Somewhere along the line, and I can't say exactly when, I convinced myself that if only I owned my home the chores that might otherwise seem tedious and unpleasant would be magically transformed. Somehow, I reasoned, otherwise unappealing jobs like mowing the lawn, raking leaves and making mortgage payments would be rewarding when I was performing them in the interest of my own home. I believed the sense of satisfaction that comes with a job well done would outweigh the drudgery involved in getting the job done.
I am quickly coming to realize that this line of thinking is what the great philosophers refer to as "total bunk."
I moved into my house in November and, honestly, winter wasn't too bad. I don't have a lot of sidewalk to clear, and it seemed like half the time one of my neighbors would use his snowblower to clear most of it before I got home. Apparently when you have a home with 20 feet of sidewalk frontage you need to do something to justify owning a gas-guzzling snow throwing machine. Whatever his reason, I was fully in favor of the results.
Spring has been a different matter. I haven't had to mow the lawn yet — we'll talk more about that in a bit — but I've spent a fair amount of time already raking. It's a job made more challenging by the fact I have several large trees in my back yard. And by the fact the home's previous owner didn't bother to do any raking of his own last fall. My yards, front and back, were covered with a thick coat of leaves that had spent months under a blanket of snow. The leaves seemed perfectly happy to stay where they were.
I made a first pass at the back yard a few weeks ago, but that was more out of curiosity than any interest in actually getting the job done then. Once the snow had melted I started to notice there was a decided lack of grass in the yard. Turns out, the grass in my back yard is thinner than Nicole Ritchie on a diet. By the time I was finished the tips of my rake tines were encased in fair-sized balls of mud and my shoes were caked with enough gunk to make me a couple of inches taller.
I made another attempt at the job on Sunday. The front yard was easier. There are fewer trees there, and there was at least a respectable lawn underneath the leaves. In two-some hours of work I filled 10 bags — all I had — with leaves. I'd also developed a sore back, a twinge in my right shoulder and a healthy skepticism about the true value of pride in a job well done.
I can take pride in painting a room or building something. Those jobs take at least a little skill. Even if its your own yard you're cleaning up, raking is just dragging around a fancy stick. There's no pride to be found there. A moderately intelligent monkey could do it.
In fact, if you know any particularly sharp monkeys I've got more leaves to clear. I'd be happy to provide the bananas.
----------------
Now playing: Radiohead - Morning Bell
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Do you have the status of the daylight?
It's hardly my place to tell other people how to spend their money. If you want to fill your home with expensive art and take luxurious vacations, more power to you. If you want to pamper yourself with lavish meals, well, I'm sure that steak was totally worth $150. And if you want to spend your hard-earned cash putting spinning rims on an otherwise stock Toyota Camry, well, go find your inner Sprewell, baby.
There comes a time, though, when you start to feel like the super-rich are just messing with the rest of us. A time, for example when you see something like Swiss watchmaker Romain Jerome's Day&Night watch.
Now, I can appreciate a nice watch. I could have spent $5 at a drugstore when I bought my last watch but I didn't. I wanted something nicer. I didn't get anything extravagant. It looks nice, but when you get down to it it's just a way to tell time, something I figure is an important feature of any watch.
The folks at Romain Jerome appear to disagree. Their new showpiece, which at $300,000 costs as much as a pretty decent house in this market, will not tell you whether you're running late for your dentist's appointment or your tee time at the club. It doesn't have a calculator or a Dick Tracy-style radio or even anything to show you the date. It just tells you whether the sun is up.
And according to Reuters, the time — er, daypiece? — sold out within 48 hours of its launch.
It's an admittedly striking watch, presuming you like the "left to rust for three years in the bottom of a rain barrel look. But is a pitted, grimy-looking exterior really enough to explain why people are dropping the equivalent of a nice split-level on a piece of jewelry that tells them something they should be able to figure out simply by opening their eyes.
I can see how the Day&Night watch might be useful for a race of well-to-do mole people, but is this really a reasonable purchase for any of us who lives in the surface world?
To be fair, the watch apparently uses something called Tourbillon movement, a complicated mechanical something-or-other designed to counteract the effect of Earth's gravity on the watch's accuracy. Which means it can tell you with astounding precision whether there's enough light out for you to see your wrist in front of your face.
What is the justification for this extravagance? Romain Jerome chief executive Yvan Arpa told Reuters it's because people want a trophy. And what better way to tell everyone around you you have more money than you could possibly spend than spending more than a decade's worth of minimum wage salary on the equivalent of a window?
I'll tell you what, ridiculously rich people of the world — if you really want to show off, you can hire me. I'll give you my cell phone number and guarantee I'll pick it up any time, day or night. If you're ever uncertain whether the sun is up, you call me and I, using a series of complex mathematical computations — or maybe Google Maps — will tell you whether you should be eating breakfast or dinner. And I'll do it all for the bargain price of $250,000.
How can you beat that?
There comes a time, though, when you start to feel like the super-rich are just messing with the rest of us. A time, for example when you see something like Swiss watchmaker Romain Jerome's Day&Night watch.
Now, I can appreciate a nice watch. I could have spent $5 at a drugstore when I bought my last watch but I didn't. I wanted something nicer. I didn't get anything extravagant. It looks nice, but when you get down to it it's just a way to tell time, something I figure is an important feature of any watch.
The folks at Romain Jerome appear to disagree. Their new showpiece, which at $300,000 costs as much as a pretty decent house in this market, will not tell you whether you're running late for your dentist's appointment or your tee time at the club. It doesn't have a calculator or a Dick Tracy-style radio or even anything to show you the date. It just tells you whether the sun is up.
And according to Reuters, the time — er, daypiece? — sold out within 48 hours of its launch.
It's an admittedly striking watch, presuming you like the "left to rust for three years in the bottom of a rain barrel look. But is a pitted, grimy-looking exterior really enough to explain why people are dropping the equivalent of a nice split-level on a piece of jewelry that tells them something they should be able to figure out simply by opening their eyes.
I can see how the Day&Night watch might be useful for a race of well-to-do mole people, but is this really a reasonable purchase for any of us who lives in the surface world?
To be fair, the watch apparently uses something called Tourbillon movement, a complicated mechanical something-or-other designed to counteract the effect of Earth's gravity on the watch's accuracy. Which means it can tell you with astounding precision whether there's enough light out for you to see your wrist in front of your face.
What is the justification for this extravagance? Romain Jerome chief executive Yvan Arpa told Reuters it's because people want a trophy. And what better way to tell everyone around you you have more money than you could possibly spend than spending more than a decade's worth of minimum wage salary on the equivalent of a window?
I'll tell you what, ridiculously rich people of the world — if you really want to show off, you can hire me. I'll give you my cell phone number and guarantee I'll pick it up any time, day or night. If you're ever uncertain whether the sun is up, you call me and I, using a series of complex mathematical computations — or maybe Google Maps — will tell you whether you should be eating breakfast or dinner. And I'll do it all for the bargain price of $250,000.
How can you beat that?
Friday, April 11, 2008
Ah, the spring bike ride
Early season bike rides are always tricky business. The weather's unpredictable. The equipment is usually in need of a tuneup and the physical fitness of the previous summer has gone the way of the dodo and Britney Spears' dignity.
