Man Martin's Blog, page 137

Shoes

I Believe Similar Conditions Could Be Caused by a
Precipitation of Fashionable Women's ShoesThe other day Nancy dropped me off somewhere as she went to run errands, with a vow she'd be back to get me "around a quarter 'til noon."  I will point out that Nancy's errands, as far as I could tell, were of a personal nature, whereas my business was strictly humanitarian: rescuing orphans from a burning building, if I recall.

I had told her I expected to be wrapped up with the orphans by eleven-thirty, but she was confident it would take at least forty-five minutes.  So she drove off and left me.

As I watched her tail lights disappear, I silently prayed, "Please don't let there be shoes."

Forgive me if the rest of this blog seems sexist, but in the spirit of honesty I must tell you my wife - like many other women, so I've been told - loses all sense of time when in the presence of shoes.  I have seen her walk through a department store at a reasonable clip and then passing by a display of shoes be sucked in like a hapless spaceship into a Black Hole.  For this very reason, I no longer go to department stores with her, or if I absolutely must, it will be after a promise we will not go near the shoe department.  I have seen my own despair reflected in the haunted eyes of my fellow men who have gone to the store only to have a one-hour shopping trip drag on into an entire afternoon because of their wives' helpless fascination with shoes.  Again, if this sounds sexist, so be it.

Atlanta is just now recovering from a snow storm which iced over the highways to such an extent, 85 was at an absolute standstill, and many motorists spent the entire night in their cars.  I believe similar conditions could be created if a sufficient number of fashionable women's shoes were to precipitate over the city.

To give just one perfectly factual example, my wife patronizes a shoe store, the name of which eludes me, where they give her a little punch-card.  You know the sort of thing I mean, like at a sandwich shop, where they punch a card every time you get a sandwich, and then the tenth sandwich is free.  Think of the weirdness of this.  Reasonably, having eaten a sandwich on Monday, you might need another on Tuesday, but having bought one pair of shoes, how soon could you expect to need another, short of climbing the Himalayas or growing an extra pair of feet?  And by the time you'd worn out enough shoes to fill an entire punch-card , surely all the ice caps would have melted and the mountains sunken into plains.  And yet Nancy has redeemed her punch-card several times.

The mind reels.

Well, you'll be glad to know, Nancy was not late picking me up; she was there to pick me up at exactly a quarter 'til.  As a matter of fact, I was the one who kept her waiting.

But we're not talking about me.  We're talking about her.

The Chicken Whisperer

That's my reputation around the neighborhood.  I have other reputations, too, but some of them I'm forbidden by court injunction to mention.

So how does one go about being a chicken whisperer?  Well, first of all, you need to get a chicken.  Some people think they can do without this step, but they're only fooling themselves.  Oh, sure, a guy like that gets along fine for a while, but pretty soon people notice he's whispering without a chicken around.  You know what they call a chicken whisperer that doesn't have a chicken?  A loony.

Next step is you got to be able to whisper.  Fortunately, this part comes easy for most people, but there are some exceptions.  One guy I know taught his bantams the entire melody of "Don't Worry Be Happy."  He'd misunderstood and was trying to be a Chicken Whistler.  Chicken Whittler is even worse.

Now that you got a chicken and you know how to whisper, you might notice chickens don't have ears!  Well, they do, but they're just kind of hard to find.  The ears are on the head just behind the eyes.  If you're not sure you've found the ear, try this simple test.  Put your lips right up to the head and softly say, "Testing, testing... TESTING!"  If the chicken squawks and tries to get away, you've found the ear.  If not, you're speaking to the wrong body part or else possibly have a deaf chicken.

