Man Martin's Blog, page 150

Flowchart for Hunting and Gathering

Sleep Deprivation

After a Few Days of Sleep Deprivation, I get a
little punch-drunkYesterday's blog was on the topic of sleep, and, by golly, so is today's.  You folks won't put up with this much longer, or I don't know my blog readers.  "Come up with something new, Man, besides sleep," I hear you cry.  (I have extraordinarily good hearing.)

Why would I write two blogs in a row on the topic of sleep?  I don't know where to begin.  "Dear Harry," I suppose is as good a way as any.

I go to bed around 9:00 and wake up around 5:00 to write these little gems.  Only as the week goes on, those numbers get rounder and rounder.  By mid-week 5:00 AM has rounded all the way out to 6:00.  By Thursday I'm getting a little punch drunk.

My system, or what I laughingly call a "system," is to sleep late Saturday and Sunday with a supplementary nap or two thrown in for good measure.  Monday, I'm rarin' to go again, but after a few days of withdrawals from the Sleep Bank, I find I'm overdrawn again.  (How's that for a metaphor, eh?  And that's when I'm tired.)

I don't have a ready solution for this.  The irony is, that as lazy as I am, I'm constantly working.  Maybe I'm just too lazy to stop.  In any case, please look on with a forgiving and indulgent eye if tomorrow's blog is also about sleep.

Fall

Fall is the Time for My Favorite Activity of All: SleepingI know we're not supposed to play favorites, but I've always had a special fondness for Fall.  Winter, let's face it, at least in Georgia, is enough to make one well nigh to an atheist.  Winters here are not picturesque: there are no snowy hillsides or ice-skating in the park.  Nope, it's just rain and muck.  Summer is the sort of season you look forward to more than you actually enjoy.  Somewhere around late July or early August, when puddles of sweat gather in the region of your fanny crack, you think to yourself, "This is what I was waiting for all year?"  Spring is nice, and probably when Spring comes I'll say that's my favorite, what with the dogwoods and azaleas coming into bloom.  But the mosquitoes come into bloom at the same time.

No, Fall is definitely my favorite.

Fall is the perfect time for my favorite activity: sleeping.  Is there a better time than a cool Fall morning to wake up, wait a few minutes in the darkness, close your eyes and go back to sleep?  It is heaven, I tell you.  Of course, I am a past-master at sleeping.  Some people just don't have the knack for it, but take it from me: when it comes to good sleeping weather, you can't beat Fall.

Fall is also the time when we set our clocks back, giving us an extra hour of glorious, dulcet sleep.
Yes, Fall is definitely best.

Postmortem Fitness

So you exercise thirty minutes a day, drink plenty of water, eat lots of fresh fruit and vegetables, and go easy on the processed food.  Good, good, good.  Then you die.  This poses a problem.
Within minutes after death, your cells burst open, emptying enzymes into your body, digesting it from within.  Then calcium builds up in your muscles, making them contract.  So far, you're thinking, pretty cool, right?  Between my body digesting itself and the muscle contraction of rigor mortis, my abs should be totally ripped.  But that phase only lasts a short while, and meanwhile you totally lose flexibility, which is one of the key components of personal fitness.  And then your body turns purple, then green, the flesh slowly liquefies, and all that's left is a skeleton.

All those hours on the elliptical machine wasted.

My concept is that immediately after death, we throw people into liquid acrylic.  When the acrylic hardens, the body will be sealed in a clear plastic cube, preserving it in a state of optimal freshness, like one of those paperweights with a butterfly inside.  You'd be dead, yes, but you'd still look good.  That's the important thing.

The Next Big Thing

There's only so much new technology a brain can absorb
before it begins to overflow.So we're at a dinner party the other night, and our hostess whips out this little gizmo and when she plays a tune on her smartphone, it broadcasts out of the gizmo, like a remote speaker.  I also learn that Pandora, which I thought was cutting edge, is actually somewhat old hat.  The new thing, or at least new to me, is spotify.  I had seen the word before on facebook, but wasn't sure what it meant or why I should give a damn.

