The Sequel

I like tests. Especially ones I’ve studied for. They’re a nice little chance to announce to myself, “Hey, you’re pretty awesome, and this here piece of paper proves it”. And if some slackjaw happens to be eavesdropping on what I got on the test, well, it provides them a little reinforcement for who is awesome and who isn’t. Early test taking ability hasn’t translated into unfathomable wealth and influence. Since I don’t get to take many test any more, I’ve gotten better and predicting the future and I’m pretty sure that isn’t going to happen. My wife however, has been taking a few tests. No, M isn’t going for her MA (Masters of Awesome), but she is going for her NM (New Mom) certification. Back on September 1, M passed the first level and it’s pretty much been a secret since. This has been hard to do. Various family members are eager for new additions. I guess the current members are old, stale, boring, rude and possibly smell bad. I definitely see how adding a newborn and requisite add new smells, spills, noise and chaos makes everything better. It had been hard not to say anything until the ‘right’ time. M is a good soldier, feeling ill and tired and hungry and not complaining very much at all. I think if I were hungover for more than 2 days (my previous unenjoyable record), I would start to get surly. M is a rockstar so far. Chewing on giant vitamins, getting lots of sleep, eating well (sort of), all the good stuff. We started looking at baby strollers a few weeks back. They look different from the stroller I had. I think I had a roller skate with a broom handle and an old handbag for me to rest in. The new ones come with heated cupholders and all wheel drive. I hope I get to make it into a go-kart at some point when it is no longer needed, since it will probably end up costing what a small used car would. But I digress. M and I decided we wanted to know the sex of the little person, and we learned last week that it will be a boy. So we will be having a son first. I was a first born son, my father was and I believe my grandfather was as well. Prior to that it was a law that all men had sons first so we will just believe it goes on until the beginning of time. I have generated my sequel. My hope is that he will be a Godfather II, Beverly Hills Cop 2, or Empire Strikes Back – type sequel. That is, one generally regarded as better than the first and not any of the myriad forgettable, regrettable second takes that we’ve all come to loathe. I have acquired 33 years of big mistakes and I plan on sharing each and every one with the hope that he will avoid these and make even more epic ones on his own, provided he does not end up on the front page of the NYTimes for a billion dollar swindle. The happy first birthday will be on or around May 11, 2012, We don’t have any names yet. Recent rejected nominations are: Rooster, Thump, Tasker and Ace.

In other sequel news Fast and Furious and Pirates of the Carribiean are coming out with new editions (the fifth and fourth, respectively). I have enjoyed both series quite a bit and plan on enjoying these in all their overblown cheesy and bad taste glory.

Happy turkey day

The world waited nervously. A brave band of men who labor underground were trapped with no hope of escape. The tools they used on their daily journeys to the center of the earth were useless to grant them their freedom. They had food and water, but the prognosis for escape was slim, if any. We watched their progress from afar, but there wasn’t much we could do to help them. If they did manage to escape, would the outside still be hospitable to them? Today the last of them died. These were my own Chilean miners, an ant farm given as a gift from M for my birthday. I had an ant farm when I was younger. It was the classic sand variety, with a green plastic farmhouse. The ants were pretty good for a while, but they ran out of food. I didn’t order new food. I thought pouring sugar in there would help. It didn’t. They died quickly without real food. The new and improved farm I received was made of space gel that was antimicrobial, edible and mildly water based. All the ants’ needs were taken care of. All I had to do was order ants (I could have also dug them out of the ground, but passed on Viking-style kidnapping and incarceration). The ants were around $5 for 25, or $6 for 50. If a little is good, more is better, right? They arrived in a few days, all piled up in little vials. The documents said they would last 3 months. I opened the farm, poked holes in the gel to get them started and poured in the miners. At first they seemed disoriented by the gel, maybe they were happy to be released from the vials. They didn’t seem interested in digging. I thought about poking bigger holes in the gel, but there were too many of them. As soon as the lid opened they all tried escaping. I decided to let them go at it unassisted. Soon enough they had constructed a labyrinth of tunnels, creating huge piles of gel pebbles. We could track their progress and watch them connect the tunnels with remarkable accuracy. It was incredibly cool. The documents they came with said to open the lid every few days to give them fresh air. This caused some problems due to the overcrowded conditions. As soon as I opened the lid, the fresh air gave the surface workers a huge rush of energy and they all charged for the exits. There were escapees. Trying to capture one ant was easy enough, but these ants had enormous teeth and bit ferociously. Capturing multiple ants and then getting them back in the farm without getting bitten and allowing more to escape was impossible. Escapes attempts were brutally crushed. Literally. Hammer fists squashed briefly enjoyed freedom. I felt great regret at my oppression, but letting them roam free all over the house was out of the question. What good is a kingdom with no subjects? Waste piles started to build. Ants are clean creatures. The do their business in designated areas. They carry out the dead and bury them in the wastelands. The instructions said to periodically clean out the piles. M suggested slowing them down by refrigerating the farm. Seemed like a good idea, until I forgot about the induced winter and they maybe got a little too cold. Cold ants are much more docile. I was able to clean out the piles with minimal jailbreaks and let summer return. Attrition brought overcrowding to acceptable levels, but I think they became bored with digging. New construction ground to a halt. They were mostly content to walk around, moving the gel pebbles into new piles for fallen comrades and landfill. Every few days I would sneak up on them and blow more air in, causing a great riot, just to make sure they knew who was the boss. The trouble really started when they decided to dig through the roof to freedom. The foam gasket that held the roof on tight became their focus. Piles of foam started to appear and the lid no longer fit as snugly as it once had. I think they started to eat the foam because more of the ants started to die. Today, 3 months after their ordeal began, it has ended. It was pretty close to the 90 day life expectancy the documentation described. It was a fascinating and educational experience and I look forward to another reign sometime in the future.