The secret everyone wants to know is, what do you say to a chicken once you're got its attention?  My neighbors frequently ask, "What the hell are you saying to that chicken?"  Normally I just smile and say, "That's between me and ol' Egg Momma."  But now I'm ready to spill the beans.  First, never tell a chicken about recent movies you've seen or what it's like to drive a car or have opposable thumbs.  These comments will only make the chicken feel unhappy and inadequate.  Your whispers must be something the average chicken can relate to.  Sometimes I just say "buck-buck-bacaw," only very softly.  Other times, I'll say, "Get a load of these squirrels.  They think they own the joint!"   Or I might say, "If you crap on the patio one more time, I have just three little words.  Coq au vin."

I have seen chickens desultory, bedraggled, chickens living lives of quiet desperation, chickens who asked themselves, "What's the point, I mean, what's the damn point of it all."  Chickens who'd reached the end of their rope.  And then, after a few days of whispering, these same chickens would act as if they had a new lease on life, chickens determined to live every second to its fullest.  Chickens who went for the gusto.

That's the magic of Chicken Whispering.

Dog-Dang You, Stephen Hawking!

Stephen Hawking says that Black Holes do not exist.  I will repeat that.  Stephen Hawking says Black Holes do not exist.

To be clear, if you're wondering whether massive gravitational bodies capable of curving space-time into a cosmic bathtub drain which if you got too close, will suck you helplessly in and atomize you, well yes, those things exist.  Thank goodness.  But Hawking says they can no longer be considered Black Holes; they are at most Very Dark Gray Holes or possibly Navy Blue Holes.

I do not object to science changing its mind; that, after all, is the nature of science.  First they say Gravity is the opposing force to Levity.  Then they say it's a mysterious force capable of acting at a distance by the rule of the inverse square.  Then they say it's the curvature of space time.  Next they'll say it's because the surface of the earth happens to be very, very sticky.  Fine.  Or first they say there's no such things as mermaids, they're biologically impossible.  Then they say, hey wait, we have actual video evidence of real mermaids and we'll show it right after the commercial break.  Then they say, don't believe them, mermaids are stupid, those weren't even real scientists, just exotic dancers in lab coats pretending to be scientists, no scientist has cleavage like that.  Okay.

This is the give-and-take we expect from the scientific community.

Just don't take away my Black Holes.

This is not the first time science has done this to me.  When I was a kid, my favorite dinosaur was the brontosaurus.  Everyone has their favorite, I know.  For a lot of people it's the tyrannosaur, but I always thought that one was kind of showy.  It's like saying your favorite Sno-Cone flavor is Cherry.  Big Whoop.  I'd take almost anything over a tyrannosaur: pterodactyl, ankylosaurus, hadrosaurus, but the brontosaurus was my favorite.

I remember the day my mother broke the news to me.  There is no such thing as a brontosaurus, she said.  There never was.  A lazy paleontologist had put the skull of one dinosaur onto the body of another.  To imagine how I felt, think of a little child, innocent and dewy, being told there is no Santa Claus, that the reason people thought there was a Santa Claus was because they'd taken the skull of one person and put it on the body of another.  Stephen Gould was there and put his arm around my shoulder, "Cheer up little man," he said.  He wasn't calling me by name, he was just being patronizing.  "Sure, you've lost the brontosaurus, but now we have raptors.  You'd never even heard about raptors!"  This only made me cry harder.  As far as I'm concerned, a raptor is just a sportier model of a tyrannosaur.

It hurt, but I took that hurt and buried it deep inside.  And then one day.  They told me Pluto wasn't a planet.

I guess everyone can tell you exactly where he was and what he was doing when he heard the news Pluto isn't a planet.  For me, I was on a MARTA train heading downtown.  I'd just stepped on some gum, and was looking at the sole of my shoe, formulating the nascent idea that maybe gravity is just because the earth is sticky.  Then I looked up and saw the newspaper someone was reading.  PLUTO NOT A PLANET!!!  screamed the headline.  I told myself it was a misprint, a hoax, but everyone in the subway was reading the same newspaper, and all the headlines said the same thing.
I rode the MARTA to the end of the line and got off in a daze at the airport.  Without thinking, I boarded a plane for Buenos Aires.  When I got off the plane, I just began walking, not even caring where I was going.  I didn't stop until I was staring across Cape San Pio towards Antarctica.  I was so numbed, I'd completely missed my stop.

