I know that pre-written store-bought greeting cards are not the cause of America’s current downfall, but they are a symptom of America’s cultural, moral and educational decline. Really. I know that many of you are thinking that I’m way off base here, but let me give you a few examples based on today’s trip to my local grocery store (the name of the St. Louis grocery chain is “Schnucks”).

First of all, I just don’t get why we need to segregate “boy” cards from “girl” cards. Take a look at these cards for boys and you won’t be surprised at the themes. There are lots of superhero cards and other action/adventure characters and themes.

Now compare the “boys” cards to the “girls” cards, where you’ll find princesses and other characters much more concerned about their looks than with their accomplishments.

As if girls don’t enjoy superhero stories (my daughters certainly do) or anything other than trying to look pretty. This greeting card sexual segregation reminds me of this recent post on America’s rampant sexualization of young girls.

There are also cards for men and cards for women, of course, and they too are segregated. Why do we use greeting cards to instill a message into our girls and women that they should be interested in their own looks and body image to the exclusion of their accomplishments? This destructive message should be stopped immediately, especially when so many girls are getting messed up by this message, which causes them to stop taking their education seriously when they hit puberty.

There are other problems on the greeting card aisle. Consider the sympathy cards.

If someone close to me were to die, the last thing in the world that I would want from anybody would be a store-bought greeting card with a campy message.

Sending a card instead of writing me a note (or in e-mail) tells me that you would rather spend four dollars to let a stranger write a message then taking the time to communicate something meaningful. I suspect that many people will think that greeting cards are perfectly OK because many customers are not professional writers and they are, therefore, and incapable of precisely expressing themselves on emotional occasions. I think this argument is absolute garbage. The purpose of a note should be to take some time to attempt to express one’s own thoughts. If people are unwilling to take the time to write notes of their own, it’s better that they said nothing at all.  Just send a $4.00 gift certificate. It will accomplish as much or more. (more…)

I enjoyed the photos and commentary at this site. The blogger found a 1977 J.C.Penney catalog and had some fun.  The post could have been subtitled:  “How to get your ass kicked . . .”

Don’t assume that you know what types of causes are being touted on those message bracelets until you take the time to actually read them. A friend of mine wears this one:

He explained that he is “supporting the people who have rabies.”*

[*From 1980 to 1997, there were 22 documented cases of rabies in the U.S.]

As I wallowed in my last bout of withdrawal from television over the last few weeks, I read a few books. I regularly join QPB to get a handful of books for about $25, and then cancel after fulfilling the membership requirement. I also have a few hundred well-worn science fiction paperbacks, and some in hardcover. Those are comfort reading; familiar meanders through futures that haven’t come to pass.

I most recently completed “A Briefer History of Time“. This survey of cosmology from the ancients through the latest theories of everything is easier to read and understand than the original. Even less math, better images, and more up-to-date science. It is briefer, yet covers more than the original.

I’d read “Molecules at an Exhibition” before that. It was weaker than Emsley’s previous book, but still a fun survey of everyday molecules that one doesn’t usually think about.

I finally read “The God Delusion” in one part of the house while reading “Two Complete Novels” by Douglas Adams in another. To my surprise, Dawkins cited one of these Adams novels in his book. They balanced each other: One never quite getting to a point, and the other never letting go of one. Both worth reading. But beware of mental whiplash if you too try to read ‘em in tandem.

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Last summer, I found myself dancing as an unpaid extra in a reality show. I’d been a dancing extra in a TV movie back in ‘98, and at least got lunch and minimum wage. This time I not only did it for free, but I had to sign a non-disclosure document. This time the show will have a wider audience than the (bad) movie that I was in before.

Why, you may well ask, do I mention it now? Well, that very show is finally being broadcast. The bit in which St. Louis Contradancers like myself will appear is just a couple of episodes away. It’s the CW’s iteration of “Farmer Wants a Wife” filmed just barely in the next county, near where the Missouri river joins the Mississippi. I say iteration because the show had already been a local reality show hit in 11 other countries before a U.S. company picked it up.

