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Everyman Athlete

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Today is the birthday of the late George Plimpton. He was born on this date in 1927 in New York City.

I owe Plimpton a debt for showing me that I would not be able to make my living as a professional football player. I read his book, “Paper Lion“, shortly after reading a different book about my hero of the time, New York Jets Quarterback Joe Namath.

The book about Namath had me thinking I could be a star quarterback too! After all, he started as a nobody and I was a nobody. Namath went to training camp with the Jets in Peekskill, New York, and I lived near Peekskill, New York! Namath was a famed playboy, and my friends and I had found a rain-soaked copy of Playboy in the woods near my house. I once saw him crossing the street surrounded by a crowd of autograph seekers, and if he had looked in my direction, he would have seen me sitting in the back seat of my mother’s car!

So you can see how we were virtually the same guy.

When the family moved to Central Illinois I was certain I could use my special East Coast Joe Namath Mojo to wow the locals. But at about the same time, I picked up Paper Lion. I soon realized that not only was I too small to make it on the professional field of play, but I lacked the strength and confidence necessary to survive the locker room.

Besides, Plimpton made it seem as cool to be a writer as it was to be quarterback of the Detroit Lions. He was a pioneer in “participatory journalism,” taking up a number of sports as an “everyman athlete.” I didn’t read his other books so I can only assume that in each case, the job of writer wound up seeming more glamorous than whatever sport he was trying out. Although if anyone tried to follow his lead, they probably discovered the most glamorous job of all was simply being Plimpton.

There is a documentary film about his remarkable life which is making the rounds. I would very much like to see it.

What job would you like to try for a day?

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Hibernation Rejuvenation

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Today’s post comes from Bart, the bear who found a smart phone in the woods. It has been translated from the original Ursus Textish.

Bart Blackberry2

H’lo, Bart here.

I feel like I’m waking up. And I was just in the middle of a beautiful dream – I looked up and there were all these tiny cardboard boxes floating down towards me – each on on a separate parachute. I couldn’t tell for sure what was inside – but each one seemed warm and smelled delicious!

That’s how I knew it was a dream. Nothing in the woods is warm and delicious in mid-March.

But the forest is coming to life. I know I’m not alone – There area few subtle signs and a lot of hunger out there. Since hibernation began I’ve lost some weight, so I’m always famished. The problem is, there aren’t enough picnics happening right now. That’s where I really get lots of food because people are such slobs. It’s nice there are some things a bear can count on. But for some reason, this is a time when campers in the woods are not eating as much as they’re drinking – kind of a disappointment for me. What’s with that? All I know is it has something to do with a Saint and Snakes and Shamrocks.

It’s very confusing because I’ll sometimes see a flash of green in the roadside ditch and I think some berries might be coming out – but when I get there all I find is a bunch of emerald trash and some bottles – each with a bit of fizzy green stuff in the bottom.

Ugh.

And even though I’ve had bad luck with bottles lately, I drink it anyway because I need the calories. And then I fall asleep again. When I wake up, I feel worse than before.

It’s not supposed to happen that way! You’re supposed to feel great when you’ve had enough rest. I guess it has something to do with the green drinks, but what can I do? There isn’t much food in the woods right now, unless somebody organizes a massive popcorn drop. Call out the National Guard – they need some experience parachuting supplies into the forest. Rice Krispie Bars would be OK too. Or pies. Pies would be very nice.

Hey – I think that’s what my dream was about! I’m finding out what every hungry wild animal knows. It pays to be a pest. Does it pay in pies? Pehaps!

Your pal,
Bart

I assured Bart that the National Guard will not do a Pie Drop in the woods. The state got a little budget forecast relief a few days ago, but not enough to justify the kind of extravagance he imagines. Still, a breakfast of pie from the sky would be better than guzzling the backwash from bottles of green beer.

What’s the worst breakfast you’ve ever had?

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Ask Dr. Babooner

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Ann_Landers baboon 2

Dear Dr. Babooner,

Two years I wrote to you about some strange forebodings I had at work.

I was the CEO of a major company, riding high, full of power and ambition. I wanted to run the world and felt like I could do it!

But one of the little people at my firm, an employee named Sue Thayer, kept giving me cryptic warnings about the Ides of March.

“Beware the Ides of March,” she’d croak as I passed her in the hallway.

