Wednesday Wa Pic - Vanity plate mystery

Is it possible Aunt Jemima is still driving at her age? Or is this referencing an obscure superhero I just never heard about?

To sleep or capture rain for later—that is the question

When the rain began to fall before dawn last Tuesday, I apparently incorporated it into my dream, because I was suddenly surfing with Kim Basinger. It did not strike me as weird at all, even though nobody has seen her since 1992. 

The waves roared and carried us to shore, where Billy Crystal stood holding out a Mai Tai for each of us. He was in a lime green tux, and as the dream fizzled, he morphed into a frog which croaked, "I'll have what she's having." 

When I woke up, I realized the weirdest part of the whole thing was that it was raining in September. Hard. Oh, we got some drizzle in July, which was also strange, but not satisfyingly so; a lot like the last five or six Johnny Depp movies. 

Tuesday morning it was pouring, just gloriously pummeling my roof, as if, like they say in Greece, it was raining chair legs.

It being 3 a.m., I knew if I got up to set out buckets it would take another hour to get back to sleep, so I let it go. I felt guilty, but there is nothing more soothing than a shear of thunderless rain, so I melted back into slumber like a pat of sleepy butter. Unfortunately, I didn't dream up a better metaphor.

Different cultures around the world use different colorful phrases to describe when it's really coming down. In the Czech Republic, they evidently say "Tractors are falling." In Denmark the phrase is, it's "raining cobbler boys." In South Africa they say "It's raining old women with clubs." In the Netherlands, they are so cultured it rains "pipe stems."

In Portugal it rains "pocket knives," in Germany, "puppies," and in Norway, "troll women." My favorite, though, is Argentina, where they say "it's raining dung head-first." I think we should borrow that one and use it when Congress is in session.

Once up, I put on my raincoat and went about capturing as much water as I could. I felt like one of the brooms carrying buckets in "The Sorcerer's Apprentice." I got completely soaked, but next month my thirsty lawn and flowers will get some relief. 

I may have to stick to the back yard, though. If things look too green in the front, the neighbors will assume I'm a water waster, and these days that's even worse than being a climatologist.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - Cultural misunderstanding, part MMXXXXXXVVVVVIIII

 I do not know what "it" is, but I saw "Silence of the Lambs," so I'll pass.

An interview with Queen Elizabeth, in my dreams

This week, Queen Elizabeth II became England’s longest-reigning monarch, surpassing her great-great grandmother Queen Victoria, who remained unimpressed at the time of this writing. Queen Victoria reigned for 23,226 days, a record thought unbreakable in the era before dietary fiber. In honor of this milestone, I sat down with Queen Elizabeth for a casual and largely fictitious chat.

GW: Your Majesty, thank you for taking time out from being feted by admirers for breaking this monarchy-record thingy.

Queen: It's a relief, to be honest. You'd think people had never seen a lady reign her butt off before.

GW: Did you just say 'butt'?

Queen: Blame it on the champagne. I've spent the last week being feted till my feter is all feted out. Butt butt butt.

GW: (to the waiter) Bring some coffee, please.

Queen: I have reigned over Great Britain, Australia, New Zealand, Canada...

GW: Sierra Leone.

Queen: Not any more, dear.

GW: Uganda?

Queen: We lost Uganda in '63. A shame. The hats were marvelous.

GW: You've still got Tuvalu.

Queen: I AM still the queen of Tuvalu, and Papua New Guinea.

GW: You are the queen of Barbados.

Queen: Yes, and the Bahamas. I like to say they love me anywhere it's breezy. (Laughs.)

GW: (Laughs.) There is something I promised myself I would ask you if I ever met you. Does it feel funny to use money with your own picture on it?

Queen: Use money?

GW: Yes, use money. Oh. Right.

Queen: I have seen it used, of course.

GW: Of course. You have people for that.

Queen: So many people, yes. And cars. And buildings. I count them sometimes when I can't sleep.

GW: So. Sixty-three years on the throne. What are you proudest of?

Queen: I came up with the whole "keep calm and carry on" bit.

GW: No!

Queen: It was just something offhand I said to one of my corgi dogs when he was startled by a colorful ottoman. The next thing I knew, it was on buses.

GW: They are good words to live by.

Queen: Indeed. It's gotten out of hand, though. "Keep calm and smoke weed"? I mean, really. With my crown logo and everything.

GW: Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Queen: Perhaps I should receive royalties. Get it? Royalties.