Now, I can’t say who was still standing in our episode. I don’t even remember. I don’t really care.

I am amused by the middle-of-nowhere pretension. Sure, it is in the flood plain, and out of sight of any big city. But it is also less than a half hour drive from major population and commercial support. The St. Charles airport that they flew into is about 15 minutes closer to the farm by bus than is Lambert International Airport. Lambert was the primary hub for TWA, before the industry crashed in 2001.

We were just there for a barn dance. It was fun. Cameras were everywhere, all the primaries wore wireless mikes, and camouflaged lighting kept things warm up in that depression era barn loft. Backstage has always had more appeal to me than the audience point of view.

But now I’m watching my first reality show. Sure, we record it and watch it when convenient. It is fun to see people on TV that we’ve met, in places where we’ve been. But now I have even more awareness of all the setup, production, and post production that goes in to making these 40 minute episodes.

Back in February, I posted a quote from The Gods Must Be Crazy about the needless complexity of modern life. The quote has made me stew on the topic ever since. We live in a world awash in technologies designed to make life easier, but that often only bog us down. An air conditioning unit may cool your brow and make you happier and more productive in the summer months, but only if you don’t spend seven months attempting to get your evasive landlord to either have the cursed, broken thing fixed or replaced entirely. Not that I would know. A computer makes it easier to write and send documents- unless it freezes, or the printer jams, or the email server has gone down, or you can’t get a decent wireless connection, or the power goes out. I hear, at least, that can prove extremely frustrating.

More technology spells more helplessness when that technology fails. If only I had just suffered through the heat, and adjusted to it; if only I had elected to write a letter by candle light! Instead, I became attached to the convenience of modern goodies. But technology is not the first or only huge complicator in our lives. No, today I’d like to focus on stuff. Things, junk.

We all have too many pieces of stuff lying around our homes, all designed to make life easier. I often suspect these handy doohickeys waste more space and money than their limited “uses” justify. I’ll take some examples from my own apartment:

The banana hook, a simple fruit-bearing tool. Few kitchen objects have such absurd specialization as this, barring the grapefruit spoon. Not even a devout fruitarian could really rationalize the space devoted to dangling a single, specific food product. Imagine if we required a special hook for every kind of produce in the house- my small kitchen couldn’t bear it, and I wager few could. Fortunately, we don’t need hooks for all our fruits. We don’t even need them for bananas. Don’t believe the shrewd marketing- a humble bowl will do. But at least I didn’t invest in the even more absurd banana hammock, right?
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You can find some artistically inspiring monuments in cemeteries for the rich and famous. For example, consider the elegant mournful figure below:

The above monument can be found in Bellefontaine Cemetery, in St. Louis, Missouri. The brochure distributed by Bellefontaine rightfully indicates that Bellefontaine is “recognized as an arboretum as well as a sculptural museum.” Bellefontaine includes dozens of aesthetically memorable monuments tucked among equally memorable trees. It is a large, quiet and contemplative space that I visit each year or so, even though I don’t know anyone who is buried in Bellefontaine.

Bellefontaine is “home” to many notable personalities, including Thomas Hart Benton, Adolphus Busch (the brewer) and Sara Teasdale (the poet).

Yesterday, I took my two daughters to view the monuments and trees of Bellefontaine, including the monument marking the grave of William Clark (of “Lewis and Clark”). At Clark’s burial site, he is accurately touted as a great explorer. It’s a simplification of this complex man, however, chiseled in stone. Clark accomplished far more than co-lead the famous expedition. In cemeteries, we make cartoons of the dead, and we overlook their faults entirely.

