Man Martin's Blog, page 179

Lincoln and Me

Nancy and I recently watched Lincoln, and it was really great, although it had sort of a sad ending, which I won't give away and spoil the surprise.  Anyway one of the things I learned was how hard on her husband Mrs Lincoln was.  He was all like, "I've got to free the slaves and save the Union," and she was, "Yeah, Mr Great Emancipator, but you still forgot to put up the dishes!"  It makes me realize how much I have in common with the other great men in history.  I've set the high score in Minesweeper, but does Nancy take that into account?  No, it's all about how I forgot to wrap the cheese and now it's all hard on the end.  But that's one of the crosses we men of destiny have to bear.  I'm sure Gandhi would come home after a hard day's work facing down the British Empire and advocating nonviolence and all that, and all he wanted to do was just plop in front of the TV with a cold one, but then Mrs Gandhi would get on his ass about forgetting to pick up the dry cleaning.

I know it sounds sexist, but I can't picture it working the other way around.  I don't think Mr Joan of Arc ever complained because his wife left her armor lying all over the house.  He was probably more like, "Hey, saving France from foreign powers!  Way to go, honey!  Don't worry about supper, I'll pick up Chinese."  That's just the way men are.  Supportive.  I don't think Mr. Curie ever griped because Marie got radium all over the kitchen floor, but Mrs Isaac Newton was probably all like, "You'd think with all that universal gravitation, you'd remember to put the seat down."

But that, I suppose, is just part of the price of greatness.  Did Darwin let it get him down when his wife complained about all those species he let in the house?  Did Beethoven worry when his wife complained about all the racket he was making?  Did Ricky Henderson worry when his wife complained the closet was full of stolen bases?  They did not.  They forged ahead and pursued their dreams.  So I'm going to play another game of Minesweeper.

But first I'm throwing away that hard cheese in the refrigerator before Nancy sees it.

Getting the Tree Straight

1989Nancy and I have been married thirty-two years come July.  This means we have put up thirty-one Christmas trees.  Of those thirty-one, the number we have managed to get straight is approximately zero.  I don't know what it is we're doing wrong.  The Christmas tree base is equipped with eight screws that theoretically let you adjust the tree to any angle you wish.  I hold the tree upright and Nancy adjusts the screws - "right, right, do one turn on the left, now another on the top right" - but the end result is always the same; the tree looks as if it were installed aboard ship during a storm at sea, ornaments listing to one side at a forty-five-degree angle.
1994
Nancy suggested that we take the same approach we use for fixing wobbly tables; put Splenda packets or matchbooks under one side until it's even.  This doesn't seem such a bad idea, but when it comes to our tree, I don't think there's that many Splenda packets on earth.  The other possibility is just to lean to one side when we look at it, and tilt the camera when we take its picture.  Even years when we've almost gotten it straight, a cat, dog, three-year-old or other force of nature, will come through and knock it catty-wumpus.   Our Christmas trees always end up looking like some woman in a tacky green dress came in, dropped a bunch of presents on the floor, and then collapsed in the corner.
2007
I've decided the real solution is the same approach people use who find themselves living in Texas; decide you like it that way.  And that's how I feel about our crooked Christmas trees.  I like them.  They're big and green, the color of hope, they're covered with lights and surrounded by presents.  And they lean to one side. They're us.

Oh, Christmas Tree

If alien beings visited the earth, aliens from a civilization thousands of years more advanced than our own, aliens with super-high IQ's that could solve even the most difficult Sodoku like that - how would we explain the custom of having Christmas trees?

"See, Zarnuk, we take a tree - not just any tree, it's got to be an evergreen, chop it down and bring it in the house.  Then we cover it with lights and shiny stuff.  In a few weeks, we take all that stuff off and throw the tree away."

Imagine Zarnuk's perplexity.  "Why don't you just bring a dead squirrel into the house, dress him in a tuxedo or evening gown, and put it on the mantelpiece while you're at it?"

Nancy and I used to disagree on the subject of Christmas trees.  Nancy prefers a live tree - by "live," she means dead - and I've always maintained an artificial tree would be more environmentally friendly - especially the environment of my wallet.  For a while I tried convincing her that we could get that "live tree ambiance"  by hanging a few pine-scented air-fresheners around and scattering some dead needles on the floor, but she wasn't having it.

A few times we tried going together to select the tree.  Some families are able to do this.  They eagerly go to the tree lot, happily discuss the merits of the Frazier Fir versus the Scotch Pine, cheerfully load it on the station wagon and come home, all smiles, to drink eggnog or hot cocoa.  This does not work for us.

