10 problems with proverbs
1. "Blood is thicker than water"
Oooooo......k... and a milkshake is thicker than a martini... and a volleyball is thicker than oatmeal... is there a point here?
2. "You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs"
So what is this one implying? I can’t have breakfast unless I’m willing to attack a few unfertilized chicken fetuses?
3. "Don't cut off your nose to spite your face"
No clue here. But self mutilation as a learning tool just never sits well with me.
4. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth"
Well I’m certainly not going to get all that close to the OTHER end.
5. "Don’t count your chickens before they hatch"
This one’s just dark man... what sullen, morose mother came up with this sunny outlook on life and poultry?
6. "Strike while the iron is hot"
I don’t get it. What on earth due work-stoppage forced labor negotiations have to do with eliminating unsightly wrinkles from unpressed fabric?
7. "You can’t tell a book by it’s cover"
Um... yes you can. If it looks like a book, and it has a cover, odds are... it’s a book!
8. "The early bird gets the worm"
But what about the hard-partying bird that just stays up all night and never goes to bed? By this philosophy, isn’t he likely to be equally rewarded for acting irresponsibly? What kind example does that set for the children of the world? Or for Danny Bonaduce?
9. "Variety is the spice of life"
Personally, I like basil.
10. "Don’t put all your eggs in one basket"
Another chicken reference? Ok, that’s it. I think someone’s contemplating poultry just a little bit more than is truly healthy...
Friday, September 30, 2005
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Random thought #18
I know they say “the pen is mightier than the sword” and I’m all for believing them on that and stuff... but if I’m walking through some dark alley... and it’s like the middle of the night... and I come across some strange angry-lookin’ dude... I’m gonna hope he has a pen.
...a guy with a pen probably has more honorable intentions than a guy with a sword. Plus, I don't think a pen can decapitate you.
...a guy with a pen probably has more honorable intentions than a guy with a sword. Plus, I don't think a pen can decapitate you.
Random thought #17
Cows moo.
Sheep baa.
Horses whinny.
Crows crow.
Dogs bark.
Frogs croak.
Lions roar.
Cats mew.
Geese honk.
Snakes hiss.
Ducks quack.
Even a turkey gobble gobbles.
But how on earth do you describe the sound a Camel makes?
Sheep baa.
Horses whinny.
Crows crow.
Dogs bark.
Frogs croak.
Lions roar.
Cats mew.
Geese honk.
Snakes hiss.
Ducks quack.
Even a turkey gobble gobbles.
But how on earth do you describe the sound a Camel makes?
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Random paragraph #22
After spending the better part of an hour neck-deep in the refuse and filth that consumed the dumpster behind Wally’s Steak-o-rama, Bobby was spent... At this point, even if he DID find his retainer, he sure as hell wasn’t putting it back in his mouth. That being said, he really had no choice but to keep looking. After all, his mom was standing just a few feet away, watching his every move... tapping her foot and glaring at him with a look that seemed to indicate she would like nothing better than to see him spontaneously combust right then and there. Pushing a rotten banana peel off his shoulder and removing the broken syringe from his lower back, Bobby dove headfirst back into the sludge. "jeez," he thought, "she hasn’t looked this angry since that time I played hooky to go visit Anton at that Russian bathhouse."
Thursday, September 22, 2005
List #4
11 questions that don't need answers
1. Why are farm animals typically kept in what is linguistically a reservoir for ink?
2. Why is Spam – when it has a distinct reputation as one of the more well known “broke foods” – so darn expensive?
3. Why do Mickey and Goofy have to wear pants if Donald Duck doesn’t?
4. Why can an 870,000 pound mass of steel and jet fuel (carrying between 400-500 people no less) achieve heights in excess of 30,000 feet, when I can (even on my best day) only get my squat 185 pound frame about 10 inches or so off the ground?
5. Why doesn’t anyone tell Pooh that he is becoming obese, and if he keeps eating honey like he does, the sugar he loves so much will eventually kill him?
6. Why did I immediately think of pooh and obesity after considering my inability to take flight?
7. Why do birds suddenly appear, every time ewes are near?
8. Why did we as a society decide that the quest for the perfect paper fastener had been completed once the paper clip was invented?
9. Why can’t I pick up a paperclip without bending it so out of shape that it can never suitably be used for its intended purpose again?
10. Why is the person with the pocket-watch and funny hat who drives a train called the same thing as the guy in tails who holds a baton and tells the violins when to play... and why do both share their name with the technical term for any material that allows for the flow of electrons?
11. Why do I not have anything better to think about?
1. Why are farm animals typically kept in what is linguistically a reservoir for ink?
2. Why is Spam – when it has a distinct reputation as one of the more well known “broke foods” – so darn expensive?
3. Why do Mickey and Goofy have to wear pants if Donald Duck doesn’t?
4. Why can an 870,000 pound mass of steel and jet fuel (carrying between 400-500 people no less) achieve heights in excess of 30,000 feet, when I can (even on my best day) only get my squat 185 pound frame about 10 inches or so off the ground?
5. Why doesn’t anyone tell Pooh that he is becoming obese, and if he keeps eating honey like he does, the sugar he loves so much will eventually kill him?
6. Why did I immediately think of pooh and obesity after considering my inability to take flight?
7. Why do birds suddenly appear, every time ewes are near?
8. Why did we as a society decide that the quest for the perfect paper fastener had been completed once the paper clip was invented?
9. Why can’t I pick up a paperclip without bending it so out of shape that it can never suitably be used for its intended purpose again?
10. Why is the person with the pocket-watch and funny hat who drives a train called the same thing as the guy in tails who holds a baton and tells the violins when to play... and why do both share their name with the technical term for any material that allows for the flow of electrons?
11. Why do I not have anything better to think about?
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
List #3
7 Random thoughts I had today
1. Fat people shouldn’t own inflatable furniture.
2. Snow globes are really only entertaining for a few seconds – they probably make great gifts for people with ADD.
3. If cows had wheels they’d be a lot easier to mooove.
4. A rowing machine neither transports you anywhere, nor reduces the work involved in a given task. In that regard (as far as I’m concerned), it fails at both objectives its name implies.
5. I firmly believe that skinny people are unable to appreciate the full benefit of overstuffed chairs.
6. I have no idea what “NERF” stands for.
7. It’s kinda sad... though they sound more like names for a pet ogre on a 70s kids’ TV show, “google” & “blog” are now words that people in suits utter everyday with a straight face.
1. Fat people shouldn’t own inflatable furniture.
2. Snow globes are really only entertaining for a few seconds – they probably make great gifts for people with ADD.
3. If cows had wheels they’d be a lot easier to mooove.
4. A rowing machine neither transports you anywhere, nor reduces the work involved in a given task. In that regard (as far as I’m concerned), it fails at both objectives its name implies.
5. I firmly believe that skinny people are unable to appreciate the full benefit of overstuffed chairs.
6. I have no idea what “NERF” stands for.
7. It’s kinda sad... though they sound more like names for a pet ogre on a 70s kids’ TV show, “google” & “blog” are now words that people in suits utter everyday with a straight face.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Random Paragraph #22
37 weeks he’d spent at Miss Daisy’s Academy of Dance. 37 weeks foxtrotting, waltzing and quick stepping. 37 weeks filled with bruises, blisters, & calluses. All in the name of the dance. So, as he watched the great white swim away with what used to be the lead leg in a formidable paso doble, he cursed. At the shark, at God, and at Miss Daisy herself. She’d told him time and time again he’d never have a professional career in ballroom... that he just didn’t have, as she put it, “the legs of a dancer.” Well now, thanks to fate (and the mighty carcharodon carcharias), she’d finally been proven right.
Silver Linings #13
DARK CLOUD :(
No matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to find any logical or rational nutritional justification for eating a Krisy Kreme donut or two... or seven.
SILVER LINING :)
With taste akin to glazed sunshine, and enjoyment on par to sliding bareback down a sugary rainbow, logic and nutrition should bear no weight in reasoning an activity such as this.
No matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to find any logical or rational nutritional justification for eating a Krisy Kreme donut or two... or seven.
SILVER LINING :)
With taste akin to glazed sunshine, and enjoyment on par to sliding bareback down a sugary rainbow, logic and nutrition should bear no weight in reasoning an activity such as this.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Adventures with magnets (part two)...
All right, so when last we left our story, I was staring down the business end of a magnet that meant serious business...
Trying to force the image of being burned alive from my head (lest I somehow taint the results of what was about to take place), I deposited my remaining loose articles in a small wicker basket (how quaint) and proceeded to make my way over to “the machine.” Having been briefed at length on the various frightening and dramatic reactions other people had encountered upon embarking on this experience, my formerly calm outlook was now replaced with a growing fear – not really over what was about to happen, but rather a fear of embarrassing myself in front of the three professionals who now stood before me.
Now why exactly I cared what the woman wearing the bunny-print smock thought about the way I was conducting myself is a separate question altogether – and is one that I guess will have to be left for another occasion...
So, I laid down on the table and tried to make myself comfortable. I had just begun to convince myself that things weren’t so bad after all, when they brought out “the helmet.” Apparently, the medical personnel I had just been asked to put MY faith in, had such little faith in my ability to keep my head still that they felt it would be necessary to lock me into place like a battery in a flashlight. I soon came to learn that the helmet also served another purpose... helping to funnel the magnetic rays more directly into my skull.
Lovely.
To add insult to my impending fear of injury, I was then given earplugs and additional weighted “pillows” to help protect me from... something.
I can’t really tell you what they were supposed to protect me from, because once they put the earplugs in, everyone took on the audible characteristics of an adult from the “peanuts” cartoons, and I no longer possessed the capacity for discernable conversation.
Example:
Me: “Excuse me oh kind purveyor of the magnets lady... why are you smooshing sandbags into my head?”
Her: “wah, wah, wah, wah waaah... wah wah.”
Me: “but shouldn’t I be concerned if I’m letting someone expose me to something that requires these types of precautions?”
Her: “wah”
Me: “but what if I need to get out really quick... you know, like if there’s a fire or something?”
Her: “ha, ha, ha... waah, wah”
Then she walked away chuckling...
My fears fully realized, she hit the button to start my ascent... my descent... my... well whatever “cent” applies to lateral motion...
I began to slowly slide into the tube and I must admit... it was pretty freaky. Trying to come to grips with the fact that the ceiling was now only about an inch above my forehead, with the side walls just slightly wider than my frame... well that was a bit much... I never really considered myself to be susceptible to claustrophobia, but at that given moment in time, given my surroundings... I was beginning to get a strong feeling that my body was more than willing to take it up as a hobby...