You see, of all the planets, Pluto was my favorite.  Everyone else would say Saturn, sure, Saturn, the tyrannosaur of planets.  (Jupiter, in case you were thinking of correcting me, is the gigantosaurus of planets.)

And now Stephen Hawking has taken away my Black Holes.  Yes, I still have supernovas, and red dwarfs, and binary star systems.  But Black Holes were my favorite.

Dog-dang you, Stephen Hawking, dog-dang you to eternal heck.

Living Among Southerners, a Survival Guide

A Yankee Who Refused the Neighbor's Pound CakeAs part of my on-going public service to Yankees who have transplanted to the South, I offer the following survival guide.  Many Yankees who live in Atlanta believe this is the South.  It is not.  It is certainly further South than, say, Miami, but Atlanta is not the South.  Nevertheless, many Southerners do live here, and if you travel from Atlanta sixty miles in any direction, you will find yourself in the South.  By and large, Southerners are gentle, docile creatures.  However, they can be dangerous if riled.  Avoid the following common pitfalls.

When seeing anyone, anyone, whether it be a cashier, a cop, or just some stranger walking a dog, you are expected to make eye contact, nod your head, and greet them.  You do not need to stop what you are doing or engage in actual conversation, but you must say something along the lines of "Hey," "Hi, there," "Nice day," or "How's it going?"  IF YOU FAIL TO DO THIS, YOU WILL BE HUNTED DOWN AND KILLED.

When dining at someone's house, the cook will make a remark such as, "I just hope it's fit to eat," or "The gravy came out a little thick."  On no account are you to agree with her, rather you are to rave about the deliciousness of everything - even if there are beets - and to get second helpings of everything no matter how full you are.  IF YOU DO NOT DO THIS, YOU WILL BE HUNTED DOWN AND KILLED.

When in your car, you must keep your radio volume at such a level that only those inside the car can hear, provided the windows are up and the top is not down.  Other motorists should not be able to hear what you have on the radio at stoplights or gas stations, no matter how much you enjoy the song or how much you want to share it with the world, or how great you think your sound system is.  FAILURE TO MAINTAIN ACCEPTABLE VOLUME WILL RESULT IN BEING HUNTED DOWN AND KILLED.

If shown pictures of someone's infant, you are to behave as if you have just seen a child of unearthly beauty.  Comments such as "Your kid looks like a monkey" even if meant in a joking spirit, even if technically accurate, must be avoided at all costs.  If you wish, your voice may rise an octave above its natural pitch and you may resort to baby talk to describe this wondrous infant, but I repeat - all negative comments, such as "Do you know who the father is?" must not be said aloud.  IF YOU FAIL TO COMPLY, YOU WILL BE HUNTED DOWN AND KILLED.

If a neighbor brings over a pound cake or a casserole or any comestible whatsoever, you are to accept it with a pleased smile and comments such as "It looks wonderful" or "You shouldn't have."  You may not ask questions such as "Is this gluten free?" or make personal comments such as "I don't do carbs," or "I'm lactose intolerant" or "I'm diabetic."  You are to take the food into your house with every sign of delight and later are to comment to your neighbor how delicious it was.  FAILURE TO DO THIS WILL RESULT IN BEING HUNTED DOWN AND KILLED.

