Man Martin's Blog, page 184

My Science Project

For my science project this year, I have recreated a life-size model of the actual living environment of the American male.

For this project I needed a comfortable green chair, several books, gym socks, raisins, popcorn, a coffee-cup, a footstool, various cords and chargers.  These have been arranged in a careful simulation of the actual environment.  I have carefully painted simulated coffee spills on the upholstery and scattered popcorn and raisins in the cushions and under the chair.  Originally, I planned to scatter grapes and let them turn into raisins, but time did not permit.  The chargers for cellphones, lap tops, Ipods and electronic devices required a twelve-outlet box.  You will notice that many of the chargers are for unidentified devices and devices that indeed no longer exists.  This is deliberate on my part and adds to the realism.

I modeled the American male out of 200 pounds of flesh-colored Play-Doh.  I required fifty pounds to model his fat ass alone.  You will notice that the model is completely motionless.  This again is intentional and adds to the realism.  I dressed the Play-Doh model in swim trunks, a stained tee-shirt, and white tube socks. He is posed as if typing on the computer while watching TV.  This ensures he will neither get any productive work done nor understand what he is watching.

Behind him is a poster explaining the habits of the American male.  Over the course of a year, a typical American male will eat fifty pounds of cookies and cakes, one hundred pounds of refined sugar, fifty-five pounds of fat and oil, three hundred containers of soda, twenty gallons of ice cream, five pounds of potato chips, and two pounds of candy.  He will watch one thousand, seven hundred, ninety hours of television.  In the course of a year, he will spend about as much time exercising as he spends on Facebook.  If he is like one in four Americans, he will not read a single book this year.

He is made of Play-Doh and sits in a chair in front of the TV unmoving.

I think I deserve an A+.

Stuff in the Bottom of the Freezer

Just exactly what is that stuff in the bottom of the chest freezer, is what inquiring minds want to know.  I say, be careful what you ask.  There is some knowledge mankind was just not meant to have.

Did we ever actually buy this stuff?  In a grocery store?  With the intention of eating it?

Some objects are identifiable as frozen chickens, or if not chicken, at least a bird, or a bird-like animal: archeopteryx or dodo.  Other things seem to be leftover mastodon haunch or saber-tooth loin.  And when did we buy all these frozen dinners?  "Ready in Minutes" the packaging promises.  "Just Heat'n'Serve."  We must've been expecting nuclear war or zombie invasion because nothing short of apocalypse could induce me to dig into these delicacies.

Also, there is something that may be frozen split-pea soup.  Nancy makes wonderful split-pea soup, but, let us admit it, even in its freshest state, it looks like swamp algae.  Frozen, it looks like frozen swamp algae.

I believe much of the "food" at the bottom of the chest freezer was never purchased or prepared.  It just appeared there spontaneously, the way frogs do from Nile mud.  There must be a  power in chest freezers to generate frozen food out of nothing, corollary to the power of clothes-driers to vanish our socks.  No doubt Stephen Hawking has explained this somewhere in his theories about black holes.

In John Carpenter's The Thing, a remake of the 1950's The Thing from Another World, based on John Campbell's story, Who Goes There? scientists in the Antarctic find and thaw out a frozen alien.  The alien has the power to metamorphose into anything it chooses, and soon is killing and devouring the luckless scientists.  There's a lesson here for all of us.

Be careful what you thaw.

Famous Me

The problem with being so amazingly humble as I am - and I am amazingly humble, you can take my word for it - is that I do a very poor job of self promotion.  I never seem to have a camera on hand at the many Nobel Prize Ceremonies, Gala Fetes, and Barn Raisings which I attend, often dressed as Louis XIV, and when I do have a camera, it is invariably broken or low on batteries, so what pictures I get come out all but impossible to make out.  "You're a swell guy," Jonathon Franzen once remarked to me, "and you can flat write rings around me, but you're a lousy photographer."  I laughed at his chiding, for I knew he'd made a humorous but valid point.
Nevertheless, here are a few photos, for what they're worth, of recent events which I have attended.
Here I am, receiving an award for "Bestest Writer Ever!" from the International
Association of Really Prominent Editors and Stuff
This is me at a book reading.  The audience was very moved.  Some laughed,
some cried, one went home and devoted her life to charity.  Fans are the best!
Here I am meeting the Prophet Elijah.  Elijah is a great guy and really down
to earth, in spite of being a prophet of the Lord and all.  He said he was
"a really big fan" and invited me out to his Malibu house sometime.

