I am having a party and you’re invited, maybe. If you are a citizen of the great state of North Carolina you are invited. If you are not a North Carolinian then you’re not invited. It is a theme party of sorts. You see I’m inviting all the North Carolinians to attend my I-don’t-care-if-it-is-the-South-and-you-think-you-live-life-at-a-slower-pace-this-is-how-the-rest-of-the-world-works-and-it’s-time-to-catch-up party. There will be drinks and light refreshments provided. In addition, there will be some skits put on by those who are not inbred or have lived in municipalities where greater than 50% of the population is literate.
The first skit is titled, “Despite what the New Mothers Support Group at the trailer park says, it is not ok to fill your toddler’s bottle with cola.” The idea for this skit came from a trip to the NC State Fair. I understand that junior is going to lose those teeth anyway, and by the looks of it, dental hygiene doesn’t run in the family, but for the love of all that’s holy, give him a chance.
The second skit is called, “The left lane is for passing, the right lane is for driving 12 miles below the speed limit.” In the rest of the world if you are going to drive slower than the rest of the traffic, you get in the right lane. If there are 6 lanes, I really don’t care which lane you lollygag along in, but when there are two lanes, do the right thing and move over.
The third skit is called, “Dogs belong on leashes, and kids…don’t.” This skit was also inspired by the fair. Just like dogs get a trip to puppy obedience school, kids need a little obedience training too. Try this: stop putting soda in their bottles, set some ground rules, if they break the rules, punish them, and leave the leash for the canine (that’s just a fancy word for dog). I don’t care if it looks like a monkey, you’re not tricking anyone, it is still a leash.
The fourth skit is called “It is ok to move over to let someone merge onto the highway.” This one is inspired by my drive to work every morning and is pretty self explanatory.
The fifth skit is called “Most pig race announcers don’t have pressed jeans, color coordinated shirts, and a lisp.” Again, from the fair. You’re not fooling anyone, I saw the way the livestock looked at you.
The last and final skit is called, “Whichever of you voted to ratify property tax on vehicles is a schmuck.” I got a bill in the mail the other day. Property tax on a 1991 Honda with no air conditioning and a dented quarter panel? Really? What’s next, property tax on my iron and coffee table? Need a tax base? Try tourism. Heard of it? Maybe you should check it out.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
The Secret
I have a secret. A secret that I have never told anyone. Not my parents or my wife or my siblings. It has haunted me since last week when I remembered it.
As of late I have been experiencing some weird changes in my life. My voice is getting deeper and I’m growing hair in places that…just kidding. That all happened last year. The recent changes include things that are less explainable like crying during sad movies, washing my hands after I pee, and listening to a lot of Billy Idol (I really can’t explain that part). But, the real big change I have noticed is that I care a lot less about what other people think of me, something that hasn’t always been the case. I really noticed this the other day when my wife made fun of me for wearing hiking boots with calf-high socks, workout shorts, and a zip up fleece…all at the same time. Whatever.
The point is, with this new apathy towards other’s opinion of me I feel like I can share my secret and finally get the burden off my chest. So what is my secret?
It occurred about 7 or 8 years ago when I was a junior or senior in high school. I was standing in the courtyard of my high school with a group of friends prior to going to what we liked to call our “Advanced Placement” Team Sports class. As all good high school students do, we stayed in the courtyard as long as possible between classes in order to, well… not be in class. So as we were standing around, I realized I needed to pass gas. Not a problem. As I always do when I need to break wind in public, I ran down my mental checklist and evaluated my surroundings. Outdoors equals good ventilation- check. Standing equals no violent noise reverberations- check (you have to be careful if seated, especially on plastic chairs). Large group equals no way to pinpoint the source- check. Everything appeared in order and it looked like I was good to go. So I assumed the position- feet spread apart slightly farther than shoulder width, back straight, tensed butt cheeks- and prepared to initiate a “squeaker.” I had no reason to suspect that anything other than gas would be making its way into the atmosphere. Oh, how I was wrong! Like a lightning bolt out of a cloudless sky, I was struck. Not by 200,000 volts of electricity, but by something far worse, a Hershey Syrup-like substance running down my leg. This is the only time I was ever thankful for our school’s no-shorts-dress-code. If it hadn’t been for the fact that I was wearing jeans, this story would have ended there, with my suicide.
But the story didn’t end there; I now had to extricate myself from a very (literally) sticky situation. One thing I have always been good at is improvising myself out of trouble. This would take everything I had. I immediately went into damage control mode. I knew I had only about a minute until the bell rang and I would have to go to the locker room full of my friends to change into my gym clothes. That seemed like a viable option. I could change out of my soiled clothes into my gym clothes. But I would have to change back into my other clothes for the rest of the day. I couldn’t wear my gym clothes because of the no-shorts-dress-code. I finally decided that before I made any decisions I needed to assess the damage, maybe it wasn’t that bad. I decided to make a bee-line for the locker room bathroom. It was usually mostly empty and I would need to be in the locker room anyway if things turned out to not be that bad. Any other bathroom and I ran the risk of being late for class and being stopped by the “Courtyard Commandos” (one of the rent-a-cops that patrolled the school).
I silently extracted myself from the group and hurriedly walked to the locker room trying to keep the movement in the affected region to a minimum. No need to spread the pain. Upon reaching the bathroom I locked myself in the stall and inspected the carnage. It was bad, oh, it was bad. Words can’t really describe the sinking feeling I experienced.
