I’m having a terrible problem at work!
See, there’s this guy!
We were both assigned by our boss to work on the same project. He says he promised the boss he would do it one way. Trouble is, I promised the boss I would take pretty much the opposite approach! If we can’t get it solved in two weeks, the company shuts down. We both believe our core principles are at stake, and we’re each getting messages from above that we should stick to our guns.
In the end, we can only agree on three things:
1) The one who shows the greatest weakness (compromise) will probably get fired.
2) If we can’t settle by the end of the month, we’ll both certainly get fired.
3) The boss might be schizophrenic.
Dr. Babooner, I don’t want to wind up feeling like a pathetic loser, but I also don’t want my ulcer to flare up again. What can I do to get out of this miserable situation with some dignity?
Stale Mate
I told Stale that there is actually nothing wrong with feeling like a pathetic loser. Most losers are decent people. I know a few quite well and have actually been one for a time or two. That’s the blessing of loser-dom, it’s temporary and situational. Totally in the eye of the beholder. That said, it’s very nice to win. Just don’t feel like you have to do it every single time. The greatest emergency here is with your deeply conflicted boss, who should consult a professional therapist ASAP.
But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?
Leaving work yesterday, I found the following note stuck to the windshield of my car with a humongous blob of oily cream that smelled like a pina colada.
Avast, landlubbers!
Me and me boys is mighty disappointed in the USDA fer steppin’ in where it ain’t wanted, darin’ t’ re-write th’ flimsy rules what governs th’ labelin’ and sellin’ of sunscreen!
They’s tinkerin’ with somethin’ that’s mighty near an’ dear t’ this here group of pirates!
Bein’ out at sea most of th’ time, me an’ the boys is always payin’ attention t’ the exposure our skin gets t’ th’ harmful rays o’ th’ sun. Skin cancers an’ heavy wrinkles ain’t pretty. An’ while “pretty” has never been a word used t’ describe any pirate who wasn’t also Johnny Depp, we is normal humans like the rest of yas and naturally wants t’ look our best!
Accordingly, it has been our habit, while pilferin’ and raidin’ domiciles on shore, t’ look fer, an’ acquire fer our own use, any sunscreen boastin’an SPF of 50 or more! This is due t’ th’ general pirate’s code, which sez the bigger th’ number value of anythin’, th’ more desirable that thing must be! In fact, some of me boys has collected vast reserves of Coppertones an’ Neutrogenas and Banana Boats, totallin’ SPF fortunes in the billions when they is all added together.
As Capt., I is mighty pleased t’ have me boys trackin’ their wealth in this manner, rather than arguin’ with me over who gets t’ have how much of the silver an’ gold! That way lies danger! Better t’ have them tussle over the sunscreen!
This strange predilection might have somethin’ t’ do with a strange but widespread belief among me boys that SPF stands for “Sexy Pirate Face”.
I don’t know where they got that idea.
An’ now th’ USDA is considerin’ a rule t’ outlaw any sunscreen claimin’ t’ have a SPF over 50, on account of some scientific opinion that SPF numbers higher than 50 is “meaningless”! Meaningless?
Well it ain’t meaningless t’ us! T’ us, sunscreen with SPF’s up in the hundreds represents currency, wealth, and that fresh cocoanutty smell that makes us think of girls in bikinis an’ tall drinks with umbrellas!
I’m warnin’ ye! Don’t mess w’ our economy, or we’ll be forced to mess with yours!
Yer friendly scourge of the seas,
Capt’ Billy.
What unusual commodity is as good (to you) as money?
Today is the anniversary of the debut of the CBS-TV variety show “Hee Haw” in 1969.
This program employed every possible rural stereotype. It defined “cornball” and “uncool”. Here’s a typical bit, made slightly more absurd by You Tube’s unfortunate misalignment of sight and sound.
I remember seeing this number done on the show when I was just 13 years old. Hee Haw was ridiculous in every possible way, but we howled at some of the jokes, and I admit I liked watching the Daisy Mae-like characters in their tight blouses and short shorts as they perched on hay bales.
And some legendary country musicians appeared on the show, including Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton and Merle Haggard.