GW: Ha! Nice, but don't quit your day job...Oh. Right.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Public art, private fantasy

 In my dreams, he takes off the hard hat and strikes the same pose. 

Please make the dreams stop.

A wacky riff on this day in history, September 6

Exactly a century ago on this day, September 6, the first-ever tank, nicknamed "Little Willie," was tested for war. Little Willie did not live up to expectations. (They can put that on my tombstone too.)

So they built Big Willie, who did a very efficient job of removing souls from bodies long before Fox News was invented.

Tanks are supposedly called "tanks" because, for secrecy, the military told tank factory workers that tanks were to transport water on the battlefield. I do not think that fooled anybody. Even factory rubes would have known you don't deliver water through a 50 mm gun.

On this day in 1522, the one surviving ship of explorer Ferdinand Magellan's arrived in Spain after completing the first ever circumnavigation of the earth.

"How was it?" the king asked in Spanish.

"We lost the other four ships and Magellan got killed in the Philippines, but on the bright side, we found what you sent us around the world for."

"The Starbucks?"

"Yes, your highness. I'll draw you a map."

It is ironic that Magellan is the brand name of a major GPS manufacturer, considering he never made it home. The symbolism is not great. "Your car will make it back, at least" is not a slogan I see selling a lot of units.

On this day in 1628, the Puritans settled Salem, Massachusetts, so that one day there would be no shortage of clothing stating "My parents drowned a witch and all I got was this lousy t-shirt."

On this day in 1847, Henry David Thoreau left Walden and moved in with Ralph Waldo Emerson. They soon made a pact that nobody could join their club unless he had a middle name that everybody had to say whenever they said his name. Sadly, Francis Scott Key had died four years earlier.

On this day in 1901, Leon Czolgosz, whom history inevitably reports to us was unemployed, shot President McKinley, who had a job. Czolgosz, who was found to be suffering from too many consonants, was electrocuted by the state.

This is still not the worst thing that has ever happened in Buffalo.

In 1930, game designer Charles Foley was born. He would go on to invent the game "Twister." Before Foley, the phrase "right foot green" had a decidedly more dire connotation.

History has a lot to teach us, you see, none of which you just read.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - A bad case of roof pandas

 On paper, the eucalyptus shingles did seem suspiciously cheaper than the alternatives.

Dropping daughter off at college brings bittersweet feel-splosion

Last week I helped move my daughter into the dorms better than any of the other parents. You might not think it is possible for this to be competitive, and then again, you might not be American.

Some parents required multiple trips back and forth to the car, but I pulled off the elusive and coveted "one-tripper." Set my hand truck horizontal like a flatbed and Tom-Joaded the sucker. Stacked it like a Vegas deck. On the half-mile trek from the car to the dorms, nothing budged. Steinbeck would have penned a sonnet on sight.

Sending your firstborn out from under your roof for the first time is emotional, and in the absence of alcohol, requires a good stacking and hauling task to pull off. Dropping a kid off at college tends to induce flashbacks from her childhood; pincurls bouncing to her shoulders, daddy horseyback rides around the living room, squealing retreats from ocean waves, choir concerts in long black dress and faux pearls.

The elevator up to her floor was a rickety incitement to use the stairs, but necessary for our load. It is no accident that on the campus tour they only show you the ground floor.

We met her roommate, who is also a SoCal homegirl, and who has a car, a freshman luxury, considering the parking permit for a school year could fund a nice laptop.

The girls made forced small talk as I rolled around under the desk connecting the power strip to a half dozen miscellaneous chargers. My freshman year, the only phone I had access to was mounted on the dorm lobby wall. The only charging I did was the cafeteria line at dinner time.

Right after 9/11 I read about a little girl who died on the second plane to hit the World Trade Center. She was four. Turns out she'd been born only one day before my own daughter. She would have been heading to college this fall too. Maybe her mom would have helped her settle in, except her mom was on the same plane.

When the bed was made and the clothes put in drawers and the Wi-fi connected, I gave my girl a hug and I left. It was a long, hot walk back to the car. Lou Gehrig aside, I felt like the luckiest man on the face of the Earth.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - Who stands between YOU and follicular disaster?

 Some of the lesser superheroes have to stoop to marketing to make ends meet.

Horror convention gives father and son a ghoul time

Recently I went to a horror convention, which I want to assure my male readers is not, in fact, shorthand for a baby shower.