An Excerpt From My Forthcoming History of The United States: Back Then

Back Then
Chapter One
The Beginning
The Truth Is, Only a Very Small Percentage
of Native Americans Behaved This Way.    So what were things like, "back then?"  A lot like things are now, right?  Wrong.  You might be surprised to know things were actually very, very different, and not just because instead of "2013" or "2014," the calendars said, "1652" or something, or going even further back, "55 BC;" no things were different in all sorts of ways.  Even the people were different.  Don't be fooled by Disney movies like Pocahontas; sure they might be historically accurate, but the people in those things are a whole lot better looking than they really were.  People back then were ugly.  If you don't believe me, look at some old photographs.  Like, look at pictures from the 1980's: not too bad, right?  Then look at some from the 1970's, and it's whoa.  Then the 1950's and '40's, if you can even stand looking at those people.  Then extrapolate the trend back to before there were cameras at all, which was, I guess, 1935 or something, and you can begin to imagine how ugly people must have been.
     Anyway, before there were us, there were Indians.  You probably knew that already, but I bet you didn't know they didn't call themselves Indians.  They called themselves Native Americans.  The white settlers thought these people were blood-thirsty savages who wanted nothing but to cover themselves in mud and collect scalps from their screaming victims.  And actually, it's true, a few Native Americans were that way, a very few.  In any population, there's bound to be a few people who cover themselves in mud and collect scalps.  That's just statistics.  But the percentage of Native Americans who did that was tiny, no more than ten to fifteen percent.  All the rest were simple people who wanted nothing but to live in harmony with nature and worship the Great Spirit and share their (relatively) sexy wives with honored guests and smoke peace pipes.  But the original white settlers did not understand this because they saw Native Americans only in broad stereotypes.  Now this once proud people runs casinos.
     The white settlers were religious fanatics who believed sex was dirty and depraved and that God wanted people to remain virgins as long as they could possibly stand it.  This belief makes more sense when you recall how ugly people were back then.  They believed every word of the Bible was literally true, especially the parts in Leviticus where it mentions killing off gays and Native Americans.  
     Fortunately, once the nation got established, they got around to dedicating it to various propositions and when everyone had a mortgage and two cars in the garage, people began to see how badly their great-grandparents had treated the Native Americans and felt really bad about it, and also the slavery thing, which I forgot to mention.  And by the way, if you thought people back then had stereotypes about Native Americans, it was nothing compared to their stereotypes about blacks, but thank goodness, that's behind us now.  
     Anyway, like I was saying, once we all got comfortable and settled in, we began to study history - which people didn't study back then because they were in history - and we realized how mean and greedy and short-sighted and bigoted those people were back then, and were shocked they ever could have been that way because we never would have acted like that, and we felt really, really angry about it.  
     But by then there wasn't anything we could do about it, because it was too late.

I Refuse to Blog About Snow

Yes, I Know All About It.
But I'll be Damned if I'll Blog About It.There are two inches of snow outside, which in Atlanta is enough to bring civilization as we know it to its knees.  But I'll be damned if I'll succumb to temptation like every other thimble-head blogger out there and blog about having a snow day.  Yes, I'm getting an unexpected day off.  Yes, snow covers everything like a white blanket lending a charm to the mundane world.  Yes, yes, yes, yes, blah, blah, blah, blah.  But I refuse to blog about it.

Instead I intend to blog about the Book of Job.  Snow Day.

Of all the books in the Bible, the Book of Job, Snow Day, presents the most challenges to a naive approach to faith.  The story begins as God Snow Day encounters the Devil Snow Day and asks if he "has considered my servant Job" Snow Day who is "righteous."  Snow Day.  Satan Snow Day, who in this story Snow Day seems more of a prosecuting Snow Day attorney than our traditional concept Snow Day of the Devil Snow Day as a tempter Snow Day (unless we consider him Snow Day a tempter Snow Day of God Snow Day Himself) responds that Job Snow Day is only righteous Snow Day because God Snow Day has offered him a sort of Snow Day quid pro Snow Day Snow Day Snow Day Snow Day Snow.

Snow Day Snow Day Snow Day Snow Day Snow Day.

Snow Day.

Why Do I Have This Penguin on My Head? I'm Glad You Asked

Why do I have this penguin on my head?  Well, I'm glad you asked.

This is not a fashion statement, nor a protest over the exploitation of penguins in "cute penguin" videos you see on Facebook.  I am wearing this penguin under doctor's orders.