Something about being amid those rows of Christmas trees drives ordinary people insane.  I am convinced that the Donner Party, trapped in Sierra Nevada in 1846, resorted to cannibalism because they were surrounded by evergreens.  All those potential Christmas trees - which one was the straightest, which was the fullest,which was the Christmas-tree-iest - drove them crazy.

Open Letter to My DNA

Dear DNA,

Over billions of years, using only five kinds of atoms combined to make only four varieties nucleotides, woven together like a spiraling rope-ladder, you have created the fantastic diversity of organic life, from Giant Sequoias to deep-sea-vent tube worms.  Though incapable of joy or suffering, you have made these possible.  Though not conscious, you have given us consciousness.  Though not alive, you have brought forth life.

Kudos.

I do not wish to blame you unjustly for matters beyond your control.  Death, for example, while inconvenient from the standpoint of sentient creatures such as myself, is clearly not a grievance that can be fairly laid at your doorstep.  Even were it possible for DNA to overcome the universal laws of entropy and decay, doing so would be impracticable since what progress you have achieved has arisen only by the process of "creative destruction."  Not only must organisms consume each other for nourishment, but organisms must compete against others of the same species to determine the most suitably adapted.  As new species arise, old species must give way.

Without Death, this whole intricate system would go ker-flooey.

Nevertheless, I wish to register a complaint, specifically on the matter of hair, and more specifically on the topic of male-pattern baldness of the human male.  This, I'm sure, seems like a very trivial matter, but it is its very smallness that makes it such an unnecessary annoyance.  I am reliably informed by both expert opinion and personal observation that baldness is attributable to DNA.  Were not both my father and his father bald, were it possible to believe I have lost my hair because of exposure to sunshine, "thinking too much," or divine retribution, I would have no basis for complaint.  Baldness in that case would be due to lifestyle choices, and I would have no one to blame but myself.

But I did nothing to cause baldness except surviving to mature adulthood, for which I can scarcely be blamed.  Even so, I would not take issue if baldness had a clear survival value for the species.  But what purpose does hair loss serve?  Does making me unattractive to potential mates ensure I do not contaminate the gene pool?  But surely, it is in the interest of the species that its males remain sexually viable as long as possible, especially in the case of specimens such as myself who show such splendidly adaptive traits in other areas, for example remembering to put the seat down and "being a good listener."  Even if baldness served the purpose of warning off potential mates, just as a butterfly's bright colors warn off predators, surely this task is already amply accomplished by the sagging skin, baggy eyes, and liver spots you have also endowed me with.

Adding insult to injury, the loss of hair on my scalp is accompanied by a corresponding sprouting elsewhere. For example, my ears.  What's up with that?  What possible evolutionary benefit is achieved by making me grow hair in my ears?  The excess nose hair, while a nuisance, is at least partly justified by knowing all members of my species have nose hair, and that nose hair is indeed a positive adaptation.  That since turning fifty, I have begun growing nose hair like a human Chia Pet, and that my nostrils - unless mowed at regular intervals - resemble a pair of Yetis crouching side-by-side in twin caves is a regrettable but perhaps inevitable side effect of a valuable adaption going somewhat awry over the course of a lifetime.  But why the ear hair, and why, while we're at it, the single hair on my back?  On one shoulder blade, I have begun growing a single hair.  Unless plucked, it can reach a length of four inches.  These aggravations serve no evolutionary purpose, to have hairs grow where they are useless if not downright counter-productive when they could be growing somewhere that would make me better adapted to my environment, for example, the top of my head.

Let me stress I offer these criticisms in the spirit of making constructive suggestions.  As I write this, I look out the window at the leaves, changing to orange and gold at the approach of autumn.  Far above, a red-tailed hawk is poised in the air, wings spread to catch a thermal draft, almost as motionless as if it had been painted.  Good job on that stuff, truly.  But if you could see your way clear, and I'm not asking for myself because I know it's too late for me, to taking care of the baldness thing in the next hundred million years or so, I think it would prove quite a successful adaption, sacrifice nothing in maintaining the balance between life and mortality, and raise morale generally.

Yours very sincerely,

Man Martin

How to Surprise Your Wife

If someone ever asks me how to surprise your wife for Christmas, I've got an answer for him.

Unfortunately, no one ever asks me that.  Instead, it's always like, "Where did you learn to park a car?" and "What's that smell?"