Baby showers are certainly horror enough for a man, even it it's your baby. If it's not yours, and the hosts are teetotalers, this veers beyond horror into cruelty. All those tiny, asexual yellow onesies are enough to make a man eat a fireplace poker.

But this was an actual horror expo at the Pasadena Convention Center. The only babies in evidence were props being dragged behind a woman dressed as La Llorona, the famously sad ghost mom.

There were quite a few attendees in costume, although less cleavage on display than your average Renaissance Fair. More giant, bloody mutant rabbits walking upright, though. I don't know what movie/comic book they were from. I don't really keep up with horror, unless you count politics.

I was there because my son is a fan of those horror mazes that amusement parks build in October, and there were discussion panels headed by the creative directors behind them. They were sharing spoilers about this Halloween's plans and getting cheers like the Dodgers used to get.

Who knew there were superfans of horror mazes, who follow news tidbits about upcoming designs the way baseball fans peruse disabled lists? There is a subculture for everything, it appears.

The convention was called "Scare L.A." and this was its third year. Aside from the panels, it consisted of 150 or so vendor booths (typical name: "Dapper Cadaver") selling stuff to scare trick-or-treaters off your lawn. Or spice up your love life. Depends on how you roll.

I enjoyed the exhibit hall the most, with vendors competing to emit the spookiest fog and sell the latexiest ghoul mask. (Horror knows no adjectival limits.)

You could buy a huge, four-foot wide clown face complete with light-up nose. Forget the lawn; that would clear your entire block.

They had severed limbs. Bloody axes. Not those cheap ones you see in the temporary Halloween stores. The good stuff, which appeared as if it had been used on actual screenwriters.

There were booths like "BoogerVampire" and "Brainfarto" and "Toxic Toons." My son is 14. He had the glazed-over look I get when an old Adrienne Barbeau movie comes on. Undiluted bliss.

It was a bonding thing too. You never forget looking at rubber torn-out throats with your old dad. Ah, they grow up so fast.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Grammar rule's are their for a raisin

 Apostrophe misplacement is one sign democracy has begun to falter.

Six flags over California? That's too scary a ride

The idea was floated last year to split California into six separate states, but it failed to make the ballot because, I think, the sponsor didn't give each state a cool enough name. This same issue probably also explains the short life of the Internet-enhancement device, "iSmell." What I'm saying here is—names matter.

Venture capitalist Tim Draper spearheaded the campaign, saying California is too large to manage effectively (subtext: since it's always Democrats doing the managing.) He spent millions of his own fortune on what detractors called "a solution...that didn't address any of our state's challenges."

Plus, who wants to live in the state of "Jefferson"? That is what Draper wanted to call the northernmost portion of California bordering Oregon. It's a reference to Jefferson sending Lewis and Clark to discover Oregon. Either that or Draper is just one huge fan of "All In The Family" spinoffs.

His other bizarre choice was to call the entire wealthy central coast region "Silicon Valley." This would allow San Francisco to be in Silicon Valley even without the assistance of an astounding earthquake. This would create perhaps the wealthiest state in the country. But the name's not cool. Me, I would just call it "Baywatch." Tourism would soar.

Draper divided the rest of the state into generic North, Central, West and South California. How could he not notice that North California has the greatest county in the entire U.S.? Yolo. There's your state, dude. "YOLO." You Only Live Once. Think of the zip-line franchises. Think of the t-shirt sales.

Central California, the food basket of the nation, has Kings County. Boom, the state of "Kings." That's how you name a state, my brother. The flag could be a head of garlic with a crown on it.

West California does not have any good county names to use, but since it includes L.A., let's just call the whole state "Kanye." The state song could be "Gold Digger."

South California we should just call "Julian." Give out an apple pie with each marriage license and be done with it.

Under Draper's plan, the U.S. would end up with 55 states. The cost of changing flags and maps would bankrupt every school district and state capitol. Worst of all, this would completely blow up Schoolhouse Rock's "Fifty Nifty United States" song.

Mr. Draper, have you no decency, sir?

Wednesday Wa Pic - The varied meanings of words

 

Toilet supply store? Brothel? I didn't ask.

Hitchbot, we hardly knew ye

Canada has a long history of trying social experiments out on the U.S. For example, Celine Dion. But its latest one feels like a setup.

A handful of Canadian professors created a festive-looking robot and sent it out into the world to "hitchhike." The question they wanted answered was, "Can robots trust humans?"

Well, it turns out that Hitchbot can trust Canadian humans and Dutch humans and German humans, but not the denizens of Philadelphia. After just two weeks in the states, Hitchbot's head and arms were torn off and its body discarded roadside like a bad Kardashian spinoff. Well, like a Kardashian spinoff.