Teenagers are in a fight for freedom. Freedom from the restrictions of parents and school and all the limitations of society, and I was no different. And in an attempt to gain as much freedom from any type of restriction as possible I wore boxers rather than briefs. How I wish I had slipped into something more supportive that morning. Had I chosen anything other than boxers, the Hershey squirts would have been contained at ground zero. But I didn’t and they weren’t. In fact there was nothing contained about them and the openness of my boxers and the angle of my legs apparently was just perfect to allow them to reach… my sock.
At this point I knew that staying at school was no longer an option. I was going home. By this time the bell had already rung and my classmates were in the locker room dressing for class. They were coming in and out of the bathroom on a pretty regular basis and I couldn’t be risk being seen and having to explain why I wasn’t going to class. So I stayed locked in the stall until they had all gone to the gym. In this time I was able to clean up and plan my escape. I would make my way to the nurse’s office where I would feign sick so I could go home. However, to go out the front door of the locker room would lead me right past the coach’s offices and the open gym door. This wasn’t an option. My only escape route involved the back door of the locker room that led directly outside towards the heavily patrolled student parking lot. I had no choice. I made my way out the door and around the back of the school, knowing if I was stopped I would have no good explanation for being there. I made it back into the school and like a ninja I hugged the shadows until I got to the nurse’s office.
My next obstacle was coming up with an ailment that was bad enough to get a ticket home, but not too bad as to arouse suspicion. What did I come up with? Vomit (write that down, I promise you it will come in handy sometime). I put on my best “I just threw up” face and staggered into the nurse’s office. She bought it, hook line and sinker, and almost instantly I was dialing home. My only hope was that my mom was at home. I knew that my dad could be reached at work, but based on a previous experience I figured I only had about a 50% chance of going home if I called him. You see, in 8th grade I got pushed out of my desk (Whoops, there’s another secret, I told my parents I tripped so that the popular kid that pushed me wouldn’t get in trouble (I thought people wouldn’t like me if I got him in trouble)). Anyway, I split my head open and called my dad to see if I could go home and he decided I could stay at school. The best bet here was to reach my mom, which I did. And I got my ticket home. Luckily I had my car and could leave immediately. Fifteen of the longest, grossest minutes of my life later I was home and nobody had a clue. Even my mom for some reason was remarkably unsuspicious, even when I went straight to the shower when I got home.
Well, there it is. My secret is out. I thought sharing my secret would have some type of cathartic effect and I would feel a weight lifted, but the truth of it is… I’m really just afraid that people are going to make fun of me now. I’m pretty sure I am going to have nightmares about people sending me adult diapers. Life changes or not, I guess some secrets are best kept, just that, a secret.
As of late I have been experiencing some weird changes in my life. My voice is getting deeper and I’m growing hair in places that…just kidding. That all happened last year. The recent changes include things that are less explainable like crying during sad movies, washing my hands after I pee, and listening to a lot of Billy Idol (I really can’t explain that part). But, the real big change I have noticed is that I care a lot less about what other people think of me, something that hasn’t always been the case. I really noticed this the other day when my wife made fun of me for wearing hiking boots with calf-high socks, workout shorts, and a zip up fleece…all at the same time. Whatever.
The point is, with this new apathy towards other’s opinion of me I feel like I can share my secret and finally get the burden off my chest. So what is my secret?
It occurred about 7 or 8 years ago when I was a junior or senior in high school. I was standing in the courtyard of my high school with a group of friends prior to going to what we liked to call our “Advanced Placement” Team Sports class. As all good high school students do, we stayed in the courtyard as long as possible between classes in order to, well… not be in class. So as we were standing around, I realized I needed to pass gas. Not a problem. As I always do when I need to break wind in public, I ran down my mental checklist and evaluated my surroundings. Outdoors equals good ventilation- check. Standing equals no violent noise reverberations- check (you have to be careful if seated, especially on plastic chairs). Large group equals no way to pinpoint the source- check. Everything appeared in order and it looked like I was good to go. So I assumed the position- feet spread apart slightly farther than shoulder width, back straight, tensed butt cheeks- and prepared to initiate a “squeaker.” I had no reason to suspect that anything other than gas would be making its way into the atmosphere. Oh, how I was wrong! Like a lightning bolt out of a cloudless sky, I was struck. Not by 200,000 volts of electricity, but by something far worse, a Hershey Syrup-like substance running down my leg. This is the only time I was ever thankful for our school’s no-shorts-dress-code. If it hadn’t been for the fact that I was wearing jeans, this story would have ended there, with my suicide.
But the story didn’t end there; I now had to extricate myself from a very (literally) sticky situation. One thing I have always been good at is improvising myself out of trouble. This would take everything I had. I immediately went into damage control mode. I knew I had only about a minute until the bell rang and I would have to go to the locker room full of my friends to change into my gym clothes. That seemed like a viable option. I could change out of my soiled clothes into my gym clothes. But I would have to change back into my other clothes for the rest of the day. I couldn’t wear my gym clothes because of the no-shorts-dress-code. I finally decided that before I made any decisions I needed to assess the damage, maybe it wasn’t that bad. I decided to make a bee-line for the locker room bathroom. It was usually mostly empty and I would need to be in the locker room anyway if things turned out to not be that bad. Any other bathroom and I ran the risk of being late for class and being stopped by the “Courtyard Commandos” (one of the rent-a-cops that patrolled the school).
I silently extracted myself from the group and hurriedly walked to the locker room trying to keep the movement in the affected region to a minimum. No need to spread the pain. Upon reaching the bathroom I locked myself in the stall and inspected the carnage. It was bad, oh, it was bad. Words can’t really describe the sinking feeling I experienced.