Speaking of legendary musicians, also on this day, but in 1843, the Norwegian composer Edvard Grieg was born in Bergen. What does he have in common with a goofy American TV show, aside from a fondness for rural themes? Not much. But put some overalls on him, and Grieg looks like he could have fit right into Kornfield Kounty.
I’ve heard that Grieg didn’t like his own composition, “In the Hall of the Mountain King”. He thought it was too commercial. I wonder what he would have thought of “Pickin’ an’ Grinnin'”?
What totally unrelated but somewhat interesting thing happened on the day you were born?
A sad note from our cell phone holding, lengthy message-texting friend in the woods.
Bart - The Bear Who Found a Cell Phone
Word got to me this weekend about that wolf at the zoo who squeezed through a fence, jumped a barrier and got shot. Bummer. And I say this as an animal that is not big fan of wolves. Sorry, but we really don’t get along, especially when there’s only one of me and a group of them, which is pretty much always.
Still, we wild animals have to stick together. Humans like to come into our territory and make a mess of things, assuming they can do the same things here that they do on their cul-de-sac back in suburbia. Wrong! So we free creatures have to do whatever we can to remind them that we’re the ones who put the “wild” in “wilderness”. Sorry if I steal your food and ruin your convertible top in the process. It could be much worse.
But that’s how we behave out here. Constantly doing critter stuff. If you wind up inside the zoo, however, that’s a different story. It’s the show biz side of animal life, and one of the sad rules of the entertainment world is – you have to stay in your enclosure. You can pace around, play a little bit and take your meals in public. If you want, go ahead and exhibit some wild “behaviors”. If you were born in captivity and don’t know what those are, listen to the tour guides – they’ll tell you what you’re supposed to be doing. Every animal has its “greatest hits”, and that’s what the public wants to see. For us bears, it involves a pool of water and rolling on your back, for some reason.
Human entertainers have the same problem. Ask Lady Gaga, if you can get close enough. Based on the public reaction to her act, she’ll be wearing those machine guns on her chest when she’s 50, and it won’t be pretty, or even very interesting. But the market makes its demands and the paying public has to get what it wants. Tough work, though there are perks. You certainly don’t have to struggle for food, and it’s nice to have an adoring public.
But don’t try to jump the fence.
Your pal,
Bart
Is no business like show business, or is every business like show business?
Happy Monday, and many thanks to Anna, Jacque, Donna, Steve, Jim and tim, the guest bloggers who kept the trail busy during my absence. I was in central Illinois, visiting my father for the better part of a week. We worked around the house doing some routine maintenance – cutting grass, plugging woodpecker holes, fussing with the water softener, replacing broken windows, slathering roofing tar on a leaky overhang, etc. photo by Clive Moss
We did all this in the midst of a prodigious hatch of 13-year cicadas, which is a humbling event for humans who are accustomed to feeling dominant, or even merely significant. The bugs are calling the tune around Decatur this spring – a tune that literally fills the air, resembling the constant ring of a busted wheel bearing early in the day, and by mid afternoon becoming a steady rattle, like the nonstop shaking of a huge tambourine. It’s the males who make the loudest noise, relentlessly advertising their sexual availability.
Why can’t they just quietly post some images of their parts on Twitter?
Working outside, we were subjected to a random sideways rain of buzzing, bulgy-eyed revelers who covered the trunks of trees and erupted in clouds from the shrubbery whenever branches were disturbed. At a nearby grocery store, the girl who tended the cart corral did her work with one hand wielding a flyswatter to keep insect invaders from getting tangled in her hair. This small gesture gave her necessary courage to face the onslaught, though she was bailing the ocean with a teacup.
The cicadas will do their work. They have an assignment to hatch, mate, and die, planting the next generation in the process. Six weeks of glory and see you in 2024! There’s no confusion about purpose or wondering ‘what I want to do when I grow up’ in the cicada world. I envy their focus and devotion to the task at hand.
For those who have followed my progress since I got bounced from my previous job last summer, you may have felt like you were watching an overturned cicada marooned on his back, helplessly waving his legs in the air, spinning in a circle, rattling like the doorjamb when you get buzzed into grandma’s apartment building. It’s been about that much fun.