With arms and legs made of blue foam "pool noodles," whimsical yellow rain boots and a large bucket-like head, Hitchbot was bound to get a beatdown in the U.S. Our tolerance for bucket-heads generally only extends to presidential hopefuls. We may be on the road to "post-racial" but I don't think Americans will ever be "post-robot." And certainly not "post-blue legs/yellow boots." Hitchbot could have been assaulted on grounds of fashion alone.

He was supposed to be picked up by altruistic motorists and driven around the country like a real hitchhiker, except without getting slain. Somebody in Philly jumped straight to the slaying part, which is just un-American. We are a car culture after all.

Hitchbot's never-completed "bucket" list included tanning at Myrtle Beach, seeing Yellowstone geysers and posing with the Hollywood sign. One could also add to his list, I suppose, the return of his own bucket at this point.

I might be tempted to think this whole thing was a setup to make Americans look bad compared to Canadians, except:

a) Canadians are too nice to even think of that, and
b) We don't need any outside help to pull that off

Hitchbot was powered by an iPhone in its head, evidently, which is reason enough for the decapitation and theft, and it's too bad the Canadians did not have the suspicious forethought to set up its "find my phone" function. Even if they had, I doubt that Canadians would go after the thieves. They would probably consider that too rude.

I like Canada. It gave us William Shatner and maple syrup. But it embraced its British forebears while we threw ours out and invented freedom. And, unfortunately for them, we eat social experiments for breakfast.

 

Armadillo-geddon!

I hear that leprosy cases are way up in Florida this year, and it is not even an election year. (That is a dig at somebody. I haven't figured out who yet.) Local scientists suspect that rising contact with armadillos is causing the uptick.

(Side note: I saw Leprosy Uptick at the Troubadour in '79, back when punk was still punk.)

"What's new in your state?" "Oh, we're having a leprosy uptick"...said no governor, ever.

Imagine if the entire U.S. itself were undergoing a leprosy uptick. The president would be blamed immediately for being "soft on armadillos."

They are adorable. Have you seen the babies? Like little grenades with faces.

Did you know that armadillos are the only other animal known to carry leprosy? I decided to compile a list of other traits which only humans and armadillos share:

• Indifference to U2
• Thick armor which even Oprah combining forces with Deepak Chopra cannot often pierce
• The enjoyment which only comes from spitting

All right, "enjoyment" is perhaps a strong word, but yeah. Armadillos spit when riled. Their spit contains the bacteria which causes leprosy. As armadillo habitat is destroyed for subdivisions, more armadillos are coming into contact with humans, and humans do not always use the greatest judgment, especially if they are Floridian humans.

The incubation period for leprosy can be between five and twenty years! Suddenly you are experiencing odd symptoms—skin lesions, claw-like hands, collapsed facial features—and you go, "Oh yeah, back in '95 you dared me to kiss that armadillo outside Hooters. What are the odds that would come back to bite me?"

The Center for Disease Control admits you are unlikely to contract leprosy from an armadillo, but recommends you avoid contact with them "when possible," which is always. It is always possible. Even after Jello shots, people. As the saying goes, if it's close enough to spit on you, it's probably already got a boyfriend anyway.

Luckily, in the U.S., leprosy cases are mostly found in Texas, Louisiana and Florida, states which can be easily avoided if you have a smart phone. I only know one person in those states, and she is unlikely to rile armadillos. Unless the armadillo is a Democrat.

Anyway, antibiotics can take care of it nowadays. Leprosy, I mean, not liberals. Donald Trump has been working on a cure for liberals for years. Trouble is, nobody wants to kiss him.

Wednesday Wa Pic - What The Animals would be singing about today

 This has not been the ruin of many a poor girl.

Infidelity dating site is hacked; slow news week is unaffected

By now you have heard about the Ashley Madison hack, or at least your lawyer has. If you do not know what an "Ashley Madison" is, look in the dictionary under "End Times--Harbingers of."

To keep it simple, it is a Web site where married people can search for people with whom to have affairs. Back in my day, we called this "community theater."

The pastime has gone tech since then, though. Now it's like shopping online, but without waiting for shipping.

"Ashley Madison" combines two of the most popular girls' baby names from 25 years ago, which is just about the right fantasy age target, I'm guessing, for men who sign up. Madison is still in the top 10 for babies, though, which is a little icky, frankly.

