Man Martin's Blog, page 160

To the Attention of the Secretary of State

Mr. Kerry (assuming you're the Secretary of State - it is you, right? I know it's not Hillary.)

I am contacting you via this blog because based on my readership stats, it's the most confidential form of communication available to me.  I'm sure not going to call you on my cellphone, ha-ha.

Anyway, I believe I have made a discovery of world-wide diplomatic importance, but before I get to that, I need to tell you something about myself.  I am an ordinary middle-aged white male living in suburban Atlanta with my wife of thirty-plus years.  We have a ranch-style house with a nice patio in the back, a dog, and two chickens.  It is somewhat unusual to have chickens in our subdivision, but by no means weirdly eccentric.  Moreover, I must stress these are perfectly ordinary chickens.  It is important you understand this: they are not radioactive mutant chickens, or hyper-intelligent super-chickens from a distant galaxy, nor do they possess magical or preternatural properties of any kind, so far as I know.  They are fed on ordinary chicken kibble available at any Tractor Supply store.

Furthermore, and this is a key point, my wife and I hold joint title to everything I have mentioned - the dog, the house, the patio, and the chickens belong to both of us jointly.  Keep this in mind; also keep in mind, as I have already mentioned, these are ordinary chickens of normal chicken ability.

The other day, in their forays about the yard, the chickens visited our patio where they decided to do their business.  "Business" here is merely a euphemism; I don't want to give the impression these chickens are some sort of financial wizards, or they'd come to the patio to fill out reports or return emails.  Chicken business in this case refers only to poop.  They were doing what chickens the world over do.
FIG 1: PRE-POOP
FIG 2: POST-POOPAs soon as my wife saw this, she said, "Your chickens have crapped on my patio."  Do you see the significance of this?  I do not know what is in chicken poop to so clarify division of property, but by the simple act of defecation, the chickens had defined everything below the poop-line (the patio) as Nancy's and everything above it (the chickens and presumably the poop itself) as mine.  (See Figures 1 and 2.)

I believe this has world-wide ramifications.  Think of all the trouble spots that are a thorn in your side: Kashmir, the Military Demarcation Line between the Koreas, the Gaza strip, you name it.  I'm not sure how exactly to put this in action, but I think we hold the key to solve all border disputes in perpetuity.  I do not claim any special knowledge in this area; however, I am willing to serve in an advisory capacity when the time comes to deploy the chickens, should my country call; I figure we will need between fifty and sixty thousand chickens with good bowel habits to usher in an era of world-wide peace.

Yours Very Sincerely,

Man Martin

My Epic Race

So here is the story of my first Triathlon; it was epic.

Well, it wasn't epic in the sense that I was lost at sea for seven years contending with cyclopes and various sea-monsters; it was epic in the sense that a fifty-four year-old man swam a quarter mile, biked twelve, and ran three and ended up precisely where he started.

First of all, when doing a triathlon, there are certain things you need.  When Nancy and I got home the night before the race, this note was waiting on my bed.

I will not be able to tell you how touched and pleased this thoughtful missive made a tenderhearted dad; I will not say I wiped a grateful tear from my eye as I read this, but I was exceedingly moved by this thoughtful gesture.

One item in particular, the uninitiated may be unfamiliar with is "Glide (Chaffing Stuff on Bed)."  Picture the condition of your own nether regions if after a quarter-mile swim you jumped right on a bike for a twelve-mile ride and then went for a three-mile run, and you will see why a product such as this would be desirable if not outright essential.  It is exactly what it looks like, a kind of smear-on bar similar to a solid deodorant.  George Carlin would have called it under-leg deodorant.  I will spare you a vivid description of myself applying this unguent; suffice to say, no one but me will ever want to use this particular container of Glide again.  Ever.

Also on the list you will see "Watch."  This refers to my fancy GPS watch that can track my distance and speed even in water.  Before we left, Nancy asked, "Are you sure it's charged."  "Yes, darling," I replied with the manly patience that so becomes me, "it's plenty charged."  Ha-ha, foolish female.  (About thirty feet into the bike course, the watch went "beep-beep" and blinked off.  The battery wasn't charged.)