So I closed my eyes... and that’s when the noises and the shaking began.
Correction... first there was the buzzing. Imagine if you will, being trapped inside one of the machines that gives hearing tests to fourth graders... You know, the ones where you sit on the hard-backed chair in the nurse’s office, and she plays all sorts of buzzing sounds, and expects you to raise your hand every time you hear one... well imagine that you’re inside one of those, and you can’t move or see anything... and instead of just hearing the sounds... imagine that you get a little shock every time one of the little “buzzes” is played...
(you know, kind of like if you stuck the wires from a smoke alarm together without disconnecting the power first – not that I’ve ever done that 17 times or anything)
Sounds like fun, huh?
Ok, so not EVERY sound was accompanied by pain... but enough of them were that I was beginning to get mildly suspicious... and I began to wonder if maybe something was wrong with the machine.... I was starting to worry that I was going to end up the subject of one of those weird news stories where something really bizarre happens and some poor schmuck has to watch his own nose disintegrate in front of his face because someone forgot to press the right switch...
(yes, I think about things like that)
I considered saying something... but I knew any indecipherable response I would get would probably accomplish nothing but to annoy the lady behind the controls... and as they always say:
“He who angers the magnet-lady.... um... probably won’t be able to carry credit cards in his pocket for a really long time.”
...or something.
Basically, I just had to hold on and hope for the best.
Sure enough, about 20 minutes later, the noises and the clicking and the shaking and the pain all stopped, and they pulled me back out of the machine.
I was congratulating myself on a job well done (and starting to get my pulse to return to normal), when she appeared with the needle. Still locked in the helmet, there was little I could do to avoid her. She injected me with... something... and smiled, saying it was “wah, wah” and would “wah wah wah,” my “wah wah” (I still had the earplugs in).
Left with no other choice, I simply smiled back and resigned myself to the fact that I was no longer in control of anything that would happen to my body (heck... if these people decided they wanted to shave my chest and use it to play a marathon game of “Risk,” well the best I would be able to do is undulate my tummy in hopes of simulating a large earthquake).
Then... they slid me BACK into the tube, for another round of the human buzzer... which mercifully, was much shorter than the last.
When all was said and done, I changed back into my clothes (trying not to disturb the fresh band aid on my arm) and quickly made my way back out to my car, quite sure that somehow my body parts must have retained at least some sort of magnetic charge (I confusing quite a few people in the parking lot when I tried to see if my face would stick to a lexus)...
It wasn’t really as miserable an experience as I have described... I’ve embellished here, and I’m being a bit overdramatic... In fact, I had made peace with the whole experience and even almost forgiven the people involved in my torture for causing me such anguish when I received a certain phone call last week... It seems they “forgot” to run a couple of tests when I was there, and now (and I swear this is the truth) they need me to come back so they can run them again...
Wonderful.
Maybe this time I’ll wear a thong... that should have me out of there in no time.
Trying to force the image of being burned alive from my head (lest I somehow taint the results of what was about to take place), I deposited my remaining loose articles in a small wicker basket (how quaint) and proceeded to make my way over to “the machine.” Having been briefed at length on the various frightening and dramatic reactions other people had encountered upon embarking on this experience, my formerly calm outlook was now replaced with a growing fear – not really over what was about to happen, but rather a fear of embarrassing myself in front of the three professionals who now stood before me.
Now why exactly I cared what the woman wearing the bunny-print smock thought about the way I was conducting myself is a separate question altogether – and is one that I guess will have to be left for another occasion...
So, I laid down on the table and tried to make myself comfortable. I had just begun to convince myself that things weren’t so bad after all, when they brought out “the helmet.” Apparently, the medical personnel I had just been asked to put MY faith in, had such little faith in my ability to keep my head still that they felt it would be necessary to lock me into place like a battery in a flashlight. I soon came to learn that the helmet also served another purpose... helping to funnel the magnetic rays more directly into my skull.
Lovely.
To add insult to my impending fear of injury, I was then given earplugs and additional weighted “pillows” to help protect me from... something.
I can’t really tell you what they were supposed to protect me from, because once they put the earplugs in, everyone took on the audible characteristics of an adult from the “peanuts” cartoons, and I no longer possessed the capacity for discernable conversation.
Example:
Me: “Excuse me oh kind purveyor of the magnets lady... why are you smooshing sandbags into my head?”
Her: “wah, wah, wah, wah waaah... wah wah.”
Me: “but shouldn’t I be concerned if I’m letting someone expose me to something that requires these types of precautions?”
Her: “wah”
Me: “but what if I need to get out really quick... you know, like if there’s a fire or something?”
Her: “ha, ha, ha... waah, wah”
Then she walked away chuckling...
My fears fully realized, she hit the button to start my ascent... my descent... my... well whatever “cent” applies to lateral motion...
I began to slowly slide into the tube and I must admit... it was pretty freaky. Trying to come to grips with the fact that the ceiling was now only about an inch above my forehead, with the side walls just slightly wider than my frame... well that was a bit much... I never really considered myself to be susceptible to claustrophobia, but at that given moment in time, given my surroundings... I was beginning to get a strong feeling that my body was more than willing to take it up as a hobby...
So I closed my eyes... and that’s when the noises and the shaking began.
Correction... first there was the buzzing. Imagine if you will, being trapped inside one of the machines that gives hearing tests to fourth graders... You know, the ones where you sit on the hard-backed chair in the nurse’s office, and she plays all sorts of buzzing sounds, and expects you to raise your hand every time you hear one... well imagine that you’re inside one of those, and you can’t move or see anything... and instead of just hearing the sounds... imagine that you get a little shock every time one of the little “buzzes” is played...
(you know, kind of like if you stuck the wires from a smoke alarm together without disconnecting the power first – not that I’ve ever done that 17 times or anything)
Sounds like fun, huh?
Ok, so not EVERY sound was accompanied by pain... but enough of them were that I was beginning to get mildly suspicious... and I began to wonder if maybe something was wrong with the machine.... I was starting to worry that I was going to end up the subject of one of those weird news stories where something really bizarre happens and some poor schmuck has to watch his own nose disintegrate in front of his face because someone forgot to press the right switch...
(yes, I think about things like that)
I considered saying something... but I knew any indecipherable response I would get would probably accomplish nothing but to annoy the lady behind the controls... and as they always say:
“He who angers the magnet-lady.... um... probably won’t be able to carry credit cards in his pocket for a really long time.”
...or something.
Basically, I just had to hold on and hope for the best.
Sure enough, about 20 minutes later, the noises and the clicking and the shaking and the pain all stopped, and they pulled me back out of the machine.
I was congratulating myself on a job well done (and starting to get my pulse to return to normal), when she appeared with the needle. Still locked in the helmet, there was little I could do to avoid her. She injected me with... something... and smiled, saying it was “wah, wah” and would “wah wah wah,” my “wah wah” (I still had the earplugs in).
Left with no other choice, I simply smiled back and resigned myself to the fact that I was no longer in control of anything that would happen to my body (heck... if these people decided they wanted to shave my chest and use it to play a marathon game of “Risk,” well the best I would be able to do is undulate my tummy in hopes of simulating a large earthquake).
Then... they slid me BACK into the tube, for another round of the human buzzer... which mercifully, was much shorter than the last.
When all was said and done, I changed back into my clothes (trying not to disturb the fresh band aid on my arm) and quickly made my way back out to my car, quite sure that somehow my body parts must have retained at least some sort of magnetic charge (I confusing quite a few people in the parking lot when I tried to see if my face would stick to a lexus)...
It wasn’t really as miserable an experience as I have described... I’ve embellished here, and I’m being a bit overdramatic... In fact, I had made peace with the whole experience and even almost forgiven the people involved in my torture for causing me such anguish when I received a certain phone call last week... It seems they “forgot” to run a couple of tests when I was there, and now (and I swear this is the truth) they need me to come back so they can run them again...
Wonderful.
Maybe this time I’ll wear a thong... that should have me out of there in no time.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Adventures with magnets (part one)...
So here’s a question...
Do YOU know what it would sound like if a woodpecker and an Atari 2600 got into a heated debate?
Well thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I do.
Let me back up a step or two here...
Last night I went to the hospital for my MRI. Nobody’s really concerned about my health, or expects anything other than the standard blobs and goo to show up on the films, but all the same, the doc wanted me to go, and I guess there were a couple of med techs who had nothing better to do on a Thursday night, so it was universally decided that spending an hour or so pummeling my cranium with high intensity radio and magnetic waves would be a wonderful idea...
Ok... technically, they exposed me to a large noninvasive device, which utilizing the properties of magnetism, created nondestructive, three-dimensional, internal images of the soft tissues of my body.
But they did it a lot.
And they stuck a needle in me.
And it hurt.
And they seemed to enjoy it.
And I think I heard them giggling.
...but I suppose that’s beside the point.
Here’s the rundown on what happened.
After getting to the hospital and checking in, a young woman ushered me into a small room and asked me to remove the majority of my clothing.
Normally I would consider this an auspicious start to any evening (and would frankly find it hard not to grin and giggle like a schoolboy with a frog in his pocket), but seeing as I was already acutely aware of what they had planned for me, it failed to produce anything other than a shrug and an obligatory smile.
I ventured into my stall, drew the curtain, and began to assemble my wardrobe for the upcoming festivities, which consisted mainly of my underwear (which I made sure to choice specifically for the occasion), my socks and shoes, a thin robe, and a “Johnny.”
If you’ve ever been in a hospital... or been TO a hospital, or heck, even seen a hospital on TV, then you probably know what a “Johnny” is... It’s that big flap of floral patterned fabric (looking disturbingly like wallpaper you might find in a Nantucket B&B) that you’re supposed to use to cover your abhorrent nakedness. It’s purposely left open in the back, with two comedically-designed ties that theoretically allow you to secure both it, and... ahem... your dignity.
Now the hospital was nice enough to give me a robe to wear as well, thereby eliminating any possible drafts that might arise due to my inabilities to properly secure my “Johnny” (that sounds dirty), but my question is this... nobody was going to be poking around with any of my real squishy parts... or looking to examine anything I don’t normally show off at parties... in truth, the only part they were really even going to be messing with was my head, a part of my anatomy that I already keep more or less out in the open on a pretty regular basis... so why did I need the “Johnny” and the robe?
“24 of 46 MRI facilities responding to a survey in 1999 (52 percent) reported the occurrence of MRI-related injuries and/or deaths resulting from undetected or misplaced metal objects either in the room or on the patient’s person”
Ok, so I guess I understand the need for the special, limited engagement, standing room only performance of “Flarf Nude,” but still... couldn’t somebody design some sort of getup that’s appropriate for this type of occasion? Did I really need to bundle up like a mentally challenged sherpa mounting an ill advised trip to the top of mount crazy?