Teenagers are in a fight for freedom. Freedom from the restrictions of parents and school and all the limitations of society, and I was no different. And in an attempt to gain as much freedom from any type of restriction as possible I wore boxers rather than briefs. How I wish I had slipped into something more supportive that morning. Had I chosen anything other than boxers, the Hershey squirts would have been contained at ground zero. But I didn’t and they weren’t. In fact there was nothing contained about them and the openness of my boxers and the angle of my legs apparently was just perfect to allow them to reach… my sock.
At this point I knew that staying at school was no longer an option. I was going home. By this time the bell had already rung and my classmates were in the locker room dressing for class. They were coming in and out of the bathroom on a pretty regular basis and I couldn’t be risk being seen and having to explain why I wasn’t going to class. So I stayed locked in the stall until they had all gone to the gym. In this time I was able to clean up and plan my escape. I would make my way to the nurse’s office where I would feign sick so I could go home. However, to go out the front door of the locker room would lead me right past the coach’s offices and the open gym door. This wasn’t an option. My only escape route involved the back door of the locker room that led directly outside towards the heavily patrolled student parking lot. I had no choice. I made my way out the door and around the back of the school, knowing if I was stopped I would have no good explanation for being there. I made it back into the school and like a ninja I hugged the shadows until I got to the nurse’s office.
My next obstacle was coming up with an ailment that was bad enough to get a ticket home, but not too bad as to arouse suspicion. What did I come up with? Vomit (write that down, I promise you it will come in handy sometime). I put on my best “I just threw up” face and staggered into the nurse’s office. She bought it, hook line and sinker, and almost instantly I was dialing home. My only hope was that my mom was at home. I knew that my dad could be reached at work, but based on a previous experience I figured I only had about a 50% chance of going home if I called him. You see, in 8th grade I got pushed out of my desk (Whoops, there’s another secret, I told my parents I tripped so that the popular kid that pushed me wouldn’t get in trouble (I thought people wouldn’t like me if I got him in trouble)). Anyway, I split my head open and called my dad to see if I could go home and he decided I could stay at school. The best bet here was to reach my mom, which I did. And I got my ticket home. Luckily I had my car and could leave immediately. Fifteen of the longest, grossest minutes of my life later I was home and nobody had a clue. Even my mom for some reason was remarkably unsuspicious, even when I went straight to the shower when I got home.
Well, there it is. My secret is out. I thought sharing my secret would have some type of cathartic effect and I would feel a weight lifted, but the truth of it is… I’m really just afraid that people are going to make fun of me now. I’m pretty sure I am going to have nightmares about people sending me adult diapers. Life changes or not, I guess some secrets are best kept, just that, a secret.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Fat-tastic
This may sound odd, but I've been thinking about fat a lot lately. Mostly because I have been watching my love handles aggressively expand into real estate worthy of their own zip codes. As far as I can tell this annexation of my obliques by the lipid monster is due to a combination of forces worthy of perfect storm status. The first force at work is my wife, who is an amazing cook, with a fatal (for me) flaw. She will make 3 dozen cookies (this week it was Boston creme pie cup cakes) with no intention of eating more than 2 over the course of the next week. Now, we all know that there are starving kids in Africa and that chocolate chip cookies go bad after 72 hours. So, I don't know where she expects them to go, but I can't stand to see them go to waste.
The second force at work is my lingering back injury that makes it all too easy to skip my thrice weekly runs. Running for the sake of running is one of my absolute least favorite things to do, but I feel obligated to try to do something to turn the calorie deficit in my favor. Give me something to chase like a ball or a Frisbee and I'm like a greyhound at the track (but slower and hopefully without a muzzle). They say that if you run long enough you'll get "runner's high" and all your pain and problems will disappear. I guess I have never run far enough, because the only high I get is when I take a shot of my asthma inhaler and feel oxygen finally return to my brain. Or maybe runner's high really just makes you feel like your legs are made of jello, your lungs are slowly shrinking, and what vision you have left is doubled. If that is the case, I get runners high going to the mailbox. They say married people want their single friends to get married so they will be as miserable as the married folks. Perhaps runners just want everyone else to be miserable like they are, so they made up runners high and sadistically watch they rest of us stumble down the street towards an imaginary escape.
The last force at work is entirely my fault and I am willing to admit it. I am on a quest to find the best chicken wings in the Triangle (Raleigh, Durham, Chapel Hill) area. This has obviously required me to ingest an unthinkable amount of saturated and unsaturated fat, but it is clearly for a good cause. While I am grateful to those chickens that gave their lives for the effort, I am afraid it has been in vain thus far. Even as I type I can smell the fragrance of inferior wings wafting off my fingers. This time I am thankful that I didn't find the place with the best wings because I don't know that I have the courage to go there on a regular basis. Deep in downtown Durham, with nothing but a walk up window is a little wing shack that also sells cigarettes and 40's of malt liquor (convenient, I guess, if you live in the neighborhood). This place makes Buffalo Chips look like Chucky Cheese's. Buffalo Chips is my hometown wing dump where I once watched a man get thrown through a glass door and limp away a bloody mess into the darkness. It is also the mark by which all wings are measured. So until I find a wing that makes my lips tingle the way the suicide wings from the old Buffalo Chips, the search goes on.
