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Car Cover

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A freshly assembled and somewhat opportunistic e-mail arrived with the warm spring temperatures and the fresh, healthy weeds sprouting from my lawn.

It’s Spring! And that means it’s time to buy a new car from Wally’s Intimida – Home of the Sherpa!

Hi, Wally here. There’s nothing that’s quite as exciting to me as a new car – especially when it comes from my store and winds up parked in your driveway, or behind your house, or in the case of the Sherpa, around your house, actually STRADDLING the structure!

Yes, that’s right! The Sherpa is the biggest car on the road today – big enough to park over the house so you get the extra measure of protection that only a 100 thousand pound car can give you! And in this time of unpredictable climate change featuring widespread and indiscriminate tornados and tsunamis, that’s an extra measure of comfort you can’t afford to be without!

You may have seen the video of a tornado throwing around tractor-trailers in Dallas. That’s a very bad thing, but no tornado would DARE do that to an Intimida Sherpa. The Sherpa is aggressively massive and distinctly aerodynamic, unlike a semi. A tornado may try to pick it up, but getting a grip on the Sherpa is like trying to grab a wet bar of soap from the shower floor. An incredibly heavy wet bar of soap! And underneath that stubborn soap sits your house, all snug and protected! Isn’t that worth having a few random drops of oil in your roof? Consider it part of the price you pay for peace of mind!

Our parents had dreams for us, and for many those dreams simply won’t come true. What did they want us to have? Good jobs and loving families, of course. But also they wanted us to have nice cars and secure dwellings. Sadly, many people lack even those basics.

Yes, times are still tough, but a fresh wind is blowing. It could be your local tornado. It could be the exhaust from a new Sherpa. Or it could be that people are starting to buy homes and cars again and here at Wally’s Intimida, we don’t want to be left out. That’s why all our Sherpas have to do double duty!

Some have a beautiful dream of a nice little house with a carport. I’m suggesting you make your great big car your houseport! Come on down to Wally’s Intimida today and let’s talk about protecting your abode with a topper from the road – a Sheltering Sherpa from Intimida.

It’s a mighty big, mighty hard-to-pick-up car!

Yours in Security,

Wally

You have to admire the agility of Wally’s pitch, even though pushing the windstorm security aspects of the heavyweight Sherpa on the heels of a major tornado is a bit tacky. Ok, it’s EXTREMELY tacky.

Where do you go when it’s time to take cover?

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Iron Eyes Cody

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Today is the birthday in 1904 of the film and TV actor Iron Eyes Cody.

He he has a lengthy list of feature film appearances on the Internet Movie Database , but was famous to most Americans as the “crying indian” in this landmark anti-pollution Public Service Announcement from 1971.

Iron Eyes Cody was an American, but not a Native American. He was born in Louisiana to Italian parents. His given name was Espera de Corti. He shortened his last name to “Corti” and when he went to Hollywood it became the much more marketable “Cody”.

He appeared on screen with luminaries like John Wayne and Richard Harris. And also with lesser lights like Jim Varney and Mr. T. But perhaps the most fascinating character in any of his films was Cody himself. He maintained throughout his life that he was of Cherokee and Cree ancestry, and stuck to that story even after researchers uncovered his true background.

He married a Native American woman, donated to Native causes, adopted Native children and seems to have lived an exemplary life of devotion to those who were his people in every sense except through a direct blood connection. But how important is that?

Thanks to that ubiquitous PSA, in the minds of millions of people “of a certain age”, Iron Eyes is an iconic Indian, and a constant reminder that we should pick up after ourselves.

Forty years ago, keeping America clean was an important part of the national conversation. That’s not so true today, though I don’t sense that we’ve come anywhere close to winning the war against litter.

I’d like to think that no one would throw a full bag of trash at the feet of an indigenous American standing by the highway in 2012 – not that that would have happened in 1971 either. What’s more likely today is that someone would call the police because some suspicious guy was standing too close to the road, crying.

What do you do to Keep America Clean?

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Ask Dr. Babooner

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Dear Dr. Babooner,

My husband’s attention is easily captured by contests.

I patiently worked with him through the heady highs and the heart crushing lows of his sudden obsession with the Mega Millions drawing last Friday. Somehow he convinced himself we were going to win and we would be forced to do something charitable because we would simply run out of things to want for ourselves.