Oh well...
Sheepishly walking beside the med tech (who I noted, didn’t seem to have any reservations about turning me into a living science experiment), I tried to imagine what lay ahead. I had heard all sorts of stories about what MRIs were like. Everything from tales of claustrophobic fits and nausea, to cold sweats and panic attacks flooded my brain. As we made our way down the hall, I came up with countless scenarios as to what my future might hold (one of which involved a stethoscope, a poodle, and an Armenian circus geek named Tullio). But I can honestly say that I was not in any way, shape or form expecting what greeted me as we turned the corner...
A trailer.
That’s right... a run of the mill, hook me to a big rig, east bound and down, jerry reed and floppy eared dog, “where’s the bandit” trailer...
My MRI machine... the piece of equipment I was about to get uncomfortably intimate with... the pinnacle of modern medical achievement standing before me... was housed... in a trailer. All I can say is, it’s not exactly comforting to realize that the set of “E.R.” has more advanced medical surroundings than the ones I was currently being asked to subject myself to. And to make it even better... the only way I was allowed to get into said trailer, was via a small motorized loading platform built into the side. Apparently, stairs are far too hazardous for someone in a “Johnny” to take on. Instead, I got live the life of a crate of peas being prepped for delivery. I stood on the platform and watched the tech press the magic button that began my 17-second (yes, I counted) ascent into the trailer.
...lifting me a grand total of three feet off the ground.
And then... there it was. A hulking behemoth in beige with a miniscule little hole in the middle (which was presumably, where they were going to try to stuff my pudgy little frame)... It looked a little bit like a bloated bagel, and for whatever reason, that thought kinda comforted me... until that is, I suddenly had the revelation that when one also took into consideration the table/conveyor belt that was emanating from said hole, it bore more of a resemblance to something else entirely...
...in short, a smaller version of every crematorium I had ever seen on tv.
That thought... not so comforting.
[to be continued]
Do YOU know what it would sound like if a woodpecker and an Atari 2600 got into a heated debate?
Well thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I do.
Let me back up a step or two here...
Last night I went to the hospital for my MRI. Nobody’s really concerned about my health, or expects anything other than the standard blobs and goo to show up on the films, but all the same, the doc wanted me to go, and I guess there were a couple of med techs who had nothing better to do on a Thursday night, so it was universally decided that spending an hour or so pummeling my cranium with high intensity radio and magnetic waves would be a wonderful idea...
Ok... technically, they exposed me to a large noninvasive device, which utilizing the properties of magnetism, created nondestructive, three-dimensional, internal images of the soft tissues of my body.
But they did it a lot.
And they stuck a needle in me.
And it hurt.
And they seemed to enjoy it.
And I think I heard them giggling.
...but I suppose that’s beside the point.
Here’s the rundown on what happened.
After getting to the hospital and checking in, a young woman ushered me into a small room and asked me to remove the majority of my clothing.
Normally I would consider this an auspicious start to any evening (and would frankly find it hard not to grin and giggle like a schoolboy with a frog in his pocket), but seeing as I was already acutely aware of what they had planned for me, it failed to produce anything other than a shrug and an obligatory smile.
I ventured into my stall, drew the curtain, and began to assemble my wardrobe for the upcoming festivities, which consisted mainly of my underwear (which I made sure to choice specifically for the occasion), my socks and shoes, a thin robe, and a “Johnny.”
If you’ve ever been in a hospital... or been TO a hospital, or heck, even seen a hospital on TV, then you probably know what a “Johnny” is... It’s that big flap of floral patterned fabric (looking disturbingly like wallpaper you might find in a Nantucket B&B) that you’re supposed to use to cover your abhorrent nakedness. It’s purposely left open in the back, with two comedically-designed ties that theoretically allow you to secure both it, and... ahem... your dignity.
Now the hospital was nice enough to give me a robe to wear as well, thereby eliminating any possible drafts that might arise due to my inabilities to properly secure my “Johnny” (that sounds dirty), but my question is this... nobody was going to be poking around with any of my real squishy parts... or looking to examine anything I don’t normally show off at parties... in truth, the only part they were really even going to be messing with was my head, a part of my anatomy that I already keep more or less out in the open on a pretty regular basis... so why did I need the “Johnny” and the robe?
“24 of 46 MRI facilities responding to a survey in 1999 (52 percent) reported the occurrence of MRI-related injuries and/or deaths resulting from undetected or misplaced metal objects either in the room or on the patient’s person”
Ok, so I guess I understand the need for the special, limited engagement, standing room only performance of “Flarf Nude,” but still... couldn’t somebody design some sort of getup that’s appropriate for this type of occasion? Did I really need to bundle up like a mentally challenged sherpa mounting an ill advised trip to the top of mount crazy?
Oh well...
Sheepishly walking beside the med tech (who I noted, didn’t seem to have any reservations about turning me into a living science experiment), I tried to imagine what lay ahead. I had heard all sorts of stories about what MRIs were like. Everything from tales of claustrophobic fits and nausea, to cold sweats and panic attacks flooded my brain. As we made our way down the hall, I came up with countless scenarios as to what my future might hold (one of which involved a stethoscope, a poodle, and an Armenian circus geek named Tullio). But I can honestly say that I was not in any way, shape or form expecting what greeted me as we turned the corner...
A trailer.
That’s right... a run of the mill, hook me to a big rig, east bound and down, jerry reed and floppy eared dog, “where’s the bandit” trailer...
My MRI machine... the piece of equipment I was about to get uncomfortably intimate with... the pinnacle of modern medical achievement standing before me... was housed... in a trailer. All I can say is, it’s not exactly comforting to realize that the set of “E.R.” has more advanced medical surroundings than the ones I was currently being asked to subject myself to. And to make it even better... the only way I was allowed to get into said trailer, was via a small motorized loading platform built into the side. Apparently, stairs are far too hazardous for someone in a “Johnny” to take on. Instead, I got live the life of a crate of peas being prepped for delivery. I stood on the platform and watched the tech press the magic button that began my 17-second (yes, I counted) ascent into the trailer.
...lifting me a grand total of three feet off the ground.
And then... there it was. A hulking behemoth in beige with a miniscule little hole in the middle (which was presumably, where they were going to try to stuff my pudgy little frame)... It looked a little bit like a bloated bagel, and for whatever reason, that thought kinda comforted me... until that is, I suddenly had the revelation that when one also took into consideration the table/conveyor belt that was emanating from said hole, it bore more of a resemblance to something else entirely...
...in short, a smaller version of every crematorium I had ever seen on tv.
That thought... not so comforting.
[to be continued]
What's up, doc (part II)...
So last week I saw a specialist.
It was a visit that went pretty much as scripted... The doc asked all sorts of questions, poked and prodded me with various implements and appendages, had me walk a (relatively) straight line, and shined lots of lights of various levels of brightness into the assorted orifices of my anatomy.
All in all, a successful application of medical care.
He was professional, courteous, arrogant and condescending... in other words, everything I look for in specialist. Unfortunately though, aside from telling me I was an idiot to think that something other than the fact that I have migranes might be causing my problems, he didn’t really have much to say...
Correction... He knows what the Tullio symptom is.
You should now be impressed.
I know I was... want to know why?
Because he told me I should be impressed... many, many times.
When I told him about some equilibrium problems I was having (related to some stuff going on in one of my ears), he informed me I was displaying... [insert dramatic pause] the Tullio symptom. Then, he got all excited, started smiling, and immediately ran from the room.
I interpreted this as a positive sign... an indication that perhaps he had had an epiphany, and now, with a simple flourish of his pen upon his mighty pad of prescription, he would be able to remedy all my problems.
I would be incorrect in this assumption.
Upon returning, he said (with a very self-satisfying smirk on his face) that he was one of maybe 2 or 3 doctors in the entire Boston area who would be able to recognize the Tullio symptom.
And he said that this was something extraordinary.
[insert second dramatic pause]
I wasn’t sure how exactly I was supposed to react to this... Was I supposed to applaud? Give him a gold star? Swoon and fall to my knees? I still don’t know... but whatever he was expecting, I must not have delivered, because he seemed to be under whelmed by my reaction to his revelation. In fact, I think I even saw him pout a little. Then, he handed me a page of “research” he had printed out from the internet that described the Tullio symptom. This was all well and good except for one thing... he/it didn’t tell me anything... I didn’t know if this new found diagnoses was related to my recent episodes... or if it was some impending harbinger of doom that would trigger me going into some sort of delusional rage, giving all my possessions away and frolicking nude with reckless abandon... or even if I might now morph into some form of superhuman that would be able to read minds and fight crime with a special unit of the FBI.
He didn’t know any of this...
All he knew was that HE knew what it was called... and most people didn’t.
...so there.
The rest of my visit proved mostly uneventful. He doesn’t really think anything’s “wrong” with me per se, and most likely I’ll just have to see if I can manage my symptoms on my own. Maybe by eating different foods. Maybe by altering my sleeping patterns. Maybe by pounding medications like they’re chicklets... only time will tell which things will work out best.
That being said, he did want me to have an MRI... you know, just in case.
Reassuring.
In truth, since I have a family history of noggin’ problems, it was kinda a no brainer (pun fully intended) to order the test. These things can be passed on, and it would probably be prudent to make sure that nothing serious is going on – either as a result of my recent symptoms, or simply as a result of my genetics.
Or, to use his exact words...
[insert third dramatic pause]
“We might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
Very reassuring.
It was a visit that went pretty much as scripted... The doc asked all sorts of questions, poked and prodded me with various implements and appendages, had me walk a (relatively) straight line, and shined lots of lights of various levels of brightness into the assorted orifices of my anatomy.
All in all, a successful application of medical care.
He was professional, courteous, arrogant and condescending... in other words, everything I look for in specialist. Unfortunately though, aside from telling me I was an idiot to think that something other than the fact that I have migranes might be causing my problems, he didn’t really have much to say...
Correction... He knows what the Tullio symptom is.
You should now be impressed.
I know I was... want to know why?
Because he told me I should be impressed... many, many times.
When I told him about some equilibrium problems I was having (related to some stuff going on in one of my ears), he informed me I was displaying... [insert dramatic pause] the Tullio symptom. Then, he got all excited, started smiling, and immediately ran from the room.
I interpreted this as a positive sign... an indication that perhaps he had had an epiphany, and now, with a simple flourish of his pen upon his mighty pad of prescription, he would be able to remedy all my problems.
I would be incorrect in this assumption.