Selecting Your Pumpkin, Gourd, Decorative Corn

This is not an acceptable porch decorationHere are some dos and don'ts  for the all-important season of nailing inedible corn to your door and tastefully arranging various members of the squash and gourd family on your front porch.

PUMPKINS:
When it comes to pumpkins, you just about can't go wrong.  You can buy a number of little pumpkins and huddle them together on the front stoop for the fashionable chi-chi look of a trendsetter.  The pumpkins tell the neighbors, "I shop at Trader Joe's and call their wine 'Two Buck Chuck,' even though it costs a lot more than two bucks."  You can buy a large pumpkin, and - if you choose - you can carve it, either the traditional snaggle-tooth Jack-o-lantern, or a whimsical tableau of witches and alley cats.  Almost anything goes!  If you don't want to carve it, you can even color on it with tempera paints or magic markers!

As versatile as pumpkins are, there are some things to keep in mind.  For example, costuming a group of pumpkins to resemble a bloody murder-suicide crime scene is not appropriate.  Second, if you do choose to carve your pumpkin, you must be sure to empty out all the seeds and pulp before displaying it.  This is non-negotiable.

GOURDS and SQUASH:
Pretty much the same things apply as with pumpkins, with the addition that you must not employ crook-neck varieties to stage scenes of simulated sexual or phallic content.

INDIAN CORN:
Nailing Indian Corn to your front door makes a real statement.  "I'm damned if I'll call it Native-American Corn, and I don't care you can't eat it, and I'm voting for Romney, and if you don't like it, you're probably just a victim!"  There's nothing like the sight of piebald ears of corn to bring in the holiday spirit.
However, you have to get authentic Indian Corn.  Silver Queen corn will not do, nor will Green Giant Frozen Corn on the Cob.  You'll look silly even trying.

CUCUMBERS:
There is no such thing as decorative cucumbers.  What the heck are you thinking?

Road Hazards

 One of the great benefits of biking, as opposed to running or swimming, is the amount of mental stimulation provided in addition to the grunting and groaning you get to do pumping your way up a two-mile incline.  For example, the only thing that gets my old heart beating faster than being pursued by a barking dog is the sensation that a large speeding truck is bearing down on me like a juggernaut of doom.  In between watching my life flash before my eyes, I can almost hear the calories burning.

Undergoing life-threatening stress, scientists tell us, is a more effective weight-loss technique than mere ab-crunches alone.  Actually, scientists do not tell us this.  They're keeping it a secret.  The bastards.

Naturally, I don't want to overdo a good thing, so I spend as much time on the sidewalk as possible.  This keeps me out of traffic, but sometimes necessitates a move that...  Well, envision the following tableau: Yours Truly pedaling down the sidewalk like a bald Lance Armstrong, only mu-u-uch slower and un-doped.  (Nothing flowing through these veins but red corpuscles and wholesome, life-giving gin.)  Along comes a pedestrian heading in the opposite direction.

Out of simple courtesy, I get off the sidewalk and onto the road at the first opportunity, giving right-of-way to the walker.  Sometimes, there is a driveway or declivity that makes this maneuver as painless as spreading soft butter on a biscuit; sometimes, however I must go directly over the curb, and this hurts in a way awkward to describe in a family-oriented blog.  Imagine, perhaps, two very ripe plums.  Italian Plums would work best, but Damson Plums will do.  Place these in an ordinary paper bag.  Drop an unabridged dictionary on the bag.  Now open it, and observe the result.

As I write this, it is still dark outside, a fine Saturday morning.  Soon I will be on my bike amid the dogs, trucks, and steep curbs.  My plums are all a-tingle with anticipation.

Gin Review

Gin, from the French genievre, or Juniper, from which it derives its distinctive flavor, dates to the Middle Ages; it has evolved into one of the most widely enjoyed spirit.  For the connoisseur and novice alike, I will taste-test some of the more popular brands and offer a brief survey.

Hendrick's: A Scottish Gin that infuses rose petals and cucumber into its flavoring as well as the traditional Juniper berries.  Expensive, but many say well worth it.  A very tasty and distinctive gin.

Plymouth: I've never tasted this gin before, but it is quite excellent and may well be my new favorite.  Dry and  unusuusal, it makes a superlative martini.