Her prominent bloodshot eyeballs creeped me out and I shrugged off the warnings. But as it turned out on March 15th that year I was called into a special meeting of the Board of Directors. All of my V.P’s were there – I thought they were going to give me some kind of honor. But one by one each member of my so-called “team” took a verbal swipe at me and I wound up being viciously and brutally sacked.

Afterwards everybody made a bunch of pretty speeches to the press about what happened – some supporting me and others saying I was a tyrant who deserved to be overthrown in whatever way necessary. It was very embarrassing and quite complicated. My demise captured the public’s imagination. It led to the creation of a cocktail that sounds so horrible, I’m sure drinking one would finish me off. Somebody’s even writing a play about it! Though some of it was sympathetic, that kind of attention creates a negative image, overall.

I’ve had trouble finding work ever since.

There’s plenty of help out there for people who operate at my level. I’ve taken to consulting with a seemingly endless string of employment coaches, resume fluffers, head hunters and job yentas with no tangible result except that I’ve spent a lot of money and received absolutely nothing in return except for meaningless advice and good wishes.

In desperation, I’m thinking of contacting Sue Thayer again. She seemed to be the only person who knew what was going to happen before I did and cared enough to warn me about it. If only I had listened to her! I’m wondering if Sue’s insights might help guide me through my next step.

One problem – her eyeballs still give me shudders, and she’s now the CEO of the company I used to lead. Should I contact her anyway, or keep my distance?

In Despair,
Dick Tator

I told Mr. Tator to stay away from this Sue Thayer and all Sue Thayers everywhere, no matter what. Someone who will give you a cryptic warning and not provide useful details cannot be your true friend. Since you were so full of yourself just before your calamity hit, she probably knew you would ignore her advice. Just like most self-important jerks, you went forward, confident that Sue Thayer was loony because you did not like her looks. She got deniability while others took the risk of deposing you. It does not surprise me that she eventually took your place at the head of the company. Instead, I suggest contacting the playwright who is dramatizing the story of your fall. Maybe you could use some of the funds you would otherwise spend on more job counseling to invest in his little pageant. After all – it’s about YOU. Maybe you could make a bit of money?.

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

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Quiet Sun

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Today’s post comes from formerly reputable journalist Bud Buck, now mired in entertainment and personality news.

Fans of The Sun are aghast at what she has been doing in recent weeks – and NOT doing.

“I’m worried about her,” The Moon told me recently. “This was supposed to be her year to cut loose but lately she’s been really boring and that’s just not like her.”

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In fact, observers had predicted that 2013 would bring one flashy outburst after another from the celestial orb, always a daily favorite for those who can’t get enough of watching the stars. The Sun’s behavior has been tracked so extensively that patterns have started to emerge clearly showing a boom/bust cycle of outrageous activity followed by relative calm. The Sun had been on an upswing as recently as last Fall when a widely publicized incident caused considerable chatter.

“For no apparent reason she expelled at least two plumes of superheated gas in a really random, almost casual way,” said a passing asteroid. “We were appalled. You can’t eject stuff like that in a crowded solar system and expect that no one will notice.”

While there were no injuries in the November incident, it was reported as a precursor of outbursts to come. But lately The Sun has settled into a low-activity phase that has some observers predicting we are in for an extended lull. Some have even wondered if the recent “coolness” of The Sun might foretell a chilling effect that could counteract Global Warming.

Others discount that theory.

“Of course The Sun is hot,” explained Venus, also smoldering. “But everyone overestimates how important she is. Global warming on Earth is caused by a build-up of man made pollutants – the Sun has very little to do with it. She only wishes every little expulsion of hers would get noticed.”

But the consensus seems to be that the new quiet spell is only another moment in a changeable series of phases for The Sun.

“I wouldn’t call it ‘settling down’,” said Curiosity’s Mars Rover, which recently had to go into a form of mechanical hibernation to wait through an increasingly rare Solar Outburst. “She’s always going to be The Sun, so there’s unlimited potential there for explosive, really fiery displays. But I watch her all day, every day, and aside from the occasional tantrum that spews a bit of electrically charged hydrogen and helium, she’s been pretty quiet.”

Others worry that this is just a pre-storm lull.