Nancy and I spent the night before the race in a Hampton Inn; I was not expecting her to go to so much trouble and expense on my behalf.  My concept was I would drive out to the race alone, and return later covered with perspiration and glory.  I can't think watching a triathlon is all that exciting.  But I am so grateful Nancy did. I am frequently lost - even on the race course itself, marked with bright orange traffic cones, I managed at least one wrong turn - and the thought of my finding my way to the site early on the morning of the race was not a jolly one.

My race number - for some reason,
I thought it was 919So we show up and register and they gave me a tracking device to strap to my ankle, a brightly-colored number for my shirt and another for my bike as well as a color-coded swim cap that identified my general age category - old - and sex - presumably male.  Then I put on my swim cap and walked down to the beach for my swim.

I will spare you a blow-by-blow account of my race because basically it comes down to variations of the following theme: "I put my right foot forward and placed my weight on it, then I did the same thing with my left foot, and then I did it for my right foot again.  I repeated this process for three miles."  I will, however, give you some idea of the swim course because it pretty much kicked my ass; nor is this in any way a metaphor: imagine being a lobster in a pot full boiling water and other lobsters.  This - minus the temperature, thank God - is the approximate sensation of swimming in a triathlon.  People were quite literally swimming on top of me; every once in a while, I would lift my head to get a nice mouthful of lake water and then I would proceed.

You might imagine, as I imagined, that having swum the first portion, we would hop straight on our bikes, and off we'd go.  This, however, was not the case; we walked briskly - no running for me, I was barefoot - up a hill to where our bikes were waiting.  The rest of the race was really delightful.  The great thing about a long race is that no matter how slow you are, there's always at least one person ahead of you you can pass.  "I know I can beat that guy," you think, and pedal or run a little faster until you do and then you pick the next person to overtake.  I am ashamed to admit I invented little nicknames for these people.  A woman with bizarrely colorful socks, I nicknamed "Wicked Witch of the West," another person I called "Green Lantern" for his green race outfit.  As of this writing, my results still are not online, so I can't give them - however in addition to Wicked Witch and Green Lantern, I also beat "Bean Pole," "Baldy" and "Hemorrhaging from Mouth."

To make a long story no longer than it already is, the race ended where most races do - back at the start.  When I crossed the finish line, the speaker called out my name - the microchip on my ankle identified me for him - and they gave me a medal.  Nancy, who had been waiting to take my picture when I finished the swim and the bike, too my picture again.  I won't wax sentimental, but having her there and Spencer's note were the best parts of the race.  It is not so bad to end up where you start.

Masters of Disguise: the New Camoflauge

Even in the post-industrial age, animals continue to evolve...  Now they need to blend in with a largely man-made environment.  Can you spot these critters?


The Crafty Cigarette-Butt Scorpion The Elusive Giant Street-Sign Ostrich The Wiley Garbage Bear The Shy and Somewhat
Disgusting Road-Kill Hermit Crab

Between

Nancy and I are Between.  We have raised two daughters; we saw them through illnesses major and minor, car seats, daycare, grammar school, high school, schoolwork, homework, swim team, driving lessons,  and college, and now they're launched.  They're educated, their teeth are straight, they got home training.  We did our job.

Now, however, we find ourselves caring for Nancy's elderly parents - one of whom has Alzheimer's and the other of whom has a regular Chinese menu of medical conditions, headed up by kidney and heart disease - who are starting to require at least as much care and attention as our daughters once did.  (In the spirit of full disclosure, I should say Nancy's sister Donna has borne the primary brunt of parental-care duty.  Donna has been spending more time with them in Macon than at home and has been an absolute insert metaphor for unwavering strength here.  Secondary brunt has been borne by Nancy, who is in Macon even as I write this.  My duty is really shockingly light: staying home and holding down the fort, offering sympathy, and writing this blog.)

