All posts by Dale Connelly

Poems, Science

Is There Cheese After Life?

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Archaeologists have determined that a mummy entombed 3,600 years ago was adorned with lumps of cheese – apparently to give her something to enjoy in the next world.

I can see why this woman’s custodians wanted to send her packing with a few tasty morsels. What is there to look forward to in a bring-your-own-cheese afterlife? Not much, I would guess. Sounds pretty cheap.

What’s amazing is that the deceased person in question, the so-called “Beauty of Xiaohe”, is so well preserved after 3,600 years. The New York Times described the burial location as being in a “terrifying desert”. The name of the place, Taklamakan, is said to mean “go in and you won’t come out.”

I’d think anyone would be relieved to check out of such an arid wasteland. But something doesn’t seem right. Now that the Beauty of Xiaohe is closing in her fourth millennium of mummydom, why hasn’t she gotten around to eating her snacks? When I set out on a long trip, I pretty much empty the goodie bag in the first hour and wind up hitting every rest stop afterwards. To leave the fromage unmolested for so long shows admirable restraint, and qualifies The Beauty of * for a poem or a nursery rhyme of some sort.

Naturally I chose the one that ends with cheese.

In the original, which is (inexplicably) about a farmer trapped in a computer (a Dell), the verses gradually have his estate acquire a wife, a child, a nurse, a cow, a dog, a cat, a mouse, and finally, the only prize any dead person truly cares about – cheese. This one is only slightly different.

The mummy doesn’t smell
The mummy doesn’t smell
Heigh-ho the derry-oh,
The mummy doesn’t smell.

The mummy lost her life. (2x)
Heigh-ho the derry-oh …

Her life wasn’t mild.(2x)
Heigh-ho the derry-oh …

It could have been worse. (2x)
Heigh-ho the derry-oh …

We’re looking at her now. (2x)
Heigh-ho the derry-oh …

And we are all agog. (2x)
Heigh-ho the derry-oh …

She has no body fat. (2x)
Heigh-ho the derry-oh …

Her tomb is like a house. (2x)
Heigh-ho the derry-oh …

The house has some cheese. (2x)
Heigh-ho the derry-oh …

The oldest cheese we’ve known.
The oldest cheese we’ve known.
Heigh-ho the derry-oh,
The oldest cheese we’ve known!

What food would you want to be buried with?

Uncategorized

Make Serious $$ In Your Pajamas!

54 Comments

Federal regulators have busted a work-from-home-scam that did not actually help anyone work from home.  The people who signed up received no gainful employment except perhaps the unpleasant job of trying to figure out where their money went.  This is the type of business you used to see touted on flyers stuck to telephone poles – back before the internet became a worldwide staple-ready blank space.

The notices usually said something like this:

Work Without Leaving Home!
Earn Unlimited Dollars In Your Pajamas!

This idea of making a living without having to leave the house has always carried a special allure for me because I am a natural introvert and a lifetime member of Persons Anonymous – a social support group for the low and no profiled.  We attract and retain members by having it as a defining article in our charter that we never actually meet.   But if we ever did get together, I’m certain the Persons Anonymous membership would discover that we, as a group, have been disappointed by “work from home” scams at a much higher rate than members of the general (sociable) population.   And chief among those disappointments would be the realization that “work from home” is not the same thing as “work alone” or “work without having to interact with other people”.  Some of these “work from home” scenarios involve making cold sales calls, or answering the phone, or dropping your pajamas on the floor and picking up your money on the dresser.

In fact, this past weekend’s arrests may confirm that the only way to truly make money in your pajamas is as a sleepwear model.   The sole requirement – that you look fetching in drawstring pants,  appealing in a terrycloth bathrobe and ravishing in adult onesies – an easy reach for Baboons, especially when they do your hair, apply the make up, and turn on the fans.

But of course you’d have to leave the house to go to the shoot.

Drat.

What business have you (or would you) run out of your home?

Uncategorized

Ask Dr. Babooner

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We are ALL Dr. Babooner
We are ALL Dr. Babooner

Dear Dr. Babooner,

Last week, people at my office became very upset over figure skating.

My cubicle-mate started a petition demanding that the United Nations, NATO, Interpol, the Red Cross and the International Monetary Fund look into the judging of the Women’s Figure Skating final at the Olympics. I didn’t sign it because I could see how potentially dangerous all this talk might become.