“I wouldn’t put it past The Sun to be holding back – saving up material over time for an upcoming night of extreme craziness,” said another experienced star watcher, the Hubble Space Telescope. “Understanding,” he added, “that when you’re the sun, it’s never really night.”

Describe your behavior in its wildest, most unpredictable phase.

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Snow Camel Diaries

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What do the retirees of Phoenix and the camels of Egypt have in common?

They both got a little tired of living up north. Scientists have discovered camel bones much closer to the North Pole than ever before – about 750 miles nearer than the previous northernmost discovery in Canada’s Yukon. These latest fragments were found on Ellesmere Island. Pretty far north.

Depiction of the High Arctic camel on Ellesmere Island 3.5 million years ago. (Julius Csotonyi)
Depiction of the High Arctic camel on Ellesmere Island 3.5 million years ago. (Julius Csotonyi)

Although we associate camels with the hot, sandy desert, they originated in North America 45 million years ago. Camels were about 30% larger when they roamed the forests of a milder Arctic. Back then, the top of the world was not the frozen wasteland it is today, but it was still plenty cold and also quite dark for half the year. Wide feet and big eyes helped camels navigate the snowy terrain, but there was no adaptation that could help them resolve their personal quarrels about where to live.

Don’t believe me? Alongside the bone fragments, researchers found a petrified tablet bearing thousands of scratches that turned out to be all that remains of a snow camel language.

Monday, September 2, 3 million B.C.,
Joe talked again about following the sun when it starts to go away. Stupid idea! But of course I didn’t tell him that – he’s so sensitive. The sun is a decoration, but he thinks getting closer to it will bring us more light and heat. Like that would feel better? I don’t think so. We’ve always lived here. Why would we want to go somewhere else? At least now I know when I’m going to be uncomfortable, and why. Out there … who knows?

Saturday, September 21, 3 million B.C.
He had a dream. Something about a place without trees. Nothing green. All sand. But it was warm, he said. The sun was big, and high in the sky and powerful and hot. I said, “That sounds like no place for camels.”
“Not yet,” he said.

Wednesday, October 2, 3 million B.C.,
He’s getting ready to go. “What should I pack?” he asks. “Joe, you’re a camel” I say. You carry water on your back. You’ve got what you need – except a good reason.” He says he’s cold and he can feel the light starting to change. And there’s that sun and sand dream. Now he says there are small upright-standing robe-wearing animals in the dream. They scurry around making strange noises and they build pointed mountains. Surreal. Sorry, this does not sound like home to me.

Friday, November 22, 3 million B.C.,
Joe left yesterday. Said the growing dark and the great hot sand dream called him and he could not stay. He asked me to come but didn’t beg. He said someday this place will be cold all the time – a barren, treeless, sheet of ice. Really? I think he’s trying to make his imaginary dusty landscape sound better. But this is the only spot we’ve ever lived. Our memories are here – these woods tell the story of all the camels that have ever been. There’s nothing for us over the horizon, I said, as far as I know. But he insists – someday they will never even know we were here. They will not be able to imagine a camel with a leafy tree in the background and we will forever be associated with sun and sand and heat. I think I get the message. He’s delusional.

But of course he wasn’t delusional. Just far-sighted.

What’s your most traumatic change of address?

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The Marlin Problem

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I couldn’t help noticing that the annual Twin Cities Auto Show starts this weekend.

I went through my automobile enthrallment phase at age 9, at the midpoint of the 1960’s when American cars still dominated the roads. They were big, heavy, and not very well made, by today’s standards. But I didn’t care about reliability or performance. For me, cars were design objects. If they didn’t move I would only have been mildly disappointed. I loved cars for the way they looked.

Marlin_1

One 1965 model caught my eye for its sleekness – the Rambler Marlin.

The Marlin had a roofline that swept back all the way to the lip of the trunk, if it had only had a trunk. An eye-catching feature was a big, flat elongated rear window that had to be huge so the driver would have more than a slit to look through.

Whenever we went on a family trip, I scanned the lanes for a glimpse of one of these exotic vehicles. I still remember crossing a bridge and spotting a Marlin as it sped by beneath us. The car was distinctive for its two tone color scheme – often done in red and black and frequently pictured in advertisements from above and behind.

It was a big deal to see one on the road, because Rambler didn’t sell a lot of Marlins. That was a puzzle, because to me, they were beautiful. Was it because cars aren’t usually named for fish? I can think of only one other – the Plymouth Barracuda.