But the name is incidental. Guys being guys, they would jump on board if the site were called "Tugboat Repairs." Nobody knows the exact ratio of men to women on the site, but I would bet 100 to 1 would not be far off.

This week hackers purportedly acquired the names, addresses, fantasies and photos of Ashley Madison's 37 million members, threatening to release them if the site was not shut down. The site was not shut down. As of this writing, the members' info has not been released.

Well, they supposedly outed a guy in Massachusetts and a guy in Canada, just as a sample. Imagine, your odds are 37 million to 1 and you still get picked. I would get on a plane to Vegas. I'll bet my wife would pack my bags.

Ashley M labels itself the "most famous name in infidelity," but I think that governor, Mark Sanford, who "hiked the Appalachian Trail" is up there. Tiger Woods. Arnold Schwarzenegger.

It is the only one I just named which charges a fee, however. It even charges a fee to erase all traces of you from its site, so they get you coming and going, which is certainly fitting.

I'll bet you when this blows over, A.M.'s membership numbers will get a nice bump. I am sure there are people who had not even heard you could sign up for affairs as easily as ordering CDs from Amazon.

Despite the slick marketing, infidelity seems like a lot of work to me. Plus, when you're done, you probably feel like ordering a pizza. I say why not just cut to the chase?

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - Moments in bad marketing brainstorming

 Gives a whole new meaning to "Let it go, let it go..."

College orientation turns out to be blast for parents

My wife and I attended our daughter's college orientation last week even though, together, we don't even constitute one rotor of a helicopter parent. But since we had to drop her off anyway, parent orientation sounded fun. I thought we might learn some insider parent songs, at least. Maybe a secret nose-wiggle that would get us past the guard at the building with the gargoyles. Nope.

We were met by an army of student orientation ninjas, though, each spaced about 10 feet apart for a quarter mile, directing us to the student union for the presentation, What It Means To Be A Bulldog. (Actual college mascot altered for privacy, plus, let's face it, "bulldog" is the height of mascotry.)

What does it mean to be a bulldog? You should have pride! (I totally called it.)

The students went their way and we stayed behind so we could watch a video about how safe the campus is. Also how doctors are standing by to treat our precious kids whenever necessary, as long as we pay the mandatory annual medical fee. "But our kid is already covered by our insurance," several parents said. "What part of 'mandatory' do you not understand?" the admin asked (in so many words), the subtext being that college is as good a place as any for a kid to learn that bureaucracy is not just a word.

We were escorted out to the quad and into tents with nice box lunches for which we had prepaid, and, blatantly catering to our particular demographic, they played songs from our youth like "Night Fever" and "Girls Just Want To Have Fun."

An enthusiastic student then toured us around the school, pointing out the place where, in the fall, the science geeks launch pumpkins with catapults, and the medical building where there is a robot mannequin which gives birth 10 times a day for onlookers. Impressive, yes, until you find out there is a Starbucks right in the library.

The dorms were spanking new, and were just a few steps from the spanking new student cafeteria. There is also a little cafe if you are hungry after hours. In my day, car-less, we had to walk a mile to a Naugles for succor. Times have changed.

Even freshmen have it good. They have this thing now you can rent called a microwave-fridge combo. In my day—toaster ovens. I tell you, I was born too soon.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Moments in misguided gardening

 "Put them every 10 feet or that gravel will never sprout," the foreman said.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Company naming is crucial to success

 A focus group helped this company choose a name, after its original choice, "Blow It All," brought in few customers.

Anniversary getaway brings oxygen deprivation, good burgers

The wife and I spent a couple of days this week in Idyllwild, a small mountain town whose name in Cahuilla Indian means "Scented candles half off with your purchase of wind chimes." 

It is a touristy little hamlet in the forest where, apparently, some city ordinance requires every store to have a carved wooden bear out front holding a sign. I guess it's so if you are a bear, you will know you are welcome to come in and freely buy the incense/dream catcher/shave ice/buffalo jerky which is on offer.

It was our 20th anniversary, and the traditional gift for the 20th is china, but in earthquake country that is like tempting fate with bacon and a red velvet cupcake. So we decided a couple of days in the fresh piney air away from the kids was a better call. 

I am writing this from the balcony of a foresty cabin overlooking a creek. Birds are twittering back and forth, as if to say "Yeah, for these prices I think the wi-fi ought to be stronger too."