He became completely worked up over the difficult philanthropic choice he knew we would face – whether to set up an organization to rehabilitate invasive Asian Carp who want to stop leaping, or create a home for Facebook Orphans – the sad children whose parents won’t friend them.

But we didn’t win anything at all! Instead of planning our victory announcement, I had to help him do calm-down exercises all through the weekend. Who knew writing explanatory haiku could be so therapeutic?

Now in the harsh light of Monday morning I see that it was all for naught – he’s stuck in a pattern of serial enthrallment, lurching from one popular thing to another.

Today it’s the Final Four.

He can’t stop talking about, thinking about, and fretting over the outcome of tonight’s Kentucky vs. Kansas contest – a basketball game that, to me, is utterly meaningless because it involves two states that I could never tell apart to begin with. One of them is certain to win but I’m sure that by tomorrow morning I won’t be able to remember which one it was.

As my husband pores over the line-ups and number-crunches the statistics, I tell him that these things always seem to come down to a couple of dapper millionaire coaches shouting about fouls with 3.7 seconds on the clock, and then some gawky near-teenager who hasn’t done his calculus homework trying to make a free throw with 0.6 seconds left.

I tell my husband to skip all the pre-game and mid-game angst and just tune in for the last 12.9 seconds. He won’t miss a thing! But words are useless. He doesn’t hear me and I know I won’t be able to get his attention again until Wednesday at the earliest.

Obviously I’m frustrated.

Why do they call it the “Final” Four when everyone knows there will be four more next year? I would be able to take these major sporting events more seriously if they truly represented the end – let’s crown a champion and then never, ever play the game again.

Is that too much to ask?

Sincerely,
Mrs. Fanatic

I told Mr. Fanatic that yes, in fact, it IS Too Much To Ask.

We all find it very easy to insist that other people give up things we don’t like. After all, it would be easy for US to walk away from the lottery and the Final Four – what’s the problem? And it feels great to scoff at these hopeless addicts. But what if someone asked you to stop feeling so superior? That could be a very hard habit to break.

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

Poems

Big Lottery Why-ku

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This is the morning after, when millions of Americans will wake up, check the unforgiving numbers, and then have to explain to their families and to themselves why they spent far too much money trying to capture over 600 million dollars in the virtually unwinnable Mega Millions lottery.

There is no good reason why, so it’s best to keep things short at least. The trusty old 5-7-5 syllable Haiku sequence efficiently boils down all human expression, including apologies.

So here are some sample Why-ku’s that you might use.

1.
I thought I could win
And surprise you with dollars
You weren’t expecting.

2.
Yes it does feel strange
To know I am a sucker.
That’s why they’re called “odds”

3.
Irrational hope
Blinded my brain for a day.
Mathematics sucks.

What’s yours?

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Span Fan

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Today is the anniversary in 1909 of the opening of New York’s Queensboro Bridge connecting Manhattan with Queens across the East River.

Though it’s not quite as famous as it’s sister to the south linking Manhattan and Brooklyn, the structure has a distinct profile, a colorful history, and a place in The Great Gatsby, Charlotte’s Web, The Simpsons and its very own Simon and Garfunkel tune – the 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy). Didn’t know this was about the Queensboro Bridge? Except for the title, the song doesn’t mention a bridge at all.

The Queensboro Bridge cost 20 million dollars and 50 lives back in 1909. The structure is really two cantilever bridges, each with a foot on Roosevelt Island. It has a busy, baroque look with ornamental flourishes that today’s lawmakers would never approve.

Taking a look at this structure’s history, it’s a wonder anything ever got built, then or now. There were strikes and delays. Somebody placed dynamite on the bridge in a union dispute. United Pennsylvania Steel was accused of using too much of their product in the construction as a convenient and secret way to drive up the cost.

Infrastructure is expensive and the bills keep coming. New York has spent a half billion dollars fixing up the Queensboro Bridge over the past quarter century, and yet people still paint it with graffiti and drop trash out their windows as they drive across it. Go figure!

But I do admire big, grand construction projects, and bridges can play a romantic role in people’s lives that mere roads can’t match. When I was a kid I got a thrill out of any trip that required a major crossing. The favorite bridges of my youth – The Bear Mountain Bridge and the Tappan Zee Bridge.