I have been married thirty-one years, and I still surprise my wife every Christmas.  Sometimes she's disappointed, alarmed, and disgusted, but also surprised.  The way I go about it is this, first I try to find out what she wants.  Maybe we'll be walking in the mall and she'll say, "Look, a pet monkey!"  That way, I know she wants a pet monkey.  Or she'll say, "Let's stop at the Food Court and get a giant pretzel."  That way I know she'd like a giant pretzel maker.

Some husbands let professional gift-wrappers at the mall wrap their presents for them.  Bor-ing!  Of course, if you do that, you get to see the gift-wrapper's response to what you've purchased.  "It's a surprise for my wife," you say, and they say, "Oh, she'll be surprised alright."  But it's much more heartfelt if you wrap it yourself, besides a lot of times won't help you anyway.  They'll make excuses like you can't gift-wrap decorative rocks or a pet monkey.  And they call themselves professionals.

I get good ideas for gift-wrapping things from TV.  Like there was this husband who gave his wife a great big box, so she thought it would be a flat-screen TV or a statue of Venus or something, and then she opens it and pulls out paper, and paper, and paper, and it's like the whole box is full of nothing but tissue paper.  But then she gets to the bottom, and it's a little box with a diamond ring, and she's thrilled.  I think that's a really great idea for wrapping a small present.  It would work perfectly for that pet tarantula she was admiring the other day in the pet store.  Another time, this woman wakes up, and there's this long red ribbon lying on the floor.  She follows it, and goes straight out the door, and outside there's a brand new car with a big red bow on top!  That is so cool.  I'll do the same thing if I ever get her a beehive.

Anyway, I've already got Nancy's next surprise picked out and wrapped.  "Calm down," I say soothingly.  "It'll only be a few more weeks."  I'm talking to the present, not Nancy.  Nancy doesn't know about it yet.

I can hardly wait.

Aftermath

I gained four pounds in three days.  One of those days was Thanksgiving, but still.  Four pounds.  Maybe this doesn't sound horrific to you, but do the math.  If I gained at that rate for a year, I'd weigh over 600 pounds.  What, one asks oneself, is in Thanksgiving food that makes it so hideously fattening.  I gorged myself on Halloween candy, which is pretty much solid sugar fortified with artificial coloring and flavoring, without, as far as I can tell, gaining an ounce.  But one meal of nutritious, low-calorie turkey and cranberry sauce (rich in antioxidants) and I'm four pounds to the plus.  (This is the equivalent of 16 quarter-pounders.)  According to the Calorie Control Council - there really is such a thing, I'm not making this up - the typical Thanksgiving meal is 4,500 calories.   This is about twice as much as the recommended amount for an entire day.

What makes it so disheartening is that over the Thanksgiving break, I worked out like a dog.  Specifically, I rolled around on the front lawn, then spent the rest of the day lying on the floor in front of the sofa.  Before going to bed, I walked around in a circle three times.
And yet, in spite of this extra activity, there are four more pounds of Man Martin than there were on the planet just a few short days ago.  But I'm not giving up, by golly!  I went to the gym Saturday and did a full workout.  I was ready, I'm primed, and I'm determined.
Then when I came home from the gym I saw a bag of caramel corn on the back stoop.  Vaguely, I remembered ordering it from a boy scout last month in a spirit of ill-advised charity.  What the heck.  I'll eat it, and then I'll start on my diet.  The label says it's a hundred calories per serving and there's ten servings in the bag. I'd have to eat three and a half bags to equal one Thanksgiving dinner.

Scientists Discover a New Smell

Smell Scientists as the Los Alamos Laboratory, New MexicoI read on the internet that scientists have discovered a new smell.  I know this must be true, because, hey, I read it on the internet.  I really had no idea scientists did this sort of thing, discovering smells.  We discover smells around my house all the time, but I'm never getting a Nobel Prize or anything.  Nancy will be like, "Good Lord, what's that smell?"  And I just say, "Sorry."  Next time, I'll say, "Research."

Scientists describe this new smell as "olfactory white noise."  I am not making this up.  I can only hope they're not getting government money for this.  Some of my own more intriguing olfactory discoveries are also associated with noises, but none of these could be described as "white noise."  Nancy sometimes complains about the noise, too, but I don't see why.  The noise is Nature's way of saying, "Watch out!  Smell coming!"