Today I get my feet back under me, starting a full time job with radio station KFAI as its news director. I’ll be off-air for the most part, supporting volunteer newscasters and reporters, helping with a summertime program for young journalists, and doing whatever is asked of me to assist the staff of this famous station in delivering the funky magic of community radio. And I’ll be working my preferred hours – 5am to 1pm!
Right now it is my intention to keep Trail Baboon going as we have for the past year. The blog has evolved into something more than my personal billboard. I’d rather not close a public space that people enjoy visiting just because my agenda has shifted. Besides, where else would you go for recreation this summer, a state park?
You might notice a little more fatigue in the posts, with less wordsmithing, and more open-ended questions. Forgive my sloppiness and jump straight to the comments. That’s where the action is anyway. And if you have a guest post in mind, don’t hesitate to send it to me at connelly.dale@gmail.com. After all, I will be using most of my mental energy to remember names and faces and to get my bearings in a new environment. I’ll look to the blog when I get off work, though it always makes for a happy evening at home when mom doesn’t have to cook.
Vas and his mother, Anna, are friends of mine in Clarks Grove who lived in Czechoslovakia when it was a satellite state of the Soviet Union. I was wondering how the two of them wound up here in Minnesota, so I decided to ask. It turns out to be a harrowing story of a long, tense journey down a winding path. Ultimately, it was bravery, determination and luck that brought them to the United States.
Because he refused to join the Communist Party, good jobs were not available to Vas and his travel was restricted. In his job as a bus driver, Vas was able to gather information from passengers about ways to get out of Czechoslovakia through the Iron Curtain. In 1982 Vas, his mother, his brother, his aunt, and a friend departed by car from Czechoslovakia and with great difficulty made their way to Italy, and the the USA. Here’s how it happened.
Vas and his party were able to enter Hungry by car, but were prevented from passing from Hungary into Austria because they lacked the visa needed to do this. While driving along the border between Hungary and Austria, they were stopped by police. Vas was afraid the police would put them under arrest and send them back to Czechoslovakia where they would be put in prison. The police held Vas for several hours and then released him when he told them that he was lost and was not looking for a way to cross into Austria.
Using a passport that allowed for travel within the Soviet Union, Vas traveled into Romania and had good luck exiting from the Romania into Yugoslavia. At first the custom officer would not let Vas into Yugoslavia because he didn’t have the visa needed to make this crossing. Vas told the custom officer that he was on his way to another Soviet bloc country, Bulgaria, and the officer finally decided to let him through. Vas believes that the custom officer did him a favor because he thinks that the officer knew he really was trying to leave the Soviet Union and was not going to Bulgaria.
When Vas and his party attempted to cross into Italy from Yugoslavia, the Italian customs officers turned them back because they didn’t have a visa. They finally made it into Italy by leaving their car behind, crossing the border on foot, and walking all night to the nearest Italian town.
The police in Italy gave them a motel room, bought them a meal, and then put them on a train that took them to a camp for immigrants. A relative in Germany was only willing to help Vas’ aunt, so Vas, his mother, and his brother had to spend 11 months living under bad conditions in the camp for immigrants. Their stay in the camp ended when they were put on a list for immigration to the United States and found someone to sponsor their trip from Italy to the United States.
When have you persevered through sheer determination?
Every 6 to 8 weeks I spend close to 2 hours and a bunch of money at a beauty salon called, The Stylist. It always goes pretty much the same way.
When I arrive, Gary, my stylist, greets me with a smile and escorts me back to his station. He makes a thorough assessment of my hair by running his hands through it and asking, “How has this cut been working for you? Have you noticed any problem areas? How have you liked the color? Are you thinking you’d like to make any changes?” Then he disappears for a few minutes and reappears with a bowl of coloring solution that he masterfully applies, separating the hair into sections and sweeping the brush upward to ensure complete coverage. It feels refreshingly cool and its fumes immediately clear my sinuses and cause my eyes to water and blink enthusiastically.