The other reason I have been thinking about fat is a comment made by my wife after a trip to Walmart. Yes, we shop at Walmart. I know some people are against Walmart because they drive out small businesses and maybe they employ low wage workers in other countries and blah, blah, blah. To that I respond, was Walmart not a small business at one point and maybe they just did it better than everyone else? Are low paying jobs better than no jobs? Is it possible to get a shopping cart at Walmart without a wobbly wheel? The truth of it is, I don't really care about all that stuff because things are cheaper there and they offer unmatched people watching opportunities.
So my wife comes home and says, and I quote, "I hear all this stuff about Americans and obesity and I think that there isn't a lot of fat people running around...and then I go to Walmart." After I stopped laughing I thought about it, and besides being a Mecca for dental work, I'm pretty sure it's a tough place to be a coronary artery.
With all this focus on fat lately I've been wondering what's is the cure? How can we avoid being called, "Fatty" and, "Tubs" and having to pay for two plane tickets when we fly?
Coincidentally, the answer came to me when I was walking into Target. I watched a tone and fit looking chap as he crossed from my right to my left passing 3 sets of perfectly good double doors in order to walk through the automatic doors. He probably walked 20 or 30 feet out of his way in order to avoid having to open the door. My first impression was that he was lazy. In fact, I thought to myself, "Only in America would someone walk out of their way to not have to open a door." Then it occurred to me that maybe this guy had the answer to America's obesity problem, and I bet he didn't even know it. In fact, I was so wrapped up in thought that I read "pull" on the door and ran into it as I proceeded to "push."
If you haven't figured the solution out for yourself yet, I'll spell it out for you. Put the automatic doors on the sides of the Walmart away from the parking lot and bingo! The draw of the automatic doors will be too much to resist and America will walk themselves to a healthier and trimmer future.
The second force at work is my lingering back injury that makes it all too easy to skip my thrice weekly runs. Running for the sake of running is one of my absolute least favorite things to do, but I feel obligated to try to do something to turn the calorie deficit in my favor. Give me something to chase like a ball or a Frisbee and I'm like a greyhound at the track (but slower and hopefully without a muzzle). They say that if you run long enough you'll get "runner's high" and all your pain and problems will disappear. I guess I have never run far enough, because the only high I get is when I take a shot of my asthma inhaler and feel oxygen finally return to my brain. Or maybe runner's high really just makes you feel like your legs are made of jello, your lungs are slowly shrinking, and what vision you have left is doubled. If that is the case, I get runners high going to the mailbox. They say married people want their single friends to get married so they will be as miserable as the married folks. Perhaps runners just want everyone else to be miserable like they are, so they made up runners high and sadistically watch they rest of us stumble down the street towards an imaginary escape.
The last force at work is entirely my fault and I am willing to admit it. I am on a quest to find the best chicken wings in the Triangle (Raleigh, Durham, Chapel Hill) area. This has obviously required me to ingest an unthinkable amount of saturated and unsaturated fat, but it is clearly for a good cause. While I am grateful to those chickens that gave their lives for the effort, I am afraid it has been in vain thus far. Even as I type I can smell the fragrance of inferior wings wafting off my fingers. This time I am thankful that I didn't find the place with the best wings because I don't know that I have the courage to go there on a regular basis. Deep in downtown Durham, with nothing but a walk up window is a little wing shack that also sells cigarettes and 40's of malt liquor (convenient, I guess, if you live in the neighborhood). This place makes Buffalo Chips look like Chucky Cheese's. Buffalo Chips is my hometown wing dump where I once watched a man get thrown through a glass door and limp away a bloody mess into the darkness. It is also the mark by which all wings are measured. So until I find a wing that makes my lips tingle the way the suicide wings from the old Buffalo Chips, the search goes on.
The other reason I have been thinking about fat is a comment made by my wife after a trip to Walmart. Yes, we shop at Walmart. I know some people are against Walmart because they drive out small businesses and maybe they employ low wage workers in other countries and blah, blah, blah. To that I respond, was Walmart not a small business at one point and maybe they just did it better than everyone else? Are low paying jobs better than no jobs? Is it possible to get a shopping cart at Walmart without a wobbly wheel? The truth of it is, I don't really care about all that stuff because things are cheaper there and they offer unmatched people watching opportunities.
So my wife comes home and says, and I quote, "I hear all this stuff about Americans and obesity and I think that there isn't a lot of fat people running around...and then I go to Walmart." After I stopped laughing I thought about it, and besides being a Mecca for dental work, I'm pretty sure it's a tough place to be a coronary artery.
With all this focus on fat lately I've been wondering what's is the cure? How can we avoid being called, "Fatty" and, "Tubs" and having to pay for two plane tickets when we fly?
Coincidentally, the answer came to me when I was walking into Target. I watched a tone and fit looking chap as he crossed from my right to my left passing 3 sets of perfectly good double doors in order to walk through the automatic doors. He probably walked 20 or 30 feet out of his way in order to avoid having to open the door. My first impression was that he was lazy. In fact, I thought to myself, "Only in America would someone walk out of their way to not have to open a door." Then it occurred to me that maybe this guy had the answer to America's obesity problem, and I bet he didn't even know it. In fact, I was so wrapped up in thought that I read "pull" on the door and ran into it as I proceeded to "push."
If you haven't figured the solution out for yourself yet, I'll spell it out for you. Put the automatic doors on the sides of the Walmart away from the parking lot and bingo! The draw of the automatic doors will be too much to resist and America will walk themselves to a healthier and trimmer future.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Get Your Learn On
For the last couple of years I helped mold the minds of America’s future. A scary thought, indeed. As a “Professor” of backpacking and sailing I taught them how to “Climb the mountains of life” and “Navigate the seas of uncertainty” and other similarly cheesy and absurd topics. After reading the following conversations you may be convinced I failed, however, at times, I don’t think I was given a whole lot to work with.