It's very odd to describe a smell as "white noise."  Think about it; they're comparing a smell to a noise, and they're comparing a noise to a color.  Calling a smell a "white noise," doesn't give you any idea what the smell would be like, and frankly, I'm not convinced they've found a smell at all.  I think they're making it up.  Probably jealous because I come up with new smells all the time without really trying.  "You smell that smell, that doesn't smell like anything really, just kind of a background smell, that you can't really smell it at all, kind of like a background noise you don't really hear it at all.  Well, that's a brand-new smell.  We just discovered it."   You're not fooling anybody but yourself, Mister Scientist!  Olfactory white noise, my eye!  When my smells make a noise, you know exactly what they'll smell like.  Well, actually, you don't know exactly how it will smell, but you know you don't want to stick around and find out.

Now that's science.

Scaling Back

Lately I've been taking time out to wonder - am I doing too much?  What's the point, after all, of beating my head against the wall?  This isn't a metaphor for something, I'm talking about actually beating my head against the wall.  What's the point of it?  People who know me are not only surprised at how much I get done, they're surprised I get anything done at all.

Sure, sure, I've gotten a lot of computer solitaire played, but so what?  Does that make me "better" than other people who haven't played as much as I have and don't know the little secrets for maximizing your score?  Okay, maybe it makes me a little better, but is it really worth the sacrifice?  And Gilligan's Island.  I've been re-watching every episode on Roku back to back in between games of computer solitaire, and sure it's pretty impressive, and I can nearly recite all the lines by heart, but is that fulfilling?  Do people appreciate it when I perform Episode #39, "The Little Dictator," or are they just envious and say things like, "Christ, please stop."  Will they put on my tombstone, "He learned every episode of Gilligan's Island by heart"?  That's what I specified in my funeral instructions, but will they really do it?

But here's the thing, when you're like me, you're driven.  It's like there's something inside you, and even when you're tempted to "go outside" or "do something worthwhile," there's a little voice saying, "No, just there and play another game of computer solitaire," or "sit right back, and you'll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip."  Of course, that voice is coming from the TV.

I guess I could take the easy way out, be like everybody else, not play so much computer solitaire, watch fewer re-runs of Gilligan's Island, but I refuse to lower my standards.  Sure, you can say, there's no point beating your head against a wall, and you might be right.  Maybe I will cut back on that part.

Holiday Travel Statistics

Forty-three point six million will hit the road.
One million will also hit each other.The American Automobile Association released its annual batch of statistics for the Thanksgiving Holiday.  Forty-three point six million people are expected to hit the road this weekend.  About one million will also hit each other.  90% of travelers will go fifty miles or more.  Ten of those miles will be back-tracking after taking a wrong turn or missing the exit.  Seventy five thousand pecan pies, forty-four thousand bowls of ambrosia salad, eighty-eight thousand string-bean casseroles, one hundred two thousand tooth-brushes, and ninety-five thousand pairs of clean underwear will be accidentally left behind.  Five hundred thousand McDonald's combo meals will be sold, and four-hundred fifty thousand of those will elect to "supersize" their sodas for "best value."  This will result in three-hundred thousand additional bathroom breaks, two hundred seventy-five repetitions of, "I told you to go before we left," and one hundred fifty thousand additional burps.  Five thousand of those burps will be longer in duration than five seconds.  Four thousand three hundred of these burps will elicit comments of, "Ewww.  Gross."  One million five-hundred thousand verses of "A Hundred Bottles of Beer on the Wall," will be sung. The median verse achieved will be "63 bottles of beer on the wall."  Two hundred thousand games of "Animal Vegetable or Mineral" will be played, five hundred fifty-thousand games of "License Plate Poker," and one hundred eighty thousand games of "I Spy."  Twenty-five thousand arguments will ensue over whether or not it's fair to "spy" something inside the car.  Another two million arguments will take place over what to listen to on the radio.  Two million, twenty-five thousand older siblings will complain that their younger siblings "won't leave them alone," one million eight-hundred thousand will complain that a sibling is "touching me."  Four hundred thousand five hundred children will get carsick.  Four hundred twenty thousand will manage to throw up outside the car.  Two hundred twenty thousand GPS devices will inexplicably and magnificently malfunction, taking people insanely off-track.
Twenty-five bloggers will write spoofs of annual traffic statistics as provided by the AAA.

What I'm Thankful For

My wife
My life
The luck I've had
That I'm a Dad
Catherine and Spence
That they both got sense
My son-in-law Drew
(And their new house, too.)
Spencer's boyfriend Glen
My dog and my hens
My sisters and bro
And Donna and Joe
And dozens and dozens
Of nephews, nieces, uncles, aunts, and cousins
And a special thanks
for my agent, Sorche Faribank
A comfortable home
That it's not in Nome
And family and friends.
Amen.