Because nothing says summer like appearing to hide a head wound.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
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, May 20, 2015
Wednesday, May 13, 2015
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
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, April 15, 2015
Wednesday Wa Pic - Pong edition
In the nut aisle, to target that hard-to-reach "wild sleepover" demographic.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
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...
Sunday, March 22, 2015
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.
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, March 11, 2015
Wednesday Wa Pic - How the Thin Blue Line makes its green
The Fashion Police have quietly moved into merch.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
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.
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, January 28, 2015
Wednesday Wa Pic - Great Moments In Creative Parking
That is not a parking space. That is self-delusion at a professional level.
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
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, January 14, 2015
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Wednesday Wa Pic - No Cheese Left Behind
Forget about the schoolkids. Now they are even grading the cheese!
Sunday, December 21, 2014
"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.
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.
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
Sunday, February 23, 2014
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.
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.
. . .
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
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, December 4, 2013
Wednesday Wa Pic - Drink up, mall visitors
At first glance I thought this micro-marketing to specific demographics was getting way out of hand.
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