Backpacking class, lecture on food.
Me: Any ideas on foods to bring for dinner?
Girl: (enthusiastically) Easy Mac
Me: Ok, let’s talk about Easy Mac. How do you cook it?
Girl: Microwave
Me: Just so I know we’re on the same page here, we’re talking about backpacking foods, right?
Girl: Uh huh
Me: So you want to cook Easy Mac on your trip?
Girl: Yep
Me: So after we hike 6 miles into the woods you want to cook Easy Mac?
Girl: (Starting to get frustrated and feeling singled out) Yeah, why?
Me: And how are you going to cook it?
Girl: In a microwave
Me: So you’re going to hike 6 miles and then cook Easy Mac in a microwave?
Girl: (Really frustrated and starting to give me the stink eye) YES!
Me: And you don’t see any problems with this?
Girl: What?!?
Me: Nothing, sounds like a great plan. Bring enough for your group.
Same class, different girl
After hiking several miles along a river my backpacking class stopped to take a break at the bridge that would allow them to cross the river and continue down the
other side of the river to their campsite for the night. The bridge looked similar to this one; a two lane highway, stripes down the middle and sides, and guardrails. After resting for a few minutes I gathered the troops and we got ready to start hiking again. The conversation went something like this:
Me: You guys ready to get going again?
(undergraduates are like a school of little fish: they cluster together, move around a lot, and nobody wants to stand out so much they get eaten (or called on in class). So consider their comments to be all be simultaneous and mumbled)
Mumblings from class: Alright. Ok. Already? Let's go. Do we have to? Fine.
As we started to hike across the bridge as a class, a girl made a loud announcement to everyone.
Girl: (loudly and as if making a discovery) I think this bridge is man-made!
Me: (under my breath) this oughta be good
Crickets: Chirp, chirp, chirp
The class literally stopped in their tracks to hear what she had to say next. Surely this couldn't be the extent of her announcement. There must be some explanation as to how she came to her earth shattering discovery.
The awkward silence continued on, and the tension building. The school of undergrads started to stir and some mutterings could be heard from the masses.
Mumblings from class: What did she say? Huh? What? She's so pretty! What? What an idiot! I think she's right. Huh?
It soon became clear that there was nothing else coming that would help to explain what she was talking about. That was when one of her classmates swam clear of the school and let his voice be heard.
Guy: (in his best documentary narrators voice and mocking tone) Since the beginning of time this bridge has stood here. Through the first ice age it withstood the elements. In the Jurassic Period dinosaurs used it to cross the river.
The laughter eventually died down, and for the remainder of the trip, anytime there was a culvert, telephone pole, or train tracks, someone would invariably let the class know that they thought it was man made.
If all went as planned, she should be finishing law school shortly. If your lawyer in the future is a UF alumni, your first question should be whether or not she took my backpacking class. If the answer is yes, take my advice, and just get up and walk out.
Backpacking class, lecture on food.
Me: Any ideas on foods to bring for dinner?
Girl: (enthusiastically) Easy Mac
Me: Ok, let’s talk about Easy Mac. How do you cook it?
Girl: Microwave
Me: Just so I know we’re on the same page here, we’re talking about backpacking foods, right?
Girl: Uh huh
Me: So you want to cook Easy Mac on your trip?
Girl: Yep
Me: So after we hike 6 miles into the woods you want to cook Easy Mac?
Girl: (Starting to get frustrated and feeling singled out) Yeah, why?
Me: And how are you going to cook it?
Girl: In a microwave
Me: So you’re going to hike 6 miles and then cook Easy Mac in a microwave?
Girl: (Really frustrated and starting to give me the stink eye) YES!
Me: And you don’t see any problems with this?
Girl: What?!?
Me: Nothing, sounds like a great plan. Bring enough for your group.
Same class, different girl
After hiking several miles along a river my backpacking class stopped to take a break at the bridge that would allow them to cross the river and continue down the
other side of the river to their campsite for the night. The bridge looked similar to this one; a two lane highway, stripes down the middle and sides, and guardrails. After resting for a few minutes I gathered the troops and we got ready to start hiking again. The conversation went something like this:Me: You guys ready to get going again?
(undergraduates are like a school of little fish: they cluster together, move around a lot, and nobody wants to stand out so much they get eaten (or called on in class). So consider their comments to be all be simultaneous and mumbled)
Mumblings from class: Alright. Ok. Already? Let's go. Do we have to? Fine.
As we started to hike across the bridge as a class, a girl made a loud announcement to everyone.
Girl: (loudly and as if making a discovery) I think this bridge is man-made!
Me: (under my breath) this oughta be good
Crickets: Chirp, chirp, chirp
The class literally stopped in their tracks to hear what she had to say next. Surely this couldn't be the extent of her announcement. There must be some explanation as to how she came to her earth shattering discovery.
The awkward silence continued on, and the tension building. The school of undergrads started to stir and some mutterings could be heard from the masses.
Mumblings from class: What did she say? Huh? What? She's so pretty! What? What an idiot! I think she's right. Huh?
It soon became clear that there was nothing else coming that would help to explain what she was talking about. That was when one of her classmates swam clear of the school and let his voice be heard.
Guy: (in his best documentary narrators voice and mocking tone) Since the beginning of time this bridge has stood here. Through the first ice age it withstood the elements. In the Jurassic Period dinosaurs used it to cross the river.
