Man Martin's Blog, page 154

On the Inverse Relationship of Sex Appeal Between Drivers and Their Cars

So I see these fancy sports cars driving along Maseratis, Delirium Tremens, Ferraris, and whatever, and every time the guy driving is some old geezer.  Like me, only older and geezerier.  So you got this sleek, sexy chassis, with an engine that can go zero to mach 1 in two seconds (of course, it's on 285, so what's the point?) but the guy driving looks like a hard-boiled egg in eyeglasses.

This leads me to my important ground-breaking theory on the inverse relationship between the sex appeal of drivers and their cars.

As you can see by the chart, young guys who are studly and in their prime, drive beat-up hatchbacks and old PT Cruisers, because that's what they can afford.  Every once in a while, someone will have enough scratch for a jeep, but mostly hatchbacks and PT Cruisers, like I said.  By the time your bank account has swollen to the point you can pop for your dream car, the people make Ax Cologne and publish Maxim have long since given up on you, and you're getting mail from AARP.  And reading it.

As brilliant as this theory seems, there is one flaw I can detect.  I, at this moment, look not unlike a hard-boiled egg in glasses.  Not quite, but almost.  Imagine a hard-boiled egg that still has some hair.  By my analysis, I should be driving a Mustang at the very least, and yet I drive a Rav 4, possibly the lamest vehicle outside of the P T Cruiser itself.

What gives?

Middle Names

I worry that today's modern a-go-go parents with their twitter-woofs and their google-dangles, are not giving the careful consideration they should to the important tradition naming their offspring.  This is particularly true in the matter of middle names.  I write this because I now perceive Nancy and I have made a terrible blunder in naming our own children, a mistake it is now far too late to undo, and I wish to save other parents from a similar error.

My daughters, by the way, are Catherine Lee and Spencer Helen.

Nothing wrong with those names, you say, they look perfectly fine.  That's the problem.
At one time in our nation's proud history, you could count on the middle name to be something really awful and embarrassing.  It was like the gunk crack between the stove and the counter top, the owner kept it hidden out of a decent sense of shame.
In a bygone era, middle names ensured
everyone had at least one shameful secret
Middle names for boys might be Virgil, Percy, or Gaylord; for girls it was Eugenia, Agnes, or Blanche.  Winifred, I believe, could be used for either sex.  The middle name was not chosen willy-nilly from a book 1000 Truly Awful Names for Baby, but was imposed on the parents to appease some crotchety old ancestor who never had children of her own, perhaps because her name was Hortense.  Everyone understood the middle name was an abomination, and we liked it that way.

The great thing about the middle name is it meant everyone had at least one shameful secret.  You knew when you heard somebody's mother hollering, "Wayne Periwinkle Brown, come home this instant!"  Wayne was in for it.  Even the kid everyone hated because he was so popular was somewhat redeemed by the knowledge that he had some terrible middle name he would not reveal even under torture.

As I say, it is too late for me and Nancy.  Our children are grown and moved out, and we wouldn't be able to wrestle them down and re-brand them if we tried.  But maybe it's not too late for you.  Maybe it's not too late.

Traffic

I follow all local Atlanta traffic rulesThe Atlanta DOT keeps nagging me to come up with a solution for the traffic problems here in Atlanta.  In case you don't know their previous solution is building more lanes.  As I write this, I believe that 285 has twelves lanes in some places.  Surely this should be enough.  It isn't.

There are many solutions to the traffic mess, the most practical of which is to encourage more people to use public transportation.  Ha ha!  Just kidding!

Seriously, though, everyone agrees the problem is too many cars.  More specifically, too many of other people's cars.  My car is never a problem and I never drive anywhere that I don't urgently need to be, for example work, or to go buy some Breyer's Banana Split Ice Cream.  (Parenthetically, have you ever noticed how hard it is spelling banana?  That word is a regular black hole.  I typed it three times trying to get the right number of "anas.")

One idea might be to stagger work-shift times, so everyone in Atlanta didn't leave the house at the same time.  For example I am a teacher.  If I left home around 11:00, this would give me ample time to sleep for the busy day ahead, and I could work until three.  Administrators and principals could be at school from 3:30 until just shy of midnight.  The children would have run of the place from midnight until about 8:00 AM.  Everybody wins.

