepherded." Doesn't sound right. "She is one cocker-spaniely lady." Again. No.
The fox, while unlisted as a domesticated genius dog, has earned attributes of wit, beauty and cunning. Though, it's greatest achievement? Remaining undomesticated.
Maybe it's because they're primarily nocturnal. Cat-burglars have often been nicknamed "night foxes." Redundant, but scary, yeah? And, their ability to become chameleons (the foxes, not the black-leotard-clad thieves) (not that the thieves are necessarily black, just their leotards) with the changing of the seasons is something I've never seen a lab do. Red in the summer, shades of black and grey while they shed their rusty coats for white ones in the winter. It's remarkable.
Perhaps, what I admire most is the way they've overcome the challenge of size with agility and shrewd calculation.
The other evening, I was walking after dark, lost in the sky. Nothing beats the dark of an Idaho night. I heard something climbing over a snowbank and squinted in the inky blackness. It looked like my neighbor's young black lab, but he wasn't approaching (the dog, not my neighbor) me with the same boundless excitement with which he and I typically collide. I squatted onto my haunches and started speaking dog. After a series of kissing sounds and patting my own legs, he approached. Only after he started sniffing my outstretched fingers could I see clearly enough to recognize the fox's face. His ears were back while he sniffed, curious about my invitation. He hunched back a bit, look directly into my eyes, and turned, trotting off to eat someones cat.
I stood, feeling like I'd been scolded. "I'd love to let you pet me, but I've worked so hard to retain my independence. And, you smell like an idiot."
Walking in my front door, the idiot greeted me, tail wagging his whole back end, legs coiling and springing, tongue out and ready to soak my face. I picked him up and let him try to eat my head. He might never outfox me (or anything else that breathes...or even photosynthesizes), and he might not be on the top ten list, but I'm glad he's part of our family. Besides, if he wasn't, who'd chew on our cats?
I wish I could live as recklessly. I wish I could exude joy so naturally. I wish I didn't have to wash my hair all the time, and when it did need to be washed, someone else would do it for me. I wish I would crash every time I tried to cross a beam of sunshine in the middle of the day.
Someone shared with me a list recently, and I have no idea how accurate it was, but it put in order the top ten smartest (domestic) dog breeds. Golden Retrievers were number four. I'd argue that. They're unfailingly sweet, and they learn quickly, but I don't think their obedience should be linked solely to intelligence but credited to a need to please and be rewarded with pats and petting. Regardless, they were in the better half of the top ten. Border Collies were, of course, number one.
But, I've never heard anyone say "Ooh, sly like a border collie!" The fox, left off the list because it's not domestic, received no credit for intelligence. "You were out-German shepherded." Doesn't sound right. "She is one cocker-spaniely lady." Again. No.
The fox, while unlisted as a domesticated genius dog, has earned attributes of wit, beauty and cunning. Though, it's greatest achievement? Remaining undomesticated.
Maybe it's because they're primarily nocturnal. Cat-burglars have often been nicknamed "night foxes." Redundant, but scary, yeah? And, their ability to become chameleons (the foxes, not the black-leotard-clad thieves) (not that the thieves are necessarily black, just their leotards) with the changing of the seasons is something I've never seen a lab do. Red in the summer, shades of black and grey while they shed their rusty coats for white ones in the winter. It's remarkable.
Perhaps, what I admire most is the way they've overcome the challenge of size with agility and shrewd calculation.
The other evening, I was walking after dark, lost in the sky. Nothing beats the dark of an Idaho night. I heard something climbing over a snowbank and squinted in the inky blackness. It looked like my neighbor's young black lab, but he wasn't approaching (the dog, not my neighbor) me with the same boundless excitement with which he and I typically collide. I squatted onto my haunches and started speaking dog. After a series of kissing sounds and patting my own legs, he approached. Only after he started sniffing my outstretched fingers could I see clearly enough to recognize the fox's face. His ears were back while he sniffed, curious about my invitation. He hunched back a bit, look directly into my eyes, and turned, trotting off to eat someones cat.
I stood, feeling like I'd been scolded. "I'd love to let you pet me, but I've worked so hard to retain my independence. And, you smell like an idiot."
Walking in my front door, the idiot greeted me, tail wagging his whole back end, legs coiling and springing, tongue out and ready to soak my face. I picked him up and let him try to eat my head. He might never outfox me (or anything else that breathes...or even photosynthesizes), and he might not be on the top ten list, but I'm glad he's part of our family. Besides, if he wasn't, who'd chew on our cats?
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