A place like this can't just give you ordinary soap. No. The shampoo was made from coffee extract, and came from the dispenser like some kind of punch line to a motor oil joke. I have to say, though, it smelled great, and my hair never felt more ready to take the SAT.

Towns like this always have great food. There is something about the lack of oxygen which, ironically, really allows a chipotle-pineapple burger to breathe. 

In the mornings, they delivered a basket of still-warm scones to our cabin door. I have seen every season of "Downton Abbey," but I would still not call myself a "scone person." Until now. Random related thought: currants are so lucky to have even this one job.

We spent some time hiking peaceful nature trails and taking in the view from scenic outlooks. We poked around the shops, and it quickly became clear that, like the wooden bears, each store was required to play ethereal new age music and sell massage oils (hemp seed is a favorite), watermelon soap, tie-dye dresses or funny kitchen slogan signs. We held fast and were not seduced by these worldly temptations.

Anyway, happy 20 years, honey. Without you, I might have gone to my grave never knowing just how many types of probiotic tea they sell.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - But maybe not the best advertising agency

 If you have to put "best" in quotes, it kinda raises a question...

Wednesday Wa Pic - Don't lose your head over tennis

 My opponent had a really wicked backhand, but at least I found a career in sales.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Fill 'er up? Not very often, I'm guessing

 Because nothing screams "Date me!" like gas cap flair.

Wednesday Wa Pic - So you're stuck here with the rest of us

 And when you don't open it, or don't close it, it makes the sound of one hand clapping.

Photo credit: Jill Gold. Thanks, Jill!

Wednesday Wa Pic - But after Labor Day, it's considered tacky

 Because nothing says summer like appearing to hide a head wound.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Reanimation science jobs have their perks

 I always wondered why I never saw the good doctor's car on the street.

Wednesday Wa Pic - When fusion goes too far

 The original? You mean this caught on?

Wednesday Wa Pic - Ziploc with zing!

 The accent is on flavor.

Wednesday Wa Pic - That poor train operator

 But as soon as this train comes to a stop...it's ON.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Jack of all trades, masta of one

 They say it takes 10,000 hours of practice to master something. I am thinking that number is high.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Pong edition

 In the nut aisle, to target that hard-to-reach "wild sleepover" demographic.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Monkey Transport Vehicle

 You've got kids, right? Don't tell me you never wanted to just tell it like it is...

Did you know March is National Umbrella Month?

March is International Listening Awareness Month, a fact most men did not hear about, and will not remember if told. Not listening is a trait peculiar to almost every man, as any woman would be glad to tell him, though he would not hear. This is the month to be aware of listening, men. 

Of course, it's two-thirds over already, because I did not hear about it. 

March is also International Ideas Month. The organization sponsoring it proclaims "our programs...help you capture and clarify what's in your head..." This sounds good, in theory, until you consider that that is one slippery slope.

It is International Mirth Month, as well, which promotes the use of humor as a way of dealing with the travails of modern life. I wish that last sentence were funnier. Clearly, I have managed to fail at International Ideas Month.

March is Mad For Plaid Month, which exists to "celebrate the history and allure of plaid." There are many occasions where "allure" is too strong a word for something, and this is one. Another is when used in a sentence with the word "paisley." Or "bass fishing."

Did you know it is National Caffeine Awareness Month? Not International. Just National. I guess they have given up the French as a lost cause. The creators hope to "reduce dependency through education." This would totally work, if only dependency weren't so fun, and education didn't require a jolt of java to sit through.

March is also National Umbrella Month, "dedicated to the purchase of, use of and conversation about umbrellas." I think it would be hard to have a good conversation about umbrellas, but perhaps International Ideas Month is working better for you than for me.

It is Credit Education Month, Employee Spirit Month, National Craft Month, National Peanut Month (Slogan: "Hooray for national peanuts!"), Optimism Month, National Craft Month ("Because your closet is only 9/10ths full of yarn!"), National Nutrition Month, and Play-the-Recorder Month.

It is also National Frozen Food Month. They tried to take it International, but the Trans-European Heated Food lobby was too strong.

I do not know how a single month can contain so many Months, but it was probably explained at some point and I wasn't listening. Typical.

This is also Root Canal Awareness Week, but keep it down, people, all right? Some of us have to work.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - How the Thin Blue Line makes its green

 The Fashion Police have quietly moved into merch.

Wednesday Wa Pic - The name says it all

 Yeah. It's that good.