But since no one's going for that idea, what I propose is a city-wide reckless driving day.  Normally, of course, I obey all Atlanta driving rules - observing the legal speed limit (which is the posted speed limit plus seven and a half miles) treating flashing lights like stop signs (that is, slowing to an almost-stop, and then zipping through them) and changing lanes after carefully nudging my bumper across the dotted line to see if anybody honks their horn at me.)  But on Reckless-Driving Day, it's anything goes.  Go twenty-five miles an hour on the Interstate so you can finally savor all those humorous Eat Mor Chickin billboards, drive to work backwards to see if you can reduce the odometer reading on your leased Mercedes, play "pedestrian tag."  This would effectively reduce the number of cars and drivers on the road, alleviating greatly Atlanta's traffic congestion.

Another alternative is carpooling.

Ha ha.  Just kidding again.

Swedish Icthyologists Tell People Not to Be Alarmed over "Ball-Cutter" Fish

An exotic pacu has been caught in Sweden’s Oresund Sound.  Biologist Henrik Carl is quoted as saying, “The pacu has quite a serious bite… There have been incidents in other countries, such as Papua New Guinea, where some men have had their testicles bitten off.”  Carl acknowledged that such instances are extremely rare.  He confessed that “there’s nothing to worry about” and that Swedish swimmers are more likely to drown than being bitten in a sensitive area by a pacu. - Pete Thomas
Actually a more serious worry than pacus, is earwigs.  With pacus, just wear your swimsuit and you're probably fine  Earwigs will climb up in your ears at night and lay their eggs in your brain.  This is pure scientific fact.  Also bats.  Some people think bats getting tangled up in your hair is just a wives' tale, but it's not.  There've been documented cases of people, especially those with long hair, having bats so inextricably tangled, they had to get their heads entirely shaved.  Bats are almost unbelievably stupid when it comes to hair.  If you must wear your hair long, I suggest you stay in at night or else wear protective headgear, like a stovepipe hat or a baseball helmet.  
As far as sewer-gators, I think New York is finally taking steps to get these under control, but now there are reports of sewer-gator activity in almost every state in the union.  People brought home baby gators as pets and thoughtlessly flushed them down the toilet when they got too big.  Look before you take a seat on the porcelain throne, don't get too close to storm drains, and for God's sake, don't dangle dead chickens over open manholes.  That's just asking for it.  

And Snurks, let's not forget about Snurks.  Remember being a kid, and being terrified to get out of bed at night because there might be something under your bed that bit off toes.  Well, those things are real.  They're called Snurks, and they're prevalent as dust mites only much larger and voracious.  Typically they only go after the toes of naughty children who don't brush their teeth or say their prayers, but you never can tell.  I recommend thoroughly brushing your teeth at night and make sure you pee before you go to bed.  There's nothing worse than lying shivering under the covers, needing to take a pee, but being terrified to get out of bed for fear there's a Snurk under there.

A Freedom Worker Explains

Dean Clancy wants you to burn your Obamacare draft card. That there’s no such thing as an Obamacare draft card is, at best, only a small problem.  Clancy is a vice president at FreedomWorks, where he has spent years fighting President Obama’s health-care law. - Sarah Kliff, Washington Post
Basically the whole thing is like the Vietnam war protests where people burned their draft cards.  The only difference is, instead of not going off to war, we don't want to be insured.  Also, there aren't any actual Obamacare cards, so we have to print our own.  But that doesn't mean we're trivializing the Vietnam protests.  This is serious.  Really.  In those days, if you didn't want to be drafted you could go to Canada.  But that won't work in this situation.  Canada's got even more access to healthcare than we do.  And it's in French.  It's crazy.  The other difference is, frankly, those Vietnam protesters were a bunch of hippies.  Sure, we romanticize them now, but the fact is they were largely to blame for getting us out of a war we definitely could have won.  Don't take my word for it, just watch First Blood.  And that was one man.  In our case, we're not hippies but respectful clean-cut (for the most part) patriots standing up for our precious God-given rights not to participate in an intrusive government program that's going to ram insurance down our throats whether we like it or not.  It's already too late for automobiles, do you want them to do the same thing to our bodies?  I mean, can you believe the government forces us to insure our cars?  It's an individual's right to decide whether he gets insurance or not.  Think how much more careful everyone would drive if they knew half the cars out there didn't have insurance.  An uninsured society is a polite society.