Take Sunday. It was 40-odd degrees and rainy when my father, my brother and I set out from our respective homes. Each of us knew the experience would be unpleasant, but nobody wanted to be the one to actually call it off. I suspect this is how Two and a Half Men stays on the air, give or take a detail or two.
Anyway, there we were. We were all soaked within minutes. We were cold. And our faces were steadily being caked with mud kicked up by the person riding in front of us. It was the kind of ride where you start anticipating a hot shower roughly 15 minutes after you start.
Then things started to get bad.
The first flat tire happened about 10 miles into the ride. We were headed south on Highway 13 when my dad announced his rear wheel had sprung a leak. We stopped under the overhang in front of a Mexican restaurant to repair it and, having given our bodies an opportunity to vent any spare warmth they'd built up to that point, set out again into the mist.
Here's the other thing about early-season rides in the rain. Rain, it turns out, fills up the multitude of potholes that develop on Minnesota roads over the winter. This makes the potholes difficult to see, which in turn leads to an uncomfortable number of jolts as you ride into holes large enough to swallow mid-sized dogs.
I don't know if those bumps were the cause of the next flat, but for one reason or another my front tire started leaking air a few miles after our first stop. Air was jetting out of the tire fast enough to make bubbles in the puddles on the road. That leak blew harder than Memphis' free throw shooting Monday night.
At this point, we started to worry. Each of us carried one spare tube. My brother's was the only one left. And considering we had something like 30 miles to go, that suddenly didn't seem like good odds.
We didn't beat the odds. Just over 30 miles into the ride, my back tire suddenly went softer than the Twins' bats this season. My brother grudgingly gave up his spare. I put it on the rim and started to pump it up. I got it about half full before all the air rushed back out, leaving us spare-less on Old Shakopee Road in Bloomington. When a self-adhesive patch I carried with me failed completely to adhere, my ride was officially over.
I spent the next hour and a half waiting in an Oasis Market in Bloomington while my dad finished his ride. My face was caked with mud from forehead to chin. I looked like a Navy Seal getting ready for a night mission. A scrawny, ineffective Navy Seal.
I was wearing spandex shorts, bike shoes and a close-fitting rain jacket. I felt, I have to say, a little out of place among the people stopping in to buy cigarettes. Or the college-age clerk who spent the entire time listening to Beatles music who said at one point he would have been taller but all the drugs he'd done stunted his growth.
My dad finally made it back to get me, but not before getting one last flat half a mile from home forced him to call for a ride of his own. By the time I got home it was nearly 5 p.m., roughly five hours after I'd rolled away from my front door. I was wet and cold and tired and generally uncomfortable.
But, hey, at least it's supposed to snow this weekend.
----------------
Now playing: The Bad Plus - 1972 Bronze Medalist
via FoxyTunes
Take Sunday. It was 40-odd degrees and rainy when my father, my brother and I set out from our respective homes. Each of us knew the experience would be unpleasant, but nobody wanted to be the one to actually call it off. I suspect this is how Two and a Half Men stays on the air, give or take a detail or two.
Anyway, there we were. We were all soaked within minutes. We were cold. And our faces were steadily being caked with mud kicked up by the person riding in front of us. It was the kind of ride where you start anticipating a hot shower roughly 15 minutes after you start.
Then things started to get bad.
The first flat tire happened about 10 miles into the ride. We were headed south on Highway 13 when my dad announced his rear wheel had sprung a leak. We stopped under the overhang in front of a Mexican restaurant to repair it and, having given our bodies an opportunity to vent any spare warmth they'd built up to that point, set out again into the mist.
Here's the other thing about early-season rides in the rain. Rain, it turns out, fills up the multitude of potholes that develop on Minnesota roads over the winter. This makes the potholes difficult to see, which in turn leads to an uncomfortable number of jolts as you ride into holes large enough to swallow mid-sized dogs.
I don't know if those bumps were the cause of the next flat, but for one reason or another my front tire started leaking air a few miles after our first stop. Air was jetting out of the tire fast enough to make bubbles in the puddles on the road. That leak blew harder than Memphis' free throw shooting Monday night.
At this point, we started to worry. Each of us carried one spare tube. My brother's was the only one left. And considering we had something like 30 miles to go, that suddenly didn't seem like good odds.
We didn't beat the odds. Just over 30 miles into the ride, my back tire suddenly went softer than the Twins' bats this season. My brother grudgingly gave up his spare. I put it on the rim and started to pump it up. I got it about half full before all the air rushed back out, leaving us spare-less on Old Shakopee Road in Bloomington. When a self-adhesive patch I carried with me failed completely to adhere, my ride was officially over.
I spent the next hour and a half waiting in an Oasis Market in Bloomington while my dad finished his ride. My face was caked with mud from forehead to chin. I looked like a Navy Seal getting ready for a night mission. A scrawny, ineffective Navy Seal.
I was wearing spandex shorts, bike shoes and a close-fitting rain jacket. I felt, I have to say, a little out of place among the people stopping in to buy cigarettes. Or the college-age clerk who spent the entire time listening to Beatles music who said at one point he would have been taller but all the drugs he'd done stunted his growth.
My dad finally made it back to get me, but not before getting one last flat half a mile from home forced him to call for a ride of his own. By the time I got home it was nearly 5 p.m., roughly five hours after I'd rolled away from my front door. I was wet and cold and tired and generally uncomfortable.
But, hey, at least it's supposed to snow this weekend.
----------------
Now playing: The Bad Plus - 1972 Bronze Medalist
via FoxyTunes
Friday, April 04, 2008
Seasons change; people change
Dear Winter,
We need to talk.
I know what you're thinking. I can see it in your eyes. You're worried this is one of "those" talks. And, well, it is. Because as important as you are to me, I think it's time I moved on.
I'd like to start seeing other seasons.
Hey. No. Don't do that. Come on. Dumping six inches of snow on everyone isn't going to change things. You can't hide the distance that's grown between us. You can't bury feelings under ice crystals. Things between us have grown cold, and I need something warmer. Something greener. Something that doesn't cause me to injure my back heaving wet snow off my sidewalk.
We had some good times, Winter. Remember a few months ago when I slipped on some ice and got bruises all up and down the side of my body? That was a hoot. I ached for days.
But, Winter, I need to move on. I'm a different person now than I was five months ago. I'm in a different place. I've put away my shovel. I've stored my bag of sidewalk salt. I bought a garden hose. I bought a lawn mower. That means I need a lawn, Winter. And I'm never going to have one if you don't stop dumping snow all over my yard. Given my past demonstrations of gardening skills I might not have one anyway, but you've got to let me at least try to grow.
I've got my bike out, Winter. You know what that means? It means slushy streets and sub-freezing temperatures are not cool. Spandex and sleet do not mix, Winter. I need you to understand that, because the way I've been eating these last few months — it's because I'm uncomfortable around you, I think — I need to get out there and get some exercise.
It's not just me, Winter. You've worn out your welcome here and people are starting to get uncomfortable. They're too polite to say anything, but there are a lot of people who are ready to trade in their boots and snow pants for flip-flops and cargo shorts. You've got to let them go.