While my daughters and I walked about Clark’s grave site, I commented that it’s sometimes necessary to see their graves to remind yourself that the famous people in American history once really lived and walked about. They weren’t simply stories or legends. (more…)

I have not seen the new movie, but this photo series gave me (junk) food for thought. First, Christina Ricci (28) as 15 year-old Trixie? In the original series Trixie went from too young to drive barely up to marrying age. Much as I enjoy seeing Ricci (Wednesday Addams comes to mind), the chaste image of Trixie might suffer from the easily available naughty pictures of the actress.

Also, the movie stills remind me of Tron, in as much as we have live actors in CGI scenery. It really is a matter of time before inexpensive movies can be made without physical actors. Just try to tell when actual props and scenery morph into completely digital realms.

I had no intention of going to see this movie. But with Susan Sarandon and John Goodman as Speed’s parents, can it be too bad? I’m hoping that it will be self-aware camp.

Then, there is the theme music. I’ve been told that they have updated it to replace the original Japanese and the familiar American theme. (Now I’ve got it stuck in my head, see this post).

What, you may be wondering, does this have to do with the sad state of national and world affairs? Well, how about this: Compare the effort (time, money, screen space) that goes into educating the public about this particular movie based on a 1960’s imported and re-dubbed cartoon with what is spent on educating the public about, say, conservation of dwindling resources.

It is springtime here in the city. For a week or so, my cat and I have been fascinated by the periodic choruses of peeping from the highest boughs of our spruce tree. His interest was dietetic, mine just aesthetic. This morning, the peeping dispersed.

From inside my kitchen, I spotted a fledgling on the grape arbor. I took a quick snapshot from inside, and then tried to slip quietly outside to get a clearer picture. As soon as the youngster saw my front-facing, predator’s eyes through the glass, it flapped madly for the overhanging wires. It didn’t have enough loft, and was shedding down as it bumped the wire. Finally it gave up and flapped toward the lower concealing cover of the lilac bush. So all I got was this through-the-door snapshot.

In the April 24, 2008 edition of Nature (available online only with a subscription), it is reported that the Swiss Federal Government has issued guidelines to help granting agencies “decide which research applications deeply offend the dignity of plants.” Those studies that fail to treat plants with “dignity” won’t be funded.

This is not a spoof report.  It is real, and this new requirement has many scientists wondering what it could possibly mean to consider the “dignity of plants.”

The Swiss Ethics Committee has offered little guidance to this point, but suggests that genetic modifications causing plans to “lose their independence” by “interfering with their capacity to reproduce” could be suspect.  This leaves many plant geneticists wondering whether there is now a problem with traditional plant hybridization.  For instance, roses require male sterility.  The article raises the question of whether the development of seedless fruits is now unethical in Switzerland.

This article leaves me wondering what new ethics guidelines we’ll see next.  Perhaps there will be a new law requiring the ethical treatment of non-living things, such as rocks, clouds or spoons.  Perhaps there will be new labor restrictions imposed to keep us from abusing our computers by constantly giving them keyboard commands or by making them work more than forty hours per week.

How do you make your baby healthy? If you live in Solapur (in Western India), and if you believe in religion, ritual and tradition rather than modern science and common sense, you drop your baby from the top of a tall building. I cringed while watching this video, thinking that I was about to see a baby turned into a lifetime paraplegic. This could easily happen if the baby fell in an odd angle and its neck snapped when it was suddenly caught on a stretched-out blanket at the bottom of the fall (check out Paraquad’s site on this mechanism of injury). Even if the baby appears to be OK, damage can occur due to a deceleration Injury.

Oh, and the bit about “there never have been any injuries” is something I truly have to wonder about. When your baby acts lethargic after the fall, are you going to speak up and risk blasphemy?

I suspect that baby dropping is yet another instance where the felt need to socially bond by publicly participating in a ritual overwhelms any concerns one might have with this procedure. This is a good example of just how strongly humans feel the need to placate the herd.