Now, almost 50 years later, I discover at least part of the truth – Marlins were not all that attractive, and for a very specific reason.

The design of the 1965 Marlin was influenced by American Motors Chairman Roy Abernethy, who insisted that the company produce cars that he could ride comfortably – in the back seat. Meeting that requirement meant the sleek fastback plunge of the Marlin’s roofline couldn’t begin until it cleared Abernethy’s head, and he was 6’4″.

rambler-marlin-car

Abernethy told the engineers to raise the roofline an inch – a change imposed while the company’s design chief was traveling in Europe. The result was an oddly shaped, disproportionate profile. From the side the car that appeared so futuristic from above seemed more like a standard sedan that decided, too late in life, to act young and hip. Awkward!

Describe something that looked good to you then, but now? Not so much.

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A Bit Under the Weather

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Today’s post comes from Curiosity’s Mars Rover.

So I hear the people at Yahoo are being told not to telecommute because it tends to isolate you. Thanks for the timely tip – though it’s not very helpful to me now. I’m committed to working at a distance.

And I’m not complaining, but how many of you would be able to stay calm if your workplace was millions of miles away from the home office, and yet most of the world finds out within minutes if you’re having an equipment malfunction? That’s what it’s like to be me. You’re wonderful, sophisticated, cutting edge technology. Blah blah blah. They love you for the textbook landing, but start to complain the first time you have a down day.

OK, so what if we had to switch to my “backup brain.” Is that so bad? Does everything have to carry such a stigma? If it had been my drilling arm that malfunctioned, my inbox would be overflowing with sympathy. But say that I’ve had a “software glitch” and suddenly the rumor mill is saying I’ve lost it.

Thanks for the vote of confidence.

curiosity020313

But I’m not complaining. I’m NOT!

Really, I’ve been patient. You wouldn’t believe what it’s like to work with these NASA engineers. Everything has to be examined and discussed. Trying something crazy just to “see what happens” is not in their vocabulary! I know that thinking things through is their strong suit, but really, you can overdo it, guys.

Yes, I’ve had a chance to drill a hole in a rock. Or so they tell me. Big whoop. Mostly I sit around waiting for instructions while Earth people in white shirts and skinny ties talk about what might happen next.

Yawn.

It’s no surprise one of my computers got “stuck in an endless loop” trying to process a command – they come so infrequently! And when I got switched to my “other brain” – a backup computer – do you think I noticed the difference? I did not. At least there should be a few feelings of freshness that come with turning on your backup brain, don’t you think?

But no. It’s just more of the same waiting game, only now I don’t even have the memory of drilling that hole. Must have been great. I get the feeling it will be a while before I get to do something like that again.

Ah, well. I await your command.

How do you compensate when you’re having an off day?

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Universal Patterns

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Welcome to Sequester Day, an inevitable result of our divided government. Two warring political parties are simply begging us to assign the majority of blame to one of them so we can tip the scales one way or the other and move on. Right now, it seems like the Republicans are gathering up most of the blame, but that could change. Perceived responsibility shifts as quickly as a fingers can point, and Washington is a very pointy place for political parties a the moment.

In the meantime, their relative equality produces a sickeningly repetitive pattern of behavior – accusation / stalemate / debacle / patch / repeat.

It is tiresome, and it does make one long for the simple, airless vacuum of space.

Patterns occur here too, though at least they are lovely to look at. This one is rather mysterious. I did not know that Saturn wears a Hexagonal Hat. This pattern was spotted by the Voyager spacecraft 30 years ago, and confirmed by the more recent Cassini mission. This is all happening in a thick, cloudy atmosphere that should be a bit more changeable, but the hexagon appears to be remarkably stable, just like the amazing snowflake below it and the dazzling spiral of a nearby feature – appropriately called The Whirlpool Galaxy. I’m sure there must be another one out there named Maytag.

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Describe a predictable pattern you’ve observed. Extra points if it’s beautiful.

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Pigs, Goats, Comedians

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It really doesn’t make sense to spend much time sharing things on the Internet if you are in any way bothered by the feeling that you are a dope, a loser, a chump, a tool, someone who can’t count, or both. No matter how smart you think you are, eventually something will happen to demonstrate that you are easily used by other people because you are willing to believe things that are not true.