Yes, this is a Medical Penguin.
While controversial, the use of Medical Penguins has gained wider acceptance for a variety of symptoms such as migraine, male-pattern baldness, and hoof-in-mouth disease.  This is not to say that Prescription Penguins are without their side-effects.  Penguins have cold feet, and their fecal matter - while rich in health-giving fish oils - must be shampooed out daily and can stain the shirt collar.  Dry mouth, uncontrollable sexual urges, thoughts of suicide, changes in behavior, impulsive gambling are other potential side-effects.  My doctor said if I had an erection lasting more than four hours, I should contact him right away, but I think he was asking for personal reasons of his own.

Many of these same symptoms may also affect the penguin.  In fact, recently I have learned that the penguin on my head is there under orders from a zoo veterinarian.  Frankly, I'm beginning to worry we've both been sold a bill of goods.

Which brings us back to the question, why I have a penguin on my head in the first place.  Like many existential questions - why do we fall in love, why do we live and die, why do we have penguins on our heads - the answers both simple and complex.

I have a penguin on my head because if I didn't, you'd have to find a different question to ask.

I have a penguin on my head because I have a penguin on my head.

It's none of your business why I have a penguin on my head, now go away.

I have a penguin on my head?  Oh my God, I thought it was a puffin!

In truth, I cannot know just why I have a penguin on my head any more than I can know the answers to other conundrums - Is there a God? What is the destiny of humankind?  Where did I put my glasses?  These questions and others must go forever unanswered, b all have penguins on our heads?
ut in a broader sense, don't we

Body Language

Body Language Can Let You Know
How Others Feel About YouKnowing how to read body language is an essential skill.  Experts say that communication is fifteen percent verbal and ninety percent nonverbal.  The other five percent is mumbling.

For example, if you're talking to someone and he yawns, checks the time on his cellphone, and begins reading the newspaper, did you know he might not be interested in what you had to say?

Or suppose you saw a bunch of dead bodies arranged to spell NO TRESSPASSING.  That's an unusual form of body language, but it would behoove you to read it.  It would also behoove you not to mention the misspelling of "trespassing."

Hands are an important part of body language.  If a person turns his hands outward with palms open, we call that "being open."  Raising your hands over your head as if reaching for the sky is called, "I give up."  If a person sticks his hands in your mouth, it may mean you're at the dentist.  If he puts his hands around your throat and squeezes, he may be trying to kill you.  These are useful things to know.

Eye contact is another form of body language which is very complex.  It's so complex, I don't know anything about it.  I recommend avoiding eye contact with anybody.  The surface of the eye is very sensitive and apt to injury if it touches something or someone.  Instead of making eye contact with someone, try just looking at them.  Look at their eyes, if you want.  Just a suggestion.

You can also use your body to demonstrate affection.  I knew some people with a dachshund who did this all the time.  Whenever I was there, he would use body language on my leg to show affection.  He was so affectionate, I had to use body language of my own to make him stop.

Great Quotations that Aren't

The Bigger They Are,
The More Likely You'll Get
an Ass-WhuppingAnything that doesn't kill you outright, will probably leave you emotionally scarred for life.

A bird in the hand is likely to claw and peck until you let go.

If you can't beat them, slip risin into their coffee and they'll never know what hit them.

The bigger they are, the more likely you are to get an ass-whupping.  In fact, the "they" part of that is especially troubling.  Just how big are they and how many?

You can't fight city hall; you can only phone in bomb threats and hope they see the error of their ways.

Be careful what you wish for.  For example, wishing to find a kodiak bear in your bedroom is a really big mistake.

Blood is thicker than water, which is why you should probably hydrate with water unless you're a vampire or something.

Don't throw the baby out with the bathwater, so when you're throwing out the bathwater and there's something lumpy in there that screams, it's probably a baby.

The Author Interviews Himself (With Apologies to Durwood Fincher)