I previously wrote that I bought a little camera that I try to take everywhere. Having that camera nearby forces me to look more carefully at the startling sights that are everywhere. Many of those sights are the postures and expressions of people, but privacy concerns keep me from freely photographing or sharing the photos of strangers (I haven’t given up somehow accomplishing this!). To this point, I’ve focused on taking photos of nature and architecture. This morning, my wife Anne and I took a walk in Forest Park (in St. Louis, Missouri). In the morning light, we came upon some startling bursts of color, causing me to take out my little camera.

When I look at biological wonders, I sometimes imagine standing with Charles Darwin and learning from him. That’s how I felt a few weeks ago at an orchid show at the Missouri Botanical Garden. Even before Darwin published his findings there were various levels at which one could appreciate nature (it’s beautiful, it’s functional, it inspires poetry). Darwin added an explosive new level, however. Such was his impressive legacy. Before I appreciated Darwin’s contributions, my attention to plants was limited. But now I see functionality embedded in the beauty–there is now so much more to behold [I was also inspired last year when I viewed David Attenborough's Private Life of Plants and Life in the Undergrowth (focuses on bugs). These are both spell-binding must-watch collections].

There are life and death wars going on out there among the plants and bugs. The thing that first caught our eye this morning was this flowering fruit tree. It was truly exploding with blossoms in its effort to propagate.

It’s beauty was “fractal,” in that it offered similar views from different distances. Anne especially enjoyed the contrast between the blossoms and the blue sky behind them. She took the photo below.

I was most fascinated by the sex organs of the trees (see below photo–parental discretion advised).

As we strolled away from this tree I noticed the expansive patches of clover that were lit up by a huge ball of nuclear explosions 93 million miles away. I took this picture to illustrate a quirky story: I have repeatedly seen something (actually many things) that I can’t explain. This particular story has to do with my wife Anne. She has the uncanny ability to spot a four-leaf clover while walking briskly. I’ve seen her do this several dozen times. When walking, she will stop suddenly, maybe back up a step or two and then reach down to pick up a four leaf clover. The first few times I witnessed this, I suspected that it might be a trick, but it wasn’t. She can really do it.

What makes it more amazing (or, perhaps, more believable) is that Anne’s mother can also do this. They are both gifted with incredibly sharp long-distance vision, but that really doesn’t explain this ability. For most people, finding a four leaf clover requires getting down on one’s knees and carefully and slowly fingering through the individual plants. When I ask Anne how she does it, she says “I just see them. Four leaf clovers stand out. (more…)

Check out this billboard. Apparently, there is a “Bike Show” at the “Family Arena” in St. Charles, Missouri (St. Louis area). If you attend the Bike Show, you can “Register to Win a Free Breast Augmentation.”

I’d avoid buying only your raffle ticket in the name of the family, however, because if it is the winning ticket, the family members will have to fight over who gets the free breast augmentation.

I’m wondering what they’ll offer next at the Family Arena. Perhaps the next raffle will be for one of those alleged penis enlargements that show up so often in spam.

[For St. Louis areas residents who are interested in admiring this billboard in person, it is located in the City of St. Louis, on South Kingshighway a few blocks north of Chouteau].

I wrote an earlier post about describing yourself in six words. Today, I spotted this Youtube video that required the numerous subjects to describe themselves in one word or phrase. This is fun to watch on many levels. I can’t help but want to think that I know many of these young adults just by their mannerisms and expressions. On that basis (is it a reliable method?) it seems like many of the adjectives seem appropriate.

Here it is:

In 1964, when a living bristlecone pine tree in California was determined to be almost 5,000 years old, it gave Bible literalists a big scare.  After all, literalists (young earthers) believe that the earth is only about 6,000 years old.  Was that bristlecone pine tree around for the “big flood?”   Not quite: young earth adherents argue that that 5,000 year old tree must have been planted right after the waters receded.  Maybe Noah himself came to California to plant it.

But now there’s a newly discovered tree that is even older than the bristlecone pine:

STOCKHOLM (Reuters) - Scientists have found a cluster of spruces in the mountains in western Sweden which, at an age of 8,000 years, may be the world’s oldest living trees.