What was so special about them? They were big and scary, that’s what! And when we crossed them, it was an event. Suddenly, there we were on the other side of the river. Who knows if we’ll ever be able to get back?

What’s your favorite bridge?

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A Little Place in the Country

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The question of whether there is another planet in the Universe that can support life has always struck me as the kind of question we ask for sport because it really has an easy answer – Yes! I say that with confidence, as long as you don’t need any absolute proof.

Consider the universe. It’s pretty big and there’s lots of stuff spread around it in multitudinous combinations. So I expect that there are trillions of planets that can support life, billions that can support human life, millions that can support a human life comfortably, thousands that can support a human life as timid and finicky as my own, and at least a half dozen that already have a nice retirement bungalow set up for me and the Mrs. alongside a beautiful sea made of some fun-to-behold liquid that I can definitely watch but not go jet skiing on.

I’m sure they’re out there. I just can’t name any for you.

And now along comes the ESO (European Southern Observatory) to declare that I’m right! There is another potential home for you in the stars. Billions of them, in fact, and relatively close, too! Figure out how to get there and you can start moving your stuff, as long as you don’t mind living right next door to a Red Dwarf. And of course I don’t. I’ve thought for a long time that accepting diversity and practicing non-discrimination is a question of practical justice and also the basis of an excellent long-term survival strategy. So I’d live happily next to a cool Red Dwarf, especially if my current neighbor, (The Sun), is a hothead planning to expand and incinerate the neighborhood (as everyone says) in a few billion years.

If the ESO scientists are right, those holding upside-down mortgages will not find relief anytime soon and we’ll never have another real estate bubble on Earth. The market just got flooded. Terrain is cheap. The good news? Terrain is cheap. All you need is transport. Oh, and air.

What are your requirements for a new planet?

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Flexi-Bull

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Like all other officially registered, photo-ID carrying residents of Minnesota’s 9th Congressional District (all the water surface area in the state), I received this e-mail yesterday afternoon.

Greetings constituents!

Last summer I wrote a newsletter that, like most of my newsletters, went largely unread. That’s OK, I don’t mind. I know my people have busy enough lives without having to pay attention to me! It was a chatty and harmless lark. I talked about how changeable my mind has become, and how I see flexibility as one of my greatest political assets.

Congressman Beechly believes in Floater ID

Since then, and unbeknownst to me, “flexible” has become a dirty word. President Obama as been labeled our profaner in chief for dropping this newest “F” bomb on Russian President Dimitri Medvedev when he said, apparently thinking the conversation was confidential, that he could be “more flexible” on missile system deployment talks after he (Obama) wins re-election. As a result, a lot of people who once wanted to literally bomb the Russians are now up in arms, saying the president’s hint-hint about “flexibility” is a sign that he is getting ready to give away the farm to Vladimir after November 6th.

Nobody thinks he was really talking about taking yoga classes this Fall, although I think that would be a great idea! No, it’s pretty clear that the President was talking about a necessary difference between his required pre-election positions and his possible post-election actions.

This will hurt Obama among consistency-loving voters who want their politicians to not be politicians. And I fully recognize that if there is going to be a Flexibility Backlash (I’m pretty sure that IS a Hot Yoga pose), I may be swept out of office along with the President (good thing we limbered up)! If so, so be it.

But here’s one thing I want you to remember – when I boasted about always “agreeing with the last person I talked to,” that was an iron-clad promise that I intend to keep.
As my constituent, that solemn pledge means you will always have a chance to change my mind. Get to me at the right moment and you could win the lottery – your view could carry the day! Isn’t that a little more exciting than being represented by someone whose ideas are set in stone? People want to have some hope, and I can give them that, because I’m willing to change.

In fact, all that stuff I said about flexibility almost one year ago is pretty much kaput. I only said it to lock down the prevaricator vote, which commits early in the process. Next come the equivocators, who are famously hard to gauge. All politicians have to work these crowds early. We save the one-issue voters and compromise haters for last – say the magic words and they’ll always fall into place.

And yes, by saying this I admit that I am a politician, unless you insist that you really don’t want one, in which case I might turn out to be just an ordinary guy who could greatly benefit from some stretching exercises done in a very warm room to really loud music.

The world is like that, sometimes. Lock your knees if you must, but when you straighten up too fast, it could make you dizzy!