Upon returning, he said (with a very self-satisfying smirk on his face) that he was one of maybe 2 or 3 doctors in the entire Boston area who would be able to recognize the Tullio symptom.
And he said that this was something extraordinary.
[insert second dramatic pause]
I wasn’t sure how exactly I was supposed to react to this... Was I supposed to applaud? Give him a gold star? Swoon and fall to my knees? I still don’t know... but whatever he was expecting, I must not have delivered, because he seemed to be under whelmed by my reaction to his revelation. In fact, I think I even saw him pout a little. Then, he handed me a page of “research” he had printed out from the internet that described the Tullio symptom. This was all well and good except for one thing... he/it didn’t tell me anything... I didn’t know if this new found diagnoses was related to my recent episodes... or if it was some impending harbinger of doom that would trigger me going into some sort of delusional rage, giving all my possessions away and frolicking nude with reckless abandon... or even if I might now morph into some form of superhuman that would be able to read minds and fight crime with a special unit of the FBI.
He didn’t know any of this...
All he knew was that HE knew what it was called... and most people didn’t.
...so there.
The rest of my visit proved mostly uneventful. He doesn’t really think anything’s “wrong” with me per se, and most likely I’ll just have to see if I can manage my symptoms on my own. Maybe by eating different foods. Maybe by altering my sleeping patterns. Maybe by pounding medications like they’re chicklets... only time will tell which things will work out best.
That being said, he did want me to have an MRI... you know, just in case.
Reassuring.
In truth, since I have a family history of noggin’ problems, it was kinda a no brainer (pun fully intended) to order the test. These things can be passed on, and it would probably be prudent to make sure that nothing serious is going on – either as a result of my recent symptoms, or simply as a result of my genetics.
Or, to use his exact words...
[insert third dramatic pause]
“We might as well kill two birds with one stone.”
Very reassuring.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
List #2
26 Bad titles for “how-to” books
1. 50 ways to draw a snake
2. The amputee’s guide to unicycles
3. Teaching yourself to read
4. The blind man’s guide to electrical repair
5. The optimist’s guide to the apocalypse
6. How to get 3 minute abs (in seven days or less)
7. How to draw attention in airports
8. So you wnt too be a proofreedr?
9. The pessimist’s guide to rainbows
10. The atheist’s guide to prayer and reincarnation
11. The pack rat’s guide to Feng Shui
12. How to catch a bullet in your teeth... once
13. 17 ways to draw a worm
14. Tai Chi for poodles
15. Build your own wife!
16. Life’s little destruction book.
17. LOWER YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE NOW!!!!
18. How to publish a “how to” book on “how to” books
19. Cliff’s notes for dummies
20. The gynecologist’s guide to plumbing repair
21. The plumber’s guide to...
22. How to hunt broccoli for sport
22. 34 puppet shows that will get you arrested
23. The sadist’s guide to office supplies
24. 72 ways to remove a staple
25. The quadriplegic’s guide to mime
and finally...
26. Red wire, blue wire... who gives a crap
1. 50 ways to draw a snake
2. The amputee’s guide to unicycles
3. Teaching yourself to read
4. The blind man’s guide to electrical repair
5. The optimist’s guide to the apocalypse
6. How to get 3 minute abs (in seven days or less)
7. How to draw attention in airports
8. So you wnt too be a proofreedr?
9. The pessimist’s guide to rainbows
10. The atheist’s guide to prayer and reincarnation
11. The pack rat’s guide to Feng Shui
12. How to catch a bullet in your teeth... once
13. 17 ways to draw a worm
14. Tai Chi for poodles
15. Build your own wife!
16. Life’s little destruction book.
17. LOWER YOUR BLOOD PRESSURE NOW!!!!
18. How to publish a “how to” book on “how to” books
19. Cliff’s notes for dummies
20. The gynecologist’s guide to plumbing repair
21. The plumber’s guide to...
22. How to hunt broccoli for sport
22. 34 puppet shows that will get you arrested
23. The sadist’s guide to office supplies
24. 72 ways to remove a staple
25. The quadriplegic’s guide to mime
and finally...
26. Red wire, blue wire... who gives a crap
Thursday, August 25, 2005
What's up, doc...
Ok, so tomorrow I finally get to see the doc.
I’ve had some weird goings on lately that have left me with the nagging impression that either something’s wrong with my noggin, or I’m about to start receiving transmissions from the mothership... Now I’m not really against the latter... there are quite a few questions I’d like answered, and if I’m cooperating enough to receive transmissions, then they probably won’t feel the need to invoke “the probe.” And of course, to be able to communicate with the forces that gave us ET, the pyramids, and Tom Cruise, well that would be kinda neat. But if it’s not an otherworldly presence making mischief in my medulla oblongata, then we’ve some more pressing things to ponder (provided of course, that said pondering doesn’t do anything to exacerbate said mischief with the aforementioned oblongata).
Now, before you start planning the farewell party (is Menudo available?), please, please, PLEASE understand something here...
I’m being INCREDIBLY melodramatic right now...
I’m fine... In fact, I’m better than fine... Aside from a few extra pounds and a budding sunroof on the top of my formerly fuzzy cranium, I’ve got very little to complain about. But still, I’m of the general opinion that one shouldn’t see more than one copy of anything unless you’re staring at the Olsen twins or downing tequila shots like they’re a jumbo bag of out-of-date M&Ms bought three weeks after Halloween... add in a few dizzy spells, headaches, and a propensity to stare longingly at pictures of David Hasslehoff, and you can start to understand why I might be a little concerned...
So I’m going to the doc.
It could be something simple. It could be something not so simple. It could simply be that it’s summer cold and flu season, and I’m too much of a wuss to handle a few thousand bacteria shacking up and throwing a mucus party in my upper nasal cavities... who knows... whatever the case, I’m going to see the doc... and not just some run-of-the-mill, put my diploma from Joe’s Community College on the wall doc either... No, no, no... I’m going to the special doc... the kind of doc that gets to be condescending to you and act like he possesses the secrets of the Holy Grail simply because he went to college for a few extra classes and learned the definition of “benzodiazepines” ...you know, the kind that you need to pay the EXTRA co-pay for...
Well anyway, he’s most likely going to look at my head, shine lights in my eyeballs and make bad jokes about not seeing anything inside... and if past history holds true, he’ll prod me with all sorts of implements that one would never find existing naturally (outside of a doctor’s office or a well-stocked S&M “exploration” facility).
Then he’ll tell me that I’ve been eating pizza when I should have been stocking up on kale and iguana root, or he’ll tell me I’ve been putting my contacts in the wrong eyes (that’s certainly something I would do), or he’ll give me some magic pill that I’ll kindly thank him for and dutifully pop in my mouth (without questioning the ramifications of what it does or how it might affect my bowel movements)... and once again all will be right with the world.
Yes... that is most likely exactly what’s going to happen when I go see the doc.
But for now... if you happen to come across a strange man standing in an open field with his arms stretched wide and a roll of tinfoil wrapped about his head and torso... please don’t think there’s anything wrong...
I’ll just be trying to get better reception.
I’ve had some weird goings on lately that have left me with the nagging impression that either something’s wrong with my noggin, or I’m about to start receiving transmissions from the mothership... Now I’m not really against the latter... there are quite a few questions I’d like answered, and if I’m cooperating enough to receive transmissions, then they probably won’t feel the need to invoke “the probe.” And of course, to be able to communicate with the forces that gave us ET, the pyramids, and Tom Cruise, well that would be kinda neat. But if it’s not an otherworldly presence making mischief in my medulla oblongata, then we’ve some more pressing things to ponder (provided of course, that said pondering doesn’t do anything to exacerbate said mischief with the aforementioned oblongata).
Now, before you start planning the farewell party (is Menudo available?), please, please, PLEASE understand something here...
I’m being INCREDIBLY melodramatic right now...
I’m fine... In fact, I’m better than fine... Aside from a few extra pounds and a budding sunroof on the top of my formerly fuzzy cranium, I’ve got very little to complain about. But still, I’m of the general opinion that one shouldn’t see more than one copy of anything unless you’re staring at the Olsen twins or downing tequila shots like they’re a jumbo bag of out-of-date M&Ms bought three weeks after Halloween... add in a few dizzy spells, headaches, and a propensity to stare longingly at pictures of David Hasslehoff, and you can start to understand why I might be a little concerned...
So I’m going to the doc.
It could be something simple. It could be something not so simple. It could simply be that it’s summer cold and flu season, and I’m too much of a wuss to handle a few thousand bacteria shacking up and throwing a mucus party in my upper nasal cavities... who knows... whatever the case, I’m going to see the doc... and not just some run-of-the-mill, put my diploma from Joe’s Community College on the wall doc either... No, no, no... I’m going to the special doc... the kind of doc that gets to be condescending to you and act like he possesses the secrets of the Holy Grail simply because he went to college for a few extra classes and learned the definition of “benzodiazepines” ...you know, the kind that you need to pay the EXTRA co-pay for...
Well anyway, he’s most likely going to look at my head, shine lights in my eyeballs and make bad jokes about not seeing anything inside... and if past history holds true, he’ll prod me with all sorts of implements that one would never find existing naturally (outside of a doctor’s office or a well-stocked S&M “exploration” facility).
Then he’ll tell me that I’ve been eating pizza when I should have been stocking up on kale and iguana root, or he’ll tell me I’ve been putting my contacts in the wrong eyes (that’s certainly something I would do), or he’ll give me some magic pill that I’ll kindly thank him for and dutifully pop in my mouth (without questioning the ramifications of what it does or how it might affect my bowel movements)... and once again all will be right with the world.
Yes... that is most likely exactly what’s going to happen when I go see the doc.
But for now... if you happen to come across a strange man standing in an open field with his arms stretched wide and a roll of tinfoil wrapped about his head and torso... please don’t think there’s anything wrong...
I’ll just be trying to get better reception.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Random paragraph #21
When he caught wind of the first sign of trouble, Stanley had made a b-line for his bomb shelter. Built from mud, old spackle, and approximately 1,372 issues of Field and Stream, it was his crowning achievement... and even if he had forgotten the can opener (and the toilet paper), it was still the smartest thing he’d ever done... 47 years later, he was now emerging from his homemade sanctuary dazed, bleary eyed and more than a little fearful... Upon walking a bit, and taking in his new surroundings, he came to the conclusion that something terrible must have taken place here... he wasn’t sure what... he wasn’t sure when... but he WAS sure that no one born natural on God’s green earth could have created the abomination that now lay before him. This... “Hooters.” Apparently, that’s what they called this den of sin... He closed his eyes, and prayed for salvation... Stanley was shocked. Stanley was dismayed. Stanley was outraged. And then, Stanley felt a sudden pang for chicken wings.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
List #1
37 thoughts to distract yourself with while clients tell you your copy is trite and unsophisticated.