The laughter eventually died down, and for the remainder of the trip, anytime there was a culvert, telephone pole, or train tracks, someone would invariably let the class know that they thought it was man made.
If all went as planned, she should be finishing law school shortly. If your lawyer in the future is a UF alumni, your first question should be whether or not she took my backpacking class. If the answer is yes, take my advice, and just get up and walk out.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Game Theory
Back when I was an undergrad in college I used to play a little game to pass the time as I walked to class. I have recently considered resurrecting the game and thought it may be useful to those of you who are looking to spice up your life a little.
First, a little background. At the University of Florida there is something like 45 or 50,000 students. The university decided that in order to better serve the students they would make available parking for those students who would rather not spend 30 minutes sitting on a bus with their face in the armpit of some foreign exchange student who has not made bathing or deodorant a regular part of their daily routine. Being the generous institution that they are, they give a parking space to every student. That is, every student who is willing to pay $300 a semester for some magic colored sticker, who arrives before 7am, and drives an earth-tone-compact-hybrid. So, needless to say, those 12 spots fill up pretty quickly. For the rest of us who still refuse public transportation, the only option is to pick the closest zip code between Jacksonville and Orlando and park there and then walk to campus. I was lucky in that my walking time was only 5-10 minutes longer than it took to drive to campus. I knew a kid who had to camp overnight on his trek from his car to campus. He had to carry a tent and sleeping bag in addition to his books. Alright, that last part was a blatant lie, but tell me that wouldn’t be a good story.
Anyway, let’s focus here. On my daily walk I happened to pass the Delta… Gamma… Slamma… Ramma… something or other... sorority. On a funny side note, later when I was teaching classes one of my students told me it was a “B” grade sorority for fat chicks and those otherwise deemed unworthy of “A” grade sororities. After hearing that, I thought it would be funny if they had a 24-hour buffet inside or Tivo-ed episodes of “The Swan” or “Extreme Makeover” playing on a loop. I was always afraid to look too hard as I think campus security looks down on dudes peering in the windows of a sorority house (even if it is “B” grade). One day I was walking past the bike rack of the sorority house when I noticed that one of the bikes was not locked up. Now, it is not that the owner was too lazy to lock it up. The owner had in fact taken time to carefully wind a lock through the bike rack and around the frame of the bike, but had managed to some how miss going through the frame or anything else that would have permanently anchored the bike to the rack. My initial thought was that it wasn’t just the girls’ looks that were “B” grade. It took me two tries and two years at community college to get into UF and they let in some moron who can’t even lock up her bike. I bet she got a scholarship too.
I don't remember for sure if I was running late, but for the sake of making the story better let's assume I was. So here I was, running late, looking at this bike that wasn't really locked up and the thought occurred to me, "You could just borrow the bike, ride it to class, and bring it back. No one would have to know." It would have cut my commute time in half. Now, I consider myself a fairly honest person... I give back the money when a cashier gives me too much change, I don't claim frivolous items on my taxes, I don't steal babies and sell them on EBay, but I was seriously contemplating "borrowing" that bike. Who wouldn't?
In the end, I didn’t have what the kids these days might call, “The balls” to steal the bike. I would like to think it had something to do with my quality upbringing, but in reality I’ve seen the Shawshank Redemption and I’ve seen what happens to people like me in prison. I don’t feel like at this point in my life I am ready to join a hate group in order to ensure my survival in “The Joint.”
As I continued on my trek to class (minus one perfectly good bike) I got to thinking… I hope I get credit, somehow, in the overall scheme of things for not stealing that bike. Then I thought, “Why wait?”
And I gave myself one point.
And thus the game began. You assign yourself points for NOT doing things. For example, throughout the next few weeks I racked up a record number of points (of course it was a record, I just made it up… so no one else had ever scored any points) for things like: Not pretending to not see the skateboarder and running him into the grass (3 points), not bumping into the girl with an armful of books and hot coffee causing her irreparable burn damage to her face and hands, thus forcing her to join the “B” grade sorority (5 points), not parking over the line making the spot next to me unusable by anything other than a motorcycle (1 point), and not pretending to not see and hear the person yelling, “Hold the elevator!” (2 points). If you’ll notice, the items that could potentially cause bodily or emotional harm receive a higher point value than the relatively innocuous items.
So, if you’re a little bored in the office, try instituting your own version of the game. For example, not leaving an empty roll of toilet paper in the company bathroom after your bad Chinese food episode could get you 2 points, not ignoring emails from “the annoying guy” might net you 1 point, and not pouring minute amounts of antifreeze into your evil bosses coffee everyday, causing a slow but violent and nearly untraceable death (I watched “Cold Case Files” last night) could land you a whopping 8 points… that’s a pretty big one.
Anyway, it is the perfect game. It’s easy to play, entertaining, and it folds up into a convenient travel sized case. Enjoy.
First, a little background. At the University of Florida there is something like 45 or 50,000 students. The university decided that in order to better serve the students they would make available parking for those students who would rather not spend 30 minutes sitting on a bus with their face in the armpit of some foreign exchange student who has not made bathing or deodorant a regular part of their daily routine. Being the generous institution that they are, they give a parking space to every student. That is, every student who is willing to pay $300 a semester for some magic colored sticker, who arrives before 7am, and drives an earth-tone-compact-hybrid. So, needless to say, those 12 spots fill up pretty quickly. For the rest of us who still refuse public transportation, the only option is to pick the closest zip code between Jacksonville and Orlando and park there and then walk to campus. I was lucky in that my walking time was only 5-10 minutes longer than it took to drive to campus. I knew a kid who had to camp overnight on his trek from his car to campus. He had to carry a tent and sleeping bag in addition to his books. Alright, that last part was a blatant lie, but tell me that wouldn’t be a good story.
