Here’s a special message from Congressman Loomis Beechly, who represents Minnesota’s 9th District – all the water surface area in the state.
Greetings 9th Districters
There have been several phone calls to my office asking if I voted to repeal the Health Care Bill yesterday. This is disturbing because I thought my office number was unlisted – if people keep calling, how will we get any work done?
Besides, my position on Health Care Reform has been crystal clear all along – I’m ambivalent.
We have no health care facilities located in the 9th district, and until someone decides to build a floating hospital or set up a clinic at the end of their dock, I see no reason to get excited. For the most part, the health care industry is a huge money game anyway, and the players are all on land. If people who live in the 9th district need to see a doctor, it stops being my concern as soon as they cross the shoreline.
Congressman Beechly Addressing Constituents
Interestingly, during the summer months when many people in other districts want medical attention, they discover the doctor is here in the 9th district, drinking beer on a pontoon and water skiing after dark – things he said they should never ever do when he was in finger wagging mode, back at the office.
So basically I’m for Health Care Reform if it puts more money into the hands of the doctors who like boats. If it enriches the doctors who like to go hiking in the woods or the doctors who are into flying their own airplanes or alpine skiing from helicopters, I’m not interested.
I’m also for Health Care Reform that promotes things like intensive Ice Fishing Treatments, Inner Tube Massage and Jet Ski Therapy. I haven’t seen any of those things in the health care bill that was passed, so I don’t care if it gets repealed or not.
In my opinion, we need a REAL health care measure – something that skips over all this nonsense about co-pays and deductibles and simply requires every American to spend at least one day at the lake every year. Whether they’re calming their stressed out nerves by relaxing or taking part in some kind of beneficial physical activity doesn’t really matter, as long as they’re spending money.
That’s the kind of reform I’m after, and I’ll keep fighting for it here in Washington D.C. until I get it. But don’t hold your breath.
Unless you happen to be trapped under the ice.
Your Faithful Congressman,
The Hon. Loomis Beechly
I know it’s impossibly cold today, so let’s mentally transport to vacation time. What’s your favorite thing to do at the lake?
Thanks to the prominence of a particular item in the news, I received an urgent message this morning from Beverley Crandall, Animal Medium.
Mr. Connelly, I have heard rumors in the town that behind closed doors, you use strange electrical forces to communicate with dozens of unseen living people simultaneously. I am not one to criticize. Your odd habit of invisible, mystical outreach sounds remarkably like my work with the departed. In fact, I’m hoping you can assist me on a case.
I’ll get right to the point.
When I heard that scientists were seriously discussing the idea of bringing a Wooly Mammoth back into the world through cloning, I rushed to the attic to retrieve a relic left there for me in 1939 by my erratic Uncle Erasmus. I was a mere infant at the time and understood nothing of what was going on, but he pinned a note to my diaper that said ‘When you feel it is time to call him, his remains are in the ivory trunk.” Said to be a jawbone fragment taken from the last living mammoth, the article in question is an extremely powerful artifact. I resolved to bring it to the séance that very night!
When I revealed my plan to the spiritual assemblage, it was agreed that we would pool our supernatural energies immediately for no task was more important than this – to ask the one vital question that was not being asked. With the light dimmed, I uttered the mystical incantations and we held hands as we stood around the shard.
Within moments a frigid breeze swept through the room, followed by the stench of a shaggy coat matted with filth and left to rot for ten thousand years. A low, reverberant grunting filled our ears. It was soft but capable of great power, like bulldozer, cooing to its love.
“Oh great spirit of the last departed Wooly Mammoth,” I called out into the darkness.
“Oh speak to us, great caboose of your kind! Are you prepared to walk the Earth again? For men are at work to bring you back into our world! Speak, oh Mammoth! Tell us, do you wish to return to this land of the living?”
And then a great caterwauling erupted – an ear-splitting, trumpet-like thunderclap, followed by labored breathing, a rapid huffing that was reminiscent of a steam engine laboring up a hill, a massive timber-rattling groan like the toppling of a giant wooden structure, an indignant snort, a throaty cacophony of low burbling and gurgling sounds that made me think of the last drops of water being drained from a massive muddy pool, something that sounded surprisingly like a giggle, and then … silence.