1. That commercial with the cute penguins.
2. Cheese.
3. Not being lame.
4. A sweet-ass bass.
5. How short Howard Dean really is.
6. How tall Mandy Moore is.
7. Metal.
8. Rogaine.
9. The disturbing fact that Omarosa is still on TV.
10. The more disturbing fact that you actually watch the show she’s on.
11. The plight of the African snow pea.
12. Your Netflix Queue.
13. The plight of Africans who pee in the snow.
14. Monkeys.
15. What bowling would be like if the pins were bigger.
16. What billiards would be like if the balls were smaller.
17. Full-contact naked washews.
18. More monkeys.
19. The sound that balloons make when you slowly drag them across your skin.
20. The sound that baboons make when you punch them in the stomach.
21. A loaf of bread.
22. A container of milk.
23. A stick of butter.
24. Your Dad’s yellow pants.
25. Chocobos.
26. Puppies and butterflies.
27. That scene in Tron where the dude takes that guy out with the Frisbee thing.
28. Voltron.
29. The other Voltron.
30. The Magic Garden.
31. Pi.
32. Pie.
33. Cow Pies.
34. Moo.
35. All the different ways you can pronounce the word "Road".
36. All the different ways you can pronounce the wood "Glockenspiel".
37. Defenestration.
1. That commercial with the cute penguins.
2. Cheese.
3. Not being lame.
4. A sweet-ass bass.
5. How short Howard Dean really is.
6. How tall Mandy Moore is.
7. Metal.
8. Rogaine.
9. The disturbing fact that Omarosa is still on TV.
10. The more disturbing fact that you actually watch the show she’s on.
11. The plight of the African snow pea.
12. Your Netflix Queue.
13. The plight of Africans who pee in the snow.
14. Monkeys.
15. What bowling would be like if the pins were bigger.
16. What billiards would be like if the balls were smaller.
17. Full-contact naked washews.
18. More monkeys.
19. The sound that balloons make when you slowly drag them across your skin.
20. The sound that baboons make when you punch them in the stomach.
21. A loaf of bread.
22. A container of milk.
23. A stick of butter.
24. Your Dad’s yellow pants.
25. Chocobos.
26. Puppies and butterflies.
27. That scene in Tron where the dude takes that guy out with the Frisbee thing.
28. Voltron.
29. The other Voltron.
30. The Magic Garden.
31. Pi.
32. Pie.
33. Cow Pies.
34. Moo.
35. All the different ways you can pronounce the word "Road".
36. All the different ways you can pronounce the wood "Glockenspiel".
37. Defenestration.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Leveraging my intellectual capital...
“A” players.
That’s the latest corporate buzzword being bandied about in my office.
“A” players.
Yup… it’s driving me crazy. Everything I do lately is being looked at for how it will pertain to them. Will this appeal to “A” players?” Will “A” players” respond to this type of messaging? How does the imagery you’re using relate to “A” players?”
Apparently, “A” players have become more desirable than a quarter-pound of penicillin in a cambodian brothel…
We want to attract them.
We need to be them.
“A” players are the new corporate crack.
In fact, if you heard the VP of our company talk about them, you'd have to assume that he's dreaming of the day he can leave his wife and kids to shack up with one in a quaint little bungalow by the seaside – a bottle of corona, a wedge of lime, and an “A” player playfully smiling back at him as he feels the wet cool sand slip between his toes…
So what then you ask is this amazing marvel that can inspire such indiscriminate fantasies of infidelity and indiscretion?
What IS an “A” player?
An “A” player is a go-getter!
An “A” player is a visionary!
An “A” player is a team leader!
An “A” player defecates solid gold bricks of motivation and spirit!
An “A” player is a ridiculous concept that gives meaning to that which has none – that provides those without creativity a way to label something that is obvious to anyone with an IQ over 7 – that makes people feel important in meetings while causing actual cognizant humans to simply roll their eyes.
I hate business speak. It’s shallow. It’s empty. It’s meaningless. And in that regard, it has much in common with my blog here. But the difference is, I don’t try to convince anyone else out there that my little blog has any substance. I’m just trying to give you a little giggle.
These people actually take this stuff seriously…
Take for example the following passage… it’s talking about what to do if you have an employee that isn’t currently functioning as an “A” player:
(and tell me you can’t just picture exactly what the sad sack saying this looks like)
Well, they should be coached into jobs where they can be "A" players, usually at lower-level positions. If that doesn't work, they'll have to find another job. That's best for the company and the employee. Provide hard-hitting, empathetic feedback, so the employee realizes he's a drag on the whole team and either improves or exits.
What a dweeb…
Hey, I’m all for booting someone who isn’t doing his job or pulling his weight, but do we HAVE to cloak everything in such condescending doublespeak – so it gets to the point where it sounds like we’re saying vital and important when in fact all we’re saying is:
“Get your butt in gear or you’re out the door!”
I don’t know… maybe I’m just grumpy today, but I tell ya, if I hear one more speech about being engaged in mission critical skill sets while actualizing our positioning and constructing a tactical team-building infrastructure wherein I can push the envelope on our current paradigm to enable a more validated methodology that creates a win-win scenario replete with result-driven enterprises that can seize the low-hanging fruit while adapting vertical markets to a more even plane well I think I just might have to get proactive on some executive’s downward facing assets.
Then again… I’ll bet my target audience love to see the ROI on that dog and pony show.
That’s the latest corporate buzzword being bandied about in my office.
“A” players.
Yup… it’s driving me crazy. Everything I do lately is being looked at for how it will pertain to them. Will this appeal to “A” players?” Will “A” players” respond to this type of messaging? How does the imagery you’re using relate to “A” players?”
Apparently, “A” players have become more desirable than a quarter-pound of penicillin in a cambodian brothel…
We want to attract them.
We need to be them.
“A” players are the new corporate crack.
In fact, if you heard the VP of our company talk about them, you'd have to assume that he's dreaming of the day he can leave his wife and kids to shack up with one in a quaint little bungalow by the seaside – a bottle of corona, a wedge of lime, and an “A” player playfully smiling back at him as he feels the wet cool sand slip between his toes…
So what then you ask is this amazing marvel that can inspire such indiscriminate fantasies of infidelity and indiscretion?
What IS an “A” player?
An “A” player is a go-getter!
An “A” player is a visionary!
An “A” player is a team leader!
An “A” player defecates solid gold bricks of motivation and spirit!
An “A” player is a ridiculous concept that gives meaning to that which has none – that provides those without creativity a way to label something that is obvious to anyone with an IQ over 7 – that makes people feel important in meetings while causing actual cognizant humans to simply roll their eyes.
I hate business speak. It’s shallow. It’s empty. It’s meaningless. And in that regard, it has much in common with my blog here. But the difference is, I don’t try to convince anyone else out there that my little blog has any substance. I’m just trying to give you a little giggle.
These people actually take this stuff seriously…
Take for example the following passage… it’s talking about what to do if you have an employee that isn’t currently functioning as an
(and tell me you can’t just picture exactly what the sad sack saying this looks like)
Well, they should be coached into jobs where they can be "A" players, usually at lower-level positions. If that doesn't work, they'll have to find another job. That's best for the company and the employee. Provide hard-hitting, empathetic feedback, so the employee realizes he's a drag on the whole team and either improves or exits.
What a dweeb…
Hey, I’m all for booting someone who isn’t doing his job or pulling his weight, but do we HAVE to cloak everything in such condescending doublespeak – so it gets to the point where it sounds like we’re saying vital and important when in fact all we’re saying is:
“Get your butt in gear or you’re out the door!”
I don’t know… maybe I’m just grumpy today, but I tell ya, if I hear one more speech about being engaged in mission critical skill sets while actualizing our positioning and constructing a tactical team-building infrastructure wherein I can push the envelope on our current paradigm to enable a more validated methodology that creates a win-win scenario replete with result-driven enterprises that can seize the low-hanging fruit while adapting vertical markets to a more even plane well I think I just might have to get proactive on some executive’s downward facing assets.
Then again… I’ll bet my target audience love to see the ROI on that dog and pony show.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Random Paragraph #20
Glancing back at the now-liquefied remains of what used to be his chubby friend Ralph, Edgar was overcome with a feeling of shame... for as he raced to escape from what would soon be the “former” home of the University’s chemistry lab, the thought that kept resonating in his brain was NOT that he’d just lost one of his dearest and closest friends, but rather that teaming with a man who had a sweet tooth and an obvious thyroid problem was not the wisest course of action to take when you’ve chosen “pop rocks – untapped potential” as your senior thesis project.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
I admit, my proverbial grapes are slightly acerbic...
So… there’s a new show premiering on Bravo tonight called Situation: Comedy. The premise is pretty simple… get a bunch of schlubs to send in a script for what they think is sure to be the next great sitcom. Then, pick a few of the “best” ones, and let those writers complain, bicker, whine, and pout, all while trying to produce a pilot to pitch to NBC. Finally, let the audience vote on which one should be in the fall lineup, and watch as NBC surreptitiously finds some way to nudge it off the schedule so they can instead expose an unwilling public to the new “bound to succeed” offering from the producing team that brought you “who wants to marry my dad?”.
Anyway, more than 10,000 of these aforementioned schlubs submitted their dubious attempts at prime time bliss… and I was one of them.
I was NOT however one of the 9 finalists…
Nor was I one of the 50 semifinalists that were asked to submit a video outlining our pitch.
No… instead, my hopes and dreams languished in the abyss with 9,950 other would be writers whose end product apparently seems to be better purposed for birdcage liner than network stardom. That being said, I’d still estimate that at least 3,478 of those birdcage liners would be funnier than “Family Matters” on it’s best day… and that show lasted for years!
And that’s okay… I honestly didn’t expect to launch a new career out of this contest… I simply wanted some forced motivation to make me try something new. And I did it. I actually completed a script, which (in my estimation) wasn’t half bad. It wasn’t better than everything already on the air, but I’d wholeheartedly assert that if a somewhat large cross-section of America can sit through 30 minutes of “according to jim” (minus the commercials of course), then enduring the debacle that would have been my sitcom would probably have been preferable to at least 7 of them.