All the while he engages me in fascinating conversation. We visit about his back surgery, his parents, his herbs, his new sofa, and Mike and Sassy. (One of these is his Pomeranian and one is his partner. I can never remember which is which.) He asks me about the happenings in my life and I share a couple of anecdotes about my first graders and he laughs like I’ve said something hilarious, but we both know it wasn’t that funny and that my love life is still dormant. Next he brings me a bottle of water and coffee and some magazines to help pass the time while the color processes. I drink the coffee and have a sip or two of the bottled water, but no more, because I will take the rest of it home to share with my cat. Then I read a magazine until I nod off.
When Gary returns he gently rouses me to my feet and leads me over to the sink. This is my absolute favorite part because after the rinse, he caresses my head for an entire 60 seconds, using a massage potion fused with pomegranate and pesto.
All too soon it’s time to go back to the chair for the cut, and at first I watch him very closely because if I could learn how to do this myself, I’d save so much money and I truly do need to scale back because of the pay cut I have to take next year, thanks to our governor and legislature. Then I start visualizing the kinds of punishment that await them in the afterlife, and before I know it, Gary‘s moved on to the blow dryer and I’ve forgotten all about that impractical notion.
I compliment Gary on his remarkable ability to transform my fine limp hair into a temporary voluminous mane. He responds by holding up a bottle of heat-activated spray gel that smells like strawberries – apparently he applied some during my sadistic daydream – and hands me a ten percent-off coupon for any product in the store this week only! Then he says what he always says, “This color looks fabulous on you! I am so glad we let your hair grow longer!” And I say what I always say, “You’re the master!”
Then I go up to the counter and pay my bill and leave Gary a liberal tip. It may or may not surprise you to learn that I also splurge on the strawberry styling product. I do this not because I think it will actually give me salon results at home, but because it smells sooo good and because my pay cut won’t go into effect for three months yet.
How do you justify luxuries that are totally worth it?
Whenever I sit down to eat, I am careful to arrange the plate properly according to the standards I learned when I was young.
I start with a layer of bread, cereal, rice and pasta, then I put two half-layers on top of that – one that’s primarily vegetables and the other, mostly fruit. Over all that I spread meat, poultry, fish, dry beans, eggs and nuts, pour on a few servings of milk, yogurt and cheese, and then I dot the tippy top with fats, oils and sweets.
According to the drawing I go by, all this food is supposed to stack into a tidy, healthy pyramid, but no matter how carefully I assemble it the whole thing always collapses when I add the dairy. Still, I persist because this is how my government tells me to eat. I have even scolded others at my table when they dare to arrange their plates according to their own whims. I’m sorry to have to correct people, but rules are RULES!
As you might imagine, the combination of my constant hectoring plus the predictable mess that happens every time my pyramid implodes has made me quite unpopular and I often eat alone. I sometimes feel sad about this but I’ve been able to comfort myself with feelings of smug satisfaction that I am the only one eating properly.
Now I see the government has abandoned the pyramid guidelines and has given us orders to assemble something that looks more like a plate, with only one layer of food!
I feel betrayed and humiliated!
Dr. Babooner, what use is it to be obedient and respectful of authority when that authority can suddenly change the schematic and abandon its old lessons? I am seriously considering arranging my next meal not as a pyramid or a lopsided circle, but as a trapezoidal collision of potato chips, salsa and Twinkies.
Clearly there are no rules anymore.
Sincerely,
Peeved About The Pyramid
I told PATP that a fierce obedience to authority is a charming quality to have when you are 7 years old, but it soon becomes unattractive in adults. However, constantly questioning authority can also be wearisome, because life is beautiful and sometimes you can only see the sights when you are willing to let someone else drive for a while. I suggested that “Moderation in all things” is a good rule to live by, if one must live by rules. Since PATP seems to respond to graphic representations, I tried to draw that up as a diagram, but moderation is a hard concept to capture visually. It winds up looking bland and formless, like Silly Putty.
But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?
Today is the anniversary of the first publication of the poem “Casey at the Bat“, by Ernest L. Thayer. It appeared in the San Francisco Examiner on June 3rd, 1888.
How quaint to think that there was once a time when a single poem could be widely known and symbolic of a national pastime. I love popular poems mainly for the opportunity they present for parody, and Casey at the Bat is a favorite.
The perfect poetic parody storm happened (for me) in 2002 when the great slugger Ted Williams died, and his family battled over the remains. One faction wanted Williams cremated, the other wanted him frozen at a cryonics lab in Arizona for possible re-animation sometime in the future. Of course.