So to recap, if you're not a hippie but just an idealist who doesn't want insurance and doesn't want to go to Canada - which would only make the situation worse - and if you think First Blood totally rocks, and if you'd like to see them repeal automobile insurance, then we urge you to print up an Obamacare card and set fire to it.  But be careful, we wouldn't want you to burn yourself.  You're not insured.

Do You Intend to Sit There All Day: FAQ

1. Do you intend to sit in there all day?

The pursuit of my vocation, Creative Genius, requires a certain amount of sedentary time the layperson might mistake for "inactivity."  This dormant period allows time for the mental processes to operate and inspirational juices to flow.  Be assured, even when you don't see me actually "working," even if I seem to be playing "minesweeper" or even snoozing, the old cerebrum is busily mining the unconscious for new material.  But no, I will not be here all day, at most twelve to eighteen hours.

2. What are you going to do about that mess?

Please define the words "do" and "mess."

3. I'm talking about the coffee spills and the popcorn crumbs you've spilled between the cushions, not to mention the raisins.

Studies have shown that coffee increases blood flow to the brain, thereby stimulating creative thought.  Moreover, coffee-drinkers have more active sex-lives than non-coffee drinkers, a matter I intended to discuss with you later.  Inevitably, in the coffee-drinking process a certain amount is regrettably spilled.  The spillage, however, is relatively minimal, and I am drinking most of it, if that's your concern.  As for the popcorn, I believe that was left over from my work period yesterday afternoon.  Popcorn is a tasty low-calorie snack, and while it may have no direct benefits, creativity-wise, I like eating it.  Regarding the raisins, you said not to mention those.  I believe this is a wise policy.

4. Is there anything I can do to help you, Oh Great Creative One?

Now that you mention it, there is.  About noontime, I would like a sandwich.  Turkey with lettuce tomato and mayonnaise would be perfectly satisfactory.  I believe we have some sliced turkey and even some tomato in the refrigerator, but I'm pretty sure we're out of bread.  Don't worry, though, you have plenty of time to pop over to the store and get some before lunch.  Also, some chips would be nice.  And we're out of raisins.  And you'd needn't address me as Oh Great Creative One.  There is nothing special about me, I am merely an ordinary mortal who happens to be a conduit for a brilliant fiery muse.  You can call me honey or darling as you always have.

Survival Tips from an Expert

People ask me all the time for my secret of survival.  More specifically, they ask, "How are you still alive?"  In today's blog, I will share my survival secrets in two examples of what others would consider "extreme" scenarios.

"Survival Mode"Running the Bulls.  Each year between 200 and 300 people are injured running the bulls in Pamplona, Spain, and now far-sighted entrepreneurs are bringing this sport to Georgia!  In October, Georgia rednecks will get to experience the thrills formerly reserved to a few Spanish rednecks, or, as they say in Spanish, cuellos rojos.  How, you ask, can I escaped unscathed, from this melee?  The solution is simple.  First, I have a very good pair of running shoes and comfortable socks.  This is key.  Secondly, I wear Under Armor brand tee-shirts and shorts for maximum comfort.  Third, and this is most important, I will do my running in Atlanta, Georgia.  The bulls will be released in Conyers.  I may even be in the gym if it's raining.

Naked and Afraid.  A reality show drops two contestants - a man and a woman - in the jungle with nothing, not even clothes, to see if they can survive.  Piece of cake.  First of all, I'd make use of half a decade's worth of wood-lore knowledge picked up at summer camps: how to make s'mores, where to find really icky bugs in rotted logs, the story where the maniac leaves his metal hook in the car door.  Then I'd reach deeper into the accumulated knowledge of mankind, which, over thousands of years has erected mighty civilizations, complete with sanitary drinking water, comfortable dry living conditions, ample nourishing food, and clothes.  Then I would apply what millions of years of evolution have provided our species - the true survival instinct which keeps normal, healthy people from taking stupid risks.  I'd stay home, fully clothed.

How Does She Know?

My pal, Chris Bundy, pooh-poohs the intelligence of dogs.  I do not see how he can fairly do this because he does not own a dog.  Here, though, is yet one more piece of evidence of - if not canine's intelligence, at least their tremendous powers of observation and sensitivity to what humans are up to.