Your Congressman,
Loomis Beechly

Can you touch your toes?

Travel

Meet The Jetskis

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No, it’s not the title of a futuristic cartoon series set in Poland. I’m talking about a highlight of my family vacation last week in Key West – a rash bid by a group of novices to quickly circumnavigate the island on rented personal watercraft.

Yes, I was surprised to see myself attempting this on such a powerful machine. I’m slow at virtually every activity I attempt and I’m much more of a canoe traveler, speed-and-noise-wise. Even when I’m driving the car, there’s a lot of coasting and enjoying the scenery. But Key West is all about loud, raucous, obnoxious fun. So when Gus (age 22) gravitated towards the jet ski tour, I decided to go along and give it a try.

This, despite the fact that playing in the ocean is always risky. I think James Cameron had a better idea of what he was getting into, and was probably safer in the process of doing it.

We signed up for the first group of the morning, leaving the dock at 9:30 for a 90-minute spin. You can rent individual machines or pair up and ride double with no increase in price. In the best father-son tradition we opted for solo water rockets, which turned out to be a wise choice. Four others who approached this as a couples event endured emotional trauma at the launch point, with one reluctant young woman storming away from her boyfriend with these parting words – “I HATE You!” The ever- helpful tour guide said “You’re better off going without her, dude. She wouldn’t have enjoyed it.”

No kidding.

Another couple had the opposite problem – once they were informed that the trip would not be taken at a leisurely pace (It’s a big island, dude), she seemed plenty willing to let him go it alone.

Him: “If you don’t want to come along, I’m OK with skipping it.”
Her: “No, it’s fine. You go and I’ll wait here.”
Him: “We can do something else instead.”
Her: “No, I’m perfectly happy to stay behind. You go.”
Him: “I don’t want to go if you’re not going.”

Both wanted to back out without ruining it for the other, so they rode together. Miserably.

No, those aren't my feet.

My victory? Aside from not dying? I didn’t fall off, hit a dock, a rock, or get run over. Which is remarkable when you consider I was deafened by the engine and blinded by the spray for most of the journey. Keeping up with the guide was a white-knuckle experience, and I couldn’t slow down because I knew there was a single file-line of rookie pilots right behind me, all of them as oblivious to their surroundings as I was, or else fully engaged in arguing with their partner about whether or not they should even be there.

The only part that was more terrifying was the moment when the guide went back to retrieve one member of a two person sled who had tumbled into the water, telling we three individual survivors that we should “just mess around in this area here”, meaning we were supposed to zig-zag around a bit, keeping a sharp eye out for boats, obstacles and each other. Sitting still in the rolling waves presented a strong risk of capsizing, but “messing around” meant we could wind up colliding at high speed. Hmmm. Which would be better?

We chose random skittering about and got so turned around we mistakenly took up with another tour group as they cut across our playground. Oops. My excuse? When you’ve got a snoot full of briny foam and are feeling desperate to be back on land, every passing water jockey looks like Our Dear Leader.

And yes, in spite of it all, the jet ski experience was a definite highlight of the trip. But the next day (and even today) every muscle felt the strain of hanging on for dear life.
I’m glad I did it, and I’m glad it’s done.

When have you been exhilarated AND terrified?

The Baboon Congress

No E for Me

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Today’s guest post comes from Madislandgirl.

Like many Baboons, I am a reader. I almost never leave home without something to read in hand, the local librarians know me on sight. Finding a new author I enjoy is like making a new friend. I have raised a son and heir to be a reader too.

But at least for the foreseeable future, we won’t be investing in an e-reader. Yes, there are great features on the various models-you can make the font change, you can take notes, look up words and most tempting of all, you can be carrying around over 100 books in the physical space of one book-no mean consideration in a household that is chronically short of shelf space and long on book bags with torn seams from carrying around too many books.

When you check out an e-book from the library, you never need to worry about returning it on time or losing it, it simply disappears when it is due. For my friends whose hands now have trouble holding books over a certain size, an e-reader is a gift from heaven. All great stuff, but we aren’t getting one.

I’m not even tempted. In fact, the only reason I have done any research on e-readers is to write this piece. The reason I give is that I just don’t want one more thing that has to be “charged”-I’m bad at remembering to do it, and can only imagine the screen going dark, just as I am getting to the best part. But I know that isn’t the real reason.