Anyway, let’s focus here. On my daily walk I happened to pass the Delta… Gamma… Slamma… Ramma… something or other... sorority. On a funny side note, later when I was teaching classes one of my students told me it was a “B” grade sorority for fat chicks and those otherwise deemed unworthy of “A” grade sororities. After hearing that, I thought it would be funny if they had a 24-hour buffet inside or Tivo-ed episodes of “The Swan” or “Extreme Makeover” playing on a loop. I was always afraid to look too hard as I think campus security looks down on dudes peering in the windows of a sorority house (even if it is “B” grade). One day I was walking past the bike rack of the sorority house when I noticed that one of the bikes was not locked up. Now, it is not that the owner was too lazy to lock it up. The owner had in fact taken time to carefully wind a lock through the bike rack and around the frame of the bike, but had managed to some how miss going through the frame or anything else that would have permanently anchored the bike to the rack. My initial thought was that it wasn’t just the girls’ looks that were “B” grade. It took me two tries and two years at community college to get into UF and they let in some moron who can’t even lock up her bike. I bet she got a scholarship too.
I don't remember for sure if I was running late, but for the sake of making the story better let's assume I was. So here I was, running late, looking at this bike that wasn't really locked up and the thought occurred to me, "You could just borrow the bike, ride it to class, and bring it back. No one would have to know." It would have cut my commute time in half. Now, I consider myself a fairly honest person... I give back the money when a cashier gives me too much change, I don't claim frivolous items on my taxes, I don't steal babies and sell them on EBay, but I was seriously contemplating "borrowing" that bike. Who wouldn't?
In the end, I didn’t have what the kids these days might call, “The balls” to steal the bike. I would like to think it had something to do with my quality upbringing, but in reality I’ve seen the Shawshank Redemption and I’ve seen what happens to people like me in prison. I don’t feel like at this point in my life I am ready to join a hate group in order to ensure my survival in “The Joint.”
As I continued on my trek to class (minus one perfectly good bike) I got to thinking… I hope I get credit, somehow, in the overall scheme of things for not stealing that bike. Then I thought, “Why wait?”
And I gave myself one point.
And thus the game began. You assign yourself points for NOT doing things. For example, throughout the next few weeks I racked up a record number of points (of course it was a record, I just made it up… so no one else had ever scored any points) for things like: Not pretending to not see the skateboarder and running him into the grass (3 points), not bumping into the girl with an armful of books and hot coffee causing her irreparable burn damage to her face and hands, thus forcing her to join the “B” grade sorority (5 points), not parking over the line making the spot next to me unusable by anything other than a motorcycle (1 point), and not pretending to not see and hear the person yelling, “Hold the elevator!” (2 points). If you’ll notice, the items that could potentially cause bodily or emotional harm receive a higher point value than the relatively innocuous items.
So, if you’re a little bored in the office, try instituting your own version of the game. For example, not leaving an empty roll of toilet paper in the company bathroom after your bad Chinese food episode could get you 2 points, not ignoring emails from “the annoying guy” might net you 1 point, and not pouring minute amounts of antifreeze into your evil bosses coffee everyday, causing a slow but violent and nearly untraceable death (I watched “Cold Case Files” last night) could land you a whopping 8 points… that’s a pretty big one.
Anyway, it is the perfect game. It’s easy to play, entertaining, and it folds up into a convenient travel sized case. Enjoy.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The South Will Rise Again
I wanted to share a couple of conversations I had in the last week.
Me: How are you doing today? Can I help you find something?
Guy: What uhh... What uhh... What's the name of your store?
Me: The Great Outdoor Provision Company
Guy: Yeah, uhh... pro..provis... (long pause) so ya'll provide stuff?
Me: Sure, I guess you could say that
Guy: Well, do ya'll provide shotguns?
me: Shotguns? No sir, we don't carry shotguns, or any guns for that matter.
Guy: Well, crap.
me: Ok?
Guy: (frustrated) Man, I been everywhere and ain't no one got no shotguns.
me: You really need a shotgun, huh?
Guy: Sure do. The wife says to just get me a hand gun, but ain't no way I'd hit 'em with a hand gun.
me: If you don't mind me asking, who are you shooting at?
Guy: Them robbers, out where we is, they just kick down the door, they don't care if you there or not. Like 40 houses been robbed.
me: Robbers. Of course.
Guy: That's why I want a shotgun, just one of them sawed off numbers with a pistol grip.
Me: Pistol grip? And you can't find one of those?
Guy: Nope, been to the Walmart and to the Dick's. They got anything you want to stab somebody, or beat somebody, but no sawed off shotguns. (This is my favorite part) I guess I'm gonna have to go see them gangbangers.
Me: Gangbangers? (making his way to the door)
Guy: Yeah, gangbangers can get anything.
Me: I bet they can. Thanks for coming in. Good luck.
New Story
Me: Can I help you find something?
Dude: Yeah, you got one of these? (turns around and points to the back of his shirt which has a mostly naked girl steering a ship and says "3rd annual east coast island cruise"
Me: One of...what?
Dude: These! (Points again to the picture on the back of his shirt)
me: Right... a mostly naked chick?