Can work be fun? On days when many parents work and their children do not have school, we have children in the office. I heard one theory that this is a plan by parents to have an excuse to leave because children are distracting in the workplace. I don’t have many memories about my own workplace experiences. I know my father worked in a top secret lab (or so it seemed) because we never got past the lobby, and even those experiences were rare. My mother’s office was a little more interactive. We had typewriters to play with and lots of conversation oriented adults who tended to scare the crap out of me. My own workplace is a little different. We have vast bowls of chips, candy and cookies. We have refrigerators stocked with all the juice and soda a kid could want. We have televisions and video games and couches. Today we had two small girls visiting. They found the candy bowl quickly, helping themselves at will. Some people tried teaching them how to play video games, unsuccessfully. We watched the sisters try and play a soccer game, waving the controllers and mashing buttons to no effect. They informed us this was their first time every playing a video game (the parent is clearly a very good parent). I asked the older one if she thought work was fun, since she gets to eat cookies and play video games. She confirmed that work was great. I can only imagine what she will say at school when asked what her father does for a living.

Lastly, a coworker here recently learned that he has squirrels in his attic. His wife heard them at a late hour and in the cold and dark he ventured upstairs with a driveway reflector stick (it’s pointed and weapon-like). He killed no squirrels, but did find s stash of acorns and chewed insulation. We discussed several solutions. He does not know how they are getting in, but he knows if they build a nest, that is a bad thing. A large scale chipper-dipper could work, but the internet explained that dead squirrels stink worse than most, so this is probably a bad idea. We looked at predator urine, but the smell issue is probably worse there. The final solution is to deploy a have-a-heart trap. The recommended bait, strangely enough, is peanut butter and jelly, the universal attractor. The question now is, what else will he catch? Try explaining to the authorities why there is a toddler in a cage in your attic…

daydreaming

I wanna be a billionairrreee.. so freakin bad.. Let me just start out by saying how much I do not like this song. While I admire the young man’s ambition and desire for untold wealth, his plans for the loot I find lacking. He sings about about hanging out with Oprah and the Queen (of England?). Personally, a couple of older ladies are not my choice of company, no matter how much money they have. The cover of Forbes magazine? Who reads Forbes? I don’t think any of those people would be much fun to hang out with. What would I do with B-level wealth? To start, I need a car. For me, any of these would fit my needs: Ascari a10, Mosler mt900, Gumpert Apollo, Koenigsegg ccx, Pagani zonda or the SSC ultimate aero. These are all immensely impractical, exotic and expensive cars. They are deafeningly loud. They should never be driven on the street. But if I am a Billionaire, that’s what I’m doing. I don’t want a copy of another fancy car that any old schlub can pick up on the auto mile. I don’t want a car that anyone normal person would even begin to recognize. There are more famous and expensive cars out there, but I don’t want to drive the same car Simon Cowell drives. If I need 4 seats give me a Morgan EVA GT. It’s not quite a grocery hauler, but it’ll come close enough. I kind of want to fear for my life every time I think about stepping on the gas pedal hard. That’s what my money buys.