All of which leads me to my grand theory, that there's just so much technology a human brain can absorb before it begins to overflow.  For a demonstration of this, take a one-cup measuring cup and pour in two-and-a-half cups of milk.  See the principle?  Now get a mop.

Suppose, like my grandmother, you were born in Montana when people still traveled in covered wagons.  With steam engines, you'll be perfectly conversant, even though there aren't any steam engines where you live, because, hey, it's Montana.  When the internal combustion engine comes along, you'll be ready for that one, too, because basically this is just a fancier kind of steam engine, right?  You'll chuckle at the older generation for referring to them as "horseless carriages," because they're so old-fashioned.  The word is car.  (Of course, when you get your first refrigerator, you'll still call it an "icebox.")  But when men go to the moon, you'll never really get your brain around it.  They'll tell you it happened, and show you the pictures, and you'll nod and smile, but it will always be something unreal to you, like something in a book.

This is how it is for me.  CDs I got because basically a CD was just a vinyl record only made out of plastic and aluminum.  Even iPods I get because basically an iPod is just a glorified walkman, right?  (For those of you who don't remember walkmans, ask your grandparents; they've probably still got one in a bottom drawer with their old fanny-packs.)  But now we're in an era when things are changing so quickly and in so many directions at once, I can't wrap my head around it.  We're going to the moon, and I still have a covered-wagon mind.

Pick Up Tips for Neanderthals

In 2010, scientists completed the first sequence of the Neanderthal genome using DNA extracted from fossils, and an examination of the genetic material suggested that modern humans' ancestors occasionally successfully interbred with Neanderthals. Recent estimates reveal that Neanderthal DNA makes up 1 percent to 4 percent of modern Eurasian genomes. - Huffington Post

So put yourself in this situation.  You see this hot Homo sapiens babe and you tell your pals, "I have got to mix my genetic material with that."  But how do you seal the deal?  One thing that definitely won't work is going up and saying, "For the love of Mother Earth, my species is dying out, and you may be my only chance to pass on some DNA."  Homo sapiens chicks pick up on little cues that make you sound desperate, and desperation is a real turn off.

Just as bad is the macho approach.  "You ever done it with a guy with a heavy brow-ridge?" or "Once neanderthal, never back, baby," are lines that just won't work on homo sapiens.  Maybe you think, "I'll just knock her over the head, drag her off somewhere, and mate with her whether she wants it or not," and that might work for a one-night stand, but unless you want her pounding your offspring flat with a rock later, you need to be more sensitive to her needs.

Homo sapiens women want a guy who can make them laugh.  This is a problem for neanderthals; because of our brain structure we don't really have a "sense of humor."  When a homo sapiens falls in the fire, the others laugh and laugh and seem to enjoy themselves.  Neanderthals are just worried that their friend is hurt.  When a homo sapiens says, "Knock, knock, who's there?  Oz.  Oz Trolopithicus," we neanderthals are too busy grappling with the concept of "knocking" to catch the punchline. 

So we have to make up for our lack of humor in other ways.  When a saber tooth tiger is about to chow down on a woman, or she's about to be trampled on by a mastodon, chase the tiger or mastodon away.  These little courtesies go a long way to making you desirable in her eyes.  Also, let her know just because you're a neanderthal, doesn't make you stupid.  Flashing a stone tool or even just a polished rock lets her know you're up on the latest technology.  If you bring her some meat from a fresh kill, sear it in the fire first.

Above all, be yourself.  Homo sapiens women can spot a phony a mile off and will head for the hills.  But a sincere, genuine neanderthal can win her heart.  Especially if he has stone tools, fire, and chases away mastodons.

Husbands On Other Planets

On Planet Kloon, the males are 1/132 the size of females
and spend their entire lives latched on by means of
specially-evolved sucker mouths. "They're basically all
just babies," one female complains, "only little." Planet Corozz-Zimm has no husbands. And no wives either.
During a do-it-yourself project, a male forgot to unplug
the neutron driver and vaporized the civilization.
"Forgot to put the seat down."  On Planet Merg-13, which has
two hundred times the gravity of earth, this simple discourtesy
can be calamitous.  
The females on Planet Xerx wait on their husbands hand
and foot, bringing them food, cleaning up after them,
not letting them lift a finger... and then eat them.