The refrigerators won, and in the process I got a chance to imagine how it would all turn out on some distant sunny afternoon.
“What is science fiction, anyway, but something that might happen in the future?”
Dr. Jerry B. Lemler, chief executive, ALCOR Life Extension Foundation
(NY Times, Wednesday, July 10, 2002)
With apologies to Ernest L. Thayer –
The outlook, it was dismal for the Joyville nine that day:
The year was 2502, One inning left to play.
The fan base had eroded so, this game would be the last.
The one time national pastime’s time, alas, had finally passed.
A somber group of gravediggers were warming up their arms.
They prepared to bury baseball, the big teams and the farms.
A-Grieving in the bleachers the remaining faithful sat.
“If only we could liberate Ted Williams from his vat!”
For baseball’s mighty slugger had been frozen when he died.
They froze his sacred arms and wrists, they froze his rugged hide.
They froze him in the hope that he might someday un-retire.
But no one thought the sport itself would sicken, then expire.
And then from many thousand throats there rose as one, a breath.
A gasp of shock, surprise and glee, of victory o’er death.
For in the batter’s circle, for the multitudes to greet
In suspended animation, there hung Williams by his feet.
There was frost upon his biceps as they opened up his case.
Liquid Nitrogen was dripping from the creases on his face.
How the faithful cheered their legend as the slugger was unpacked
How he tipped his hat to greet them! How his knees and elbows cracked!
Now he stood there stiffly-legged as the light began to die
The pitcher hurled a bullet. Williams watched as it went by.
The catcher muttered softly “You took that one like a chump.”
“I’m adjusting to the temperature,” he said. “Strike!” said the ump.
The tumult from the bleachers was amazing to behold.
Not a fan among them noticed that the bat was green with mold.
Now his eyes returned an icy glare, he curled his frozen lip.
Now his red socks were de-icing. Now his cap began to drip.
Then came another missive from that demon on the mound.
Showing every indication it would splutter to the ground.
But then it rose, Phoenix-like, ’til level with his belt.
“Strike two!” The umpire said, as Williams felt his shoulders melt.
In the catered suites around the park the corporate sponsors groaned.
In the press box doing play-by-play, the glib announcers moaned.
In the stands, prevailing wisdom was, the greatest one had choked.
At the plate, the catcher noticed that the batter’s box was soaked.
For the frost upon the slugger’s brow had turned into slush.
His uniform was sodden and his mitt was leather mush.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now it’s on its way.
And now the air’s alive with a ferocious swing and spray.
Oh somewhere there’s a field of dreams with bleachers by the surf.
And somewhere bands are playing on some soggy outfield turf.
Although mostly it is dusty by the plate where umpires shout,
There’s a pool of mud in Joyville, for Ted Williams has thawed out.
Your frozen remains have just been brought back to life in a word quite different from the one you left. Comments?
It’s Johnny Weissmuller’s birthday today, way back in 1904. He was an Olympic champion in swimming with five gold medals, and a record contender in matrimony as well, marrying five times. Some things just come to certain people in handfuls.
And he played Tarzan, the original male bimbo.
I love these quotes in the New York Times obituary from 1984. In the first one he’s marveling at his good fortune to land the perfect job for a good looking, phenomenal swimmer who wasn’t very chatty to begin with.
‘It was like stealing,” he said. ”There was swimming in it, and I didn’t have much to say. How can a guy climb trees, say ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane,’ and make a million?”
And this, regarding his dance with fame:
”The public forgives my acting because they know I was an athlete,” he said on another occasion. ”They know I wasn’t make-believe.”
I’m guessing Weissmuller would be a reality TV star today. He was well built, amorous and carefree. And he got along OK with animals, which will always make you popular with the American public. In fact, people would approach him in public and request that he perform his character’s victory cry – the Tarzan Yell. Imagine being out to dinner and having to deal with an endless string of strangers asking to hear this:
Really, it’s no wonder he was divorced by four of his wives.
Tarzan was raised by apes. If you could choose to join a family of animals ….? (Please, NOT baboons!)
Trail Baboon 