On Friday morning I was proven right when the receptionist got into an argument with a visitor about technical versus artistic scoring protocols and she hurled a stapler at the guest. I don’t know all the details but a witness says the guy who made the unfortunate remark did three full rotations and a somersault while jumping out of the way, which impressed everyone even though he crashed into the water cooler, which cost some points.

After that, our office manager sent around a decree that figure skating talk is not safe for work. He warned that anyone caught violating this new policy would be dismissed.

I was relieved to hear it because I think figure skating on the Olympic level amounts to child abuse. Extremely young people are relentlessly driven to give up what we consider ordinary lives to strive for some unobtainable “perfect” ideal, and then are forced by stern coaches to perform under incredible stress for cheating judges in front of a voracious, unsympathetic media.

This, I argued, exposes young, still-developing brains to a level of pressure and instant judgment that goes well beyond the trials and tribulations of holding an adult job, which is something the 14 and 15 year-olds out there on the ice are not even allowed to do.

Of course my cube-mate told the office manager what I said and I was fired immediately for breaking the ice conversation rule even though I did get credit for the originality of my comments and the dress I was wearing that day, which had a few sequins and just the right number of ruffles to be expressive and flirty without crossing the line into trashiness.

Dr. Babooner, I’m not denying that I made a technical error – I knew the rules. I’m proud that I gave it everything I had and didn’t hold back. But I’m not sure I want to re-enter the job market again, knowing how arbitrary and heartbreaking it can be even when you are very nearly perfect in everything you do. Friends have suggested that I was mistreated and should sue for every penny I can get, but I’m hesitant.

Should I complain, or carry on?

Yours truly,
Harshly Judged

I told Harshly that people who complain about unfair dismissal are often justified and sometimes vindicated but they almost always get labeled as whiners. Rather than sue on an employment claim, I suggested that she return to the office as a visitor and while waiting, try saying something that will set off that unstable receptionist. It might sting a bit to let the stapler hit its mark, but an assault charge is more winnable than a job discrimination claim.

But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?

Uncategorized

(Don’t) Sit!

27 Comments

Today’s post comes from therapist, personal coach and mass communicator B. Marty Barry. He’s an online relationship manager, a bottomless well of wellness, and although he’s never met you, he cares about you very, very, very much.

Dear Reader,

I was thinking about you yesterday when word came from the experts that sitting too much is a serious problem for public health.

I know sitting has a bad reputation. And of course I’m concerned, because in my day-to-day work as a therapist, I sit quite a lot. My clients are in even worse shape – they’re completely horizontal for hours and hours while I listen to them talk about their problems and neuroses – many of which have to do with not getting enough exercise and a chronic fear of fitness! So when researchers start to criticize sitting, it’s hard not to feel singled out.

But I wonder if there’s isn’t something else behind this – a smoke screen of sorts. Because I can’t help noticing that the world is essentially run by people who make their livings in the sitting professions – lawyers, bankers, politicians, etc.

Who stands all day? Laborers, cashiers, school teachers, and the greeter at Wal-Mart. Even baby-sitters sit less than the people who make the decisions that shape our lives, and “sit” is in the name of their profession! I rest my case.

I’m not saying the sitting professionals have it easy. Can you imagine how many years a politician has to perch on a folding chair in meetings and hearings and conferences before he or she can have a shot at becoming president? No wonder they campaign by standing on “stumps”. They’re desperate to get their heads up where they might smell a fresh breeze every so often.

Sitting down is hard, but if you do it right, it pays.

So I say sit as much as you like. And parents, teach your children to sit as well. If your goal for them is to be trim, healthy, athletic and poor, then by all means disparage sedentary work and roust them out into the sunshine. But if you want them to have power and influence, get them started early sitting at a conference table or a dais, and teach them to make the kind of deals that guarantee they will come out ahead. Then someday they’ll have the money to hire a financially impoverished personal trainer who never learned to sit.

That’s not an order, just a helpful suggestion – offered here because although I’ve never met you, I care about you very, very, very much.

B. Marty Barry

How much time do you spend sitting?

History, Science, Uncategorized

Still Hanging Around

30 Comments

More unfortunate news for England’s Richard III – a year after he suffered the indignity of having his bones excavated from underneath a parking lot, researchers have received the green light to map his genome.

This means Richard III’s genetic secrets will be laid bare, including any serious medical conditions he was predisposed towards. Scoliosis, anyone? That’s the prevailing reason to resist having one’s DNA decoded – to avoid potential discrimination based on the likelihood that you will develop an expensive malady down the road.