My Sports Pictures

I ran a triathlon last August.

I will wait for the guffaws of disbelief to die down.

As I said, I ran a triathlon in August, and every morning, I see my race number sitting on the dresser top.  On the bottom of the number is a website I can visit in case I want to order pictures.  So far, I haven't had the nerve.

Let me explain.

Every picture anyone's ever taken of me running a race turns out exactly the same.  There I am, in my glory, wind in my hair face, looking pumped, fit, and buff, but then, crossing the tape in front of me - every time - is a little girl.  This is not meant to be sexist or ageist or anything else, but it wounds the pride of a full-grown man when at his moment of triumph, he is clearly being outrun by a twelve-year-old.  And, okay, it also stings that she happens to be a girl.

I do not know why I have been singled out for this indignity, or how the race officials contrive to make this happen.  Approaching the finish line, I have scan my surroundings, assuring myself they are free of little girls, but then when I get the picture, there she is again.  They are too careful to use the same little girl every time.  Perhaps it's being done by the photographer himself in post-production; he photo-shops the girl in before posting the picture on the web.

Meanwhile, somewhere in cyberspace, my pictures are waiting for me to check them out.  Let them wait.

Commandments for the 21st Century

I. Thou shalt not be a BUTT-HOLE.  This is the first and greatest commandment.  On this hang all the other commandments.

II. When thou art at a fast-food restaurant, thou shalt make thy decision before thou arrivest at the counter.  Thou shalt not keep others waiting while thou makest up thy mind, for thou hast known of this restaurant all thy life, and of all the things therein that are good to eat.  For to do otherwise is to be a BUTT-HOLE.

III. Thou shalt not play thy car radio at ear-numbing levels, for the people of the land wish not to hear it.  Thou mayest even drum thy hands on the steering wheel and sing along in the privacy of thy car, and do all such things as make thy heart glad, but turn thou the volume to a reasonable level.  To do otherwise is to be a BUTT-HOLE.

III. Thou shalt not speak on thy cell phone while driving, neither shalt thou put on make-up or skim a newspaper.  For it has been ordained that whilst thou drive, thou mayest only drive and no other thing.  Phone calls, make-up, and reading thou mayest do when thou art not driving.  To do otherwise is to be a BUTT-HOLE.

IV. Thou shalt cover thy mouth when thou coughest in this manner: raise thou thy arm to thy face and cough into the crook of thy elbow.  To do otherwise is to be a BUTT-HOLE.

V. When the almond milk is almost gone, thou shalt simply drink the rest of it.  Thou shalt not leave an eighth of an inch in the bottom, and leave it in the refrigerator, but this is not consideration as thou deceivest thyself in thy heart, but just being lazy.  Moreover, it is to be a BUTT-HOLE.

VI. When thou walkest thy dog, thou shalt not leave his poop out in the open where anyone can step on it, for this is to be a BUTT-HOLE.

VII. When thou parkest thy car, thou shalt not take two parking spaces even though thou fearest mightily thy car will be scratched.  Park thy car within the white lines and leave room for other drivers.  To do otherwise is to be a BUTT-HOLE.

VIII. Except thou be at a club or bar where such behavior is deemed appropriate, thou shalt not carry on loud conversations in public with friends or on the cell phone, for example at the grocery store.  For the people of the land wish not to hear about thy private life and having everyone know thy business does not make thee a more interesting person.  Heed well this commandment, or thou art a BUTT-HOLE.

IX.  Except thou be in a crowded elevator or where such behavior is unavoidable, thou shalt not stand no closer than four feet away from strangers or others thou knowest not well.  To do otherwise is to be a BUTT-HOLE.

X. Except in private places where such behavior is deemed appropriate, thou shalt not smooch or slobber all over thy beloved, neither shalt thou touch them in thy private parts, even thou such things make thy heart glad, for the people of the land wish not to be a witness to it.  Wait until thou gettest home.  To do otherwise is to be a BUTT-HOLE.

Road Signs You Are Unlikely To See