Man Martin's Blog, page 174

Lance Armstrong Comes Clean

Okay, sometimes when I had bottled water there may have been some vitamins in it sometimes.  I'm sorry about that.  Once, when I was on my way to winning my seventh Tour de France, during breaks I had a Red Bull energy drink.  I'm sorry I did that, because I know the rules committee considers that a "performance enhancing" chemical, but I was really pooped out after winning the first six.  I'm very sorry I did it.  Also, I may have added some anabolic steroids to the Red Bull for flavor.  On my third Tour de France, I went over a bump and lost control of the bike.  I twisted my ankle and I'm afraid I said some pretty bad words.  I was in a lot of pain, but that's no excuse.  I hope if there were any impressionable kids listening, they only spoke French and didn't understand what I said.  I sincerely apologize for anyone I might have offended.  Oh yeah, and when I was having the doctor look at my ankle, I had a complete blood transfusion for some freshly oxygenated blood.  I'll admit that my bicycle was a custom-made titanium lightweight model lubricated with atomized graphite.  As far as I knew, this was not breaking any rules, I apologize if it was.  I hope that people don't think I was looking for an unfair advantage.  Oh, and the same guy who built my bike, also built a fully functional Lance-Armstrong-Look-Alike Android.  It was the android that completed the last part of my fourth Tour de France.  If you want, I'll let the android keep the medal for that one, even though I pedaled almost the entire race myself.  Also, I would like to lay to rest once and for all the evil vicious rumor that I had monkey gonads surgically implanted while I was in Geneva.  This is a categorical lie.  I would never do anything to a sweet innocent monkey, even if it meant winning another Tour de France.
They were Mountain Gorilla gonads.

Hope and the Freezing Temperature of Water

As I write this blog, I'm periodically switching to a tab labeled "School and Business Closings," and hitting the refresh button to see if DeKalb County Schools appears on the list.  I'm going to pause right now and do it again.

Damn.

I need to stipulate that I genuinely enjoy being a public school teacher, that I take pride in my work, that I arrive at the job each day with a smile on my lips and a gladsome song in my heart.  Also, let it be known that because of Martin Luther King Day, I'm already getting a three-day weekend.  But.

Thursday morning - I'm writing this blog on Friday, although it probably won't appear until Saturday - my carpool buddy Chrishele said the "S-word."  No, not that S-Word, this one: Snow.

"What if it snows?  The forecast says snow!  If it snows we don't go to work Friday.  Four-day weekend!  Whoo-hoo!"

These were not her exact words, of course; I don't remember exactly what she said, but nevertheless, they capture the general tenor of her discourse.  The "whoo-hoo," however, I'm pretty sure is a direct quotation.  If I recall correctly, "whoo-hoo," is something she said verbatim.

I immediately quashed this dangerous fantasy on her part.  The snow, I explained, in my most mature grown-up voice, would probably not fall, and if it did, it certainly wouldn't stick.  But... but... but...

And here, as Shakespeare puts it, began the tempest to my soul.  But, it occurred to us, it didn't have to snow.  It had been raining all week.  The ground was thoroughly sodden.  If the temperature got below freezing, there'd be ice.  And, although snow is fine, when it comes to closing schools, to quote Robert Frost, "ice is also great, and would suffice."

Again, I want it known I love my job, and I'm damn good at it, but - and I'm in a poetry-quoting mood, so here's one from Sir Walter Scott - "breathes there a man with soul so dead, who never to himself hath said, school's closed, don't have to go to work, four-day weekend, whoo-hoo!"  I may have taken some liberties with the end of that line, but I'm pretty sure Scott would have written it that way if he'd ever been in my situation.

I told Chrishele, I told her, not even to think about it.  Not to let herself hope.  That hope is only self-torment.  If the schools closed, and they wouldn't, they would close whether we hoped for it or not.  Meanwhile, hoping would transform a perfectly ordinary and satisfactory Friday morning, a Friday before a three-day weekend no less, into, "Damn, I have to go to work after all."

But she would not have it.  Worse still, that pleasant irritant of hope, like a caraway seed between the teeth, lodged itself in the muscle of my beating heart.  Water on the road.  Freezing temperature.  Black ice.  School closed.  Four-day weekend.  Whoo-hoo.