The hardy Norway spruces were found perched high on a mountain side where they have remained safe from recent dangers such as logging, but exposed to the harsh weather conditions of the mountain range that separates Norway and Sweden.

Carbon dating of the trees carried out at a laboratory in Miami, Florida, showed the oldest of them first set root about 8,000 years ago, making it the world’s oldest known living tree, Umea University Professor Leif Kullman said.

I’m trying to phrase this carefully, now: 

This newly discovered living tree must have been planted prior to the creation of the universe! 

I don’t quite know how this tree could have been floating around in space prior to the creation of the universe, because there wasn’t even any empty space “back then.”  I wonder if it was ever watered prior to the creation of the universe . . .  If that ancient tree that was the only thing in the universe fell over, would anyone hear it fall? Did God have a treehouse in that tree? If the tree was the only thing in the universe, how would it know which way to grow up?  So many questions. 

This unfortunate discovery of a very very old tree now forces our hands: It’s time to revise the Bible to indicate that the universe is more than 8,000 years old.  That will fix things as long as we don’t discover any 9,000 year old trees and as long as we ignore all of the  scientifically established methods for showing that the earth is actually billions of years old.

[Here is an explanation of why the young earth folks are absolutely wrong when they attack the validity of Carbon-14 dating and here's an extensive list of reputable articles on radiometric dating]

When you watch this, you might think: “Well, sure. I could put together a highlight video like this by trying to make a bunch of difficult shots and then editing out the ones that didn’t go in.”

Nope. You’re wrong . . .

Just a quick jot about one little thing that regularly bugs me on the net. Many people don’t know their homonyms. I don’t mean those who can’t think of them. I mean those who know them all by spelling, but not by meaning. And pick the one that looks fancier whether or not it is right.

Today specifically I’m bugged by misuse of sight, site, and cite.

• Sight;  a view or target.
• Site; a location (as in where to sit something, website).
• Cite; to indicate or refer (related to the noun citation)

The your/you’re and its/it’s/it’s swaps also annoy. These are both cases of confusing a contraction with a possessive. Commonly misused.

• You’re sure your eyes are working.
•  It’s good that its eyes are working.

What’re your homonymical obsessions?

Sometimes, my body has a strong opinion with which I disagree.

Here’s a good recent example:  My body doesn’t like getting stuck with hypodermic syringes.  When I refuse to allow my body to leave the doctor’s office and when I allow my body to get jabbed with a hypodermic needle, it retaliates by fainting.  It’s one of those things that I completely forget about until I’m sitting in a doctor’s office overly aware that I’m about to be stuck again.  At such moments, my body reacts in a way that embarrasses and annoys me. 

Here’s a bit of context. For the past few months, I’ve had some nagging back and arm pain.  On a lark, I signed up for some acupuncture administered by a chiropractor.   Getting stuck with those little acupuncture needles didn’t give me big problems—not that I enjoyed the sensation of those tiny needles being pushed into my back.  After three treatments, I gave up on the acupuncture because it didn’t offer any long-term effect (although each treatment relieved my symptoms a bit, for a few hours).

My next step was to see my family physician, who arranged for x-rays.  He told me that I had “arthritis” and suggested some physical therapy.  [Before going any further, anyone reading this should probably email me a HIPPA form].

I was hoping for more of a pinpoint diagnosis, though, so I visited a doctor who specialized in Physical Medicine & Rehabilitation.  He arranged for an MRI, resulting in some fascinating pictures that suggested that I had noticeable deformities in several cervical vertebrae and in the discs that separate those vertebrae. It is not an unusual condition for someone in his 50s, but for me it has been quite painful because it’s pushing on a nerve root.  It’s distressing to see such clear pictures of my body’s insides deteriorating.

The physical medicine doctor suggested that I might eventually want to consider some surgical options. Therefore, I visited a surgeon who confidently assured me that the pain I am suffering is due to the spinal deformities evident on the x-rays and the MRI.  It was delightful and refreshing to hear this surgeon discourage surgery, at least for the time being. 