This, I suppose, is just the nature of time: a movement from being cared for by your parents, to caring for yourself, to caring for children, to caring for your parents, and finally - if you live so long - to being cared for by your children in turn.  Of course, caring for children is a much nicer job than caring for parents because with children, you can hope things will get just a teensy bit easier day by day.  Today she may learn to feed herself, tomorrow she'll buckle her own car seat, the next day she'll program your Smartphone for you, and so forth.  With the elderly, the job will only get harder and more painful until it goes away altogether.  Children, you usher into the world.  Parents, you usher out.

So what are we to make of this?  Well, I don't know.  The one constant I see in the cycle is that someone is always caring for someone else.  Your turn to be cared for comes at the beginning and end, and Between, you'll be expected to care for others.  I now recall that when Nancy and I were dating, her parents were already contending with the welfare of their parents.  This phase of my in-laws' lives lasted until my daughter Catherine was in middle school.

It always struck me as facile, the kind of feel-good philosophy that says if you go around putting positive energy into the universe, you'll get positive energy back.  I mean, that's all well and good to say, but I see a lot of people whom the shit-storm of life hits a lot harder than they deserve.  How much negative energy did the workers of the Tazreen fashion factory put into the universe to deserve dying in that terrible fire, what had Amanda Berry done to deserve being captive to a lunatic for a decade?

But maybe, in the general course of things, there's truth to this - the karma doctrine - after all.  Put all the love you can into the world during your time in Between, give your children love and give them a good example by your compassion for your parents.  You will leave the region of Between soon enough, and your children will have to care for you.

I see the tenderness, the time and self-sacrifice Donna and Nancy freely offer their parents.  I see that Donna and Nancy were loved very much as children.

Getting Ready for the Triathlon

I'm doing my first triathlon, Saturday.  ("Actually, it's only a triathlon sprint," my daughter Spencer wants everyone in blog-land to know.  "It's only about half as long as a full triathlon.  The swimming part isn't even half as long.")  Thank you, Spencer for pointing that out.  Dear, dear sweet Spencer.  What a wonderful child.

As a matter of fact, Spencer's the reason I'm doing the triathlon in the first place.  She started me running again, and then one day suggested I train for a triathlon.  Thank you, Spencer.  Dear, dear sweet Spencer.  Dear sweet Spencer.  You wonderful child.  Wonderful.

Triathlons are great because they combine the potential for knee injury, drowning, and bicycle accident all into one sport.  And yet some people still prefer bowling.

So for months Spencer has been getting me off my duff, and making sure I get out there and swim, bike, and run.  Thank you, Spencer.  What a sweet, sweet, dear wonderful child.

Oh, did I mention?  Spencer won't be doing this one with me.  She's busy.

What a dear.

(The truth is, I'm so glad Spencer got me to do this and so proud of myself for doing this, I'm about to bust. But it's more fun to gripe in a blog than brag.  :-))

Visting Pyramids "Perfectly Safe"

The Ministry of Antiquities Claims This Sort of Thing
Almost Never Happens in Real LifeEgypt's Ministry of Antiquities continues to excoriate the U S State Department as "reckless" for warning American tourists to be "on heightened vigilance" when visiting Giza and other sites.

"Moreover," the Ministry adds, "there is almost no risk whatsoever that reading aloud hieroglyphics from the tomb walls will invoke an ancient curse, reanimating a mummy to defend his burial grounds from 'unbelievers,' or that the aforementioned mummy will rise from his sarcophagus in relentless, if slow and half-limping, pursuit of its hapless victim, unfazed by volleys of bullets, until inevitably a beautiful blond will twist her high-heeled ankle and be carried off by the unholy one to its underground crypt to be its bride in eternal death.  Almost all our mummies were stolen by the British years ago, and only a few of those were capable of being reanimated by long-forgotten spells."

And as for the fear of some tourists that they will uncover the long-lost Ark of the Covenant in which Moses stored the sacred tablets given him on Mount Sinai by Jehovah, from which angels will suddenly stream at first beautiful to behold and then suddenly so gruesome that your eyes will pop out and face will melt from sheer horror, the Ministry points out that, "That sort of thing almost never happens in real life, and even then mostly to Nazis who probably had it coming."