I get up earlier than Nancy and write and drink coffee.  Every day during the summer, Zoe would get up with me, at least insofar as she would leave the bedroom and come into where I was and lie down.  This week, she stopped doing that.  The reason, I'm back in school.  How does she know?

I still get up the same time as I always have.  I haven't been dressing differently because it's still pre-planning and the kids haven't arrived back.  The only thing I can imagine is, I've started showering in the morning, but last night I took my shower before going to bed, and even as I write this, Zoe is still enjoying her beauty rest in the bedroom with Nancy rather than joining me in the living room.

I'm sure Zoe doesn't know I've started back to work, she has no more a concept of a job than of quantum mechanics, but somehow she knows I'll be leaving soon, and there's no upside to interrupting her sleep to join me.  If this doesn't represent intelligence, then we humans just have too limited a definition of intelligence, that's all.

Anyway, I've got to sign off now and go to work.

So long, Nancy.  So long, Zoe.

Adult Beverages

1950 vs 2013, A Visual ComparisonI think one of the charms of the TV show, Mad Men, is that everyone drinks cocktails you can recognize.  (My pal Andrew says the other reason is that children on the show know how to mix cocktails, well.)

I recently dined out twice, and each time was confronted with a list of cocktails, the only one of which I recognized was a mojito.  This continues a long-standing trend; for years what establishments pedal as a "martini" has no more relationship to the actual beverage that a daisy to a crocodile other than being served in a martini glass.  Please be informed, that a martini is made of either gin or vodka and dry vermouth, garnished with an olive, or - if you're daring - a cocktail onion.  Mixing creme de banana, campari, and triple sec and pouring it into a martini glass does not make it a martini anymore that standing in a garage makes you an automobile.

At one time, so I have been told, a person could look at a cocktail menu and find gibsons, and old-fashioneds, and martinis; now however, every cocktail menu is a special, limited-edition, one-of-a-kind deal.  The other night, I was out with some friends - my pal Jamie got something-or-other, served in a wine glass, and garnished with a cherry on a toothpick.  Andrew, whom I mentioned earlier, got something I mistook for a mojito with a wad of spinach in it.  However, it was no more a mojito than I am, and the thing I took for spinach was a blackberry.  (The joint was fairly dark.)  I, for the sake of simplicity, ordered a beer.  It took me ten minutes to choose from among their summer beers, micro-beers, macro-beers, wheat beers, and near beers.

The cocktails and my beer arrived and everyone seemed satisfied with their concoctions of blue-berry infused rum, liquid smoke, sweet vermouth, and sparkling muscatel.  Only one person didn't get her drink in a timely manner.  She had to wait thirty minutes because she'd ordered a scotch and soda.

The bartender didn't know the recipe.

Closet Space

Have you ever had a dream in which your spouse did something that made you so angry, you were still angry when you woke up?

This happened to me last night; I dreamt Nancy had evicted me from my closet space to make room for her clothes, and that my wardrobe was secreted in various places around the house.  My polo shirts, if I recall, were under the couch cushions and I believe my underwear was in the refrigerator crisper drawer.

This dream is not as far-fetched as it seems.  My clothes are all in the guestroom because Nancy has commandeered not only the bureau and chest of drawers in our room, but all four closets.
Again, a disclaimer.  There aren't exactly four closets in our bedroom.  There are two closets built into the wall, and one Nancy bought and had installed.  This final closet, however, is sort of a "double" so I'm counting it as two, although, again, in strict fairness, as far as I can make out, one side is devoted to nothing but shoes and belts.

Keep in mind, that for the most part, Nancy works from home, and only has to dress up when she travels out of town.  I don't know how much clothing other women possess, because I'm not permitted access to their boudoirs, and I do realize women legitimately require more clothes than men, so I don't really know if Nancy is exceptional in this regard.  She does not go on wild shopping sprees for clothes, so far as I know, so in spite of my simmering irritation after being dispossessed of closet space in my dream, I'll let it slide.  Besides, if I brought up the topic of clothes, she might fairly counter by bringing up books.

"What do you need with all these books?" she might fairly ask.  "Do you really think you'll get around to reading them?"

And so, I will not mention the closet issue outside of this blog.  Live and let live.