Today’s post is by Bart the Bear, a hairy beast who found a smart phone in the woods. His comments have been translated from the original Ursus Textish.

H’lo. Bart here.

I’m up. Been a long winter. Still is. Though I guess it’s just a game to you. As soon as I was alert enough to start surfing the Internet I saw this one article that picks “winners” and “losers” for the season. Looks like the losers are sheep and garden centers. The winners? Hot chocolate and apple trees.

Yup, I’ve got coverage up here in the woods but those aren’t the kind of “bars” I’d like to have. I’m just coming around and will be out looking for meals here in the next few days. Don’t know what I’m going to find, so if you wanted to toss some day-old bagels or bags of potato chips into the roadside ditches near my patch of the forest … maybe some Easter leftovers like the red Jello with mandarin orange slices suspended in it … I wouldn’t complain, y’know? Meal planning is hard, especially when the raw materials are still under two feet of crusty snow.

But that’s not what’s been bugging me.

What’s bugging me is the way people snoop on bears and share really private details about where we are and what we’re doing – all thanks to your “brilliant” invention – radio collars for animals. I laugh when I see how you worry about Google and Facebook sharing your “private” information, and smart phones tracking your whereabouts. These days a bear in the woods has no more privacy than a bear in a zoo.

That’s why I kinda get a kick out of your complaints that police are storing information about where your car was spotted around town.

You have a car? I’d love to have one of those – I keep trying to climb in one when people come touring up here in the summer, but there aren’t too many of them that are built for a guy my size.

You’d like some privacy? What makes you so special when a noble animal can’t climb out of his pajamas without triggering a worldwide alert? It’s true! I saw online that they’re all a-twitter in Banff because “Grizzly #122” is out of his hibernaculum.

Yup, I said “hibernaculum.” Think I’m stupid? Go look it up. Or what’s worse, try typing it out on the tiny keys of a smart phone. And then try doing it with paws that are four times the size of your itsy-bitsy hands. Paws with matted fur, and there might be some poop caked in there, too. And I haven’t had my nails trimmed either, so don’t complain about how hard it is to do some texting! You have no idea.

I wake up ornery, what of it? I won’t apologize for who I am.

Anyway, Grizzly #122 is out of his bed and the panic is on, like they know he’s been dreaming of raiding a passing school bus for morning snacks.

Oh, he’s dangerous. But you’d be dangerous too if sirens went off every morning when your feet hit the floor.

My favorite quote in the Grizzly #122 story is this one:

“Resource management specialist Ron LeBlanc said ‘Residents need to … dispose of empty beer cans left outside’.

In other words, “time to pick up the trash you’ve been tossing in the yard all winter.”

Now, I ask you. Who’s the animal?

Your pal, Bart

Bart definitely has an edge this Spring.   How’s your mood when you wake up?

In case you haven’t heard, we’re getting excited about the (remote) possibility that we’ll see a comet crash into Mars next year. A comet named C/2013 A1 is scheduled to come careening into our solar system in 2014, and its path has been a little difficult to track. Best guesstimate – it has a 1 in 2,000 chance of smashing into our neighbor, the Red Planet.

Yes, observers say, those chances are slim, but forget probability. Wouldn’t it be awesome?

The reasoning goes like this – we’re watching Mars closely right now with multiple mechanical eyes overhead and on the ground. A comet’s impact would be catastrophic, just as a comet or a large asteroid striking Earth would be calamitous for our environment and might possibly signal the end of human habitation of the planet.

Not something you could enjoy watching.

Having the whole thing play out on Mars, however, gives us a chance to witness armageddon at a proper distance. We get a taste of the end times with the security of knowing this isn’t really happening (in any way that will actually affect us.) As far as we know, the dinosaurs didn’t get a sneak peek at their own apocalypse. Like any good end-of-the-world movie, we get to go home and climb into in our own beds afterwards, our pants officially scared off.

But how would that experience change our worldview (or universe-view), and our planning, the next day?

Describe a time when you enjoyed the exhilaration of being frightened.

Today is the birthday of one half of the Bob and Ray radio comedy team, Bob.