Unfortunately, I realized at that very moment that we had no one in the room who was capable of speaking Woolibulli, the lost language of the extinct giants. In our rush to make contact, not only had we forgotten to get a translator, we had neglected to record the sounds or have them transcribed. My account of what I heard is, at best, approximate.
My first impression was that the response was negative. But again, not being a speaker of the alternately musical and guttural Wollibulli, I cannot be sure that I asked the question properly. I might have said something more like, “Oh Hairy Abutment of Yore, would you like to appear as a guest on ‘Sarah Palin’s Alaska’?”
Mr. Connelly, I hope you will use your mystical connections to parse these signals from beyond – signals sent with great vigor through the veil of time – so that we may finally know if reviving the Wooly Mammoth meets with the approval of the last in line of these long lost, round tusked wonders.
I admire a good headline, and my eye was caught by one in the Wall Street Journal the other day – “Prices Soar on Crop Woes”. Basically the story is that a worldwide reduction in various agricultural harvests is causing food prices to go up.
Cheery, eh?
But despite the dire news it delivers, I decided I really, really like the sound and the rhythm of the five word sequence “Prices Soar on Crop Woes”. (Note to young musicians: “The Crop Woes” would be a great name for a band.)
I told myself that a global food shortage spurring higher prices everywhere is the kind of catastrophe that, if it can be averted, should be. And I resolved to come up with an inventive solution that had not yet occurred to anyone, because my brain is so unique. Hmmm.
I’ve never been good at anagrams, but the thought slipped into my head that maybe there’s an unseen angle on this problem hidden somewhere inside the 20 letters of the headline “Prices Soar on Crop Woes,” and it would reveal itself through re-arrangement. I was fairly sure no one had tried to solve the problem this way, so I started to puzzle it out.
The headline has 20 letters. When you group them by type and arrange them alphabetically, it looks like this:
a
cc
ee
i
n
oooo
pp
rrr
sss
w
Does laying it out this way make it easier to see new words inside the headline? I’ll leave it for you to judge. After thirty minutes of noodling, this is all I could come up with:
Poor Cows Are In Process
Sow Opera Ropes in Crocs
What does it all mean?
“Poor Cows Are In Process” could certainly be a problem in the global food supply. We beef eaters shouldn’t dine on poor cows if rich, hearty, healthy ones are available. A partial solution to the crisis! I was pretty proud of that.
“Sow Opera Ropes in Crocs”, however, was baffling. An opera by pigs might reduce our planetary appetite if we can get enough people to listen to it, but it won’t do anything to stop hunger. Although if crocs attended any opera put on by pigs, those particular pigs would never make it to any human’s table, so that’s a potential food supply problem, though probably not the worst one that we face.
Obviously my letter juggling approach to finding a novel solution to “Prices Soar on Crop Woes” was going nowhere. In desperation, I turned to the Internet Anagram Server, which is a place to go if you want evidence that your poor brain is not up to the task of competing with a computer.
On the Internet Anagram Server, type in a phrase and the software will re-arrange the letters for you. In the “advanced” menu, you can ask the server to include specific words. Since I already knew “sow” and “cow” could be made with some of the 20 letters, I included them. Unfortunately the headline doesn’t have the letters to spell “chicken”, so to represent the third most common meat to appear on American plates, I asked the server to find anagrams that included the word “coop”.
Here are some results:
Reprocess a Poor Cow? Sin.
A Porcine Cow Sores Pros.
A Nice Cow, or Oppressors
Poor Cow. A Prison Recess.
A Poor Sow, Sincere Crops
A Precise Sow Croons Pro
Sow A Sonic Pop Sorcerer
Sow Conspires a Coop Err
It tells us that it is unbelievably easy to lose 90 irreplaceable minutes of your life online, even if you have nothing to play with but a 20 letter headline.
Aside from Trail Baboon, what is your biggest online time waster?
My cellphone chirped in the middle of the night with a rambling message from a restless friend who lives in the woods. It has been translated from the original Ursus Textish.
Bart - The Bear Who Found a Cell Phone
Hey, it’s Bart.
I know, I’m supposed to be hibernating but I couldn’t sleep. Know what that’s like?