The answer came to me while sitting next to a fellow fencing mom, both of us reading away, she on her e-reader, me with my book. I glanced over and my unbidden thought was, “I don’t want to do that!” What would I be missing if I were doing what she was doing? Why is important to me that my hands as well as my mind know what I am reading?

I like the covers of books. When I go to the library, I tend to use the computer to direct me to the general area I am interested in, then I stand before the shelves and scan for something interesting. My hunter instincts have been honed to identify at a glance which non-fiction books are probably meaty affairs, which are too thin to be satisfying, which are going to be tougher than I want to chew on right now. In fiction, the publisher has often gone to great trouble to design a book’s appearance to let me know what kind of reading experience I can expect. I am greatly grieved when I find I have been deceived.

The book I was holding on the night of my epiphany had an embossed dust jacket that was a particularly good tactile experience. The graphic layout depicts a quilt border I might someday like to make, and the author’s name is in gold letters. It must be rather grand to see your name on a book cover in gold letters. Inside the cover are the end papers. I love end papers. In the case of this particular book, the end papers show quilt blocks from the story that could easily be crafted into a real quilt. Other favorite end papers have maps of the locale of the story, or genealogical charts of the families in the story. The marbled endpapers of old books are often almost meditative in their undulations of color.

I suppose it is possible that e-books include endpapers, but they would look like just another page, and you would have to click or scroll to them, just like any other page. It’s just not the same.

Then there are the “bragging rights”. I suppose there may be some advantage to being able to read Fanny Hill in public without having the whole world know it, but if you are the sort of reader my son is (and I am), you kind of want the world to know if you are reading War and Peace, and not the latest installment of Diary of a Wimpy Kid. A friend who is often on the light rail purposely seeks out books with titles like The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse, just for the amusement of her fellow travelers.

I thought this might just be a generational thing, but as the son and heir has not so much as suggested we get an e-reader, I asked him what he thought. He had no interest in getting one, so I asked him why.

“I like the ‘bookness’ of a real book. I like turning the pages, clicking to turn the page would be so lame.”

Not to mention, scrolling through pages makes me nauseous, flipping through pages doesn’t.

And where do the readers of e-books look for misplaced Important Pieces of Mail?

Do you have a favorite book cover? Is it an accurate indicator of what is inside?

The Baboon Congress

The Maturity Fairy

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Today’s guest post comes from Beth-Ann

My son received his diploma from the University of Minnesota this December-after a mere 7 and a half years. This was not the speed at which I imagined his academic journey would proceed. It certainly wasn’t the speed that my journey took.

Before you ask, it wasn’t because the classes weren’t available, or that he changed majors (note to Ben and Anna – A few semesters were trashed when he built sets instead of doing classwork), or even bad advice or financial problems that slowed him down. This past September my son called me after he ran into the Dean and Chancellor of his college along with the new president of the University. They asked him why it had taken so long to graduate and with total honesty my son answered, “If you don’t do the work, you won’t pass the classes, and you can’t graduate.”

When I heard these words I knew that the Maturity Fairy was at work. You may not have encountered her but after this 7+ year slog I AM a believer in this force that brings growth from out of the blue.

In addition to his academic under performance my son was a jerk for a good part of the time. You can imagine the various forms of irresponsibility his behavior took (and no, you cannot substitute spraying Febreeze on your dirty clothes for doing laundry). More heartbreaking was his rude behavior to me and all those who loved and supported him.

I turned to a mantra that got me through a rough stretch of potty-training – IF he wears diapers to Kindergarten it will be his issue not mine. I stopped trying to train him and waited for the Maturity Fairy to inspire him. One day she waved her wand and my son asked for Mickey Mouse underwear and never was wet again.

This Fall my son actually called home to ask for advice. With silent gratitude I provided 2 sentences of guidance and said that I was sure he could figure it out because I was busy. The change was out-of the blue and defied rational explanation The Maturity Fairy is still my heroine and I love it when my son notices his cousin is a brat on Facebook and says, “Was I that obnoxious at 14?”

I feel the Maturity Fairy waving her wand over me as I decide NOT to cite chapter and verse.

I hope she sticks around for a little while longer. He still doesn’t have a job …

Have you seen the Maturity Fairy at work in your life or in the lives of others you know?