If it helps, I have a feeling this isn't the end for us, Winter. People change, you know? Sunny skies and warm weather might seem good now, but who knows if it will last. We might feel very different in a few months. We'll have tired of swimming and walking in the park and long for an opportunity to ski or snowshoe.
We've been through this before, Winter, and somehow we always end up back together. Pretty soon we'll realize life in Minnesota just isn't the same without you. Let's face it, you're as iconic in this state as lutefisk and underachieving football teams.
For now, though, you need to go. Take your things with you. Yes, the toothbrush, too.
It's been fun, Winter. But you've got to go.
Love, Nathan
----------------
Now playing: The Black Keys - I Got Mine
via FoxyTunes
We need to talk.
I know what you're thinking. I can see it in your eyes. You're worried this is one of "those" talks. And, well, it is. Because as important as you are to me, I think it's time I moved on.
I'd like to start seeing other seasons.
Hey. No. Don't do that. Come on. Dumping six inches of snow on everyone isn't going to change things. You can't hide the distance that's grown between us. You can't bury feelings under ice crystals. Things between us have grown cold, and I need something warmer. Something greener. Something that doesn't cause me to injure my back heaving wet snow off my sidewalk.
We had some good times, Winter. Remember a few months ago when I slipped on some ice and got bruises all up and down the side of my body? That was a hoot. I ached for days.
But, Winter, I need to move on. I'm a different person now than I was five months ago. I'm in a different place. I've put away my shovel. I've stored my bag of sidewalk salt. I bought a garden hose. I bought a lawn mower. That means I need a lawn, Winter. And I'm never going to have one if you don't stop dumping snow all over my yard. Given my past demonstrations of gardening skills I might not have one anyway, but you've got to let me at least try to grow.
I've got my bike out, Winter. You know what that means? It means slushy streets and sub-freezing temperatures are not cool. Spandex and sleet do not mix, Winter. I need you to understand that, because the way I've been eating these last few months — it's because I'm uncomfortable around you, I think — I need to get out there and get some exercise.
It's not just me, Winter. You've worn out your welcome here and people are starting to get uncomfortable. They're too polite to say anything, but there are a lot of people who are ready to trade in their boots and snow pants for flip-flops and cargo shorts. You've got to let them go.
If it helps, I have a feeling this isn't the end for us, Winter. People change, you know? Sunny skies and warm weather might seem good now, but who knows if it will last. We might feel very different in a few months. We'll have tired of swimming and walking in the park and long for an opportunity to ski or snowshoe.
We've been through this before, Winter, and somehow we always end up back together. Pretty soon we'll realize life in Minnesota just isn't the same without you. Let's face it, you're as iconic in this state as lutefisk and underachieving football teams.
For now, though, you need to go. Take your things with you. Yes, the toothbrush, too.
It's been fun, Winter. But you've got to go.
Love, Nathan
----------------
Now playing: The Black Keys - I Got Mine
via FoxyTunes
Friday, March 28, 2008
A lovely shade of Social Butterfly
I feel like I've spent a lot of time since I bought my first house last November about my ineptitude when it comes to doing household projects while simultaneously describing my successful home repair projects. Frankly, it's starting to seem a little disingenuous. I feel like I need to set the record straight.
Yes, I can use a circular saw without bashing my thumbnail, and I can swing a hammer without cutting off any limbs. Given enough instruction and enough help I can build a sofa table that is functional, if not necessarily a work of furniture art. And I was able to figure out why I had water in my basement and fix the problem by caulking a window in my shower.
I'm not exactly Bob Vila — or even Bob the Builder — but I know which way to point the sharp end of a drill.
None of which made me particularly confident when I set out to paint my living room last weekend.
Painting is intimidating. I lived for three years in an apartment with awful floral wallpaper on one of the living room walls because I couldn't bring myself to face the possibility of painting.
It's never been the work itself I've objected to. I actually kind of like that part, at least on a small scale. And while I'd never painted an entire room on my own before I was pretty sure I understood the underlying concepts. Where I really got lost was the color selection. Not the number. The names. I didn't realize until a few weeks ago just how far out of control the paint color namers have gotten.
With my new house I knew early on I wanted to paint my living room a kind of dark yellow. No problem there. But then I had to find a name I could live with. I don't care how much I liked the color, I don't think I could ever tell my friends I'd painted my walls First Light. Or Uplifting. Or Champagne Sparkle. I definitely couldn't go with Newborn. Way too creepy.
What if I'd chosen something browner? Could I live with myself knowing I was surrounded every day by shades of Cotton Field? Or Cozy Melon? I really don't think so.
Ultimately I settled on a dark yellow called Sunflower. If you ask me, though, it's more of a cheddar cheese color than anything flowery. It's definitely cheesier than the sample I've got of Sharp Cheddar. Explain that one.
Some names are definitely better than others. I can live with the Smoldering Red I got for another room in my house, but I'm not going anywhere near Shy Cherry. I grudgingly settled on an orangey brown called Tangerine Dream for my bedroom, although based on name alone I was tempted to go with something called Butterscotch Tempest. I'm still holding out hope I can find some Chocolate Thunderstorm or Tapioca Hurricane for the dining room.
The painting itself was uneventful if not exactly flawless. By the time I was done there was paint on my hands, on my clothes and on the bottoms of my shoes. There was paint on the baseboards and on the ceilings, although I think I've mostly gotten that off. I think the room looks good. But let's just call it yellow.
----------------
Now playing: Jurassic 5 - In The House
via FoxyTunes
Yes, I can use a circular saw without bashing my thumbnail, and I can swing a hammer without cutting off any limbs. Given enough instruction and enough help I can build a sofa table that is functional, if not necessarily a work of furniture art. And I was able to figure out why I had water in my basement and fix the problem by caulking a window in my shower.
I'm not exactly Bob Vila — or even Bob the Builder — but I know which way to point the sharp end of a drill.
None of which made me particularly confident when I set out to paint my living room last weekend.
Painting is intimidating. I lived for three years in an apartment with awful floral wallpaper on one of the living room walls because I couldn't bring myself to face the possibility of painting.
It's never been the work itself I've objected to. I actually kind of like that part, at least on a small scale. And while I'd never painted an entire room on my own before I was pretty sure I understood the underlying concepts. Where I really got lost was the color selection. Not the number. The names. I didn't realize until a few weeks ago just how far out of control the paint color namers have gotten.
With my new house I knew early on I wanted to paint my living room a kind of dark yellow. No problem there. But then I had to find a name I could live with. I don't care how much I liked the color, I don't think I could ever tell my friends I'd painted my walls First Light. Or Uplifting. Or Champagne Sparkle. I definitely couldn't go with Newborn. Way too creepy.
What if I'd chosen something browner? Could I live with myself knowing I was surrounded every day by shades of Cotton Field? Or Cozy Melon? I really don't think so.
Ultimately I settled on a dark yellow called Sunflower. If you ask me, though, it's more of a cheddar cheese color than anything flowery. It's definitely cheesier than the sample I've got of Sharp Cheddar. Explain that one.