[As many of you might have experienced, many doctors are over-eager to provide you with what they offer.  For example, the chiropractor I visited, a pleasant fellow, appeared content to keep administering acupuncture, with no diagnostic images to inspire a more accurate diagnosis.  Because it is appearing that my problem is a pinched nerve caused by deteriorating bones, additional acupuncture would have been an essentially worthless investment.] 

This brings me to the topic of needles.  The surgeon suggested that I consider special injections by a pain management doctor (as well as continued physical therapy).  All I had to do was get a few “injections” of a cortisone-like slow-acting drug that would be placed near the nerve root that is currently being irritated by the deteriorating cervical disks. I set up an appointment with the pain management doctor.

The pain management doctor was an affable fellow who described the technique he would be using in great detail.    It turned out to be more than simply injecting me with steroids. The procedure was called a Cervical Epidural Steroid Injection. The procedure involved a preliminary injunction to numb part of my back, which allowed a blunt-ended catheter to be pushed several inches through the inside of my body toward the affected nerve root.  The procedure is done under a fluoroscope, which allows the doctor see where the catheter is going. Nonetheless, the insertion needs to be done while the patient is awake so that the doctors can learn if they get too close to a nerve root (I would feel unpleasant sensations in my arms if that were to occur). 

[Above is a fluoroscope image of my cervical epidural steroid injection.]

As my friendly pain management doctor described this procedure (in much more detail than I’m describing for you) I was sitting in a chair across from him, taking some notes.  I found it all interesting, in fact too interesting.  My visual field started to get cloudy as he spoke to me and I started to feel clammy.  I started falling forward out of my chair.  He jumped up to get my legs raised and he called for the nurse to bring in the monitoring equipment.  I was told that my blood pressure dropped from 110/60 down to something like 50/30 (I was at 80/40 for 15 minutes).  I recovered slowly over the next 30 minutes, quite embarrassed.  You see, the doctor was not administering any treatment at the time.  We were not yet even in the x-ray room where the treatment was going to occur.  He was merely talking with me.

Before we had even started talking, had warned him that I was sometimes not good about getting jabbed with needles, and this was proof that I wasn’t exaggerating.  As this fainting episode proved, I’m not even good at discussing syringes. (more…)

How many people are truly and genuinely openminded, displaying a natural all encompassing understanding for any behavioral trait or characteristics that deviates from the norm? Raise your hands, I’m curious who you are.

I hear people muse about the social injustice in our society, they are outraged that the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, but they are still unable to show any kind of basic understanding that some people have less money to spend than they do. They have never bothered to get to know or befriend people from lower social classes.

I hear people criticize racists and homophobes. Dare to express any kind of discomfort and you will experience their holy anger at your narrowmindedness. “How can you…???” is their prefered way to start their I-am-holier-than-thou-attacks. I wonder how many of them really do have gays or people from other races as friends.

They place a lot of expectation and pressure on other people while rarely being able to fulfill their own in moral drenched demands.

I think this world would be a better place if people were allowed to admit that they are not perfect, that they have prejudices and are hesitant regarding things that might disturb their little peaceful world. Do I think prejudices are good, something to strive for? No, I think that to a certain degree some are quite human though, which is not the same as condoning oppression, violence or hatred. By not being allowed to admit unease and discomfort, people do not have the opportunity to openly discuss and maybe find a way to overcome them. The constant criticism of the good-doers must create defensiveness or is there anybody here who feels comfortable when he gets told that he is a latent racist/misogynist/homophobe/whatever-despicable-being-that-has-ever-walked-the-earth? Get lectured every day that you’re supposed to like something, that you are a bad person if you don’t, and in a short time you will hate it, whatever it may be.