Being awake in the middle of January is a real bummer. I’m afraid when April comes, I’ll still be tired. I’m dug into a hole under a big tree that fell over. It’s good. Out of the wind. Snow packed all around – that makes it cozy.
But when I open my eyes it’s just … you know. Bark. Not much to look at. I’ve tried counting sheep but it doesn’t help. Makes my stomach growl. We bears are already good at growling, so our stomachs get real loud. Somebody passing by could hear it and figure, ‘Hey, there’s a bear under the tree.’ Then I really wouldn’t be able to sleep. Rumor is, there are scientists in the woods.
Yup, I get a little paranoid.
But there’s good reason. Some of the bears say home invasions are on the rise. You’re sleeping and suddenly the door opens and these people reach in with needles and electronic collars and tags. They’re putting their hands all over you and poking you and measuring you, whispering all the while like it’s some secret mission. Then they go away! But when you get up in spring, all their merchandise is hanging off you, like you’re a Christmas tree that got decorated and forgotten. Then you have to drag that stuff around with you through the whole summer and maybe the rest of your life, clattering and beeping … slows you down. And the lady bears really don’t go for guys with flashing, humming collars. It feels like you’re being watched. Or so I hear.
Anyway, thinking about this is gonna keep me awake for days unless I figure it out, so if you’ve got advice about going back to sleep … something other than counting sheep … let me know, eh?
I guess it’s ’70’s week. For some strange reason, I keep going back there.
Brain tumor, perhaps?
In the mid 70’s I was in college, getting a Bachelor’s in Radio – TV. Yes, you could get a degree in that back then. We weren’t all at the disco, some of us were engaged in serious and weighty academic pursuits. What can I say? Radio – TV was my main area of interest.
Yesterday I made the terrible mistake of picking up one of my college textbooks from 1974. I didn’t take the time to read it back then, so why start now? It was a state-of-the-art Broadcasting 101 tome called “Radio and Television – Fourth Edition”, and here’s what it said in the “careers” section about securing the coveted job of announcer:
Announcing in radio is almost entirely a male occupation. Very few women staff announcers are employed, although there are a substantial number of women commentators who handle homemaking programs. Explanations ranging from “custom” to “overpatronizing style” of delivery are given for the scarcity of staff announcing positions for women in radio. The irregular hours of work and the necessity for operating technical equipment are other important reasons.
It is often possible for announcers to move into management, production, or sales positions, instead of into specialized performing work, following the beak-in period. Women in secretarial positions, traffic, or continuity, may be pressed in to service in small stations as occasional commercial announcers or demonstrators or may be asked to handle women’s or children’s programs. If they give evidence of proficiency in these assignments they may transfer to staff positions in larger stations. Women who work in non talent jobs in large stations and networks seldom have opportunities to move over into programming.
This depressing scenario is made more bleak by the knowledge that this was, in fact, the world as it existed for professional broadcasters in the early ’70’s, so our teachers weren’t lying to us, but what ridiculous stuff to have to tell people with a straight face. .
Clearly, my female classmates didn’t buy it – look how the world of broadcasting has changed. If you could be transported instantly from 1974 to 2011 the differences are so stark you might think you had landed on a different planet. We are all time travelers, I guess, it’s just that we’re traveling very slowly.
But when I look at this old textbook, I realize that this kind of thing makes up a large chunk of what I learned in school. Virtually all of it is out of date. No wonder my degree is worthless!
With some sharp language-related news cutting through the air of late involving the U.S. Navy and some people standing in the road in North Carolina, I thought it would be enlightening to consult with someone I consider to be an expert in the field of salty talk, the skipper of the pirate clipper Muskellunge, Captain Billy.
I tossed some relevant press clippings into a bottle and launched it down the Mississippi through a hole in the ice near Fridley about a week ago, and much to my surprise a reply from the Captain arrived on my desk late last night, boldly dashed on a piece of damp parchment by someone using a parrot feather dipped in pomegranate juice. I deduce that it came from somewhere in the southern climes. Maybe Mendota Heights or even as far away as Cottage Grove!
Ahoy!
Many thanks fer yer question about public language an’ what is an’ what ain’t considered foul!
As Cap’n of a pirate ship, people automatically assumes I has a sharp tongue, a form of stereotypin’ which I resents. Me and me boys labors under heavy expectations from landlubbers regardin’ our manner of public discourse.