Some names are definitely better than others. I can live with the Smoldering Red I got for another room in my house, but I'm not going anywhere near Shy Cherry. I grudgingly settled on an orangey brown called Tangerine Dream for my bedroom, although based on name alone I was tempted to go with something called Butterscotch Tempest. I'm still holding out hope I can find some Chocolate Thunderstorm or Tapioca Hurricane for the dining room.
The painting itself was uneventful if not exactly flawless. By the time I was done there was paint on my hands, on my clothes and on the bottoms of my shoes. There was paint on the baseboards and on the ceilings, although I think I've mostly gotten that off. I think the room looks good. But let's just call it yellow.
----------------
Now playing: Jurassic 5 - In The House
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Life story? Say it in six
Rumor has it someone once challenged Ernest Hemingway to write a story using just six words. The result, or so the story goes, was this: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."
I have no idea if this story is true, though I've seen it recounted several times in recent years. For all I know the whole thing started because some guy sitting around in his underwear felt some sudden literary inspiration on the same night he cranked out an e-mail about Nigerian princes who want to give you money and an inspirational story about a kitten rescuing a firefighter.
I'd like the story to be real, but it doesn't really matter. Whether or not it was Hemingway, somebody wrote that tiny little story, and it fascinates me. A big part of my job involves finding ways to squeeze people's stories onto the ever-shrinking pages of this newspaper, and seeing someone — whether it was Papa Hemingway himself or the anonymous underpants guy — pack so much emotional significance into so few words is remarkable. I'm better at that kind of thing now than I was when I started in this job a little over a decade ago, but clearly I've still got a ways to go.
The first time I heard the Hemingway story was in November of 2006, when Wired magazine posed a similar challenge to a collection of professional authors. Science fiction writer Orson Scott Card submitted, "The baby’s blood type? Human, mostly." Foulmouth director Kevin Smith added, "Kirby had never eaten toes before." Some of the entries were good. Some weren't. Some were funny. Some were serious. But none had the same kind of impact as the original.
More recently, an online publication called Smith Magazine made the experiment more personal, asking celebrities and readers alike to submit six-word memoirs. The results were published recently in a book called Not Quite What I Was Planning.
That's what got me thinking about all of this. Could I tell one of my subjects' stories in so little space? Could I tell my own? How would I even start?
I could focus on work, I suppose. Keep it simple. "I came. I saw. I reported." Or, "Excuse me, but I have to ask...." But does that capture the fact I'm doing a job for which I never received any formal education? That I never took a journalism class, nor worked on a school paper? How about, "Journalist? Me? I don't think so."?
I could write about the things I do for fun: "Biked far. Rode fast. Butt sore." Or I could try to convey the emotions of owning my first home: "I pay the mortgage monthly? Ugh!"
There are plenty of options, but I'm not sure any of them really captures every aspect of my life. There's just too much there. And my life isn't even that interesting.
In the end, maybe I'll just go with this: "Had fun so far. What's next?"
So, that's mine. Now it's your turn. Starting this week there will be an opportunity on our web page, www.farmingtonindependent.com (or www.rosemounttownpages.com), to post your own six-word memoir. Make it funny if you want, or keep it serious. Write one or write a dozen. Do it online or mail them to me at PO Box 192 in Farmington. Heck, you can even call and ask us to transcribe them if you want. We're going to post a few of our own, too, but we really want to know how you define yourself.
----------------
Now playing: BT - The Antikythera Mechanism
via FoxyTunes
Just keep it short.
I have no idea if this story is true, though I've seen it recounted several times in recent years. For all I know the whole thing started because some guy sitting around in his underwear felt some sudden literary inspiration on the same night he cranked out an e-mail about Nigerian princes who want to give you money and an inspirational story about a kitten rescuing a firefighter.
I'd like the story to be real, but it doesn't really matter. Whether or not it was Hemingway, somebody wrote that tiny little story, and it fascinates me. A big part of my job involves finding ways to squeeze people's stories onto the ever-shrinking pages of this newspaper, and seeing someone — whether it was Papa Hemingway himself or the anonymous underpants guy — pack so much emotional significance into so few words is remarkable. I'm better at that kind of thing now than I was when I started in this job a little over a decade ago, but clearly I've still got a ways to go.
The first time I heard the Hemingway story was in November of 2006, when Wired magazine posed a similar challenge to a collection of professional authors. Science fiction writer Orson Scott Card submitted, "The baby’s blood type? Human, mostly." Foulmouth director Kevin Smith added, "Kirby had never eaten toes before." Some of the entries were good. Some weren't. Some were funny. Some were serious. But none had the same kind of impact as the original.
More recently, an online publication called Smith Magazine made the experiment more personal, asking celebrities and readers alike to submit six-word memoirs. The results were published recently in a book called Not Quite What I Was Planning.
That's what got me thinking about all of this. Could I tell one of my subjects' stories in so little space? Could I tell my own? How would I even start?
I could focus on work, I suppose. Keep it simple. "I came. I saw. I reported." Or, "Excuse me, but I have to ask...." But does that capture the fact I'm doing a job for which I never received any formal education? That I never took a journalism class, nor worked on a school paper? How about, "Journalist? Me? I don't think so."?
I could write about the things I do for fun: "Biked far. Rode fast. Butt sore." Or I could try to convey the emotions of owning my first home: "I pay the mortgage monthly? Ugh!"
There are plenty of options, but I'm not sure any of them really captures every aspect of my life. There's just too much there. And my life isn't even that interesting.
In the end, maybe I'll just go with this: "Had fun so far. What's next?"
So, that's mine. Now it's your turn. Starting this week there will be an opportunity on our web page, www.farmingtonindependent.com (or www.rosemounttownpages.com), to post your own six-word memoir. Make it funny if you want, or keep it serious. Write one or write a dozen. Do it online or mail them to me at PO Box 192 in Farmington. Heck, you can even call and ask us to transcribe them if you want. We're going to post a few of our own, too, but we really want to know how you define yourself.
----------------
Now playing: BT - The Antikythera Mechanism
via FoxyTunes
Just keep it short.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
It's all a lie
Daylight Savings Time started Sunday morning, which means roughly one-third of Americans showed up for their first activity Sunday morning and wondered where the heck everyone else was.
Most of us have adjusted by now, but highly scientific data I just made up suggest that at least 12 percent of people still have at least one clock they have not changed. Another .3 percent simply never bothered to set their clocks back last fall will now finally be on time again.
Daylight Savings Time disrupts our lives every year around this time. It robs us of an hour of sleep and forces us to dig out long-buried instruction manuals so we can change clocks on microwave ovens and car dashboards. Yet for all that it remains one of our most beloved examples of mass self-deception, right up there with the beliefs baseball is exciting and American Idol contestants are talented artists.
Let's face it: at its core Daylight Savings Time is really nothing more a near-worldwide agreement to spend several months each year pretending it's an hour later than it actually is. The flow of time doesn't actually change. Days didn't magically become longer Sunday morning. We're all lying to ourselves so we can play in the sun a little longer while it's warm outside.
According to the California Department of Energy's website, the idea for Daylight Savings Time began with Benjamin Franklin, who while a minister to France proposed it in an essay titled "An Economic Project for Diminishing the Cost of Light." Less well known is that Franklin published a similar essay around the same time suggesting a worldwide agreement that overweight, bespectacled, balding men were super sexy.