I wasn't really looking for fame and fortune, so I wasn't all THAT upset... but ya know what would have been nice? a frickin’ response… any kind of frickin’ response… but instead, I got bupkis. I mailed out my package (with a friendly word of encouragement in broken-english from the nice Japanese man at the post office no less), and was left to wonder if it had even been received…
A poorly worded rejection letter written in crayon would have been a welcome respite from the silence that greeted my submission. A piece of Hello Kitty stationary with a frowing face. A post it with “YOU SUCK” scrawled in sharpie black. A carefully wrapped piece of poo. All of these would be preferable alternatives to not knowing if my work was even read.
Yeah, yeah, yeah… the work is its own reward, I know… but I also know this…
As I sit and watch the premiere tonight, and I start to see and hear about some of the ideas that came out ahead of mine, I’m going to begin to wonder what in the world these people were thinking… I’m going to wonder what made them pick those schlubs' scripts over mine… I may even start to question the integrity of the US postal service…
In short, I’m going to complain, bicker, whine, and pout… and it’ll almost be like I’m actually on the show.
Anyway, more than 10,000 of these aforementioned schlubs submitted their dubious attempts at prime time bliss… and I was one of them.
I was NOT however one of the 9 finalists…
Nor was I one of the 50 semifinalists that were asked to submit a video outlining our pitch.
No… instead, my hopes and dreams languished in the abyss with 9,950 other would be writers whose end product apparently seems to be better purposed for birdcage liner than network stardom. That being said, I’d still estimate that at least 3,478 of those birdcage liners would be funnier than “Family Matters” on it’s best day… and that show lasted for years!
And that’s okay… I honestly didn’t expect to launch a new career out of this contest… I simply wanted some forced motivation to make me try something new. And I did it. I actually completed a script, which (in my estimation) wasn’t half bad. It wasn’t better than everything already on the air, but I’d wholeheartedly assert that if a somewhat large cross-section of America can sit through 30 minutes of “according to jim” (minus the commercials of course), then enduring the debacle that would have been my sitcom would probably have been preferable to at least 7 of them.
I wasn't really looking for fame and fortune, so I wasn't all THAT upset... but ya know what would have been nice? a frickin’ response… any kind of frickin’ response… but instead, I got bupkis. I mailed out my package (with a friendly word of encouragement in broken-english from the nice Japanese man at the post office no less), and was left to wonder if it had even been received…
A poorly worded rejection letter written in crayon would have been a welcome respite from the silence that greeted my submission. A piece of Hello Kitty stationary with a frowing face. A post it with “YOU SUCK” scrawled in sharpie black. A carefully wrapped piece of poo. All of these would be preferable alternatives to not knowing if my work was even read.
Yeah, yeah, yeah… the work is its own reward, I know… but I also know this…
As I sit and watch the premiere tonight, and I start to see and hear about some of the ideas that came out ahead of mine, I’m going to begin to wonder what in the world these people were thinking… I’m going to wonder what made them pick those schlubs' scripts over mine… I may even start to question the integrity of the US postal service…
In short, I’m going to complain, bicker, whine, and pout… and it’ll almost be like I’m actually on the show.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Math in the hood...
I have come to the conclusion that the development of new urban slang really owes much of its origination to mathematics, or more specifically, to the transitive property of equality…
Stay with me here…
If you close your eyes and concentrate, and focus on the days of yore you spent whiling away the hours in a junior high math classroom (and try desperately to block out the humiliation and disgrace that seeing what you looked like, dressed like, and acted like no doubt drums up), you should be able to remember that basically, the transitive property states the following:
If a=b, and b=c, then a=c.
It’s a simple set of rules, but for some reason, it's one that I’ve been able to derive a great amount of enterainment from over the years (and by now this should come as no surprise to you).
So what does this have to do with urban slang you ask? Well nothing really… but for the purposes of this column I’m gong to try to draw some form of loose conclusions as to why there might actually be some sort of connection between the two… in reality, if you asked the author of the latest “krunk” term to explain to you the meaning of the transitive property, he or she would most likely cock their head to one side, contort their face into a shape that resembled a grape that’s been out in the sun too long (i.e. a raisin), and stare at you with a glazed-over “why’s he talking bout old fashioned radios?” look…
Or, maybe not… maybe that’s just me generalizing about people that I don’t understand. Maybe in truth, the person in question would be more apt to start quoting Stephen Hawking’s principles on Quantum Physics, discussing how they are ignorant in their absence of incorporating the finer points of Nihilist philosophy, and how in fact, if one considered the greater evidence at hand, they would discover that the transitive property doesn’t even exist… that blue is red, dogs are in fact cats, and Emu Phillips is the only who REALLY understands the nature of the universe…
Yes, it is indeed possible that all this would happen (provided that this person was equally versed in both the greater sciences and obscure stand-up comedians from the 80s)… but somehow I doubt it…
Whatever the case, all this is beside the point (even as loosely as I’m abusing that term here)… I’m here to apply the transitive property of equality to urban slang… or actually, to the development of new slang.
Basically, the way it works is, you take a conventional known term, and determine what an existing slang phrase for that term is. Then, you come up with a synonym for the already accepted slang that has absolutely nothing to do with the original term, thereby creating an entirely new slang term via the transitive property.
Got it?
Ok, let me try to explain this another way… When we think of money, we often refer to it as “dough” (i.e. “I need to earn some more dough”). The word “dough” is already a universally accepted term to substitute for the word “money.” If we now find a new word or phrase we can substitute for dough (preferably with some brand affiliation), we will have a hip new urban slang term for money… like say “Pop n’ Fresh.”
Now you get it?
You see, if money=dough, and dough=pop n’ fresh, then money=pop n’ fresh
“Pop n’ fresh” is a kind of dough… but in the common vernacular, it has no association with the word “money.” Therefore, “Pop N’ Fresh” is now slang, for money. (i.e. “I gots ta get me some mo’ pop n’ fresh yo!”) Other accepted slang terms for money could include “yeast filler”, “whole grain”, or my personal favorite, “Pillsbury”.
And by this same philosophy we could also refer to a large quantity of money as “a herd of whitetails” (if money=bucks, and bucks=whitetail deer, then money=whitetail deer).
It’s fun with the transitive property!
Now that you know the secret to the progression of slang, you too can join in the fun… in no time at all you’ll be “hangin’ at your crib”, “kickin’ it with some peeps,” and saying interesting things like:
“Why’d you yarn my spare change, gee? I was money marketing those fo’ a post dangle nibble-fiesta!”
(Translation: Why did you consume my peanuts, sir? I was saving them so I would have a snack to eat once I had returned from the basketball game.)
Fun, isn't it!
Next week’s lesson: inflationary language and correct/incorrect use of the “fo’shizzle” modifier.
Stay with me here…
If you close your eyes and concentrate, and focus on the days of yore you spent whiling away the hours in a junior high math classroom (and try desperately to block out the humiliation and disgrace that seeing what you looked like, dressed like, and acted like no doubt drums up), you should be able to remember that basically, the transitive property states the following:
If a=b, and b=c, then a=c.
It’s a simple set of rules, but for some reason, it's one that I’ve been able to derive a great amount of enterainment from over the years (and by now this should come as no surprise to you).
So what does this have to do with urban slang you ask? Well nothing really… but for the purposes of this column I’m gong to try to draw some form of loose conclusions as to why there might actually be some sort of connection between the two… in reality, if you asked the author of the latest “krunk” term to explain to you the meaning of the transitive property, he or she would most likely cock their head to one side, contort their face into a shape that resembled a grape that’s been out in the sun too long (i.e. a raisin), and stare at you with a glazed-over “why’s he talking bout old fashioned radios?” look…
Or, maybe not… maybe that’s just me generalizing about people that I don’t understand. Maybe in truth, the person in question would be more apt to start quoting Stephen Hawking’s principles on Quantum Physics, discussing how they are ignorant in their absence of incorporating the finer points of Nihilist philosophy, and how in fact, if one considered the greater evidence at hand, they would discover that the transitive property doesn’t even exist… that blue is red, dogs are in fact cats, and Emu Phillips is the only who REALLY understands the nature of the universe…
Yes, it is indeed possible that all this would happen (provided that this person was equally versed in both the greater sciences and obscure stand-up comedians from the 80s)… but somehow I doubt it…
Whatever the case, all this is beside the point (even as loosely as I’m abusing that term here)… I’m here to apply the transitive property of equality to urban slang… or actually, to the development of new slang.
Basically, the way it works is, you take a conventional known term, and determine what an existing slang phrase for that term is. Then, you come up with a synonym for the already accepted slang that has absolutely nothing to do with the original term, thereby creating an entirely new slang term via the transitive property.
Got it?
Ok, let me try to explain this another way… When we think of money, we often refer to it as “dough” (i.e. “I need to earn some more dough”). The word “dough” is already a universally accepted term to substitute for the word “money.” If we now find a new word or phrase we can substitute for dough (preferably with some brand affiliation), we will have a hip new urban slang term for money… like say “Pop n’ Fresh.”
Now you get it?
You see, if money=dough, and dough=pop n’ fresh, then money=pop n’ fresh
“Pop n’ fresh” is a kind of dough… but in the common vernacular, it has no association with the word “money.” Therefore, “Pop N’ Fresh” is now slang, for money. (i.e. “I gots ta get me some mo’ pop n’ fresh yo!”) Other accepted slang terms for money could include “yeast filler”, “whole grain”, or my personal favorite, “Pillsbury”.
And by this same philosophy we could also refer to a large quantity of money as “a herd of whitetails” (if money=bucks, and bucks=whitetail deer, then money=whitetail deer).
It’s fun with the transitive property!
Now that you know the secret to the progression of slang, you too can join in the fun… in no time at all you’ll be “hangin’ at your crib”, “kickin’ it with some peeps,” and saying interesting things like:
“Why’d you yarn my spare change, gee? I was money marketing those fo’ a post dangle nibble-fiesta!”
(Translation: Why did you consume my peanuts, sir? I was saving them so I would have a snack to eat once I had returned from the basketball game.)
Fun, isn't it!
Next week’s lesson: inflationary language and correct/incorrect use of the “fo’shizzle” modifier.
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Random thought #14
The midget/roses thing the other day got me thinking...
Is it considered insensitive to ask an amputee if he/she wants to play football?
What about offering him/her a chicken finger? Is that wrong? How about a leg of lamb? An ear of corn? A head of lettuce? ...what about tofu?
Is it considered insensitive to ask an amputee if he/she wants to play football?
What about offering him/her a chicken finger? Is that wrong? How about a leg of lamb? An ear of corn? A head of lettuce? ...what about tofu?
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Adding it up...