What do I wear in my crazy car? I need a mechanical belt buckle to hold up my pants. Check out the offerings by Roland Iten. I think you get two free belts with each purchase. They run about the cost of a new Camry. Why so spendy? It allows the big eaters among us to surreptitiously let out a little slack after a big meal. I’m sure it does some other things, but it’s cool. I need some pants –how about the 1880’s Levi Strauss & Co miner’s jeans? They have this awesome rivet way up high where the legs come together. I bet it gets real hot after a few hours sitting in front of the ol’ campfire. I wonder why they stopped that feature? These run about the cost of a 1^st class airline ticket from Boston to Los Angeles.

But back to the car thing. Where can I really drive my new cart? If I’m near New York, I’m going to the Monticello Motor Club. For those really rich guys who hate golf for some reason, this is the place. They take care of your cars, offer instruction and even have five star dining. If I’m in Spain, I’m going to the Ascari Race Resort. Wait – Ascari – Isn’t that the name of one of the loony cars above? Yes it is. Turns out Ascari was started by a super rich guy who wanted his own car and a special place to drive it. Now we have both. Excellent. I am sure there are some other fun places like this, but I am not rich enough to know about them yet. If I am not feeling exclusive, I will drive on the Nurburgring’s Nordschleife. It’s very German and even *gasp* socialist, allowing anyone (!) to use it. 22 euros per lap and you’re off an running. Good times. Keep in mind that crashing your car will incur charges and if a timing device is found in your smoldering remains, your insurance company will most likely not pay. Something about discouraging people from timing themselves or something. Damn European socialists don’t want me attempting to time myself at dangerous speeds in a one ton carbon fiber missile filled with flammable liquid.

Now the only question is – where will get my billions? I recently brewed up a batch of homemade old timey gingerale. It was yeasty and spicy and super carbonated and mostly better than I anticipated. I expected there to be exploded 1liter soda bottles all over the kitchen, but explosions were nonexistent. I also feared some sort of mold or biological disaster and ensuing gastrointestinal distress. Thankfully this was also avoided. Now I was the only one to taste the brew – M wanted no part – so I cannot say if it’s worth a billion bucks or even if it’s worth the $.80 in materials to make, but one can always hope.

Maybe I can write a book? I’ve whined about my literary ambitions before. I’ve read some good ones lately – ‘Heat’ about a magazine editor who goes to work for Mario Batali. Let’s just say my suspicions about Mr. Batali and restaurant kitchens in general were confirmed. An excellent read. ‘A son of the circus’ not at all what I expected from John Irving, one of my favorite authors. Not bad, a little slow to get in to but worth reading. I have recently realized that some of my favorite sports bloggers are not actually good at writing, and therefore since I am not a trained writer either, I should stay far away. I will keep that in mind.

Why on earth would you leave your toothbrush on a public bathroom counter while you did your business? I understand mid-day brushing is important. But why the need to do all things at once. I usually bring my toothbrush in for a dedicated brush run and then leave. I don’t want any flying particulates on that sucker. I work with more than one person who likes to do a few tasks on each trip and there for get a mouthful of whatever is in the air tonight when they scrub the choppers.

The last thing I can’t get out of my head is how much Miami Vice influenced my life. We recently started streaming Netflix on our television and I found all the seasons of Crockett and Tubbs are available. I’ve seen a few current TV stars (Ed O’Neill - with hair, Jimmy Smits) with bit parts in the first few episodes that I’ve watched. This was appointment viewing for me when I was younger. I understand why my parents were not fans of this show – several people die violently in every episode. There’s drugs, sexy women, flashy jewelry, guns, smoking, explosions, childish temper tantrums and just about everything else a 7-12 year old boy could have wanted. Miami is full of wild accents and racing cars and over the top characters every week. I’m pretty sure it spawned a successful video game (GTA vice city) and launched the career of one of my favorite directors – Michael Mann. It even made the Colin Farrell/Jamie Foxx movie remake watchable, even enjoyable for me when almost everyone else hated it with a passion. Jan Hammer’s soundtrack always puts me in by vintage Ferrari and linen suit, running red lights and firing down lucky strikes with a .45 in my shoulder holster. If only none of those things led to an early painful death. I still have great respect for Don Johnson, even though people seem to regard him as a relic of the 80s. I love how Ferrari got mad that the Daytona used in the first season was a replica and gave the show a real Testarossa to be used, but only after the fake was ceremoniously blown up on screen. Despite all this, I always had a nagging problem with the fact that here’s this supposedly undercover cop, driving all over town in this crazy car, living on a boat with an alligator and every time he does a deal with someone they end in dead or in jail. He makes no effort to disguise himself when he goes in or out of the police station and yet not one of these criminals ever spreads the word about him. Despite all that I think the show holds up. And if I ever do get to be a billionaire, I may just skip all the racy cars and get a big ol 42’ powerboat and just roar around making big waves and rocking a ridiculous tan and giant gold watch. I know it doesn’t get any cheesier than that but come on, you know it looks fun.