Frankly, this only confirms my belief that Franklin was the lyingest of our Founding Fathers. In fact, the more I think about it the more I'm convinced all of the Founders were just out to mess with people. Free press? People took that seriously? Those kidders.
Granted, there are some good reasons for this kind of self-deception. Pretending its suddenly staying light longer gives us more time after work to do things like mow the lawn or go out for ice cream. And various studies have suggested that Daylight Savings Time leads to everything from a reduction in violent crime to safer roads. According to the website webexhibits.com, several studies in Great Britain have found that safer roads during the now-illuminated evening hours more than offset an increase in accidents among people forced to drive to work in the dark. In other words, if you have any driving to do this summer try to do it after noon. Otherwise, you're taking your life into your own hands.
Still, Daylight Savings Time isn't without its controversies. Hawaii still doesn't recognize Daylight Savings Time. Nor does Arizona, although the Navajo Nation within the state does. Which really messes you up when you visit the casinos.
In 1965, not even Minneapolis and St. Paul could come to an agreement on Daylight Savings Time. That year, St. Paul set its clocks ahead on the same day as the rest of the country, while its neighbor to the west conformed to state law and waited a few weeks. So, depending on which way you were going, crossing the Mississippi River that summer could have taken either an hour or sent you back in time. Although, that’s kind of what it’s like driving from Minneapolis to St. Paul anyway.
Even the Amish have trouble agreeing on Daylight Savings Time. According to webexhibits.org there is no consensus among the Amish communities about whether to observe Daylight Savings Time. In one Ohio county, the site claims, 10 of 90 Amish church districts opt out of Daylight Savings Time. Which inevitably raises questions about how exactly a person goes about setting a sun dial an hour ahead.
I, for one, am all in favor of Daylight Savings Time. It's been nice this week driving home in the daylight. And considering I'm already hard at work convincing myself I'm talented and handsome (at least as good-looking as Ben Franklin) I don't see how a little more self-deception could hurt.
----------------
Now playing: Atmosphere - Liquor Lyles Cool July
via FoxyTunes
Most of us have adjusted by now, but highly scientific data I just made up suggest that at least 12 percent of people still have at least one clock they have not changed. Another .3 percent simply never bothered to set their clocks back last fall will now finally be on time again.
Daylight Savings Time disrupts our lives every year around this time. It robs us of an hour of sleep and forces us to dig out long-buried instruction manuals so we can change clocks on microwave ovens and car dashboards. Yet for all that it remains one of our most beloved examples of mass self-deception, right up there with the beliefs baseball is exciting and American Idol contestants are talented artists.
Let's face it: at its core Daylight Savings Time is really nothing more a near-worldwide agreement to spend several months each year pretending it's an hour later than it actually is. The flow of time doesn't actually change. Days didn't magically become longer Sunday morning. We're all lying to ourselves so we can play in the sun a little longer while it's warm outside.
According to the California Department of Energy's website, the idea for Daylight Savings Time began with Benjamin Franklin, who while a minister to France proposed it in an essay titled "An Economic Project for Diminishing the Cost of Light." Less well known is that Franklin published a similar essay around the same time suggesting a worldwide agreement that overweight, bespectacled, balding men were super sexy.
Frankly, this only confirms my belief that Franklin was the lyingest of our Founding Fathers. In fact, the more I think about it the more I'm convinced all of the Founders were just out to mess with people. Free press? People took that seriously? Those kidders.
Granted, there are some good reasons for this kind of self-deception. Pretending its suddenly staying light longer gives us more time after work to do things like mow the lawn or go out for ice cream. And various studies have suggested that Daylight Savings Time leads to everything from a reduction in violent crime to safer roads. According to the website webexhibits.com, several studies in Great Britain have found that safer roads during the now-illuminated evening hours more than offset an increase in accidents among people forced to drive to work in the dark. In other words, if you have any driving to do this summer try to do it after noon. Otherwise, you're taking your life into your own hands.
Still, Daylight Savings Time isn't without its controversies. Hawaii still doesn't recognize Daylight Savings Time. Nor does Arizona, although the Navajo Nation within the state does. Which really messes you up when you visit the casinos.
In 1965, not even Minneapolis and St. Paul could come to an agreement on Daylight Savings Time. That year, St. Paul set its clocks ahead on the same day as the rest of the country, while its neighbor to the west conformed to state law and waited a few weeks. So, depending on which way you were going, crossing the Mississippi River that summer could have taken either an hour or sent you back in time. Although, that’s kind of what it’s like driving from Minneapolis to St. Paul anyway.
Even the Amish have trouble agreeing on Daylight Savings Time. According to webexhibits.org there is no consensus among the Amish communities about whether to observe Daylight Savings Time. In one Ohio county, the site claims, 10 of 90 Amish church districts opt out of Daylight Savings Time. Which inevitably raises questions about how exactly a person goes about setting a sun dial an hour ahead.
I, for one, am all in favor of Daylight Savings Time. It's been nice this week driving home in the daylight. And considering I'm already hard at work convincing myself I'm talented and handsome (at least as good-looking as Ben Franklin) I don't see how a little more self-deception could hurt.
----------------
Now playing: Atmosphere - Liquor Lyles Cool July
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Check out the spokes on that one!
Plenty of guys get excited this time of year for the arrival of Sports Illustrated's annual swimsuit issue. I can appreciate that. When I was younger I spent plenty of time paging through the annual collection of superfit models in superskimpy outfits, just knowing somewhere in there a well-placed splash would have turned some woman's bikini top just translucent enough to reveal ... well, you know. Naughty stuff.
These days, though? I get my late-winter thrills from a different and not necessarily healthier source: bike magazine buyer's guides.
Oh, sure, there's still something to be said for an entire magazine full of mono-named models lounging seductively in what appears to be highly impractical beachwear. But these days there are so many more options for seeing attractive women in their almost-altogether. Magazines like Maxim and Stuff and, I think, Popular Science, bring that kind of thing to readers every single month. Scantily clad women are practically required viewing on the Internet.
Pictures of supermodels in mesh tankinis are great, but how about the carbon-fiber weave on a new Trek? And what's the finish on that new titanium model? Is it ... nude? Good golly!
Let's face it, a well-made bike frame is about the sexiest a couple of triangles are ever going to look.
For the last week or so I've been pouring over Bicycling magazine's annual buyer's guide the same way I used to flip through pictures of Kathy Ireland and Elle MacPherson. Is it entirely healthy to linger over photo after photo of lovingly crafted bikes when I'm already riding something that costs several times more than a lot of people's first cars? Maybe not. Five-figure price tags aside, a lot of these bikes just weren't made for someone like me. I'm 6-6, and this is a sport where someone who stands six feet tall and weighs 180 pounds is practically a giant. High-level bike racers are like slightly taller jockeys with bigger thighs. There's a legitimate risk some of the really featherweight bikes would just plain fall to pieces under someone my size.
Why do it, then? For the same reason -- well, sort of -- I used to get excited about that swimsuit issue. It's an aspirational thing. As much as I'd like to have enough in the bank to drop the price of a Toyota Yaris on a custom-made Italian dream machine that will do everything but pedal me up hills on its own, that's not going to happen anytime soon. But I'm never going to date a swimsuit model, either.