How to Take a Nap

People ask me all the time, "What's the secret of napping?  How do you do it so well?"  The way they usually phrase it is more along the lines of, "What, are you napping again?" or just "Get up."  The people who say these things are usually my wife Nancy.

Napping successfully is not something you can do without practice.  Oh sure, it looks easy, but don't be fooled.  In the hands of a master, such as myself, napping appears as easy as falling off a log.  (Step 1: Get on log.  Step 2: Fall off.)  But really, napping takes years of training and careful forethought.
One of the key tricks to a successful nap is selecting the proper time of day.  This is an area where many would-be nappers go wrong, and end up in needless frustration and turmoil.  If you try napping too early, it's not really napping, but sleeping in.  Sleeping in has its advocates, but frankly, I've never been one of them.  Sleeping in is just extending something you should already be done with.  If you haven't had sufficient sleep after eight hours, you just weren't trying hard enough.  Getting an extra hour in bed is like going to a restaurant and asking for additional parsley.  The glory of a nap is that it's not an extension of a good night's sleep, but a whole separate serving.
If taking a nap too early is less than satisfactory, taking one too late can be dreadful.  At best, you may find yourself going to bed early, which isn't bad, but again, like sleeping in, deprives you of the full-blown glory of the true nap.  At worst, you may wake up at 6:30 or 7:00 feeling woogy and out of sorts, enduring a few hours before having to go to bed all over again.
The ideal nap time is between 11:00 AM and 3:00 PM, and the perfect length of a nap is precisely two hours.  Any less and you'll feel short-changed, but you mustn't overdo it either.  It's like taking a bath; you should stay in until your fingertips are pleasantly wrinkled, no longer.  Once you start getting seriously water-logged, you aren't taking a bath; it's taking you.  Being sleep-logged is just as unpleasant, only you don't have the wrinkly fingertips to show for it.
Another mistake would-be nappers make is not getting dressed.  Taking a nap in your pajamas or boxer shorts or leather corset or whatever you sleep in fails to differentiate the nap from ordinary bedtime.  Likewise, a really superb nap should not be done in bed.  You can definitely take a nap in bed, and I have often done so myself, but it loses some of its savor.  If you cook everything in the skillet you use for scrambling eggs, sooner or later everything tastes like scrambled eggs.
The perfect place for a nap is the couch.  Some say a hammock is also nice, but this is mere sentimental claptrap.  Nobody likes sleeping in a hammock really; it just seems picturesque.  Napping isn't a spectator sport; you should be concerned with functionality not style.
So let's do a quick run-through.
It's about 12:45 and you've just had a nice lunch of left-over baked chicken which you chopped up into chicken salad.  You've had a pretty full day already, what with gardening and walking the dog, and you turn on the tv.  Valley of Gwangi is on, and you recall it has perhaps the greatest cowboy-lassoing-a-triceratops scene ever filmed.  You lie on the couch to watch this masterpiece, first kicking off your shoes.  (It is imperative by the way, that you not be wearing socks.  If you have on socks, remove them before going any further.)
Say to yourself, "I think I'll close my eyes a little."  The wording here is very important.  You must not announce, even to yourself, you intend to take a nap.  It's the same principle with Girl Scout cookies, always tell yourself, "I think I'll just have a couple."  Never say, "I think I'll just sit here and eat the whole box."
Two hours later, open your eyes.  Smack your lips and get up.
There you have it.  If you follow these instructions carefully, you have years of successful napping ahead of you and you'll be the envy of your friends and neighbors who unwisely fritter away their afternoons accomplishing stuff.

Frank and Full Confession

From 1964 until as late as 1972, I ate virtually no green beans.  When my mother served green beans, I slipped them under the table to our dog, Charlie, later to our dog, Skipper, and finally to our dog, Charlie again (no relation to the first Charlie.)  I am aware now and was aware at the time that my mother only wanted to see to it I had a balanced diet, but I did not like green beans and so callously gave them to dogs who didn't know any better, in defiance of my mother's wishes and my own long-term self interest.