gifts of the magi

Gifts and I have had some rough times. Not long ago I did not like gifts. I maintained a low overhead lifestyle and the meant not having clutter or large furniture. Everything except the bed and TV fit in the car. It was great. It’s been that way for a while. Most gifts I now receive are either small or experiential. This year, for the birthday, I received a coupon for custom made shirt. I didn’t know in advance, only that I had an appointment that would take a bit of my afternoon. When I opened the envelope I got very excited. Anything custom made is awesome. Dress clothing in particular is difficult for me are weird because of my freakish physique. I am not lizard skinny like most European cuts nor am I fat and sloppy like most off the rack American cuts assume. Getting something that fit was going to rock.

I’m not a building snob. I’ve shopped in some pretty shady places in the name of saving a buck. Despite the questionable attire on display, I knew anything that I picked out would be fine. I met my person, let’s call her Patchouli, and her gaggle of sisters. She took my coupon, set me up with some material to look at and then told me if I bought 2 more shirts I could get a 3^rd for free. The shirts came in two levels, A and B. A was 20% more expensive than B, but since I didn’t know anything about this process I had been looking at the B shirts. As I later found out, the coupon I received was for the A shirt, but this was not specified, thus negating the original bargain of the transaction. I thought about it and decided that an off the rack shirt at a high end men’s clothier was comparably priced to the B shirt, so why not. I was flush with fantasy golf winnings and felt rich. I picked out 4 materials, cuffs, collars, monograms and started getting measured. It took longer than I thought it would, but I was enjoying the experience. Then it came time to pay. I had my coupon for shirt #1, I had to pay for shirts #2 and #3 and I got #4 for free. So I owed 2x Cost of shirt B. I started to pay with a credit card but was told that cash was better. Hmm so it was one of those places. I don’t mind an entrepreneurial spirit, trying to keep the tax man off your stack, so I went along. I got the cash out and paid in full. Normally I do not like paying before goods are received, but I was in a good mood. Afterwards I was told to wait 3 weeks and they would call me. Perfect.

So yesterday was about 3 weeks removed from the shirt fitting. I got an email saying my shirt (singular) was ready and was told to call when I could come by. I tried calling, got a busy signal and decided to walk over. I met the salesman/head of the store and he directed me to Patchouli’s sister, Cardamom. She got my shirts, I tried them on and was feeling pretty good. They looked and fit great. Cardamom asked if I had paid and I said that I had, explained how it all went down and then she tried to get me to look at more shirts. I said I was busy but maybe on Friday, if I had time. I also said that I had a few really tall friends and if I liked the shirts I would refer them over. By the time I got back to the office, I already had a voicemail from Cardamom. I called her back, only to be informed that I owed her quite a bit of money. I’m sort of ticked off now but assured her that something must be wrong and to check with Patchouli and that I had to go to a client and to call me at 4 with good news. 4pm came and went and I figured she felt like a dope and wasn’t going to call. At 4:25 she called and started apologizing for the bad experience and said when I came in on Friday to look at more shirts that I could pay her. Pay her for what? She didn’t want to explain what I owed her for, only that she had the figures in front of her and I owed her for three shirts and she could show it all to me when I came in. In most of my jobs I am the one trying to explain something absurd to an angry person and many times I have wished I could be the angry person, just so I could rant and vent. This was one such opportunity, but I wasn’t going there yet. In my calmest voice I assured her that she sounded like a reasonable person and explained that a) I had a coupon for a free shirt, b) Patchouli said I could buy 2 more and get a third for free and c) I paid Patchouli for two shirts. Cardamom agreed that since she witnessed the whole transaction that I was saying made sense. So my question to her now was why am I being charged for three shirts if I had two for free and paid for two? She apologized again, said she couldn’t read Patchouli’s handwriting and said when I came in to look at more shirts we could work it out. I told her it was unlikely that she would ever see me again and unless she called me back to apologize for the big misunderstanding that I was entering the angry customer zone. On my train ride home I noticed she left me a voicemail, which I have still not listened to. I can only imagine what it says. Not to mention the small detail that the original coupon was for the more expensive A shirt and they started the whole transaction by ripping me off. There are any number of ways this can conclude, but there is no way I’m going back any time soon to check out more shirts.