2005 Nissan Sentra ............... $13,000
Check Engine light that
comes on during dealer
test-drive of trade-in .............. $250
Extra sales-tax paid when
Massachusetts refuses to
recognize dealer as
legitimate, simply because
they’re from NY ..................... $300
Extra interest paid on
loan when NY bank refuses
to approve loan because you
LIVE in Massachusetts ............. $1,440
Cost of cellphone “overage
minutes” used talking to
dealers, insurance companies,
and banks while scrambling
to get new loan in less
than 48 hours ........................ $75
___________________________________________
Knowing you’re almost done
with the insanity that is
buying a car out of state
when you're currently
living in the commonwealth ..... Priceless.
Check Engine light that
comes on during dealer
test-drive of trade-in .............. $250
Extra sales-tax paid when
Massachusetts refuses to
recognize dealer as
legitimate, simply because
they’re from NY ..................... $300
Extra interest paid on
loan when NY bank refuses
to approve loan because you
LIVE in Massachusetts ............. $1,440
Cost of cellphone “overage
minutes” used talking to
dealers, insurance companies,
and banks while scrambling
to get new loan in less
than 48 hours ........................ $75
___________________________________________
Knowing you’re almost done
with the insanity that is
buying a car out of state
when you're currently
living in the commonwealth ..... Priceless.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
How to have fun test driving a new car...
While in motion, roll the windows down and stick your head out. Respond to the salesperson’s perplexed look by stating that you are trying to determine which car your dog will like best.
Ask if you can test the air bags.
Tune the radio to an open AM frequency and turn the volume all the way up. Respond to the salesperson’s concerned look by stating that you are trying to determine if the car is a suitable antenna to receive directives from the mothership.
Ask the salesperson to quote exact figures on the viscosity of the wiper-fluid.
Ask the salesperson if he/she’s ever seen “Thelma & Louise.”
Make allusions to having repeated fantasies about taking first prize in a demolition derby. Hey, this one is constructive... if the salesperson tries to grab the wheel, then they probably don’t have faith in the safety of the vehicle.
Ask the salesperson how many immigrants he/she thinks you could fit in the trunk.
Refuse to drive in any gear but reverse. Tell the frustrated salesperson you’re dyslexic, and this is the only way you can feel “normal.”
If the car has a spoiler, ask the salesperson if it’s still okay to put groceries in the trunk...
Even fresh fish?
When the salesperson instructs you which way to turn, flatly refuse... tell them you’re an adult now, and you will turn whichever direction you gosh darn well please thank you very much... then, when the salesperson starts to get worried, turn that way anyway… respond that you’re not doing it to make THEM happy, this was in fact the way YOU wanted to turn in the first place... do this every time.
Drive the salesperson to a competing dealership and ask them if they want to rumble.
Once you’ve set out on the test drive, slow the car down to a crawl... lock the doors... then, turn to the salesman, and calmly inquire as to whether or not he/she has accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as their personal savior.
Drive with your feet.
Take the car to a car wash... when you’re halfway through, open the sunroof... tell the exasperated salesperson that you just wanted to see how the car would handle in the rain.
Ask where you’re supposed to keep your goldfish.
Force the salesperson to play the license plate game with you. Refuse to return to the dealership until you’ve gotten all the way through. When you finish, ask to test drive another car.
Take the car through a drive-thru... ask for 14 orders of fries, and then tell the salesman you forgot your wallet.
Don’t give him any of the fries.
Point the rear-view mirror directly at the salesman. Ask him to let you know if anything important happens.
Refuse to make anything but left turns. Tell the salesperson you’re training for NASCAR.
Demand to inspect the integrity of the head gasket.
Ask if you can test the air bags.
Tune the radio to an open AM frequency and turn the volume all the way up. Respond to the salesperson’s concerned look by stating that you are trying to determine if the car is a suitable antenna to receive directives from the mothership.
Ask the salesperson to quote exact figures on the viscosity of the wiper-fluid.
Ask the salesperson if he/she’s ever seen “Thelma & Louise.”
Make allusions to having repeated fantasies about taking first prize in a demolition derby. Hey, this one is constructive... if the salesperson tries to grab the wheel, then they probably don’t have faith in the safety of the vehicle.
Ask the salesperson how many immigrants he/she thinks you could fit in the trunk.
Refuse to drive in any gear but reverse. Tell the frustrated salesperson you’re dyslexic, and this is the only way you can feel “normal.”
If the car has a spoiler, ask the salesperson if it’s still okay to put groceries in the trunk...
Even fresh fish?
When the salesperson instructs you which way to turn, flatly refuse... tell them you’re an adult now, and you will turn whichever direction you gosh darn well please thank you very much... then, when the salesperson starts to get worried, turn that way anyway… respond that you’re not doing it to make THEM happy, this was in fact the way YOU wanted to turn in the first place... do this every time.
Drive the salesperson to a competing dealership and ask them if they want to rumble.
Once you’ve set out on the test drive, slow the car down to a crawl... lock the doors... then, turn to the salesman, and calmly inquire as to whether or not he/she has accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as their personal savior.
Drive with your feet.
Take the car to a car wash... when you’re halfway through, open the sunroof... tell the exasperated salesperson that you just wanted to see how the car would handle in the rain.
Ask where you’re supposed to keep your goldfish.
Force the salesperson to play the license plate game with you. Refuse to return to the dealership until you’ve gotten all the way through. When you finish, ask to test drive another car.
Take the car through a drive-thru... ask for 14 orders of fries, and then tell the salesman you forgot your wallet.
Don’t give him any of the fries.
Point the rear-view mirror directly at the salesman. Ask him to let you know if anything important happens.
Refuse to make anything but left turns. Tell the salesperson you’re training for NASCAR.
Demand to inspect the integrity of the head gasket.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Random thought #13
If you were dating a midget, and wanted to buy her/him roses... would you actually need a whole dozen? I mean, proportionately, wouldn't like, eight, be enough?
...and by the same token, would buying "long-stemmed" roses still be a kind gesture, or is it really just mocking at that point?
...and by the same token, would buying "long-stemmed" roses still be a kind gesture, or is it really just mocking at that point?
Friday, June 24, 2005
Random Observation #4
Did ya ever notice that whenever someone poses the question "What's YOUR problem" to another person, they usually aren't particularly interested in helping that person find a solution.
...kinda seems like a waste of time and effort to even pose the question in the first place.
...kinda seems like a waste of time and effort to even pose the question in the first place.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Any takers?
FOR SALE: 1998 Acura Integra 3DR Coupe. Red. 123,500 miles.
Runs Goo... for now. Lots of cool blinking lights on dashboard. New radiator. New timing belt. New water pump. New thermostat. New tires. Needs: head gasket/engine/miracle. Speedometer works but lies incessantly. Kick-ass stereo (not included).
Runs Goo... for now. Lots of cool blinking lights on dashboard. New radiator. New timing belt. New water pump. New thermostat. New tires. Needs: head gasket/engine/miracle. Speedometer works but lies incessantly. Kick-ass stereo (not included).
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Questions on fish
I was just wondering...
Are "Bluefish" always sad?
Are "Sunnies" always cheerful?
Are "Lungfish" predisposed to contracting emphysema?
Can "Angelfish" be atheists?
Do "Catfish" respond to the sound of a can opener?
If a "Clownfish" mated with a "Bluefish," would the offspring be a "Sunny"?
Are "Triggers" ever itchy?
Why don't "Perch" just stay in one place?
Do "Jawfish" ever get TMJ?
If you eat a "Lemonfish," do you still need to squeeze any?
Why aren't "Goldfish" more valuable than "Silverfish"?
Do "Whitebait" even really stand a chance?
and finally...
Would a dyslexic "Carp" think it was just a pile of poo?
Are "Bluefish" always sad?
Are "Sunnies" always cheerful?
Are "Lungfish" predisposed to contracting emphysema?
Can "Angelfish" be atheists?
Do "Catfish" respond to the sound of a can opener?
If a "Clownfish" mated with a "Bluefish," would the offspring be a "Sunny"?
Are "Triggers" ever itchy?
Why don't "Perch" just stay in one place?
Do "Jawfish" ever get TMJ?
If you eat a "Lemonfish," do you still need to squeeze any?
Why aren't "Goldfish" more valuable than "Silverfish"?
Do "Whitebait" even really stand a chance?
and finally...
Would a dyslexic "Carp" think it was just a pile of poo?
Monday, June 13, 2005
Random Thought #12
The way I see it, a Ritz cracker must have really low self-esteem.
I mean, before you even get a chance to break open a sleeve, they're already being undermined... Ever look at the box? It's just an onslaught of options about how to improve upon the product. It's like the packaging itself is telling you, "Hey, these crackers are crap, but if you cover them with some peanut butter and jelly... or some cheese... or some strangely tiny luncheon meat... well then I suppose they might be okay." I tell ya, if I was a Ritz, I'd be pissed...
...of course I'd also be a cracker, so any insecurities about the quality of my consumption would probably be outweighed by my fear of actually being consumed, but that's a discussion for another day...
I mean, before you even get a chance to break open a sleeve, they're already being undermined... Ever look at the box? It's just an onslaught of options about how to improve upon the product. It's like the packaging itself is telling you, "Hey, these crackers are crap, but if you cover them with some peanut butter and jelly... or some cheese... or some strangely tiny luncheon meat... well then I suppose they might be okay." I tell ya, if I was a Ritz, I'd be pissed...
...of course I'd also be a cracker, so any insecurities about the quality of my consumption would probably be outweighed by my fear of actually being consumed, but that's a discussion for another day...
Friday, June 10, 2005
Sometimes you just have to laugh...
I wish I knew more about cars.
I can change a tire. I can tell you where to put the windshield wiper fluid. And on a particularly good day, I might even be able to check the oil. But that’s about where my expertise stops. So when I’m driving down the road, and warning lights begin to flash, I feel more like Robot B9 (“Danger Will Robinson”) than Mr. Goodwrench (“No Danger Will Robinson”). I'm not really even in the realm of Mr. Goodyear, Mr. Goodbody, or Mr. Goodbar… in truth, it’s more along the lines of Mr. Good god how much is it going to cost me this time.
Such was the case the other day.
I recently went through an all too comic scenario with my cooling system (coolant system? Cooli… whatever… you know, the radiator and all its assorted hoses, clips, and doohickeys) where by the time all was fixed and happy, I had endured 4 trips to the mechanic, and overseen the replacement of approximately 5,684 parts (all of which I was informed served a vital purpose that alleviated some condition that gone unchecked would have undoubtedly resulted in immediate and painful death not only for me and my passengers, but also that woman in the Escort wagon next to me who happens to be a single mother and is working 2 jobs, including late-shifts at the diner on nights and weekends, just so she can save up enough money to pay for little Jimmy’s chemotherapy). Theoretically though, once all this was done (and the mechanic stopped convulsing in hysterical fits of laughter) my car would be safe again.