Dude: No man...that glasses thang. (upon further inspection the girl is holding an easily missed pirates spyglass, definitely not the most prominate feature in the picture)
me: A spyglass?
dude: Yep, you got one of them?
me: We have binoculars
dude: Anyone's got binoculars. You got one of them thangs?
me: Nope, I think we sold the last one in 1650.
dude: Oh, you gonna get more?
me: Pretty sure we aren't
dude: You know where I can get one?
me: Sure don't.
dude:I bet the Internet has one (by the way he said it, I guarantee he thinks the Internet is a place). The Walmart has them, but only at Christmas.
me: Why would they have spyglasses at Christmas?
dude: Huh?
me: Nothing
dude: Well, you got any captains hats
me: Are you a captain?
dude: Naw
me: What type of captains hat are you looking for?
dude: (spins and points to the half naked chick whose also happens to be wearing a hat)
me: Of course.
dude: You got them?
me: Nope, fresh out.
dude: Oh, guess I have to go to the Internet.
me: Probably your best bet.
The moral? North Florida is the minor leagues compared to NC when it comes to "laid back country folk" and them good old boys. Sometimes you have to move 500 miles north to get to the South.
Me: How are you doing today? Can I help you find something?
Guy: What uhh... What uhh... What's the name of your store?
Me: The Great Outdoor Provision Company
Guy: Yeah, uhh... pro..provis... (long pause) so ya'll provide stuff?
Me: Sure, I guess you could say that
Guy: Well, do ya'll provide shotguns?
me: Shotguns? No sir, we don't carry shotguns, or any guns for that matter.
Guy: Well, crap.
me: Ok?
Guy: (frustrated) Man, I been everywhere and ain't no one got no shotguns.
me: You really need a shotgun, huh?
Guy: Sure do. The wife says to just get me a hand gun, but ain't no way I'd hit 'em with a hand gun.
me: If you don't mind me asking, who are you shooting at?
Guy: Them robbers, out where we is, they just kick down the door, they don't care if you there or not. Like 40 houses been robbed.
me: Robbers. Of course.
Guy: That's why I want a shotgun, just one of them sawed off numbers with a pistol grip.
Me: Pistol grip? And you can't find one of those?
Guy: Nope, been to the Walmart and to the Dick's. They got anything you want to stab somebody, or beat somebody, but no sawed off shotguns. (This is my favorite part) I guess I'm gonna have to go see them gangbangers.
Me: Gangbangers? (making his way to the door)
Guy: Yeah, gangbangers can get anything.
Me: I bet they can. Thanks for coming in. Good luck.
New Story
Me: Can I help you find something?
Dude: Yeah, you got one of these? (turns around and points to the back of his shirt which has a mostly naked girl steering a ship and says "3rd annual east coast island cruise"
Me: One of...what?
Dude: These! (Points again to the picture on the back of his shirt)
me: Right... a mostly naked chick?
Dude: No man...that glasses thang. (upon further inspection the girl is holding an easily missed pirates spyglass, definitely not the most prominate feature in the picture)
me: A spyglass?
dude: Yep, you got one of them?
me: We have binoculars
dude: Anyone's got binoculars. You got one of them thangs?
me: Nope, I think we sold the last one in 1650.
dude: Oh, you gonna get more?
me: Pretty sure we aren't
dude: You know where I can get one?
me: Sure don't.
dude:I bet the Internet has one (by the way he said it, I guarantee he thinks the Internet is a place). The Walmart has them, but only at Christmas.
me: Why would they have spyglasses at Christmas?
dude: Huh?
me: Nothing
dude: Well, you got any captains hats
me: Are you a captain?
dude: Naw
me: What type of captains hat are you looking for?
dude: (spins and points to the half naked chick whose also happens to be wearing a hat)
me: Of course.
dude: You got them?
me: Nope, fresh out.
dude: Oh, guess I have to go to the Internet.
me: Probably your best bet.
The moral? North Florida is the minor leagues compared to NC when it comes to "laid back country folk" and them good old boys. Sometimes you have to move 500 miles north to get to the South.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Mother Goose
The other day on the way to work I passed a bus that caught my attention. This was clearly an old school bus that had been repainted by someone who does not repaint buses for a living. It was reminiscent of the buses that I used to see in South Florida taking migrant workers to the tomato fields. But it wasn't so much the bus, as the writing on the side of the bus, that really got me thinking. It said, "Humpty Dumpty's Day Care." Now, I couldn't remember exactly what old Humpty was famous for. All I could remember was "The Humpty Dance," but I think that might be a different guy. Either way I didn't think it was related to child care. After having my wife explain Mr. Dumpty's story, I was all the more confused. Basically this guy sat on a wall, fell off, and broke into pieces. That must have been one heck of a fall. The only people I know that sit on and fall off of walls on a regular basis are drunk and/ or homeless people. And it is usually on walls specifically marked, "No sitting." I don't really think either are qualified to watch children. I really am perplexed. Had it said, "Peter Pan's Pilot Service," I would understand. Peter Pan obviously has some flight time under his belt. Rapunzel's salon? Sure, it just makes sense. Someone with a weave that doubles as a rappelling rope probably knows a thing or two about hair. Need to climb a mountain? I'd probably give Jack or Jill a call. Need to come down from a mountain? They may not be the best people to take the lead on that one. Anyway, my point is if you are going to name a business after someone famous, for the sake of people like me, make it applicable. I just spent a day and a half trying to link Humpty Dumpty to child care and I really just don't think this Mr. Dumpty, with his propensity for laziness and instability, is the best role model for your little ones. I think "Mother Goose's Child Care," might be the better choice. Just a thought.
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