In another gift-related debacle, I received a number of books for Christmas. I had heard of the author, David Foster Wallace, probably because he recently committed suicide and literary types were very upset by his passing. His magnum opus ‘Infinite Jest’ is about 1200 pages long, with very small font. There are several hundred pages of footnotes, which are required to properly enjoy the work. It is not to be taken lightly. I’ve read long books before. I’ve read complicated books before. I majored in English and did reasonably well in it. I got good verbal SAT scores. Books sort of come naturally. I was excited. I figured anything this long would probably be worth it, since publishers don’t cut down forests unless there is money to be made and Harry Potter aside, getting people to read dictionary-length books is not an easy feat. I got about 200 pages in and gave up. This book makes absolutely no sense. There is no plot. He makes up words. He invents parallel worlds and history. I know it’s fiction, but this goes beyond science fiction in its bizarreness and reliance on suspension of disbelief.

I feel bad when I don’t finish books. Every time I see a book on the shelf that I didn’t finish I imagine a whining puppy asking why he is being ignored. Sure we had a few laughs and spent quality time together, but in the end I didn’t want to keep playing. I took to the internets to see what the big deal was. Message boards all told me the book was ‘totally worth it’. I also saw Infinite Jest appear on a few ‘worst book ever’ lists. I try to avoid immediately agreeing with anything that confirms my opinions, so I filed that information away and sought out more reasons to continue reading. Recently, a coworker mentioned that his book snob friend criticizes his choice of reading material. Book snob? What qualifies her as a book snob? She works for the high-end arm of a major publishing house. I asked this coworker to send a one line email to her asking “Did she like Infinite Jest”. Note that I assume that she has already read this book. Coworker doubted where I was going with this until she replied instantly with the single line reply “I cried when DFW died”. DFW how this man is known in the book world. It’s like saying ‘Scorcese’ or “Hitchcock” to a movie fiend. Single name identifiers signify great reverence and familiarity with their work. I pressed for more information. Infinite Jest is the master work, to be enjoyed by someone already familiar with the man’s portfolio. I was told to read his essays, his smaller books. This started to sound like I had to acquire a taste for the man before I had earned the right to enjoy the masterpiece. I’ve acquired a few tastes. Usually they are for things that are initially repugnant. Coffee, wine, beer, tobacco, hot sauce, strong brown liquor, stinky cheese, raw fish, daily vigorous exercise in the early predawn hour. Usually I eventually like these things, but for others I spit the bit. I do not enjoy burning wet mummy cigars (thank you David Sedaris), peaty campfire scotch, tounge numbing and intestine twisting sauces, unpronounceable sea creature organs or mouth pickling burgundys. I read his commencement speech to Kenyon College. Go ahead, look it up. Search for ‘DFW commencement speech’. It sort of makes sense. Clearly this man is intelligent and has a particular world view and expresses it in a unique way. I still don’t get it. I have a fear that this book may end up being like “Raging Bull”, which always ends up on a ‘best director’ list. Bull one of the most depressing, hardest to watch movies I have ever seen. I don’t think I would ever watch it again. I suppose for someone who gets off on technical displays of mastery of technique it’s a good thing to watch. Maybe I am approaching the book all wrong. Should I be enjoying the aspects that are driving me crazy? Eventually I’ll get back to it. Michael Chabon wrote a chapter in his most recent book about DFW and mentioned how he tried to read Infinite Jest on multiple occasions and failed. That makes me feel a little better. A little.

Tough Enough

This morning M mentioned that I would be good on a show called ‘Mantracker’. It’s a Canadian with a beard and a horse and a helper (and horse) and they hunt people in the woods. There’s no killing, but the chases are edited to look intense. Generally the horses seem to have good eyes and noses and keep the men at least looking in the right direction. Sometimes the trackers are called on to look at some disturbed dirt or sticks to see where the unwise hunted have left a trail to follow. I haven’t seen an episode yet where anyone even came close to getting away.