That afternoon on the drive home, as an antidote to the intoxicating toxin of hope, I told Chrishele the story of Pandora.  The real story of Pandora.

Pandora, as you recall, and if you don't recall, I'll tell you, was given a box by the gods with a single instruction, "Don't open the box!"  Of course, anybody in the situation was bound to open the box sooner or later, because what's the purpose of a box in the first place unless you open it?  Opening it is the purpose of the whole thing.  If it doesn't open, it's not even a box, really, it's just a cube.  You've probably guessed, although evidently Pandora didn't, that the whole thing was a set-up; the gods were planning to lay some heavy-duty misery on mankind, and Pandora's box was the tool they'd chosen.

So Pandora opens the box, and out flies all the stuff that's tormented mankind ever since - poverty, loneliness, hunger, despair, toothache, tedium - the works.  Pandora snaps the lid closed at once, of course, but it's too late.  The box is already empty.  Or almost.  There's a little voice, sweet sounding and soft, "Let me out, let me out!"  And the voice is so sweet, and so plaintive, and so harmless-sounding, and Pandora figures the damage has already been done because there's poverty and loneliness and whatnot already flying around the world like giant invisible black bats, and she opens the lid one last time and out comes ... Hope!  It's little and fragile, I picture it like a delicate butterfly, beautiful, beautiful Hope.  The Hope that in spite of all the misery and disappointment that comes with the human condition, that someday - maybe even tomorrow , who knows? - things will be just a little bit better.

And that little tiny Hope, with her silvery dulcet voice and her bright butterfly wings, is the worst thing of all.

All the rest - the drudgery, the dreariness, the drabness, and death - we could put up with if not for the maddening, insane-making, teasing, tormenting, tantalizing HOPE.

The best thing to do, oh, my angels out there in blog-reading land - and this is not nearly so cynical or despairing as it sounds - is to live without hope.  Go about your lives, live as well as you can, take pleasure where you find it, and be grateful for your friends, family, and blessings.  But don't dare let yourself wonder, not even for a second, whether tomorrow might be even better.  Let tomorrow take care of itself.

I wish I could heed my own advice, because I know its wisdom, but Chrishele, you see, infected me with that deceptive butterfly of hope.  (Mixed metaphor, I know, you can't infect someone with a butterfly, but let it stand.)  Rain.  Freezing temperature.  Black ice.  School closed.  Four day weekend. Whoo.  And, I might add, Hoo.

I will hit the refresh button one last time on the list of school closings to see if DeKalb County appears.

Damn.