Trying to be a leftie is getting out of hand

I forgot to post this column Sunday, so this is standing in for the Wednesday Wa Pic:

GW

I somehow strained my elbow pruning a bush last week, another sign that physical exertion in middle age is best left to characters in movies.

I normally treat my gardening like I do my taxes—as an annual chore best put off entirely until somebody notices.

(I hope my next door neighbors, who both work for the IRS, do not read this. They have seen my yard.)

The injury is to my right elbow, and I am right-handed, which means doing a lot of normal things hurts. I have been wearing one of those forearm straps which supposedly protects your elbow tendon so it can heal, but all it seems to do is carve a fascinating pattern into my flesh. The main effect is that now my elbow and my arm hurt.

So I am trying to do things left-handed that I have never done in my life before, like shave. I am a lather-and-blade guy, and wielding a razor with my left hand is like having some stranger reaching over my shoulder and shaving me.

It is not a precise process, or one for the faint of heart. Tears have been shed, and I don't just mean by my webcam audience.

Spreading peanut butter left-handed sounds easy until you realize that your left hand, after half a century spent slacking off, is basically a one-year-old made out of fingers. It slops jelly halfway across the counter, drops the knife on the floor. In seconds it ends up covered to the wrist in goo. Thankfully it doesn't need a diaper, because I could never get it off one-handed.

I look at my left hand admonishingly. "What have you been doing all these years?" I hissed to it one morning as I walked out to the car. Then, because a neighbor saw me, I had to pretend I had the tiniest iPhone ever in my palm.

"Yeah, milk! Get some milk," I called to my hand enthusiastically, then tapped it to hang up.

Sometimes that theater degree pays off in the oddest ways.

Driving one-handed is not recommended, but I do it. The slick of peanut butter makes it harder.  I have not shaved off my lips yet. I tell myself that learning to floss one-handed is a valuable life skill, like taking down a boar, only messier.

I tell myself a lot of things these days. Mostly left-handed compliments.

. . .

Wednesday Wa Pic - Great Moments In Creative Parking

That is not a parking space. That is self-delusion at a professional level.

Wednesday Wa Pic - It's not just for your kitchen any more

 Monitors your frozen foods AND warns you when your friend on Facebook has posted that your favorite character on "Game of Thrones" died.

Wednesday Wa Pic - When cupcake shop signs go wrong

Let me just...step back a bit.

Wednesday Wa Pic - No Cheese Left Behind

Forget about the schoolkids. Now they are even grading the cheese!

"A Visit From St. Nicholas" Revisited

Twas four nights before Christmas, and all through the house all the kittens were purring, because they'd had mouse. 

Kids' stockings were flung at the hamper with flair, but fell short, in a pile, with the used underwear. 

The children were wrestling pugs in their beds, 'cause a burglar a-tweaking made off with their meds.

And my wife in her flannels and I in my shorts had just snuggled down to some snoozing of sorts.

When out on the lawn I heard a kerfuffle, and, to my chagrin, nothing rhymes with kerfuffle. 

Over to the window I raced like the wind, tripped on a stray hairbrush, abraded my shin. 

When what to my eyeballs the moon did expose but a chubby white man with a very red nose. 

He was trying to ride my inflatable moose. It was clear to me he had been hitting the juice.

"Dude, what are you doing?" I asked my friend Connor, who was leaning to kiss my inflatable Donner. 

"Check it out," said my bud, who had flopped on the grass, "I think I am totally drunk off my butt."

"Thanks," I said, watching my breath rise like vapor, "for remembering this is a family paper." 

My wife reached the window, threw open the sash, and cried "Lay off the reindeer, or your nose I'll bash!"

I glanced at the night sky and I saw it then, past my rooftop Mickey and his three wise men: 

it might have been reindeer, it might have been geese. I thought I was losing my mind (the last piece.)

But here he flew, Santa, and landed his sleigh, while Connor lay gaping, his tongue on display.

Santa's eyes, they did twinkle, just like in the poem, his cheeks WERE like roses. I stammered out "Whoa! Um..."

"You thought I was fictional, just an old myth," he smiled, and my opinion altered forthwith. 

He unslung his sack and pulled out an old toy, a Snoopy I'd had back when I was a boy.

"Merry Christmas," he said, as he saw my fresh tears, "All my gifts are not new, some can undo the years." 

Then he hopped in his sleigh, and was gone in a flash, and I knew what he'd left was much sweeter than cash.

Weird dream, I thought, after awaking, agog, but it's true that I really do miss that old dog.

 . . .