How would I do on this show? Not very well. While I am reasonably fit and have some basic sense of the outdoors, I see most of these people fail due to poor planning and execution. Foresight aside, there is an aspect of toughness and sheer will that would eventually take over in a real-life pursuit situation. When I asked myself how I would fare, I had to create a tough-scale and put myself in it. The tough-scale is meant to incorporate mental as well as physical attributes. I’m not trying to guess how well someone would take a punch. It’s more of a gauge of how quickly someone would give up and start crying when dropped into a wilderness and hunted. Physicality is a big part, due to the requirement of being forced to contend with the elements. Basically, I’m trying to find someone who’s willing to live like an animal. I like to think I can run for miles through the woods, over rocks and through rivers, but I live a cushy life and get blisters when I swing the golf clubs too much. In ascending order from baby soft to pioneer tough:

Millionaire CEO, Surgeon (related: trust fund baby, socialite)

I put millionaire here, not billionaire, because B-level richness means you can afford to take trips that require extreme exertion or training. Theoretically you can be Batman if you are a Billionaire. These guys have the softest hands of the gang, owing to the luxe lifestyle and lack of callus-creating workload. A sore neck is enough to put them on the injured list

Professional Gamer (related: software engineer, political talking head)

So pale a flashlight would burn them, reeking of hot pockets, pizza rolls and dr pepper and in love with all things role playing, the toughest these guys get is online, pwning noobs and trolling message boards. A swift backhand slap would get them balling in real life. Gets wInded going #2.

Fashion Designer (related: hotel concierge, party planner)

Probably mentally tougher than I give them credit for, but physically the weakest on the list. Want no part of unpleasant humidity, bugs, dirt, starvation or abrasions. Changes clothes several times a day to accommodate situation. Mean people can ruin their day.

Personal Trainer (related: jersey shore guido, musician)

Gym-strong and proud of it. Only works out to look good in tight clothes. Mentally impaired in all things not related to exercise charts or protein shakes. Live with mom because they cannot retain a real job. Common injuries: fungus.

High School Principal (related: police, auto mechanic)

Tougher than they look. Could have military experience. Lots of practical experience with unpredictable situations and unreasonable personalities. Able to survive on meager rations owing to poor pay and lifestyle. Adept at improvisation.

Cook (related: carnie, longshoreman/stevedore)

Lots of experience in high-heat, high-pressure situations. Excellent with sharpened tools and fire. Extensive interaction with less-than-stellar mentalities. Persistent and willfully obstinate. Good chance of incarceration experience. Lots of scarring.

Fireman (related: fisherman, cowboy)

Starting to get into legitimate toughness here. Courage is unquestionable. Chose career that will probably kill them. Lots of downtime can lead to dulled skills. Good with a team, excellent at staying calm in a crisis. Excellent moustaches.

Lumberjack (related: oil roughneck, miner)

Another deadly work environment, but this is a 40+ hour week of exposure to constant death. Crushing, large airborne sharp metal objects, poor work conditions and a permanent coating of grime are all but guaranteed. Physical strength is absolutely required, as is the willingness to expose one’s self to unpleasantness for years at a time.

MMA fighter (related: outlaw biker, stuntman)

Not many 40+ year olds doing this job. The very act of doing the job means a co-worker is trying to kill you or at least prevent you from doing your job by inflicting physical pain. Constant training and practice is required. A good day on the job means you got into a fight. A bad day means you’re dead or paralyzed.

Salvage Diver (related: NONE)

Really the only job where you are called in because literally everyone else tried and failed. The entire environment around you is so dangerous that a mistake means horrible death. The only less hospitable workplace is space, but astronauts aren’t covered in sweet tattoos or missing fingers. Living like the end is tomorrow is encouraged. By far the coolest and potentially most lucrative on the list.

So where do I rank on this list? Somewhere in the designer-trainer range. I’m not as strong as the musclehead, but definitely smarter and more adaptable. My fighting history is spotty at best and I have started to notice that extremes of temperature are kind of a pain in the ass and I get cranky when I haven’t eaten in a while. I think with some training I could get into the cook-fireman range.

I just noticed that the toughness scale could also be a salary scale, except the least tough people make the most money. Not tough.