Fer instance, if’n one of me boys enters a waterfront saloon anywhere in th’ world, he ain’t taken serious until he either punches somebody’s lights out or utters at least a half dozen choice curse words in th’ local dialect. This gets t’ be a problem on account of th’ vast number of places we visits an’ all th’ different local standards fer rough talk. We ain’t scholars out here, an’ it’s quite a chore t’ keep up wi’ current foul language fashions.
Believe it or don’t, a surprising number of me boys is kind hearted souls who took t’ th’ life of piratin’ t’ get away from uncouth situations at home, an’ they ain’t much inclined to employ harsh language anyhow. They often declines shore leave, on account of th’ fact that it’s too much work to make th’ kind of impression a pirate has to make merely to get served a beer in some places.
But I caution’s ye against thinkin’ pirates is in any way refined. I prefers t’ think we’s Libertarians, language-wise. On board th’ Muskellunge there’s no rules about what a pirate can or can’t say, an’ that goes both ways. Most standard obscenities is allowed as well as any kind of precious, non-piratical sissy words like “Gosh”, “Jeepers” an’ “Swell.”
Where I draws th’ line is attitude. Me boys is not permitted t’ be mean spirited towards one another or anyone else, unless it has t’ do wi’ official pirate business, such as pillagin’ a quiet coastal town or ransackin’ a defenseless vessel.
Th’ one spoken word I never wants to hear on board th’ Muskellunge is th’ last name of that famous FAKE movie pirate, Johnny Depp. If’n one of me boys curses another with a “God Depp” or a “Depp You” or a “you’s a no good barnacle Depper,” I’ll wash his mouth out with a fruity wine cooler – a horrible insult t’ any boy what loves his grog.
Yers in love o’ th’ language,
Capt. B.
The captain has a strong point that the “bad”ness of words is more a question of local custom than universal truth, and the attitude we bring to any exchange is more important that what is actually said. Given that, I do think he is a bit of a hypocrite for taking such an uncharitable attitude toward Johnny Depp.
This may seem strange, but when terribly bad things happen, I usually know who is responsible right away, even before any reliable information is released.
Call it what you will – a second sense or just my keen understanding of the ways of the world, but once I have figured out who is guilty, I don’t think about it over and over. I’ve already done my thinking. I speak up, because people who commit horrible acts should be punished immediately! The problem with our legal system is that it’s got too much room for revisiting decisions that have already been made!
Sometimes, when the “authorities” finish their “process”, they claim the culprit is not who I said it was, but is actually someone kind of preemptively judgmental, like ME! Then people say I’m a hothead who rushes to conclusions. But judging is so fun, why not rush to get there?
Dr. Babooner, it seems like everyone these days is an amateur blame-placer or else some kind of a wait-and-see sissy! How can I get everyone to accept my view of things and not to waste any precious time arguing or fact-checking? I am ready to be the Global Blame Czar, but the world is pretending that there is some kind of problem with that!
Sincerely,
IKWIK (I Know What I Know)
I told IKWIK that (he/she) should try crawling to a conclusion sometime, just to see how it feels. I try to take that approach and it gives me space to change my mind several times before I arrive at a point of view. I don’t get many raves for decisiveness, but people still seem to think I’m smart when really, the truth is, I’m just slow. Sometimes intelligence is simply a matter of waiting to be the last one to speak.
But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?
I don’t know if you’ve heard about this, but goats have a tendency to climb on things. You can fight it or try to argue them out of it, but they climb anyway. Here’s a guy who has decided to go with the flow:
I admire anyone who is willing to put some effort into improving the life of an animal, though I’m guessing the goats don’t truly appreciate the clever names he has given all the parts of their obstacle course. He might think of it as a feather in his capra, but I suspect these are puns they’ve all herbivore. The structure they are most grateful for? The fact that he provides rumen board.
And here’s another goat-centric amusement. If this bridge-to-over-there was in my back yard, I’d be concerned about keeping the (human) kids off it.
When I was 8 years old we were fortunate to have a park nearby with swings, slides and a jungle gym. Unfortunately it was right by a river and before long we had left the safe thrills behind to go clambering over the high, sheer rocks that rose out of the water, daring gravity to humble us. It was nothing but luck that kept me from slipping off the moss covered stone face to go crashing into the boulders strewn riverbank below.