The Former Secretary Explains

 The personal bathroom used by the secretary of the Interior ... cost $222,000. No detail was overlooked: It has a $3,500 sub-zero refrigerator ... and a $689 faucet.... the “vintage tissue holder” was... $65 bucks. The renovation was done in 2007 under President George W. Bush’s Interior Secretary Dirk Kempthorne is the subject of an internal audit by the General Services Administration, which has responsibility for most federal government properties.  In a classic bureaucratic understatement, the audit report noted, “A number of the items incorporated into the renovation project call into question the need for luxurious materials." - Jonathon Karl, ABC News
Look, no one wants to talk about this, but the fact is, I have a spastic colon.  That's right, anytime, night or day, I might have to have a quick BM.  It's a medical condition, all right?  That's why I needed that bathroom.  Especially when I was Secretary of Interior.  I mean that job is crazy.  I got gray hairs over that job.  Everybody in those days was, "Homeland Security!  Homeland Security!  Protect us from the terrorists!"  But did anyone stop to think about the Department of the Interior?  Did anyone stop to think how vital it was protecting the nation's land and water resources?  Do you know what they called the Department of the Interior?  The Department of Everything Else.  That's what Tom Ridge, the Secretary of Homeland Security, used to say, "So Dirky-boy, how're things over at the Department of Everything Else?"  That's right, real funny, yeah.  Well, I got a solid platinum faucet, Tommy-boy, so stick it!Sorry, I lost my cool there.Anyway, I was telling you about all the crucial matters we have to take care of at the Interior Department.  Like the Indians.  We were in charge of all the Indians, I bet you didn't know that.  Only you can't call them Indians.  You probably think it's Native Americans, only you'd be wrong.  It's Tribal Peoples.  Can you believe that, Tribal Peoples?  Just thinking about it makes me need to go to the bathroom.  And when you're Secretary of Interior, having one of your fifty potty breaks a day thanks to a medical condition that's beyond your control, worrying that you might have called the Chief of the Cherokee nation an Indian instead of a "tribal person" by mistake, and you might think he'd have some Cherokee name like Chief Barks at Moon or whatever, but no, it's Bill.  Can you believe that?  The Chief of the whole Cherokee Nation is named Bill.  Just like he was a regular person.  So anyway, when you're worried about all that, and you're stuck on the toilet, you don't need the extra stress of wishing you'd brought something to snack on while you're waiting for the ol' Hershey Express to come through.  That's why you need a sub-zero refrigerator.  You got your cold prunes and your orange juice right there.  I'm also crazy about fruit smoothies, so I always had some nonfat yogurt and fresh blueberries.  And the mixer I used to make the smoothies, it was my personal mixer.  Didn't cost the taxpayers one dime. So let's say I'm done with my medically necessary bathroom break and I'm ready to zip back to work to deal with some bear loose in Omaha or maybe return a phone call from Chief "Bill" of the Cherokee Tribal Peoples, and I'm ready to jump up and get back to doing the nation's business, only not so fast, chuckles.   I got to finish what we in the department refer to as "paperwork."  Now, studies have shown that hanging the roll so the loose flap is in front is more ergonomically efficient than if the flap is in back.  It saves one point five nanoseconds or something.  It was all proved out by a twenty million dollar government study on toilet paper.  Only the department's custodians always hung it the wrong way around.  I don't blame them, they were Hispanic or Tribal People or from Arkansas or something and didn't understand these things.  So I had a special toilet paper holder installed so the only way you could hang it was with the flap hanging forward.  No way to mess up.  That way I save valuable government nanoseconds and avoid hurting the sensitive self-esteem of someone who's doing the best he can and can't help it if he's not a regular American.

I'm sorry it's come to the point that public servants such as myself get criticized simply for doing our jobs.

Aroused to Action: Pastor Offers to Be Fox's "Spiritual Mentor"

Pastor Merle "Bubba" Ornucks has publicly offered to be the "spiritual guide" to Megan Fox after hearing of her Esquire interview in which she recalled her upbringing in the Pentecostal Faith, including speaking in tongues, and lamented her celebrity as sexual eye candy, complaining, "I felt powerless in that image... because I wasn't anything.  I was an image.  I was a picture."

Fox: "Tired of being an image."Fox (pictured right) also said she began speaking in tongues at age eight, and "finds comfort in going to church."  It was these latter remarks that drew the attention of Pastor Ornucks.

"I can tell Megan is on a spiritual journey," Ornucks said.  "And I want her to know, the journey stops here.  Last stop, Ornucks."  [Pointing to self with thumb.]

"I'm pretty much willing to whittle down my whole congregation to just her," Ornucks offered.  He is the pastor of the Have a Blessed Day True Gospel Church, recently relocated to the Motel 6 off Highway 68, just across from the Waffle House.  Saying that he wanted to "reintroduce her to tongues." "It's good when you're eight, it's a whole lot better now."  He also said he had some plans for "laying on of hands" and "anointing with oil."

"I'm planning to take her to Heaven," Ornucks said.  "If she'll let me."

Hoffa Offed

While some official law enforcement agents sneer at Tony Zerilli's claim to know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried, the alleged Mafia insider continues to supply a stream of new details, shocking in their eerie specificity as this transcript reveals:

"I told youse already dey buried dis guy, dis Jimmy Hoffa guy, in a shallow grave.  Dat's de way dey, dese mobsters, wiseguys we calls em, dat's de way dey do it.  Shallow grave.  It's like a tradition.  So if you find someone buried in a deep grave, it ain't Hoffa.  I don't know who it is, but it ain't Hoffa.  So anyway, after dey whacked Hoffa, dat's what we call it when we kill somebody, whacked, so after Hoffa was whacked, naturally what dey do is go around looking for a likely spot for a shallow grave.  Usually dat means dirt.  Not a lot of dirt, cause it's a shallow grave, like I said, but it's got to be enough or it ain't really a grave at all.  I don't know what you'd call it, but it ain't a grave.  When they go to bury Hoffa, da first ting dey need is somethin to bury him wit.  Opinions differ on dis, but most wiseguys like to use a shovel.  My dad, he always liked to use a Amco S81-FG round point.  Nonsparking, nonmagnetic, good balance.  Perfect for shallow grave-digging.  Sometimes, dese wiseguys, if dey figure someone's on dere trail, dey'll get coy.  Clever, see?  Dey whack a whole nother guy, trow him in de hole where dey were gonna put Hoffa.  Trow people off track.  So dey dig him up, these police or FBI or whatever, dey dig him up, and dey say, 'Hey, dis ain't Hoffa!  It's some whole udder guy.'  Den dey gotta start all over.  Dey hate dat.  So de real Hoffa, dey bury him somewhere else.  Somewhere nobody gonna tink of lookin.  Dey lookin for a shallow grave, so we bury him in a medium size grave.  Maybe even in a deep grave.  Dat's de way dey work."

Following these remarks, Zerilli hinted he also had some fascinating secrets about the Pope's religious preference and the defecatory habits of bears.

Ask Tommy Lee Jones

Dear Mr. Jones,
My neighbors have a beautiful Golden Retriever named Sally.  She's a wonderful dog, but she barks constantly.  Not just during the day, but all hours of the night.  It really is getting irritating, what should I do?
Kept Awake in Michigan

Dear Kept Awake,
You know what irritates me?  Letters from dipwads like you.  Why the hell did you have to tell me the dog's name is Sally?  Now I'm going to stay up all night wondering what sort of people would give a dog a fool name like that.  Now leave me alone.
Tommy Lee

Dear Tommy Lee,
My friends at work are always telling jokes, which is great because some of them are really funny, the only problem is, I don't know any.  Whenever I see a joke on the internet or somewhere, it always turns out they've already heard it.  I'm starting to feel left out.  Do you where I can get some funny jokes?
Jokeless in Hoboken

Dear Jokeless,
Here's a funny joke.  Your face.  Now leave me alone.
Tommy Lee

Dear Tommy Lee,
Lately when I start my car up on cold mornings it goes, "whirrr, whirrr, whirrr," and takes forever to get cranked unless I release the handbrake and jiggle the steering wheel.  It starts up fine on warm mornings, it's just if the temperature's 40 or below.  Also, I don't have any trouble if I park on a hill.  I've taken it to my mechanic, but it won't make the noise for him, and he say's he's stumped.  Any ideas?
Car Trouble in Macon

Dear Car Trouble,
Yeah, I got an idea.  Get in the car and see if you hear a noise like, "whine, whine, whine."  If you do, it means you need to shut your fat yap.  Now leave me alone.
Tommy Lee

The Trillion Dollar Coin

Well, where did you have it last? The Treasury can legally use these laws to print whatever coins it wants -- including trillion-dollar coins -- and then deposit them into its bank account at the Federal Reserve, in exchange for a bunch of cash it can use to pay off its debts. That would render the debt ceiling meaningless because the government wouldn't have to borrow again. - Mark Gongolf, The Huffington Post 

Barrack: Honey?
Michelle: Yes, dear?
Barrack: You know that, uh, that coin the Treasury Secretary brought over to show me?
Michelle: What did it look like?
Barrack: It looked like a quarter, only a little bigger, and it's made out of platinum.  And it says one trillion dollars on it.
Michelle: Good Lord, why would anyone want a coin like that?
Barrack: It might avert a budget crisis.
Michelle: Oh.  That makes sense.  Run out of dough and mint a trillion-dollar coin.  Why not mint a five-trillion dollar coin while you're at it.
Barrack: You haven't seen it lying around somewhere, have you?
Michelle: Don't tell me you lost it.
Barrack: Of course I didn't lose it.  I just mislaid it.  It's got to be around here somewhere.
Michelle: Where did you have it last?
Barrack: (Impatiently) If I knew that, I wouldn't have to look for it.
Michelle: Did you look under the couch cushions?
Barrack: (Looking again) Yes.
Michelle: Did you look in the little basket on the nightstand?  You always throw all your junk in the little basket on the nightstand.
Barrack: (Looking in basket.) It's not in there.
Michelle: I've been after you to clean out that basket for a week.
Barrack: I'm really not in the mood for this right now, Michelle.
Michelle: Try asking yourself, if you were a one-trillion-dollar coin, where would you be?
Barrack: What kind of stupid question is that?
Michelle: (Looking out window) When the pizza boy was here the other day, did you tip him with spare change?
Barrack: Why do you ask?
Michelle: Because he just flew up in a private helicopter.
Barrack:  Uh-oh.