Copyright 2014 George Waters

I'm being followed by a moon salad; moon salad, moon salad

NASA has announced plans to attempt to grow plants on the moon, and it is starting with turnips.

When I was a kid, I would have been happy to hand mine over to NASA for a moon shot. Rather than orbiting Earth, my turnips tended to end up on the narrow ledge of wood underneath the dining room table.

I hope some day, if all goes well, NASA will expand their lunar ambitions to okra and rutabaga. Maybe Brussels sprouts. If we can send a man to the moon, we can certainly eradicate these scourges in our time.

Oh yeah. They are trying to grow them. Well, to be fair, this is only experiment one, and they chose turnips, basil and cress as test subjects because, after polling astronauts about what they crave most after months in space, a T-bone did not even come up once.

So NASA is creating a little pod which will hold seeds in a nutrient sheath, and release water to them at the appropriate moment. The pod will then shoot a selfie after five days to determine if anything grew, and transmit the picture back to Earth.

Scientists are hoping for signs of "circumnutation" and "phototropism," but then again, aren't we all?
The trip is planned for late next year, and I look forward to the night when I can look up at the moon and know there is a tiny salad up there, and that humans have finally gone verifiably nuts.

True, growing mass quantities of produce on the moon would enable astronauts to live there without the need for constant resupply from Earth, freeing up the payload bays of incoming rockets for other crucial items, like DVDs of "Downton Abbey."

But I sort of wish instead of basil they would haul chia seeds to the moon, and the whole thing could be one giant chia head in space. Albert Einstein, say. Or Lincoln.

Of course, the conspiracy-theory part of me suspects that all this is just a cover for a very well-hidden pot farm, well out of reach of law enforcement.

The truth is less entertaining. NASA is using a private space firm to deliver the seeds, a first step toward the eventual commercialization of the moon.

So it is possible that one day an astro-miner will drill amidst a field of corn as high as a Venutian's eye.

That's one small step for man, one giant leap for titanium salesmen.

. . .

 

 

george@georgewaters.net

 

 



Wednesday Wa Pic - Does this picture bother you?

 I have to believe this car belongs to a scientist doing an informal OCD test of the public.

Not just a sloppy, inconsiderate @#!!%#!!

Wednesday Wa Pic - Drink up, mall visitors

 At first glance I thought this micro-marketing to specific demographics was getting way out of hand.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Another apostrophe fail

 It is not only the wood that is hard, evidently, but the concept of plural words.

 #petpeeve  #fustyoldgrammarian

Halloween horror - or, well, at least its general vicinity

Halloween and I have an understanding. It gives me candy, and I don't call  it a pagan abomination. 

Halloween does not get the same respect, though, as other holidays, because it is not based on a single, iconic event, like breaking bread with a race of people whose land you want, or the birth of a deity. 

But who needs respect when you've got multicolored marshmallow circus peanuts? Who needs clothes, even?

This year my kids, one of whom is a teenager, and the other of whom is so close to teenage he can smell its Axe-scented breath on his back, went to a haunted amusement park for the first time. You know these places. They build temporary scary mazes for you to walk through, and then teenagers in creepy masks jump out at you from dark corners. 

This is a great job for a teenager, because it gives him the chance to scare pretty girls without actually asking them out.

The maze designers did an incredible job of plumbing the depths of human fear, because my kids refused to go near them. They just went to the park to be, to borrow a term from the real estate business, "fear-adjacent." They just wanted to wander around the "scare zones" outside the mazes and soak up the general malevolent ambiance. 

I can relate. I once went to a political convention.

When I was a teenager, adults had not yet figured out how to entice money from teenagers in such a slick, professional way, unless you count Jordache Jeans. 

Sure, there were "haunted houses" you could visit, but they were in suburban neighborhoods, and were mostly free. Anyone with an old hockey mask and a plastic steak knife could put up a strobe light in their garage and attract a crowd. 

Well, nobody really showed up. I was kind of disappointed.

The best thing about going to these kinds of scare-parks with friends is the fright-induced bonding, and the stories which come out of this, to be told and embellished forever. This year's tale will undoubtedly entail the moment when my son, responding to some zombie who had growled in his face, yelled back, equally ferociously, "LEMONS!" 

The zombie evidently muttered a startled obscenity and wandered away a little disappointed.

Ah, kids and Halloween. If only they could, like their candy bars, remain "fun-size" forever.

Wednesday Wa Pic - Signage fail

This would do more good if it were posted above my computer instead of on a side-street near a gas station.