I’m going to take Mike as an example (not sure if you like that, but I remember your post quite vividly). He made a post about this animal sacrifying priest who lived next door. His attempts to communicate and resolve his problem with his neighbor were greeted with threats and insults. Was the priest the one who wondered if his behavior was appropriate and who tried to make amends? No, it was Mike who was brooding whether he had been truly fair and whether he had not been led by some hidden prejudices. He wanted to be a tolerant and fair person, but I also saw something else in it - the fear of being someone with latent racist tendencies. Why is that? I think the priest was an idiot, taking advantage of the fact that he was facing someone who placed a lot of importance on decent behavior. Being Asian and a member of a minority it is way easier for me to say something negative about this dude than for a white guy, because I ran less risk to be called a racist and nobody expects me to question me and my goodness constantly. Not that I have never been called a racist. (more…)

This is a view on my way home from work tonight.   The 180-foot tall Compton Hill Water Tower is decorated, at its base, by traffic lights and the lighted traffic flowing by during this long exposure shot. 

Located near my home, in St. Louis, Missouri, the Compton Hill Water Tower:

is a remnant of another time. When it was built, William McKinley was president, and the population of St. Louis was just over half a million. The water tower was built on a 36 acre park, called Reservoir Park, where the wealthier families of German descent chose to make their homes. But the city was outgrowing the existing water delivery system. The pumps used to send water through the city created dangerous surges in pressure, making pipes rattle and shake. In an effort to equalize water pressure, a 5 feet wide, 100 feet tall standpipe was installed. For cosmetic appeal, the tower was built in 1898 to camouflage the standpipe. 

This is a no-brainer, or so I thought.  Before asking my extended family this question at a family gathering this weekend, I assumed that everyone would agree to my hypothetical proposal.  As distasteful as it might seem at first, I assumed that everyone in the room would (if given the opportunity) agree that they would eat nothing but dog food for one year in return for $1 million.

I write this post having tasted dog food on two occasions in past years.  On those two occasions, I’d chomped on a nugget of dry dog food, the kind that comes in a 40 pound bag.  I thought it tasted like cardboard, but it was not disgusting.  On the other hand, it was not food I would be inclined to eat again unless given an incentive.  Note: I have smelled canned dog food before, and I would not be inclined to eat that stuff.  The canned dog food I smelled had a strong disgusting odor to it.  It looked and smelled like it was no longer safe to eat.

So there I stood with various members of my family in my mother’s kitchen when I raised the question: who would be willing to eat nothing but dog food for the next year in return for $1 million?  To my surprise, the rejections and objections started pouring in, even though I went first and even though I proudly stated that my answer was absolutely “yes.”

Two of my sisters and my mother each rejected the idea out of hand. I listened to their excuses and I thought that I addressed all their objections, but they continued to reject the hypothetical offer.  One sister was concerned that if she went to all that work eating dog food for one year, they wouldn’t actually pay her the $1 million.  Therefore I changed the hypothetical so that it included an escrow account held by a person or institution she trusted.  Still, she refused to buy into the program.

Another concern (raised by a brother-in-law) was that even if dog food might provide most of the nutrition needed by a human being, it might not provide all of the vitamins and nutrients needed by humans.  Therefore, it might be dangerous over the course of the year.  Fair enough.  In response, I agreed that anyone engaging in this endeavor could take any vitamins or supplements that one might need (but that dog food might not provide).  That same brother in law then indicated that he might be willing to join the program, but only for $2 million.

I urged everyone to be honest.  We were talking about $1 million.  This is enough money to allow people to retire. I reminded everyone that they could buy their dog food at any supermarket or any pet store.  Their dog food could include any commercially available product labeled “dog food,” and this could include any type of dog food, dry or canned food, entrées or dog treats (I was hoping that the phrase “dog treats” would get everyone more excited about signing up for this hypothetical deal, but it didn’t).