Tanqueray: A famliar favorite.  Never disappoints.

Bombay:  A darn fien gin.  Dilicous.

Seagrams: Reelly underrated.  Some oeolo  some peoou  some people don't like Seagrams   Snobs they don't knw what theour they're talking about Seagrams is a darn fine gin.  I don't care who know s it.

Boodles: i guahgy get gin .  Its goood.  Godd.

Beefeagaer  Beefeea  Beef eai  Beef eagter  The hell with it

What Is Your Breakfast-Cereal Name

First initial

A - HoneyB - CrunchyC - FrostedD - ChocolateE - CaramelF – ChewyG - CreamyH - SquishyI - MagicJ - YummyK – ScrumptiousL - SugaryM - CinnamonN - RaisinO - AlmondP - NuttyQ - CracklyR - VitaminS - PowerT - ToastedU - PuffedV - FlakedW - BakedX - FortifiedY – All-NaturalZ – Pulverized
Middle InitialA-   OatB-  RiceC-  WheatD-  CornE- Multi-grainF-   BranG-  MarshmallowH-    ClusterI-      MushJ-    PuffK-    CircusL-     FunM-   HappyN-    ClownO-    CookieP-     GranolaQ-    Road-KillR-    MonsterS-     YummyT-     ButterU-    Ice-CreamV-    YogurtW- PeanutX-    WalnutY-    CoconutZ-     Hazelnut
Last InitialA – SquaresB – LoopsC – BunchesD – NutsE – ClustersF – SticksG – KnucklesH – YumsI – CrumblesJ – Fall outK – FlakesL – BalesM – BitsN – CrapO – Dangle-DinglesP – LumpsQ – LogsR – NutsS – BobblesT – SquirtsU – MushV – ToastiesW – TastiesV – BombsW – CookiesX – TartsY – O’sZ - Mugwumps

What the Aliens Are Watching

We have been broadcasting television shows for the last sixty years.  By my careful calculations and looking it up on the internet, I predict episodes of The Honeymooners and Gilligan's Island are reaching the star H N Pegasi in the constellation of Pegasus right about now.

This thought should give us pause.

What will the Pegasians deduce about life on this planet from picking up our stray television transmissions?  For openers, they will believe that many of our doorways are equipped with devices that create spontaneous cheering and applause whenever opened.  They will believe that our conversation consists almost entirely of snappy comebacks interrupted by more laughter and applause from unseen and never-acknowledged entities.  Periodically life will be interrupted by messages regarding remedies for digestive upset, leaky bladders, and headache.  (Earthling internal anatomy is failure-prone at almost every juncture, the Pegasians will conclude.)

As they continue to view our programming several changes will take place.  Our sun will undergo an inexplicable transformation so that instead of casting monochromatic light, it will illuminate the world in full color.  The change will be sporadic and intermittent, but in time everything on earth will be lit in the full prismatic spectrum.  This astounding phenomenon will go unremarked by the earthlings.  Perhaps, the Pegasians will speculate, we have evolved completely color blind.

On the subject of colors, the Pegasians will note that within the span of a few decades, earthlings of different colors will begin to appear as well.  The sudden existence of "races" among a formerly homogeneous population might be expected to produce certain tensions, as indeed it will, but an even more astounding transformation will be in store.

The earthlings, which thitherto seemed to reproduce asexually, perhaps by spores wafted through the air - so that  Ricky and Lucy who sleep in separate beds and never exchange anything more passionate than a lingering handshake - produce "Little Ricky," presumably a clone or graft of the original "big" version - will suddenly enter into a phase of sexual reproduction, an evolutionary leap without parallel to anything on H N Pegasi.  Whatever the explanation for this abrupt, radical, and fundamental change to their biology, the earthlings show an enormous proclivity and relish for the act of intercourse as if they'd been "saving up" or else secretly practicing in private.  Suddenly the concept of sexual reproduction and its various ramifications will dominate the entire culture.

Secondary sexual characteristics of female earthlings - ie mammary glands - will increase exponentially in size while average sexual attractiveness of men will actually diminish slightly, so that overweight and relatively ungroomed men will mate with women of almost absurdly favorable pheontypes.  (Leading to speculation on H N Pegasi that the males are evolving more slowly than the females.)  This disparity will cause understandable anxiety among the males, and a new category of messages will interrupt daily life on the planet, now offering remedies for "male performance" and depression along with those for toenail fungus and bladder control.