Bob and Ray were a very influential influence for me, personally, in my earlier radio days. Their comedy was word-based absurdism, which is a well-known genre of humor I just made up a moment ago. They didn’t tell jokes as much as they created a series of offbeat and inherently comical situations – realistic tableaus populated by fictional characters who might be described as having very little self-awareness. Unless they could be described as having too much self-awareness. Either situation could be made to work and would get a laugh thanks to the contradiction built into the character’s persona. That is to say, a Bob and Ray character could be both down-to-earth and puffed up at the same time. They could be heard embellishing their enunciations with meaningless flourishes such as “that is to say” and “influential influence,” in a fruitless attempt to seem more serious and accomplished than they really are. Or were.

That approach is not so comical when you read my tortured description of it, but things get better when you sit back and just listen.

Bob and Ray are an acquired taste, comedically speaking. But acquiring it is definitely worth the effort.

What sort of artistic expression do you “get” that many of those around you simply do not?

It goes without saying that today is the birthday of revered mime Marcel Marceau.

I’ll be celebrating Marceau Day as I and my friends always do, quietly and under thick layers of whiteface, alternately pouting and smiling while my hands occasionally and inexplicably flutter about my head like a cloud of manic butterflies.

Signifying what?

Yes, exactly.

But then we’re all wild for Marceau, eh? I think it’s no surprise that our culture embraces mimes and celebrates their art. Why? Because we are a people who love ambiguity. We are enthralled with wordless expressions of intense beauty and excruciating pain – feelings that define the lives of kings and clowns alike. Nothing could be more American. This is second nature to us. And of course we all look fantastic in horizontal stripes.

But it is our legendary patience that makes us so open to the silent arts.

All you have to do is watch a little bit of the Super Bowl, a rap video or any show on prime time TV to know that Americans delight in taking the time to observe a slowly developing series of carefully calibrated movements. We’re curious about meaning but content to let the artist tell us a story at his own pace, in much the same way a leaky faucet tells us the unassailable truth of a worn bushing with a steady drip, drip, drip of identical gestures that ultimately brings us to a moment of shocking clarity when we realize with a start that something in this room is driving us absolutely crazy.

How wonderfully satisfying is that moment of exasperation!

But I don’t have to tell you how wrong it is to employ so many words to try to capture the essence of Marceau Day. As Marceau himself famously said, “Never get a mime talking. He won’t stop.”

How comfortable are you with silence?

Anyone can be an expert when it comes to advising others.

Dear Dr. Babooner,

I was recently selected by my peers to be the new CEO of the company where we all work. Of course I’m flattered by this unexpected compliment (they really, really like me!) but I’m having trouble navigating the tricky historical, administrative and political terrain before me.

Our firm is rather formal and high-minded in its approach. We have some ambitious and laudable ideals, and a habit of not living up to them.

It is a tradition with us that the CEO takes on a new name when he (it has always been a “he”) ascends to the corner office. This honorific is supposed to symbolize the title holder’s preferred style of managing relationships, and it is always preceded by “The Respected And Loved Administrator” …. such-and-such.

Accordingly, my predecessor was The Respected and Loved Administrator Mr. Badass. The TRALAs before him were Mr. Ranklepeeps, Mr. Shovit, Mr. Hitman and Mr. Rockstar. Each one brought a different kind of swagger to the job, but they haven’t all been so dominant. In decades and centuries past, we’ve had Mr. Vacillator, Mr. Jollypants, Mr. Shambles, Mr. Pothead and Mr. Gigolo.

Now it’s time for me to pick my name. I’d like to call myself TRALA Mr. Happypal, but my advisers say to keep things in order I should pick something more ominous sounding that will make people watch their step when I’m around and yield to my whims, even at a distance.

Something like Mr. Fancrap.

Dr. Babooner, should I go with a name people will like, or something people will respect?

Undecidedly,
TRALA ?

I told TRALA ? he should never underestimate the power a name has over other people. Picking the title you’ll be known by is a rare privilege. Friendly, happy, exciting names can create warm feelings just as quickly as hard, scary names can demand obedience. But being liked but not respected is not an easy road to walk. And being respected but not liked is just no fun. I suggested a sweet/sour combination to get the best of both worlds. Like Mr. Punchkiss, Mr. Blusterlove, or TRALA Mr. Crusherhug.

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