Fortunately for Richard III, he doesn’t have to worry about such things because Obamacare is now the law of the land, so he can’t be denied coverage based on a pre-existing condition! He is also protected by the fact that he’s not from around here, and is already disintegrating.

Yet Richard III is still alive as a cultural figure even though his reputation remains dark. It’s bad enough to have great artists (Shakespeare!) interpret your legacy. They don’t really care about you – just their form of expression. And now the great scientists will have a go at telling Richard III’s story their own way. These test-tube shakers and number crunchers have no reason to be kind either – it’s all a collection of data points to them. So you could say Richard has an endless literary shelf life and will soon gain a timeless scientific stature too, but immortality of any sort is wasted on the dead.

Would you rather live forever as a dramatic villain, or a museum exhibit?

Poems

Lottery Prayer

46 Comments

Some people actually pray to win a huge chunk of cash in the lottery, which is understandable when you consider how many common problems would be instantly solved by a sudden infusion of $400 million into your personal account.

But I question the tactic of using prayer to ask God to reward you with helpful, timely interventions. One look at a day’s worth of woe as it unfolds in the news is enough to convince a sober observer that God doesn’t feel a particular sense of urgency about rescuing good people from calamities.

Besides, if there was a divine desire to make you rich, would God need to use the Lottery to do it? I don’t think so – not as long as we have Las Vegas and Wall Street and You Tube.

And as we’ve discussed here before, there is ample evidence that winning a huge jackpot could easily turn out to be the worst thing that has ever happened to you.

We have explored before what sort of language one might use when beseeching the deity for decent numbers, but there is infinite variety possible within every simple form. So with all that in mind, I went ahead and bought my single ticket for Wednesday’s Powerball while muttering this quiet prayer.

Now I play the Powerball,
I pray my numbers come up, all.
And if I become rich today,
I pray I won’t throw it away.

By partying until the dawn.
By buying yachts for hangers-on.
By funding every worthless scheme
presented as a noble dream.

By hanging out in seedy bars.
By buying worthless classic cars.
By sending distant kin abroad.
Investing in a mammoth fraud.

By launching my own space balloon.
By subsidizing Trail Baboon.
By backing bets my buddies cast
On horses that will finish last.

I pray, in short, for money smarts,
to add to all my other arts.
The wisdom and the sense to see
I shouldn’t play the lottery.

How to squander a fortune? Let us count the ways.

Uncategorized

Crocodiles In Trees

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I really don’t know much about alligators and crocodiles, including which is which. Whenever I wonder about their various differences I take a moment and look it up, (alligator – freshwater, “u” shaped snout / crocodile – salt water, “v” shaped snout) but when I’m face-to-face with one or the other, I always forget what I learned and panic in exactly the same way, regardless.

Alligator

Because I have so much idle time, I often daydream about what I would do if a giant reptile decided I was worth the effort to chase down and, perhaps, eat. My first thought is that I would outrun the beast, though I’ve been informed that they are surprisingly fast – a bit of information that becomes more alarming as I age and become surprisingly slow.

I have always assumed that another convenient escape route for any potential human morsel would be to climb a nearby tree, since the only images I’ve seen of crocodiles and alligators depict them at ground level, or partially submerged. I climbed many a tree when I was a boy, and only fell out of one once. So I figured with the help of adrenaline I could probably get off the ground once again and cling to a higher branch until a sick goat happened to wander by to distract my frustrated reptilian pursuer.

But now comes the troubling information that alligators and crocodiles can climb. Obviously this puts a kink in my plans. Before this I had never considered the possibility that the words “… he was pulled out of a tree by an alligator” could someday appear in my obituary.

There’s nothing about that experience that sounds even remotely pleasant, although it would be a pretty remarkable thing to have as your official C.O.D. (cause of demise). The scenario does have me wondering where a treed human would try to kick an upwardly mobile crocodile or alligator, since they are pretty much all mouth on the front end. Surely there must be a strategy that would work!

A crocodilian has you up a tree. Now what?

Uncategorized

‘Till There Was You

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Happy Valentine’s Day, Dear Baboons.

Of course there are love songs galore. I’ve heard it said that every song is a love song.

That’s the sort of thing that sounds at first like it could be true, but it would take some deft explaining to convince me that the current #1 song, “Dark Horse“, belongs in the love song category alongside Meredith Willson’s “Till’ There Was You”. When it comes to romance, I’m not one for flowery language, but even I can see the difference between …

There were birds in the sky But I never saw them winging No, I never saw them at all Till there was you.