Well imagine my surprise as I made my way to work the other morning and my “check engine” light came on (you know, the “bad” light… the one light that you can’t ignore… the one that isn’t like the others… that's not like the “maintenance required” light, or the “low fuel light”, or the little light with the symbol of the thingee on it that no one really knows what it means… the one you can't even rationally cover up with electrical tape)… and not only that, as I gazed down at the beacon of disaster smiling at me from my dash, I also happened to notice one other interesting development… the needle on my temperature gauge was now fighting desperately to achieve as great a distance from the capital “C” as possible.
I naturally assumed this was not good.
Summoning up the whole of my automotive knowledge, I tried to make a rational diagnosis, but seeing as the present situation didn’t appear to involve tires, wiper fluid, or dipsticks (other than myself), I came up empty. I decided therefore to make my way to the nearest off-ramp. I figured it would be better to be broken down and laughed at somewhere near civilization, than to be speed bump fodder for a semi with a deathwish (that would undoubtedly be delivering chickens… in the movies they’re ALWAYS delivering chickens).
Sure enough, once I slowed the car down, it sensed weakness and decided to surrender. Coughing in fits, and spewing smoke out of every available outlet, it quickly stalled and died (without so much as a shred of dignity I might add). So, as a parade of morning commuters made their way by and gawked at my misfortune, I dialed for a tow-truck. By the time it had arrived, I had gained two new tidbits of knowledge. First, Tow-trucks know you’re not going anywhere and therefore feel absolutely no obligation to arrive anytime before, say… November. Second, when waiting for said tow-truck, it’s probably not a great idea to spend the entire time playing Texas Hold ‘em on your cell phone… if you do, then when you begin to worry about whether or not said truck is actually coming, you might find that you’re lacking the battery strength necessary to actually call and check up on them... oops.
Anyway, so the truck came and towed my car to a little garage where the owner was very nice, very foreign, and very unable to say anything in English that I completely understood. It wasn’t all that reassuring… but he smiled a lot… and he shook my hand… and he scribbled my name on a post-it… so I gave him the keys to my car.
When I called later in the afternoon to check up on my beleaguered vehicle, I received good, and bad news… my car was ready, but it might also be a ticking time bomb (those weren’t his exact words, but that was the gist of what I understood).
When I went to pick it up, the owner was very gracious, and he very carefully tried to explain to me what had happened. Without any sarcasm apparent, he told me that the people installing my radiator had done (in his opinion) a “very silly” thing (that’s a direct quote). Instead of replacing my clamps when they reattached certain hoses and stuff (he lost me a bit there for a moment)… they had reused the original factory clamps, something he would never do (he reiterated again how “silly” it was)… they had also possibly installed the clamps incorrectly (more “sillyness”)… Consequently, what had most likely happened was, the clamp slipped off, the hose disconnected, and the entire contents of my radiator had spilled out onto the highway, thereby causing the car to overheat. He had reattached the hose, and put on new clamps (replacing the ones that weren’t even a problem), and refilled the radiator. Now, the only question mark was whether damage had been done to the… wait for it… yes, the “head gasket.”
“Head gasket” is one of those phrases that you just don’t want to hear. It’s kind of like “Hepatitis C.” You’re not quite sure what it is, but if it’s ever spoken in reference to you, you’re probably not going to be throwing a party.
Basically, he said the car was running, and he had tried to fix and clean things up best he could, but he didn’t really know yet whether any serious damage had been done to my head gasket or not (which if present would indicate a much less fun situation brewing).
Then he said I could go.
Perplexed (to say the least), I enquired as to how I would know if there had been in fact any more serious damage …it was then that the very nice old man smiled, and the very nice old man told me (in English that I very clearly understood) “you go to drive, and (motioning his hand in an excellent mime of an explosion) Kprgjdfsashtfhfwhgef!”
I really wish I knew more about cars.
So far, so good… the car sounds a little sick at times, but it’s getting better (still burning off stuff that had spilled from the radiator is the best explanation I have found)…
It hasn’t broken down, exploded, or derailed little Jimmy’s hopes of beating Cancer, and for now at least, the only bit of additional bad news I’ve received is that there’s most likely no way to prove that it was the other garage’s fault. I’m told that there are in fact a number of other circumstances (all highly unlikely) that could have caused the hose to come off, and given my breadth of understanding of the inner workings of my vehicle, I have little choice but to accept that…
But it would certainly be nice to be able to look at my car with a greater sense of understanding… to really be aware of how things worked and how to fix them… alas, that isn’t the case right now… maybe later, just to make myself feel better… I’ll do something that shows I can be the master of my own vehicle… I’ll pop the hood, roll up my sleeves… and check the oil.
I can change a tire. I can tell you where to put the windshield wiper fluid. And on a particularly good day, I might even be able to check the oil. But that’s about where my expertise stops. So when I’m driving down the road, and warning lights begin to flash, I feel more like Robot B9 (“Danger Will Robinson”) than Mr. Goodwrench (“No Danger Will Robinson”). I'm not really even in the realm of Mr. Goodyear, Mr. Goodbody, or Mr. Goodbar… in truth, it’s more along the lines of Mr. Good god how much is it going to cost me this time.
Such was the case the other day.
I recently went through an all too comic scenario with my cooling system (coolant system? Cooli… whatever… you know, the radiator and all its assorted hoses, clips, and doohickeys) where by the time all was fixed and happy, I had endured 4 trips to the mechanic, and overseen the replacement of approximately 5,684 parts (all of which I was informed served a vital purpose that alleviated some condition that gone unchecked would have undoubtedly resulted in immediate and painful death not only for me and my passengers, but also that woman in the Escort wagon next to me who happens to be a single mother and is working 2 jobs, including late-shifts at the diner on nights and weekends, just so she can save up enough money to pay for little Jimmy’s chemotherapy). Theoretically though, once all this was done (and the mechanic stopped convulsing in hysterical fits of laughter) my car would be safe again.
Well imagine my surprise as I made my way to work the other morning and my “check engine” light came on (you know, the “bad” light… the one light that you can’t ignore… the one that isn’t like the others… that's not like the “maintenance required” light, or the “low fuel light”, or the little light with the symbol of the thingee on it that no one really knows what it means… the one you can't even rationally cover up with electrical tape)… and not only that, as I gazed down at the beacon of disaster smiling at me from my dash, I also happened to notice one other interesting development… the needle on my temperature gauge was now fighting desperately to achieve as great a distance from the capital “C” as possible.
I naturally assumed this was not good.
Summoning up the whole of my automotive knowledge, I tried to make a rational diagnosis, but seeing as the present situation didn’t appear to involve tires, wiper fluid, or dipsticks (other than myself), I came up empty. I decided therefore to make my way to the nearest off-ramp. I figured it would be better to be broken down and laughed at somewhere near civilization, than to be speed bump fodder for a semi with a deathwish (that would undoubtedly be delivering chickens… in the movies they’re ALWAYS delivering chickens).
Sure enough, once I slowed the car down, it sensed weakness and decided to surrender. Coughing in fits, and spewing smoke out of every available outlet, it quickly stalled and died (without so much as a shred of dignity I might add). So, as a parade of morning commuters made their way by and gawked at my misfortune, I dialed for a tow-truck. By the time it had arrived, I had gained two new tidbits of knowledge. First, Tow-trucks know you’re not going anywhere and therefore feel absolutely no obligation to arrive anytime before, say… November. Second, when waiting for said tow-truck, it’s probably not a great idea to spend the entire time playing Texas Hold ‘em on your cell phone… if you do, then when you begin to worry about whether or not said truck is actually coming, you might find that you’re lacking the battery strength necessary to actually call and check up on them... oops.
Anyway, so the truck came and towed my car to a little garage where the owner was very nice, very foreign, and very unable to say anything in English that I completely understood. It wasn’t all that reassuring… but he smiled a lot… and he shook my hand… and he scribbled my name on a post-it… so I gave him the keys to my car.
When I called later in the afternoon to check up on my beleaguered vehicle, I received good, and bad news… my car was ready, but it might also be a ticking time bomb (those weren’t his exact words, but that was the gist of what I understood).
When I went to pick it up, the owner was very gracious, and he very carefully tried to explain to me what had happened. Without any sarcasm apparent, he told me that the people installing my radiator had done (in his opinion) a “very silly” thing (that’s a direct quote). Instead of replacing my clamps when they reattached certain hoses and stuff (he lost me a bit there for a moment)… they had reused the original factory clamps, something he would never do (he reiterated again how “silly” it was)… they had also possibly installed the clamps incorrectly (more “sillyness”)… Consequently, what had most likely happened was, the clamp slipped off, the hose disconnected, and the entire contents of my radiator had spilled out onto the highway, thereby causing the car to overheat. He had reattached the hose, and put on new clamps (replacing the ones that weren’t even a problem), and refilled the radiator. Now, the only question mark was whether damage had been done to the… wait for it… yes, the “head gasket.”
“Head gasket” is one of those phrases that you just don’t want to hear. It’s kind of like “Hepatitis C.” You’re not quite sure what it is, but if it’s ever spoken in reference to you, you’re probably not going to be throwing a party.
Basically, he said the car was running, and he had tried to fix and clean things up best he could, but he didn’t really know yet whether any serious damage had been done to my head gasket or not (which if present would indicate a much less fun situation brewing).
Then he said I could go.
Perplexed (to say the least), I enquired as to how I would know if there had been in fact any more serious damage …it was then that the very nice old man smiled, and the very nice old man told me (in English that I very clearly understood) “you go to drive, and (motioning his hand in an excellent mime of an explosion) Kprgjdfsashtfhfwhgef!”
I really wish I knew more about cars.
So far, so good… the car sounds a little sick at times, but it’s getting better (still burning off stuff that had spilled from the radiator is the best explanation I have found)…
It hasn’t broken down, exploded, or derailed little Jimmy’s hopes of beating Cancer, and for now at least, the only bit of additional bad news I’ve received is that there’s most likely no way to prove that it was the other garage’s fault. I’m told that there are in fact a number of other circumstances (all highly unlikely) that could have caused the hose to come off, and given my breadth of understanding of the inner workings of my vehicle, I have little choice but to accept that…
But it would certainly be nice to be able to look at my car with a greater sense of understanding… to really be aware of how things worked and how to fix them… alas, that isn’t the case right now… maybe later, just to make myself feel better… I’ll do something that shows I can be the master of my own vehicle… I’ll pop the hood, roll up my sleeves… and check the oil.
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