It Will Happen to You, Too

The other day I was driving to work with my car-pool buddy, Chrishele, when for some reason I mentioned Jackie Gleason.

Chrishele's response was, "Who's she?"

Okay, she didn't actually say, "Who's she?" she just said "Who's that?" but she was thinking "Who's she?" because she didn't realize Jackie Gleason was a man.

I did not lose control of the car, not even briefly, a careful driver, me, but a shudder ran through my frame, not as if a rabbit had run over my grave, but as if troops of rabbits, in relay formation, were stampeding over it, and stomping their furry feet as they went.

Not to know who Jackie Gleason was!

It wasn't Chrishele's lack of cultural knowledge, it was the awareness dawning on me, that I had passed from the familiar regions of my youth into a new land, wherein dwelt tribes uncognizant of...  Okay, I've lost control of this metaphor.  The point is, you know you're getting old when you mention a familiar cultural icon from your youth, and some whippersnapper comes back with, "Who dat?"  My mother Mur must've felt the same way when she mentioned, say, Fatty Arbuckle, and I said, "Who?"  (Parenthetically, I have since seen several Fatty Arbuckle short features, and they are quite amusing.)

I will not go into the resume of Jackie "The Great One" Gleason, he of "How sweet it is!" and "To the moon, Alice, to the moon!"  (Ah, for those simpler days when spousal abuse was still a rib-tickler.)  The point of this essay is not Gleason, per se, it's - and I'm going to try to re-enter my metaphor here, so bear with me - that you are born into a certain region, but that you leave it at once, day by day crossing new frontiers.  Everyone you know is on the same journey with you, almost giving you the illusion you have not moved at all, except each day, one person falls behind, left on some hill or valley somewhere, only remaining in the memories of migratory mankind.  And each day another wanderer falls, and another, and another, and with them fall not only themselves, but what memories they hold of people who fell before them.  Until one day, in that mighty wagon-train of time, you mention to some fellow-traveler an old comrade, someone who was mighty in his day, or famed, or loved, or even hated, and your companion has never heard of them.

And at that moment, it strikes you, that your whole life has been a journey, and you look around with a shock and realize this broad prairie is not the same one where you have always lived, and that the land where you were born, is far behind you now, and those mountains on the horizon, how much closer they have grown.  What a long way you have come without even noticing.

It will happen to you, too.  It will happen to you.

Uniform Changes

The favorite football league of many desperate and lonely men is no more. The Lingerie Football League has announced plans to rename itself the Legends Football League and said it will no longer have its players compete while wearing lingerie. "This is the next step in the maturation of our now global sport. While the Lingerie Football League name has drawn great media attention allowing us to showcase the sport to millions, we have now reached a crossroad of gaining credibility as a sport or continuing to be viewed as a gimmick," said Mitchell S. Mortaza, the founder of the league. - Houston Michael, The Los Angeles Times
The National Football League is dropping its requirement that players wear thongs while on the field.  "It's the logical next step," says Rich McKay, co-chair of the NFL Competition Committee and General Manager of the Atlanta Falcons.  "In 1910, we introduced shoulder pads.  In 1950, we replaced the leather helmet.  We've required players to wear thongs since the beginning, though not many people know that, but there's really no point in it.  It's a silly rule."  "It's about time," said Tim Tebow, quarterback for the New York Jets. This job is bad enough with injuries and long-term neuro-degenerative diseases without having a constant wedgie all the time."
Major League to play topless, says Commisioner Bud Selig.  "In 2011, attendance had been in a steady slump for decades.  It looked like the end.  So we made a secret rule that all the players had to wear garter belts under their uniforms.  Like in the movie Bull Durham.  We figured, what the hell.  It couldn't hurt."  Couldn't hurt indeed.  Although the fans were unaware of the garter belt rule, attendance soared and 2012 marked the fifth-highest attendance on record.  "Now we're ready to take the next step," Selig said.  "2013 topless.  We've been wanting a peek at David Price's nipples for years."
The Dallas Mavericks Cheerleaders, who made headlines last season by appearing in uniforms that looked like something from the porn version of The Jetsons, are switching tracks again this year under new wardrober, Edith Mueller.  The new costume will be ankle-length skirts with white aprons, and small white "bonnets."  "The bonnet is the racy part," Mueller explains.  "It's very skimpy and lacy.  Virtually see-through.  Barely covers the hair at all, but just a little."  Mueller adds with a wink, "Leaves something to the imagination."   When asked about the change, cheerleader Sequel Molina explains, "Chantel (Chantel Jones) said she had a sorority sister named Edith something when we were looking through resumes, so we thought she'd be fun.  Turns out this one was Amish or Mennonite or Flashlight or something.  I don't know what the hell we were thinking when we hired her."