What was your greatest climb? (or is it still ahead of you?)
Here’s a note that came in early this morning from 10th grader Bubby Spamden.
Hey Mr. C.,
Your friend Bubby here, just wondering if you or any of your blog people could think of a way for me to get beyond this terrible routine I’m in of always being held back.
I know you already know that I’m Wendell Wilkie High School’s “perennial sophomore” and that I’ve been in 10th grade for about 25 years now. I think it’s turned into kind of a tradition here to not let me become a junior. Every day I’m used as a scary example for the younger kids (work hard or you’ll wind up like Bubby) and as a point of pride by the older kids (sure I got a D, but I’m better off than Spamden). I don’t think the teachers even look at my homework anymore.
And my parents are in on it! This is their way to keep themselves young – they prevent me from growing up! As long as I’m still a sophomore in high school, they can belong to the PTA, hang out with the parents who are still good looking, and dodge the high cost of college.
I admit that I’m not crazy about moving on myself, but what I’m wondering is this – is it possible to regress? It kills me to find out that in some elementary schools, little kids are being given iPads! I want to go back to the 4th grade! Pleeeeeease? I wanna!
Really, why can’t I start over and have a cool education like that?
Your friend,
Bubby Spamden
I told Bubby you get the education you seek, and he should not attack his school district to fight his own failings, real or imagined. And going backwards isn’t an option. Wilkie High School has already courted disaster by keeping him in the 10th grade for so long. “No Child Left Behind” is an act designed specifically to prevent Bubby Spamdens from happening everywhere! At the very least he should threaten to take his case to state education authorities. That possibility might be enough of a lever to make something good happen for him this spring. That’s what I told him.
As far as being given an iPad is concerned – there is nowhere in the wide world of education where that particular gift is going to be given to you, Bubby. Sorry, but any librarian will tell you – as soon as you learn how to turn off the family filter, handing you a computer becomes a very risky business.
What’s the coolest thing you were allowed to use while you were in school?
There’s some good news in the headlines for car manufacturers. Although not all models have rebounded, there are signs of hope on the sales floors. As evidence, I submit an e-mail that came in late last night!
Hi everybody! Wally here, from Wally’s Intimida where you can get a great deal on a 2011 Sherpa – still the largest passenger car on the road and even moreso since so many of the other cars have gone tiny! And now is the perfect time to buy, because other people are buying too! Sales numbers for December 2010 are up and enthusiasm is contagious, so throw caution to the wind and plunk down some cash to start the New Year in a car big enough to make its own weather! That’s right, each Intimida Sherpa is like a geographical feature that affects air currents and cloud formation. We’re not kidding when we say the newest model is a butte! Park one in front of your house and see what happens! I’m betting your Sherpa can’t cause weather that’s any worse, and it might make things better!
Change the Geography!
People are also saying the minivan is cool again. That’s great for minivan lovers, but why try to jump on that bandwagon when it may have already left the soccer field? You know how trends are – by the time you catch on, it’s usually over. Remember – the SUV humiliated the minivan, and the Sherpa emasculated the SUV. So if you want to stay ahead of this curve of resurgence, go straight for the Sherpa right now! You can take it home this afternoon and by the time you have it broken in, it’ll be hip again!
Not that I ever thought the Sherpa had lost its hipness. But there was a time when a car as big as a mountain range struck some people as a bit over the top. And getting over the top of a Sherpa requires a lot, even for very tall people. But I know they’re being purchased and driven – all you need for evidence is to read those reports of birds being knocked out of the sky in Arkansas and Louisiana. What could possibly make that happen? Loud noises? Disease? What if those birds were hit by a car while they were still up in the trees? What kind of car could do that? Not a Mini Cooper, I can tell you that!
Americans are buying cars again! That new car smell is filling our noses with pride! Do your part and tower over the pack with a new Sherpa from Intimida – it’s a mighty big car!
Wally is always optimistic about the Sherpa, but it may be too big to catch on again. Though how many have lost money by assuming Americans desperately want whatever they’re looking at, but one size bigger?
What kind of product do you tend to buy on impulse?
Trail Baboon 