Man Martin's Blog, page 178

My Speech to the Graduates

First, I would like to thank the president for inviting me to address you today.  I realize technically I wasn't "invited" but just ran up here and grabbed the microphone, but still, before Campus Security comes and grabs me, there's a few things I'd like to say.

My grandfather once told me, "There are three essential things you must always remember."  When I heard his simple wisdom, it was as if a little flower had taken root in my soul and spread sunshine across the bright field of my dreams.  Looking out over your faces, all covered with promise and pimples, I am reminded of those three things, which are...

Damn.

I was just thinking of them a second ago.  I swear, they're right on the tip of my tongue.

In any case, you are at a crossroads today.  One road leads to the City of Success and Fulfillment and the other to the outskirts of Loserville, and the Street of Broken Dreams.  To find your way and choose the correct path, you must follow the GPS signal of your heart.

Dear God, stop me before I take this metaphor any further.

Looking back, I realize my college years were the happiest of my life, which should give you an idea of what a hideously depressing existence I have lived.

Oh, wait a minute!  I just remembered the three things grandpa told me.

Uh-oh.  Here comes Campus Security.

Eggnog and the Fiscal Cliff

A Mother Nog Minding Her EggThe other morning, Nancy opened the refrigerator, and seeing that I had bought eggnog, uttered an exclamation of delight and poured herself a glass.  For this reason I have hopes on the Fiscal Cliff.

Experts will tell you there are two types of people in the world: those who like eggnog and those who don't.  For the first twenty-five years of her life, and the first three years of our marriage, Nancy belonged to the second category.  I have always belonged to the first.

Why she didn't like eggnog, who can say?  Partly, not being an egg-fancier in the first place, she found it hard to get her head around the idea of drinking raw eggs.  Then there was the unidentifiable but menacing-sounding ingredient, nog.  But whatever the reason, Nancy had vowed that no eggnog should ever pass her lips.  But then, one holiday season, when the spirit of reckless abandon prevailed, she consented to drink a little.

And she liked it!

Then commenced a frenzy of eggnog consumption in the Martin household.  Nancy was making up for twenty-odd eggnog-less years, and I, delighted to have as it were, a partner in crime, an accomplice in eggnog-drinking, matched her mug for mug.  I'd buy an extra carton of eggnog on the way home and discover Nancy had already bought some too.  No problem, was Nancy's reaction, when it comes to eggnog, the more the merrier.  We discovered we liked Mayfield's eggnog the best, but we also drank Kroger generic in a pinch, and once some Borden eggnog that came in a can.  The last was a mistake, but we never looked back; the holidays were upon us and a whole world of eggnog lay before us.

We had eggnog with breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  We drove through McDonald's to get their seasonal eggnog milkshake.

The fever has since abated, and Nancy and I now enjoy eggnog in moderation, but those heady days of the great Eggnog Frenzy are still fresh in my mind.

Which is why I take heart seeing Obama and the Republicans wrangle over the Fiscal Cliff, seemingly unable to come to terms on anything, and just at the moment bipartisanship is most needed, there's just two versions of monopartisanship.  But people change, they're more capable of opening themselves up to alternatives than we give them credit for.

After all, Nancy didn't use to like eggnog.

If Famous Authors Wrote Textbooks, Pt II

Stephen King's It and Meteorology.

The terror, which would not end for another twenty-eight years - if it ever did end - began, so far as I can tell, with a boat made from a sheet of newspaper floating down a gutter swollen with rain.
The boat bobbed, listed, righted itself again, dived bravely through treacherous whirlpools, and continued on its way down Witcham Street toward the traffic light that marked the intersection of Witcham and Jackson.  The three vertical lenses on all sides of the traffic light were dark this afternoon in the fall of 1957, and the houses were all dark too.  There had been steady rain for a week now, and two days ago the winds had come as well.
Moisture always exists in the atmosphere, but when it cools sufficiently, it forms particles large enough to fall down.  In this case, a cold front, the leading edge of a cooler mass of air within a fairly narrow trough of low pressure formed after an extratropical cyclone on the edge of its cold air advection pattern.  This dense cold front then inserted itself below the warmer, moister air, causing its pressure to drop and resulting in a line of showers along the leading edge.  Perhaps, being slow to pass, the cold front continued to produce precipitation for an extended period of time although a more likely explanation is a second cold front had come through, accounting for the late arrival of gusting winds normally associated with the arrival of a cold front.