But then will come the day, I calculate it will be in about twenty more years, when a new type of programming will reach them from our planet, and they will say to one another, in relieved and chagrined laughter, "Oh, all of the transmissions we've been watching were fantasies, no wonder!  Ha, ha, and we thought this was representative of life on earth."  How eagerly they will tune in to the first broadcasts they pick up of Reality Television.

By this point, I hope that I am safely dead, my ashes already scattered by hot air balloon across the Himalayas as per my funeral instructions.  Failing that, I must hope the Pegasians do not have advanced weaponry nor space travel, for if they do, they will surely send their Z-Rays on J-Bombs to blast our planet
into smithereens.

Meanwhile, I'm watching my own TV, hoping to catch sight of I Love Uiot!fg and Mentor-Bot Knows Best, to learn what I can about H N Pegasi.

Our Time is Coming

Many of my generation (No, I won't tell you my age.  (I have the body of a twenty year-old, however.  (I have her locked in the basement, ha-ha.  (Just kidding I would never do a thing like that.  (Lord, I've got a real case of parenthesarrhea  going on here.))))

Let me start over.

Many of my generation are dealing with parents in physical and even mental decline.  We discuss their "situations" behind their backs; what state they're in, whether they're still competent or whatever.  We test them in little ways, pretending to be casual, "How's your knee, Dad?"  "What day of the week is it, Mother, who is the president of the United States?"  "Have you taken your medicine today?"  "What's that smell?"

If this is not enough, we make insinuating suggestions, "Do you think it's still a good idea to be driving?"  "Have you considered selling this joint and moving into a nice facility with people of your own age where your meals are provided for you and you'll finally have time to read all these fascinating National Geographics you've been hoarding for thirty years?" "Aren't you tired of administering that pesky old multi-million dollar stock portfolio?  Wouldn't it be easier and nicer just to sign a power of attorney and get it off your hands?"

We are miffed and resentful when these helpful suggestions are rebuffed, but let's admit there's a little speck of retaliatory motivation in play here.  For the first years of our lives these people took care of us in every way, a fact which they were not shy about holding over our heads and lording over us about.  "You'll always be my little boy," they tell us when we are fifty years old and wear bifocals.  They keep humiliating pictures - and show them - when we stood naked on the coffee table, holding a well-chewed teddy bear in one hand and the tail of the long-suffering beagle in the other.  We smile and laugh, of course, but deep down we are rankled, rankled in no small way, and now, as they enter their golden years, we find the tables unexpectedly turned.  It is as if the turkeys, after generations of dread and trembling, discovered a new holiday in which the traditional meal was pilgrim.

With this in mind, I'm keeping a close and watchful eye on my daughters, because I know one day it will be their turn.  I've already spotted them making certain predatory glances when my guard slips.  To make matters worse, even when I'm at the top of my game, I'm not someone you'd want to trust with anything sharper than round-nosed scissors.  I sometimes say "pork chops" when I mean "chop sticks."  I carry a Smartphone which I never answer keep charged, or use, and which serves no apparent purpose other than a counter-weight my wallet.  To say I lose my car keys frequently would understate the situation by a wide margin; the best I can claim is that I often find them.

I love my daughters, of course.  I adore them as if they were my very own children, but there is a broad and spacious distance between loving someone and trusting them.  I love my dog, but I wouldn't put a rib-eye on the floor for her to look after while I left the house.

Accordingly, I've started dropping little comments to let them know Daddy's not ready for the glue factory just yet.  "Just yesterday," I'll say casually, "I drove the car all the way to the Kroger and back.  Not a scratch," or "Today is Tuesday, October 3rd, and the President of the United States is Barrack Obama.  Did you know that?" or "The ol' bladder is in tip-top shape, yes sir.  Just this morning I was peeing like a race horse.  Of course, I only pee when I want to.  No control issues here.  I don't want you to go thinking I've got a colander for a urethra."

Oddly, these comments, rather than diminishing the predatory gleam, make it shine only the more brightly.

I'm worried.

Haiku For Fall

Fragrant morning airThe neighbor's BeaglePooped my lawn again



Patter-pitter-patPatter-pitter-patter-pitDamn acorns everywhere

Stepping out of doorsSunlight falls, tears fill my eyes.Ragweed is in bloom.



My love speaks to me.(I spent the day on Haikus)"That won't pay the bills."