… and …

She’s a beast I call her Karma (come back) She eats your heart out Like Jeffrey Dahmer (woo) Be careful Try not to lead her on Shorty’s heart is on steroids Cause her love is so strong You may fall in love When you meet her

Call me a crabby old man, but I’ll stick with Willson.

Not only was this economical ode part of a major Broadway hit, the song was good enough for an upstart superstar to sing in front of the Queen of England.

Meredith Willson was an interesting character, by the way. He was once a member of John Philip Sousa’s band, and “The Music Man” was his first attempt at creating a Broadway show. His previous claim to fame was as an announcer on Tallulah Bankhead’s radio program in the early 1950’s.

It took eight years to get the thing written and produced, and he got credit for all of it – music, lyrics and book. The innovation he brought to the stage is displayed in the opening number, when a crew of traveling salesmen mimic a train while reciting an unrhymed poem that entertains while it elegantly takes care of one of a playwright’s most difficult chores – exposition.

And even though it’s all about marketing and deception, that boisterous opening sequence is still more romantic than “Dark Horse.” By far.

What’s your favorite love song?

Uncategorized

Inspiration, To A Point

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I’m a fan of skyscrapers but not of heights. Gravity is always cause for concern.

I’ll go to the observation deck with you, but only for that giddy survivor’s high that comes when we return to the ground floor alive. And that’s where I can best admire a tall building – at street level or an even safer distance, like two miles away where it’s impossible for a rogue ice chunk or a clumsy, un-tethered window washer to fall on me.

Yes, skyscrapers activate my imagination, though not always in the best way. That’s why I’m concerned to see that the slow economic recovery has re-invigorated efforts to build the Chicago Spire.

Frankly, the project sets off multiple personal alarms.

When construction halted in 2008 because the world economy collapsed, Chicagoans were left with an enormous open pit on a prime piece of waterfront real estate. In my universe, open pits are bad. Gravity runs rampant there, and I consider it a miracle that the hole has remained in place for six years without becoming the scene of a terrible Timmy-in-the-well scenario. Construction keeps the hole open rather than filled up with pulverized rubber chunks, recycled packing envelopes, and other soft-landing material, which is what I would prefer.

Turning Torso in Malmo
Turning Torso in Malmo

I also find it unsettling that the building’s shape twists so severely from top to bottom. A similar building by the same architect in Malmo, Sweden, is said to look like it is tilting at an odd angle when viewed from certain perspectives. That’s an understatement for this Escher-like structure, which comes with the feeling of vertigo built in. Boxy may be boring, but I like my skyscrapers to be nice and grounded-looking. Once we start twisting around the shape of acceptable living spaces, I’m afraid stability will go out of fashion. It’s a slippery slope.

And by the way, a slippery slope is also very troubling for the gravity-obsessed. That’s why I’m focusing on skyscraper news rather than watching the Winter Olympics.

Finally, I worry that the addition of The Spire to Chicago’s skyline will suddenly make it OK for new buildings to mimic the shape and design of power tools, which are unsettling devices especially in the hands of amateurs like me. Sure, this one is an innocent drill bit. But what’s to prevent other designers from framing up towers that appear to be lathes, table saws and orbital sanders? I could not feel comfortable in a city that featured, say, a Pneumatic Torque Wrench as part of its skyline. The urban environment is noisy and dusty enough!

What’s your favorite (or least favorite) skyscraper?

Poems

Stopping By The Woods on (the last) Snow Evening

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An opinion piece in the New York Times suggests we are nearing a time when there will be precious few places in the world with enough snow to hold a Winter Olympics.

Things are changing that fast.

It is remarkable, especially during this unusually brisk and frosty winter, to think that piles and piles of snow could become an oddity reserved for only a few of the planet’s people.

I wish I could say I was doing something to stop this tragedy from unfolding, but my first response to just about any calamity is to write a parody of one of some great author’s work. Not a very effective strategy to stop climate change, but in my defense I can say that I was not driving a gas guzzling SUV all the while I struggled with the task of re-writing Robert Frost’s masterpiece.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
He does not come in winter, though;
The town folks easily get stuck
On nights with just a little snow.

My horse was once a pickup truck.
I had to sell it. Drat the luck.
There’s no more gasoline or oil.
Just horsey rumps and horsey muck.

The world is hot. The oceans boil.
The glaciers melt. Our treasures spoil
It’s something grand to watch the snow.
So strange to see it hide the soil.

That’s why I stopped here for the show
For generations long ago
And future ones who’ll never know
A time when woods could fill with snow.

What is the rarest wonder you’ve witnessed?