At least, that's what the restraining orders say.
It's still nice to look at the pictures, though. It's just, instead of looking at pictures of beautiful women in exotic locations and wondering where the tide might have washed that poor model's bikini top I'm reading about exotic frame materials and beautiful frame geometries and wondering just how much faster I could ride right now if I'd spent the extra grand or two to knock an extra few grams off my bike's weight.
Now that's sexy.
----------------
Now playing: Air - New Star In The Sky
via FoxyTunes
These days, though? I get my late-winter thrills from a different and not necessarily healthier source: bike magazine buyer's guides.
Oh, sure, there's still something to be said for an entire magazine full of mono-named models lounging seductively in what appears to be highly impractical beachwear. But these days there are so many more options for seeing attractive women in their almost-altogether. Magazines like Maxim and Stuff and, I think, Popular Science, bring that kind of thing to readers every single month. Scantily clad women are practically required viewing on the Internet.
Pictures of supermodels in mesh tankinis are great, but how about the carbon-fiber weave on a new Trek? And what's the finish on that new titanium model? Is it ... nude? Good golly!
Let's face it, a well-made bike frame is about the sexiest a couple of triangles are ever going to look.
For the last week or so I've been pouring over Bicycling magazine's annual buyer's guide the same way I used to flip through pictures of Kathy Ireland and Elle MacPherson. Is it entirely healthy to linger over photo after photo of lovingly crafted bikes when I'm already riding something that costs several times more than a lot of people's first cars? Maybe not. Five-figure price tags aside, a lot of these bikes just weren't made for someone like me. I'm 6-6, and this is a sport where someone who stands six feet tall and weighs 180 pounds is practically a giant. High-level bike racers are like slightly taller jockeys with bigger thighs. There's a legitimate risk some of the really featherweight bikes would just plain fall to pieces under someone my size.
Why do it, then? For the same reason -- well, sort of -- I used to get excited about that swimsuit issue. It's an aspirational thing. As much as I'd like to have enough in the bank to drop the price of a Toyota Yaris on a custom-made Italian dream machine that will do everything but pedal me up hills on its own, that's not going to happen anytime soon. But I'm never going to date a swimsuit model, either.
At least, that's what the restraining orders say.
It's still nice to look at the pictures, though. It's just, instead of looking at pictures of beautiful women in exotic locations and wondering where the tide might have washed that poor model's bikini top I'm reading about exotic frame materials and beautiful frame geometries and wondering just how much faster I could ride right now if I'd spent the extra grand or two to knock an extra few grams off my bike's weight.
Now that's sexy.
----------------
Now playing: Air - New Star In The Sky
via FoxyTunes
Thursday, February 21, 2008
I just don't get it
I never claimed to be any kind of genius, but I don't think I'm a dummy, either. I got good grades in school. I read books with big words. And I'm pretty sure I understood the deeper meaning of last summer's Transformers movie. The heroic Autobots represented Man's quest for understanding and peace among all people, right? And the evil Decepticons represented big freaking robots?
See? I've got a couple of brain cells to rub together. But there are still some things I just don't understand.
I don't understand tattoos, for example. I get that body art has special meaning for some people, and that's fine. It just seems to me there are better forms of self-expression than having someone permanently etch a strand of barbed wire around your bicep or Tweety Bird on your fanny.
Still, a lower back tattoo of a butterfly is downright ordinary compared to what a Canadian tattoo artist did to himself recently. According to the Edmonton Sun, 30-year-old Lane Jensen wanted to add a little something to the tattoo of the buxom cowgirl on his calf. So, last December he gave her breast implants. Like, actual bags of silicone implanted in his calf. How he ever intended to make his socks fit right again I have no idea.
Perhaps not surprisingly, things did not go well for old Lane. His tiny fake calf-breasts got infected and by Christmas eve the sutures had split and, according to the Sun, drained a liter of lymphatic fluid. For those unfamiliar, a liter is metric-speak for "a whole lot of gross leg-goo."
In other words, ick.
I don't understand people who are way too into their pets, either. It's great if you love your cats and dogs and treat them well. But when you find yourself shopping on a site like kittywigs.com it might be time to take a closer look at your life. Kittywigs, as the name suggests, produces wigs for your feline friends. You know, in case you ever feel the need to make kitty look more like a shorter, hairier Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. The wigs come in four models, each certain to induce weeks of nightmares involving former first ladies hacking up hairballs.
When it comes to producing feelings of unease, though, even cat wigs have nothing on dog armor. I have no earthly idea why, outside of severe mental instability, a person would want to dress his dog like a character from an awful fantasy novel. If you do, though, the people at organicarmor.com can take care of you. Even better: You can get you and your dog matching suits. Probably a good idea to be well protected when your dog, sick of parading around in his jeweled helmet, tries to chew your throat open while you sleep.
I'm sure I'll never understand fashion.
I'm not talking about that Haute Coture stuff. Those aren't really clothes. I'm pretty sure they're an elaborate method devised for communicating with alien beings who secretly visit Earth to find great bargains at our outlet malls. I'm talking about everyday stuff. Stuff like Reebok's recently released line of Kool Ade scented shoes. You know, for those times you find yourself saying, "Gosh, I wish my shoes smelled more like I'd just spilled a pitcher of fruit punch on them."
The shoes, available in grape, strawberry and cherry, went on sale at the beginning of the month.
I just don't get it.
----------------
Now playing: Tim Fite - Over The Counter Culture
via FoxyTunes
See? I've got a couple of brain cells to rub together. But there are still some things I just don't understand.
I don't understand tattoos, for example. I get that body art has special meaning for some people, and that's fine. It just seems to me there are better forms of self-expression than having someone permanently etch a strand of barbed wire around your bicep or Tweety Bird on your fanny.
Still, a lower back tattoo of a butterfly is downright ordinary compared to what a Canadian tattoo artist did to himself recently. According to the Edmonton Sun, 30-year-old Lane Jensen wanted to add a little something to the tattoo of the buxom cowgirl on his calf. So, last December he gave her breast implants. Like, actual bags of silicone implanted in his calf. How he ever intended to make his socks fit right again I have no idea.
Perhaps not surprisingly, things did not go well for old Lane. His tiny fake calf-breasts got infected and by Christmas eve the sutures had split and, according to the Sun, drained a liter of lymphatic fluid. For those unfamiliar, a liter is metric-speak for "a whole lot of gross leg-goo."
In other words, ick.
I don't understand people who are way too into their pets, either. It's great if you love your cats and dogs and treat them well. But when you find yourself shopping on a site like kittywigs.com it might be time to take a closer look at your life. Kittywigs, as the name suggests, produces wigs for your feline friends. You know, in case you ever feel the need to make kitty look more like a shorter, hairier Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. The wigs come in four models, each certain to induce weeks of nightmares involving former first ladies hacking up hairballs.
When it comes to producing feelings of unease, though, even cat wigs have nothing on dog armor. I have no earthly idea why, outside of severe mental instability, a person would want to dress his dog like a character from an awful fantasy novel. If you do, though, the people at organicarmor.com can take care of you. Even better: You can get you and your dog matching suits. Probably a good idea to be well protected when your dog, sick of parading around in his jeweled helmet, tries to chew your throat open while you sleep.