What Do I Look Like?

This question is more perplexing than might first appear.

In my youth, and this is verifiable by signed affidavits, I looked not unlike a young William Shatner.  As I aged, I went through a brief Bruce Willis stage, before entering an era when I bore an unmistakable resemblance to Jack Nicholson in The Shining, particularly the scene where he sticks his head through a busted door with a "Here's Johnny!"  The likeness was especially striking when I first woke up and stood before the bathroom mirror with saggy eyes and that stuff that forms at the corners of your mouth when you sleep.  Or at any rate, it forms at the corners of my mouth.

Now I seem to be entering a new phase, a phase that makes me yearn to look once more like a deranged Jack Nicholson.  The bags that were formerly under my eyes have actually migrated down my head to form under my jaw.  I cannot even explain how this is possible.  Strange tendons I have never noticed before have begun appearing on my neck.  Also my neck has begun to form wrinkles; how can a neck have wrinkles?  As my hair continues to vanish, it exposes a fleshy terrain that - suffice to say my skull is not the unbroken smoothness of a billiard ball but more the cratered contour of a golf ball, a golf ball that at some point in its history became semi-liquid and then was subjected to a strong headwind.  Spots have appeared on the backs of my hands.  My feet look like...  I will spare you that last image.  Some of you may not have eaten breakfast yet.

So what new movie star do I resemble?  It's not exactly certain yet because the metamorphosis is not complete, but I think I can say with relative assurance it's something from Star Wars.  Narrowing it down still further, it's from one of the first three movies.  It's not Chewbacca (Is that the right spelling?  Could it be that his name is actually the Deepstep word for chewing tobacco?) although a certain unwonted hirsuteness in my ears, nostrils, and eyebrows suggests otherwise, and - since Star Wars was not filmed in Smell-O-Vision, we have no way of knowing how Chewbacca smelled, I suspect a certain kinship in various odors lately associated with my bodily functions.

No, I'm pretty sure it's not Chewbacca, and can only pray it's the wise but backward-talking Yoda and not, as I begin to suspect, the gelatinous Jabba the Hutt.  Maybe this won't be as bad as I think.  Clearly Jabba had "let himself go." Perhaps there were other Hutts not as grotesque as Jabba, and maybe I'll end up looking like one of them.

Meanwhile I scan the barroom scene from the first Star Wars, looking for clues, and then I look in the mirror for further developments.

Time will tell.

Integrated Curriculum by Famous Authors

Every once in a while some high pooh-bah in public education wakes up from a nap with a startled snort and decide to integrate the curriculum.  In plain-speak what this means is that students in science class shouldn't just learn about science but also social studies, and the social studies teachers should adapt their lessons to also teach something about music and phys ed.  All knowledge is related, goes the argument, so it's foolish to  divide up the curriculum into separate compartments.  Leaving aside the risks inherent in teaching sex education in the same class as driver's ed, here are some proposed literary selections.

Ernest Hemingway and Mathematics:

He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a fish. In the first forty days a boy had been with him. But after forty days without a fish the boy’s parents had told him that the old man was now definitely and finally salao, which is the worst form of unlucky, and the boy had gone at their orders in another boat which caught three good fish the first week. It made the boy sad to see the old man come in each day with his skiff empty and he always went down to help him carry either the coiled lines or the gaff and harpoon and the sail that was furled around the mast. The sail was patched with flour sacks and, furled, it looked like the flag of permanent defeat.
How many days had the old man fished without the boy?  If the old man caught a fish today how many fish on average would have have caught over the entire eighty-four days?  How many fish on average would he have caught since he had been fishing alone?  How many fish would he have to catch so that he would have averaged twice as many fishing alone as he had over the entire eighty-four days?
The old man was thin and gaunt with deep  wrinkles in the back of his neck.