Gettin Squirrely

I have a few things I could get worked up about, but I’m going to calm this one out. Someone tossed a rock through the driver’s side window on my car last night. It was parked at the commuter rail station. Nothing was taken. The local constables were predictably uninterested and useless. I don’t know what I pay $4 a day for, but it definitely isn’t a safe parking area. I only wish the emo freak that did it used a smaller rock. I guess they weren’t very strong because they had to use a cantaloupe sized bolder to get the task done. It dinged up the inside of the car more than I would have liked. I have given thought to cruising town today looking for teenagers to waterboard, but I will pass. Unrelated to broken glass, there is an article in the NYtimes today about the ‘everybody gets a trophy’ generation. Seems someone turned down a ‘dead end’ job paying $40g a year because he thinks he deserves the corner office. This is particularly irritable to me since I have a couple of unnamed and inadvertant connection to this child. I had a dead end insurance job once, it paid $26g a year. I worked nights at a grocery store for bender money. There were bills and loans and all sorts of good stuff to take care of. Eventually I made some connections (friends) and got some jobs that were a little better than the dead end insurance job. After reading about this dingdong’s plight, I have resolved to integrate this into job interview questions I ask. From now on, I am going to inquire about the nitty gritty jobs people leave off the resume and the dead end work they fought through. I work with some people who did some crappy work back in the day and they are by far the best people I have worked with. Anyone who sniffs of ‘deserving it’ is going to get an hour of verbal waterboarding and then a swift gtfo. But I’m not worried about that nonsense. It doesn’t affect me one bit. What I am interested in these days is Sciurus carolinensis, the eastern gray tree squirrel. Gray tree squirrels are able to jump a distance of ten times body length, rotate their ankles 180 degrees, and learn by observation through eyes that see as well peripherally as straight ahead. One of 278 species of squirrel, they outcompete inferior red and black squirrels everywhere they travel to. Why am I thinking about squirrels? Because these days, they give me great mental exercise. You see, M and I have a bird feeder. We’ve had one since we moved out to the woods here. Initially it was a $5 cheapo model, and this lasted a few years. We had a lot of birds. So many that we had to close the windows on weekend mornings because the sounds were too loud for extended sleep. There were chipmunks who scouted the feeder occasionally. I tried eradicating them and their holes with the infamous ‘chipper dipper’. Eventually I realized the rodents would keep coming like the red army at Stalingrad, so I took the dipper out of circulation. The old feeder eventually fell apart so we got another cheapo one this year. By mid april, it was already destroyed, covered in gnaw marks. Whatever was eating the seed also felt the need to eat the feeder itself. Maybe it was the fruit and nut blend that attracted the chipmunks, but it looked good to me so we bought it. In hindsight putting granola in a bird feeder is kind of silly, since it’s basically animal food, but I fell for the marketing. Now that the feeder was destroyed, we escalated. This time it was a metal feeder. It had a cage protecting the feeding posts. It weighed a ton. And food disappeared from it like there was a hole in the bottom. After a few days of this, I saw what was happening to the food. Chipmunks were jumping into the feeder and sitting in the seed tray and leisurely gorging themselves. I could chase them all day, but eventually they stopped being scared and practically did it in front of me. I rigged some extensions to make the feeder farther away from the chipmunk launching point. No luck. They are better jumpers than I realized. We were still getting birds, but they were mostly big jays that weren’t afraid of the chipmunks. None of the smaller colorful birds would go anywhere near the chippers. Several attempts at sealing off the fence into an unclimbable obstruction were useless, especially since I can only control our side of the fence and the neighbor’s side it still eminently climbable. When it came time for new bird seed, I moved over to the high stakes table. Since we were buying the expensive stuff, we needed better security. I remembered some tactics that we used back in L-town – namely smooth plastic obstacles that rendered highly evolved climbing claws useless. I decided on either sheet metal or lexan to cover the fence. M found some plastic ceiling light covers, like those seen in dentist offices all over the world. Perfect and at a fraction of the cost. Expensive seed and plastic sheet in hand we were ready to check out when something caught our eye – an item called a ‘squirrel log’. It’s a cylinder of compressed corn dust that you attach to something via a large screw. I figured I could give them an alternative, maybe broker a peace of sorts. I affixed squirrel log and plastic, loaded up the feeder and sat back to watch. Initially, it was a huge success. I saw the first chipmunk investigate the log. He took a sniff, then a nibble, then attacked with incisors blazing. The cylinder immediately took a bullet shape as more and more corn was removed. I gave it 3 days, tops, before I would need to reload. Eventually he got tired (or full) and moved on. It wasn’t until a few days later when I noticed I had a bigger problem than a little brown chipmunk. It hadn’t occurred to me that squirrels might be behind the attacks. Actually it had, but I just hadn’t seen any. I figured the woods were filled with easy food or better feeders, so why come after ours? This was a terrible miscalculation. While the feeder was far enough away from the fence to make it unobtainable by jumping, the pole the feeder was attached to was unguarded. I observed my enemy closely. It was a young squirrel, not very thick or furry. He would try climbing the fence, notice the obstruction, try to climb the plastic, fail, and then attempt a different route. This worked for a while until he realized he could climb an unprotected section of fence and simply walk across the top to get to the feeder. I planned for this and had erected a plastic bucket on top the feeder, open side up. This achieves two things. One, it is plastic and therefore unclimbable. Second, it is unstable and squirrels do not like climbing on things that feel like they are going to fall over. I howled with delight watching the young fella try and scale the bucket, only to tumble to the ground. I left for work, confident that I had won. It was only when M picked me up at the train that I learned my victory was temporary and the feeder was once again vulnerable. Undeterred, I took up an observation post and learned that he was using his miracle ankles and Olympian abdominal muscles to do some sort of inverted behind the back sit-up move while hanging off a thin metal pole. Since I cannot perform this maneuver, it hadn’t occurred to me that Mr. carolinensis would be able to, but I should have known better. Years ago, back in L-town, I saw some of the best of the breed in action. These were huge, tough monsters. For almost an entire summer I watched my parents apply years of accumulated engineering and renovating experience to the problem, only to find feeders ransacked day after day. I saw squirrel blood on sharp metal in the pursuit of seed. Endlessly flinging themselves off of shutters, trees, other squirrels, anything to get a single claw grip on a feeder to pull themselves up. More recently I observed a feeder that was affixed to glass by suction cups. Theoretically a squirrel cannot climb glass. But that knowledge did not deter the individual I saw. He figured that climbing a house and throwing himself against the glass was only one step closer to the seed and nut motherlode. A few years back there were accounts of a squirrel and tomato conflict down in the Philadelphia area. Reports came in of elaborate defenses and tenacious attacks, terrible interrogations and great atrocities, but the squirrels are never deterred, never discouraged. So today, sitting at home, waiting for the car glass man to call me back, I sit and observe again. I set my desk so I have a prime view of the battlefield. Early in the day there were several successful raids. After chasing them off I watched how the breached the defenses and have erected more. For the last hour the battle has been quiet. Perhaps they are seeking easier quarry, perhaps it is too hot for such games. (edit – I just caught him doing the sit-up thing again.. I missed the attack, but the new defenses are apparently useless... dammit) FYI - here’s the setup (the sock thing is another feeder the squirrels have no interest in):