I'm sure I'll never understand fashion.
I'm not talking about that Haute Coture stuff. Those aren't really clothes. I'm pretty sure they're an elaborate method devised for communicating with alien beings who secretly visit Earth to find great bargains at our outlet malls. I'm talking about everyday stuff. Stuff like Reebok's recently released line of Kool Ade scented shoes. You know, for those times you find yourself saying, "Gosh, I wish my shoes smelled more like I'd just spilled a pitcher of fruit punch on them."
The shoes, available in grape, strawberry and cherry, went on sale at the beginning of the month.
I just don't get it.
----------------
Now playing: Tim Fite - Over The Counter Culture
via FoxyTunes
Friday, February 15, 2008
Coming soon to prime time?
There is good news and bad news to be found in the end this week of the three month-plus strike by the Writer's Guild of America. Certainly, the deal is good news for television fans. With professional writers back on the job we will once again have quality, first-run entertainment flowing to our living rooms each night. It hurts me to think fans of According to Jim have been left with unresolved storylines although not as much as it hurts to realize there are actually fans of According to Jim. The deal is also good news for writers, who will now reportedly get paid more for DVD and online reproduction of their work. This is entirely reasonable. These people are professionals and deserve to be compensated as such. You certainly can't trust amateurs with important things like plots involving oafish husbands, their disproportionately attractive wives and their sassy children and/or wacky neighbors. It would be chaos. Most of the jokes involved in these shows have been around since Jackie Gleason and The Honeymooners and they've grown brittle over the years. Handling them now takes a delicate touch. The news isn't as good for television studios, which will have to pay more to a class of employees that, given the success of high-quality reality fare like that show where they hook people to polygraphs and ask them whether they've ever cheated on their taxes or been physically attracted to livestock, has started to seem less and less necessary. So much for next season's Thursday night lineup of Playing Shuffleboard with the Stars, Hey, Dummy, this Preschooler is Smarter than You and Fornication Beach. The WGA deal is also bad news for me. Sure, I'm as happy as anyone to have a fresh stream of new CSI: Without a Special Victims Cold Case episodes on the way, but with professional writers returning to work there's almost no chance the networks are going to want the scripts I've been working up to help fill the gaps. These scripts still needed a little polishing, but since they'll probably never see the light of a cathode ray tube I figured I'd share a few of them here.
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation: The scene opens at a party. Attractive women in short skirts are laughing and having a good time with square-jawed men. Suddenly, there's a scream. Someone has been impaled on an ice sculpture. There is no evidence. But wait! Here come the CSI guys! They look at the crime scene and smirk knowingly. (Insert 40-minute special effects sequence of CSI investigators collecting evidence and suggesting theories) The investigators wrap up the case with an improbable explanation of what happened and more special effects. They high-five.
CSI: Miami: See above, but replace impaled by an ice sculpture with swarmed by rabid bats. Also, instead of high-fiving the CSI investigators dance the twist. Also, intercut special effects sequences with shots of David Caruso looking impossibly smug.
Law and Order: The one With the Crazy Guy: Vincent D'Onofrio acts like a lunatic for an hour.
Medium: Patricia Arquette sees spooky things, gets spooked, never seems to get used to the idea that she's seeing spooky things even though it's been, like, three seasons now. Cold
Case: Detectives look into a case from several years ago. First suspect tells them he didn't do it, but sends them to someone else. Period-appropriate music plays. Detectives accuse second suspect, who blames someone else. (Music) Detectives accuse third suspect, who puts the blame back on first suspect, who the detectives then arrest. More music. Viewers try to figure out what the heck just happened.
According to Jim: Jim does something exasperating, acts goofy. Jim's wife gets exasperated. Jim bickers with his sister-in-law or whoever that woman is. Jim redeems himself. Viewers continue to watch for some reason.
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation: The scene opens at a party. Attractive women in short skirts are laughing and having a good time with square-jawed men. Suddenly, there's a scream. Someone has been impaled on an ice sculpture. There is no evidence. But wait! Here come the CSI guys! They look at the crime scene and smirk knowingly. (Insert 40-minute special effects sequence of CSI investigators collecting evidence and suggesting theories) The investigators wrap up the case with an improbable explanation of what happened and more special effects. They high-five.
CSI: Miami: See above, but replace impaled by an ice sculpture with swarmed by rabid bats. Also, instead of high-fiving the CSI investigators dance the twist. Also, intercut special effects sequences with shots of David Caruso looking impossibly smug.
Law and Order: The one With the Crazy Guy: Vincent D'Onofrio acts like a lunatic for an hour.
Medium: Patricia Arquette sees spooky things, gets spooked, never seems to get used to the idea that she's seeing spooky things even though it's been, like, three seasons now. Cold
Case: Detectives look into a case from several years ago. First suspect tells them he didn't do it, but sends them to someone else. Period-appropriate music plays. Detectives accuse second suspect, who blames someone else. (Music) Detectives accuse third suspect, who puts the blame back on first suspect, who the detectives then arrest. More music. Viewers try to figure out what the heck just happened.
According to Jim: Jim does something exasperating, acts goofy. Jim's wife gets exasperated. Jim bickers with his sister-in-law or whoever that woman is. Jim redeems himself. Viewers continue to watch for some reason.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Minnesota's official state column?
So, I'm driving to work the other day and I'm listening to NPR and they're airing a story about somebody trying to get something or other named the official state whatsit of Maryland.
I'll admit I really wasn't paying close attention. And even though later review has revealed it was walking Marylanders were trying to have enshrined as the state's official exercise I still can't say I care too much.
What caught my attention, though, came at the end of the story. That's when the reporter revealed some in the state opposed granting walking state symbol status because they feel Maryland has too many such symbols, including blue crabs (official state crustacean), the shell of an extinct snail (official state fossil shell) and jousting (official state sport).
This revelation raised two interesting points. One, the fossil shell of the cucuella ginanta really got a raw deal. And, two, apparently the sporting scene in Maryland has yet to advance past the middle ages. Which, I guess, explains University of Maryland basketball.
It got me thinking, though. I know the ladyslipper is Minnesota's state flower, wild rice is the state grain and the loon is the state bird (unless you believe the novelty t-shirts, in which case it's the comically oversized mosquito). But are there other symbols I should know about? Was I somehow living in ignorance of the fact my home state for some reason identifies its sporting scene with jai alai?
Apparently I wasn't. Minnesota's list of state symbols is almost disappointingly short and predictable. The state fish is the walleye. The state gem is the Lake Superior Agate. The state tree is the Norway pine.
Yawn. There wasn't an archaic sporting practice or a long-dead mollusk anywhere to be found. California has a state fife and drum band, Michigan has a state reptile and all we've got is a state drink.
It's milk, which, I suppose, goes really well with our state muffin (blueberry). If only we could get our legislators to designate Nesquick mix our state powder I could have myself an official Minnesota chocolate milk.