Connecting Dots

Nancy and I revised our wills shortly after New Years.  We started the process over the Christmas break, which is a handy time to take care of odds and ends.  For example, I also had my dentist appointment and learned two of my fillings had "degraded."  (I'd had these, I believe, since before I was a teenager, so they'd be about forty years old.)  The doctor shot me with Novocaine, drilled them out, and replaced them.  My jaw was sore for a day, but now I'm good as new.  Well, relatively good as new.  As good as can be expected.

So back to the will, our lawyer sent drafts of our new wills, and after reviewing them, we went in and signed.  We left feeling very solid and responsible.  Grown-ups taking care of business.

We also signed directives telling what measures we want in the event we enter a terminal or permanently vegetative state.  Given the state of modern medicine, such an eventuality is a pretty fair likelihood.  The first time we signed such a document, in our early thirties or late twenties, I chose option "A."  I wanted all measures taken, no matter what, to sustain my life no matter how hopeless or bad my situation was.  Had I been flattened by a steamroller, I'd have wanted EMTs to arrive with bicycle pumps and attempt to re-inflate me.  If sufficient funds existed, I wanted to be cryonically flash-frozen to be re-animated in some future century.  Failing that, I wanted my severed head stored in the chest freezer.  I wasn't ready to go, I had too many unfulfilled dreams, and I wasn't going to lightly sign them away just because some physician said I was brain dead or something.

This time - a lot of water has flowed under the bridge - I chose "B."  I want no heroic measures taken to preserve my life in a hospice or coma-type situation.  I'm not eager to die anytime soon, but I've had a fair slice of life already, and what portion remains isn't worth having if it means being an unconscious lump hooked up to a feeding tube and a respirator.
I don't want to be a Gloomy Gus here, because as I said, signing a will actually makes you feel very empowered and in charge.  It's a rare privilege law allows us: we get to keep making decisions after we die.  Nevertheless, it does put one in mind of one's own mortality, and I was aware of the shift in attitude I'd undergone in the last twenty or thirty years.

That night after the will-signing, carrying garbage to the curb, I looked up and saw Orion.  It was an unusually clear night for Atlanta, and the stars were so vivid, I could even see the three little stars forming the sword hanging from his belt.  I love seeing Orion, it's the only constellation I can reliably identify, and it's a winter constellation, so I only see it part of the year.  This thought, like my new fillings and the recent signing of my will was another reminder of the passage of time.
Herman Melville once wrote of his own mortality to Hawthorne, "I shall at last be worn out and perish, like an old nutmeg-grater, grated to pieces by the constant attrition of the wood, that is, the nutmeg."  As scholars have pointed out, what's so delectable about Melville's metaphor is that he doesn't see himself as being ground down by life; he's the one doing the grinding - he's the grater; life's the nutmeg.  Nevertheless, his relentless chewing at it will wear him down.

The stars of Orion will outlast me and go on shining for other people to see on winter nights.  But even they will not last forever, and will burn out one by one.  I will never see that happen.  There are many, many things I will never live to see.  No matter.  My teeth are good for a while longer yet, and while I haven't lost my taste for the nutmeg of life, my appetite is far from infinite.