“Wars may be fought with weapons, but they are won by men. It is the spirit of the men who follow and of the man who leads that gains the victory.”

The Next American Idol Judge

I would like to announce that I am in the running to be the next American Idol judge. Replacing Simon Cowell will be a big job, but I think I am up for it. I have a great appetite for terrible music and a chronic addiction to making fun of people for anything and everything that they have no control over. All the travel will be a strain on me, but I think M wil go along with it and we get the summer to prepare for the next round of additions. I’m excited at the prospect of joining the show and working with Randy, Kara and Ellen.

Unrelated to my future employer, M and I just got back from a lengthy stay in the great Canadian Rockies. As one traveler said at the Peyto Lake stop: “Mother nature doesn’t do it any better than this”. I have to agree. I can’t imagine many other places that could consistently fill me with awe and wonder. Great raw natural beauty and abundant wildlife made for an experience that made me happy and sad at the same time. Happy for obvious reasons, but sad because that joker was right – it’s not going to get much better than this. I have set myself up to be disappointed for years to come. This does not mean I regret going – quite the opposite. I am glad we saw it now while we are young and can remember it for years to come. This, as opposed to the hordes of older folks rolling around in motor homes, taking in these sights in their golden years. My eyes are probably better than theirs, so even though we were looking at the same thing I think I saw it better and will remember it for longer. We got to see all the animals from the guidebooks, but the most unexpected one was a porcupine. He was one of the coolest critters I have ever seen. Calgary and Phoenix were just ok as waystops on the trip. Phoenix was filled with people wearing similar outfits and Calgary was kind of a blah town. I’m not going to say much else about it here. Ridiculous, amazing, wonderful.

Our Canada car, a Hyundai Accent hatchback, was pretty cool. It was cheap and slow and rough on bumps, but it had potential. I’m a big fan of the hatchback. If M wanted to get set up in a VW GTI or Mini Cooper S or some other hot hatch, I would not be opposed to that.

There’s a mirror in the kebab house, a café near where I work. This is the greatest mirror on the planet. Most mirrors are pretty sweet because they contain such wonderful subject matter, but this one must have better lighting or something, because I always rock this mirror particularly hard. It’s tough ordering lunch there, so I bring lunch to avoid the awkwardness.