E L James, (Shades of Grey) and Human Anatomy

With my heart almost strangling me – because it’s in my throat trying to escape from my mouth – I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section.  Why is he in Potland?  Why is he here at Clayton’s?  And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain – probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata near where my subconscious dwells – comes the thought: He’s here to see you.  No way!  I dismiss it immediately.The medulla oblongata is far from underused and has nothing to do with the subconscious; in fact, it is vital for maintaining autonomic functions such as respiration and reflexive actions, not to mention regulating the heart which is in my chest cavity, thank heaven, and not actually in my mouth, “trying to get out.”  Goodness, I have a lot to learn about physiology!  I wish someone would come along and teach me all about my va-jay-jay and his tinkywinkums.

Giant Asteroid to Destroy Earth

Asteroid 2011-AG5 is a 200-meter asteroid and it's headed straight for the earth.

Of course, it's pretty far away; it won't hit until 2040.

And actually, the phrase, "straight for the earth," is overstating matters.  In astronomical terms, nothing really heads "straight for" anything.  Scientists calculate its chances of hitting are 1 in 625.

But still.  Giant asteroid.  Earth.  Sure death.  Think of the dinosaurs.

In the interests of full disclosure, I should say that the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs, known as Chicxulub, was 10 kilometers in diameter, whereas 2011-AG5 is only 200 meters.  Also, scientifically speaking, you're much more likely to be wiped out by an asteroid named Chicxulub, than a generic set of numbers and letters like 2011-AG5.  In fact, once you give an asteroid a cool name like Chicxulub, you've pretty much signed your own death warrant, which is why scientists don't do that any more.

By this time, you're probably pretty pissed off, but think about it: would you bother with an article titled, "Asteroid Two-Percent as Large as the One That Killed the Dinosaurs Has Remote Chance of Hitting the Earth in Thirty Years"?

If you want to get someone's attention, you have to be bold.  It's like those little featured internet stories that say, "Angelina Jolie Bares All," and then you open the link, and she's wearing a calf-length dress.

For example, the other day, I came running in the house, shouting, "Fire!  Fire!" and Nancy and I run out, and she was like, "What fire?"  And I said, "There isn't a fire, but there's a double rainbow.  Look."  "Why did you say fire?" was Nancy's query, and I said, "Would you have run out of the house if I'd shouted, 'Rainbow!  Rainbow!'"  And you'd think she'd be happy that her house wasn't burning down and there was a double rainbow, but she wasn't.

I'm sorry.

Actually, the above anecdote never occurred.

I was just trying to get your attention.

New Planets

If you go outside on a clear night and look straight up and then a little to the left - not that much, just a little! -you won't be able to see it, but that's where scientists believe there's a planet that may be made entirely of petroleum.  It's 45 billion light-years away, but still.  At these prices it might be worth it.

Right next to it, a little to the right and another twelve billion light years is a planet scientists believe may be capable of supporting life.  That is, provided the life can breathe an atmosphere that is ninety percent cyanide gas and has a temperature of 300 degrees Fahrenheit.  Stupid scientists.
Then a little further on, if you see sort of a faint purple swirl in the evening sky down near the horizon, you're looking at the glow from the Italian Ice stand in Decatur.  Ignore it.
Seventy zillion miles due west and just past the Big Dipper or else possibly the North Star is a little planet that scientists find very intriguing.  These particular scientists, however, don't get out much, and are easily intrigued by pretty much anything.
Four billion light-years to the left of Barnard's Star is a planet that scientists can barely make out with the aid of the Hubble Telescope and by squinting.  Actually, they can't make it out at all, but they can tell it's there because the stars nearby are wobbling a certain way.  You may think you're hidden, little planet, but you're only fooling yourself!  Anyway, scientists believe that judging by the wobble of these nearby stars, this planet is made entirely of men's wingtips!  Imagine that.  Scientists conjecture there may also be a planet nearby of argyle socks, but at this point, this is only conjecture.

Fiscal Cliff Metaphors Spread Havoc in English Language

"Republican Makes Waves on Fiscal Cliff"The Fiscal Cliff metaphor continues to take a drubbing from the nation's reporters and political columnists who seem perversely unable to refrain from mangling it.  Headlines such as, "Fiscal Cliff Negotiations Hit Wall," "Obama Draws Line in Sand on Fiscal Cliff," or "Republican Makes Waves on Fiscal Cliff" puzzle thoughtful readers who expect words to actually mean things and for metaphors to make a certain amount of sense.