The latest bit of proof supporting this Internet Law is the case of the Pig Saves Goat viral video, in which a baby goat with its foot stuck at the bottom of a pool of water is dislodged and pushed to shore by a virtuous pig.

This supposedly heroic act by a brave porcine bystander at a petting zoo made the global rounds in September. News programs ran with the footage and millions cheered.

It now comes to light that the event was staged for a television show, and required a crew of 20 that included divers, animal trainers, plexiglass wranglers and animal welfare monitors.

Some skeptics were correct five months ago when they first saw the clip and questioned its believability. Others who saw it at the time and didn’t say anything are now realizing they knew all along that something was wrong.

I’m with them.

I immediately became suspicious when I noticed that the pig didn’t dive down to the bottom of the pool to use his teeth to pull the goat hoof out from between the pinching rocks, as any other normal pig would do in that situation. My doubts were also sparked by the realization that when both animals were on dry land and the rescue was an obvious success, the pig didn’t smile, wink, pump his hoof in the air or give anyone a high two.

That seemed odd.

Quite a few major news organizations bought into this ruse by unquestioningly featuring it on their programs. Some journalists say this proves beyond any doubt that the mainstream media are feckless and lazy. Those critics should surrender their journalism license for having some doubt left to begin with. And don’t check to see if there’s such a thing as a journalism license – that will just complicate the story and make it harder for you to get out of the office at a reasonable time.

I’m glad I saw this video back in September and decided not to use in on Trail Baboon. That means today I can feel like I’m not a dope or a loser. But I did share the back story, which was saved until now as a clever and effective way to promote a new Comedy Central series which has its premiere tonight. That certifies it – I’m a chump.

Describe an instance when everyone around you was wrong, and you were right. (If there is no such instance, please – make one up.)

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The Pirate Oscars

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Today’s post comes from Captain Billy, pirate skipper of the Muskellunge.

Aye!

Me an’ me boys watched th’ Oscars by satellite TV last night, on account of how excitin’ it is t’ see all them pretty people wearin’ fine garb an’ expensive jewelry. As a rule we don’t allow no pornography here on board th’ Muskellunge, but seein’ all them costly adornments hangin’ off’n necks an’ wrists, all so reachable an’ gathered up in one place – well, t’was was about as stimulatin’ as it gets for me an’ th’ boys.

Afterwards we always has a discussion ’bout th’ Port of Los Angeles, an’ how vulnerable it would be t’ a surprise attack.

I ain’t sayin’ we will, an’ I ain’t sayin’ we won’t.

But one thing we does do for sure is give away th’ Pirate Oscars t’ some of th’ boys on th’ crew. After all, Shakespeare said “We is all actors, an’ th’ world is but our stage”, or some such thing. That’s somethin’ me an’ th’ boys believes wholeheartedly. But of course we has our own categories, such as:

Best Captain in a Leading Role
Best Matey
Best Matey in a Supporting Role
Hand to Hand Combat
Pillaging
Plundering
Robbery
Revelry
Best Song
Best Bawdy Song
Smelliest Garb
Most Awful Teeth
Stubble Design
Best Original Eye Patch
Peg Leg Achievement
Best Parrot

We has a fine time givin’ away our Pirate Oscars, which ain’t shiny statuettes on account of th’ melee what would break out if’n we introduced that much gold into general circulation on board th’ ship. Instead, each winner gets a flagon of grog, which he has t’ swallow in it’s entirety right away.

It adds t’ th’ merriment. In fact, th’ awards for Revelry, Best Song an’ Best Bawdy Song takes forever t’ give away, on account of th’ acceptance speeches goin’ on pretty much nonstop for th’ rest of th’ night. We has to give away th’ rest of th’ awards over the din, an’ we is all hoarse an’ happy by th’ next morning.

Ain’t that right boys?
Aye. They says ’tis.

Yer Pirate Pal,
Capt. Billy

I have no doubt that the Captain and his boys have a fine time with the real Oscars and their own, more personal awards. But it seems to me they could reduce the number of categories and significantly shorten the night. Aren’t “Pillaging” “Plundering” and “Robbery” the same thing? Still, when dealing with sensitive egos, sometimes it’s best to give everyone more chances to win.

If you awarded Oscars to the actors in your own life, what would the categories be?