I wasn’t suggesting that they would have to eat their dog food on the floor or that they would have to eat it out of a doggie dish.  They would merely have to agree to eat dog food, in any position.  They could light candles before dinner if that ambiance made the difference.  The main rule is that all of the food that they ate would have to be actual dog food.  The only fluid that they would be able to drink would be water, since that’s the only liquid that most people give to their dogs. (more…)

I sit and watch the fluffy flakes
  descend this Easter morn.
My cat peers in and loudly states
  his distaste of this dawn.

I let him in and brush his fur
  with bare hand now quite dank.
His pleasure shows with a loud purr
  but, “Phew!” this cat has stank!

Here’s a snapshot of our not-quite-feral cat during the previous snow:

Today is Easter. Colorful eggs (pagan tradition), bunnies and chicks (pagan symbols), and consuming dangerous levels of foamy sweetener in scary yellow bites (Peeps™). Let’s not forget the “meaning behind it”: The anniversary of yet another demi-god risen from the dead. I enjoy this take on that subject.

Anyway, why not use this day to remember others of the many born-to-a-virgin half-breed godlings whose power was recognized at adolescence, who grew to great renown at maturity, who were persecuted, exiled, and/or executed by the powers that be, and died and came back to life, somehow earning eternal reward for themselves and others. Like Hercules, Osiris, Mithra, Adonis/Bacchus, Krishna, Dionysus…

After considerable thought, I hereby offer my predictions for the 2008 Major League Baseball season.   Unlike other prognosticators, I guarantee my predictions.  Therefore, feel free to bet large amounts of money that each of the following will occur, for certain, during the 2008 MBL season:

Unabashed optimism will surround the ritual of spring training.

Thousands of dignitaries and celebrities will show up at Opening Day baseball games to be seen.

Columnists will crank out thousands of articles on baseball, each of them suggesting that following Major League Baseball is important to the overall scheme of life.

Some young relatively unknown baseball players will impress the fans this year.

Some of the high-priced veterans will not do as well as the fans hoped and the fans will grumble, many of them expressing their displeasure at length on sports radio call-in shows, arguing that those players are washed up, on drugs, too old or slackers.

Millions of fans will go to the baseball stadiums, willingly paying thousands of dollars to attend baseball games and to buy outrageously over-priced beer and nachos (at least $170 for a family of four).  Thousands of these fans will be named Daniel, Robert, Michael, James, Mary, Susan, Karen, Linda or Donna.

During each MLB game, the fans will be subjected to an unending stream of advertising in the form of videos, posters and PA announcements.

Each team will play about 162 games, totaling about 2,500 games. [Note: Scientists have calculated that each team should play 256 games each to make certain that the truly best team ends up with the best record.]

The “great” teams will lose about 60 games each.   “Horrible” teams will nonetheless win about 60 games each.

Fans will continue to call the playoff finale the “World Series,” even though teams from only two countries will be invited.

Huge numbers of fans who have no athletic talent will buy expensive sports jerseys bearing the names of baseball players who are athletically gifted.

Some of the players will set obscure records this year, yet this will nonetheless be deemed important enough to discuss by baseball announcers.

Thousands of drunk fans will get into fist fights that begin when one of the drunk fans insults the other fan’s team by saying something like “Your team sucks.”

Players who are being interviewed by the media will employ an endless stream of clichés and platitudes. (more…)

Putting one’s life description into only six words is the subject of a new book, Not Quite What I Was Planning.

This review published in The New Yorker gives you the flavor:

It started as a reader contest: Your life story in six words. The magazine was flooded with entries. Five hundred-plus submissions per day. That’s two, three words a minute. “We almost crashed,” an editor said. Memoirs from plumbers and a dominatrix (“Fix a toilet, get paid crap”; “Woman Seeks Men—High Pain Threshold”). The editors have culled the best. And, happily, spliced in celebrity autobiographies: “Canada freezing. Gotham beckons. Hello, Si!” “Well, I thought it was funny.” “Couldn’t cope so I wrote songs.”

[Visit Amazon "Search Inside" for a peak at some more examples]. 

Many of these six-word bios are quite clever.  Sounds like a great way to plan one’s epitaph.