Not since Hamlet proposed "taking arms against a sea of troubles," has metaphorical meaning been under such assault.  A recent Barrons article, ""Fiscal Cliff Helps Continue Black Hole of Bond Yields," presents such a tangle of images, readers should be warned to avoid looking at it for fear of damaging their corneas.  If the "black hole," a metaphorical concept so attractive it can suck all other metaphors into itself, is added to the Fiscal Cliff analogy, nothing will be left behind, and not even clarity and logic will escape.

Before outright metaphorical anarchy breaks out, a Special Commission on Tropes must be established to enforce a modicum of commonsense into metaphors, similes, analogies, and comparisons generally.  Otherwise, we will soon face Fiscal Cliff metaphors mixed with warnings against throwing babies out with bathwater, counting unhatched chickens, and closing barn doors after horses have exited, by which time it will be too late.

Chaos will ensue.

Variations on Board Games

A Friendly Game of MonopokerjengachessTry playing Shades-of-Grey-themed Clue.  Colonel Mustard did it in the kitchen with a candlestick will have a whole new meaning.

Make a rule that if anyone wants to argue about rules, first he has to stuff his mouth with an entire bowl of saltine crackers.  Then while he's arguing about rules, everyone gets to sing "White Christmas."

In Scrabble, let anyone make any word he wants, as long as it's an acronym for something.  For exampe, IDKADWEWQ could be, "I Don't Know Any Damn Words Ending With Q."

Naked Twister.

Everyone's fantasized about playing Monopoly with real money, but why not play it with Toxic Assets.

Snakes and Ladders with actual snakes and ladders.  Hard to set up, but maybe worth the effort.

Make Candyland more interesting by telling a three-year-old if they lose, you're going to have their dog put to sleep.  Later you can explain you were kidding.  The dog was going to be put to sleep anyway.

Every time some one answers a question on Trivial Pursuit, punch him in the arm as hard as you can.

Cats I Have Known: Sarah

Sarah was our prettiest cat and far and away our stupidest.  She really was pretty, I mean calendar cat pretty.  White and black and fluffy.  If we went for a walk, she'd follow us.  I've never had a cat who did that before.  There's a reason cats don't go on walks with people the way dogs do.  Cats aren't good walkers.  She'd fall behind us, after she'd already gone far  enough we were afraid she wouldn't find her way back on her own, and we'd have to wait for her to catch up to us.  Then she'd tire out completely and we'd have to carry her the rest of the way.  Maybe we were the stupid ones.

We got Sarah when she was just past kitten-hood and took her to get her fixed, but the vet said there was no rush, that she wouldn't get pregnant before she was at least a year old.  Apparently, however, the vet had missed class or fallen asleep when the professor said cats usually don't get pregnant before they're a year old because Sarah was less than nine months when she became great with kittens, as the saying goes.

We were out of town when the miracle of childbirth occurred, and we returned to five new kittens and a wreck in the kitchen.  A potted succulent had been overturned in addition to other miscellaneous destruction.  Evidently, our other cat Mittens, when babies starting popping out of Sarah was like, "Damn!  This is crazy! Stuff is coming out of her!  And it's mewing!  I'm out of here before mewing stuff starts coming out of me!"  And he'd jumped on the kitchen counter in panic, trying to find an exit.

For a while after this we had seven cats.  Sarah, Mittens, and five kittens.  We did manage to find homes for all the kittens except one - Black Claw, who is living out her senior years with my daughter Catherine.  There's something that happens in the cat psyche when they live in a house where they outnumber the humans.  The cats revert to their basest instincts.  They turn feral.  So it was with our cats.  They forgot their house-training and refused to remember it.  In fact, their preferred place to pee was an expensive divan Nancy put in the living room.  It resulted with all the cats spending all their time outside.

Even pretty Sarah, with her calendar-cat looks, became an outdoor cat.  She remained affectionate however, and if she saw us walking, would follow us at a distance as far as she could before her feet wore out.  Black Claw remained with us the longest, and developed an affectionate relationship with our dog Zoe.  It is to early training from Black Claw we attribute Zoe's extreme respect for the rights of cats.  A few swipes from a cat's claws as a puppy, and you learn your lesson.

As for Sarah, she no longer follows us on walks.  She is buried in the back yard near the fence, waiting for us to follow her.