In 1974, I picked the lock of my sister's private diary.  The fact that it contained nothing of interest, and in fact was downright boring except for pictures of large almond-shaped eyes leaking fat tears, is no excuse for my reckless invasion of her privacy.

In 1976, I led my English teacher, Mrs. Worsham, to believe I had read Grapes of Wrath, which I had not done, even going so far as to write a "book report."  The report was largely based on the first four pages - which I had read - and conjecture based on the book's title and information written on the back cover.  I had planned to get a Classics Comics version of the book, or watch the film version to perfect the deception, but was unable to do so.  (This was an era before streaming video or even VHS.)  Later I loudly complained when the paper received a D.

On a related charge, in conversations with friends over the years, I allowed others to believe I had read books I had not read, seen movies I had not seen, and knew of bands I had never heard of.  I did this in an effort to seem "cool" and be accepted, but my pathetic eagerness to please does not excuse this misdoing.

In 1984, after repeatedly assuring my wife I had "definitely" mailed the electric bill, and maintaining that the power company's accusation we were behind in our payments was a mistake on their part, I found the unmailed bill in the trashcan, of which discovery I did not inform Nancy.

From 2005 to the present, while stoutly denying to Nancy that I allow our dog Zoe into the bed with me when she is away on business, I have in fact not only allowed Zoe to get into bed, but deliberately and premeditatedly put the dog in bed with me.

I throw myself on the mercy of the court.

What? No Mermaids?

Fans of Animal Planet are outraged over a documentary, "Mermaids: The Body Found."  Other documentaries - such as "Finding Bigfoot," "Dragons Made Real," and "Exactly How Stupid Are You?" offered compelling high-quality scientific research, but with Mermaids, the network crossed a line, irritating 3.6 million viewers who demand high-quality proof that the lady on the Starkist can was drawn from a live model.

What has happened to the high journalistic standards that brought us, "Pet Psychic"? viewers want to know.  Americans, 44% of whom believe that the universe and all living things were created over a period of six days, have always had an unquenchable scientific thirst, particularly when it comes to Great White Sharks and creatures that have tail-fins and boobies.

One scholar, who calls herself Jenna Marbles and posed in her tweet picture with what appears to be either a Jack Russel or a chihuahua, points out that, "90% of the ocean is undiscovered, and you're telling me mermaids dont exist."  What do you say to that, Mr Smartypants "biologist."  When you think of it in that light, you can see she has a point: in addition, to the Atlantic, Pacific, Indian, Arctic, and Antarctic, if there are up to 45 additional undiscovered oceans, that's room enough for mermaids, merdogs, mercats, as well as squirrels outfitted with deep-sea diving gear like that squirrel on Sponge Bob.

So take that, science.

Time-Share Dogs

Here is yet another concept certain to make someone a zillion dollars.

Time-Share Dogs.

Here's the pitch; you take an ordinary dog, and sell fifty-two shares to individuals: one for each week in the year.  A time-share owner would have full access to the dog one week out of the year, and then would turn it over to the next person for their week.  Veterinary care would be provided.  Obviously, some weeks would be more valuable than others, and would therefore fetch a higher price; these would be called "Golden Weeks."  The first couple of weeks in June, for example, are prime shedding season, and people might be willing to make astronomical bids for the privilege of vacuuming up after a golden retriever three times a day.  Other weeks, the last week of February, would be called "Bronze," and would be much less expensive, and go to budget-conscious would-be pet owners.

After about a decade, when the dog had depreciated significantly in value, he could be sold in a "pre-owned" dog lot, and another dog could be acquired.  Better yet, a person who had a timeshare in, say, a Jack Russel, might be able to trade his week online for a Daschund or even a Beagle.  The possibilities are limitless.  If the time-share dog idea works out, we could branch out into time-share cats, time-share parrots, time-share gerbils.  Pretty much the sky's the limit.

I await the call from interested investors.