It's not until you get to the list of our rejected state symbols that things start to get interesting. I'm not sure whether the fact we have on multiple occasions rejected efforts to name the leopard frog our state amphibian means we have better things to do than other states or if it just means our legislators really can't get anything done.
It turns out there's a long list of rejected state symbols. Most recently, there was legislation introduced in 2007 that would have made the tilt-a-whirl our state ride. A companion bill that would have made queasiness our official state of being didn't go anywhere.
The competition for state mammal status has been heated over the years. There have been eight failed attempts to give that status to the white tailed deer and six attempts to give it to the eastern timber wolf. You have to figure the performance of our state's NBA franchise isn't helping that animal's chances.
There were competing bills in 1987 to designate a state beer. I cannot confirm that supporters of either Schell's Deer Brand beer or Cold Spring beer missed the votes in question because they were too hung over to get out of bed that day.
There has been legislation to name an official state fossil (the giant beaver), state folk dance (square dance) and state mineral (iron ore). HF970 tried to introduce a state soup in 1998 (wild rice) and in both 1998 and 1999 there were attempts to name a state reptile (the blandings turtle).
Maybe most unsettling, though, is HF970, which Senator Jack Davies introduced in 1977 in an attempt to have the leech named Minnesota's state parasite.
I mean, everyone knows that should be the lawyer.
----------------
Now playing: Fountains Of Wayne - The Valley Of Malls
via FoxyTunes
I'll admit I really wasn't paying close attention. And even though later review has revealed it was walking Marylanders were trying to have enshrined as the state's official exercise I still can't say I care too much.
What caught my attention, though, came at the end of the story. That's when the reporter revealed some in the state opposed granting walking state symbol status because they feel Maryland has too many such symbols, including blue crabs (official state crustacean), the shell of an extinct snail (official state fossil shell) and jousting (official state sport).
This revelation raised two interesting points. One, the fossil shell of the cucuella ginanta really got a raw deal. And, two, apparently the sporting scene in Maryland has yet to advance past the middle ages. Which, I guess, explains University of Maryland basketball.
It got me thinking, though. I know the ladyslipper is Minnesota's state flower, wild rice is the state grain and the loon is the state bird (unless you believe the novelty t-shirts, in which case it's the comically oversized mosquito). But are there other symbols I should know about? Was I somehow living in ignorance of the fact my home state for some reason identifies its sporting scene with jai alai?
Apparently I wasn't. Minnesota's list of state symbols is almost disappointingly short and predictable. The state fish is the walleye. The state gem is the Lake Superior Agate. The state tree is the Norway pine.
Yawn. There wasn't an archaic sporting practice or a long-dead mollusk anywhere to be found. California has a state fife and drum band, Michigan has a state reptile and all we've got is a state drink.
It's milk, which, I suppose, goes really well with our state muffin (blueberry). If only we could get our legislators to designate Nesquick mix our state powder I could have myself an official Minnesota chocolate milk.
It's not until you get to the list of our rejected state symbols that things start to get interesting. I'm not sure whether the fact we have on multiple occasions rejected efforts to name the leopard frog our state amphibian means we have better things to do than other states or if it just means our legislators really can't get anything done.
It turns out there's a long list of rejected state symbols. Most recently, there was legislation introduced in 2007 that would have made the tilt-a-whirl our state ride. A companion bill that would have made queasiness our official state of being didn't go anywhere.
The competition for state mammal status has been heated over the years. There have been eight failed attempts to give that status to the white tailed deer and six attempts to give it to the eastern timber wolf. You have to figure the performance of our state's NBA franchise isn't helping that animal's chances.
There were competing bills in 1987 to designate a state beer. I cannot confirm that supporters of either Schell's Deer Brand beer or Cold Spring beer missed the votes in question because they were too hung over to get out of bed that day.
There has been legislation to name an official state fossil (the giant beaver), state folk dance (square dance) and state mineral (iron ore). HF970 tried to introduce a state soup in 1998 (wild rice) and in both 1998 and 1999 there were attempts to name a state reptile (the blandings turtle).
Maybe most unsettling, though, is HF970, which Senator Jack Davies introduced in 1977 in an attempt to have the leech named Minnesota's state parasite.
I mean, everyone knows that should be the lawyer.
----------------
Now playing: Fountains Of Wayne - The Valley Of Malls
via FoxyTunes
Friday, February 01, 2008
What's next? Smurfs: the Movie?
Little by little, Hollywood is destroying my childhood.
Not all of it, obviously. So far as I know no producer has proposed a sitcom exploring my brief careers in 4-H or Cub Scouts. And there will probably never be an inspirational sports movie about the time my indoor soccer team won its league championship (Although there totally should be; we were awesome!).
No, mostly our nation’s entertainment industry has limited itself to producing mildly soul-killing updates on the television shows and movies that brought me so much joy when I was younger.
This isn't a new trend, I realize, but it seems to be picking up speed. Writers and producers don't have time to wait for their audience to actually become nostalgic about something. They have to create the nostalgia out of bailing wire, papier mache and the tears of tiny infants.
It was just a few years ago, remember, that the viewing public was subjected to remakes of before-my-time material like The Mod Squad, The Avengers and Bewitched. And while I'm not sure it's fair to say anyone was truly nostalgic for a show about the hilarious consequences of a human marrying a witch, at least enough time had passed that it was possible.
Now, the window between original and remake keeps shrinking. The past 12 months alone has brought newfangled versions of at least four television programs I enjoyed in my youth which, I swear, wasn’t all that long ago.
The adaptations met with varying levels of success. Transformers, which took its inspiration from a series of half-hour commercials for a line of toy robots, was big and stupid but ultimately kind of fun. I could have done without the scene where a robot relieved itself, but I’m willing to let it go.
I didn’t see either Underdog, about a super-powered canine, or The Chipmunks, but I saw trailers for both and feel confident when I say the would have made me weep for the lost innocence of youth and the death of creativity. Or maybe they just would have made me nauseous.
The movies share some characteristics. Both bring live action into what was once entirely a cartoon world, and both feature Jason Lee, who seemed pretty cool back when he was making movies like Mallrats and Chasing Amy but who now apparently sees nothing wrong with scenes in which he eats chipmunk poop.
I don’t know what the deal is with remakes and bodily function-related humor, but it makes me really nervous about any potential MacGuyver remakes.
Just a few weeks ago, NBC relaunched American Gladiators, the long lost and little mourned competition in which ordinary folks went up against steroid-crazed “Gladiators” with names like Thunder and Tower and Bulkyguy in events that involved whacking each other with padded sticks and rolling around in oversized metal balls. Watching the remake, which somehow managed to bump the crazy level of the gladiators up about three notches and which features Hulk Hogan and Mohammed Ali’s daughter as hosts, I had a hard time remembering what I ever found appealing about the original.
There are more remakes coming, too. A live-action version of G.I. Joe, perhaps the finest cartoon of my childhood, is due soon. So is a remake of Knight Rider, which promises to be awful, but in a completely different way than the David Hasselhoff-filled original.
I imagine the trend will only pick up steam. The window between original and remake will only get shorter.
I, for one, can’t wait for the theatrical release of Saved by the Bell: The Movie.
Not all of it, obviously. So far as I know no producer has proposed a sitcom exploring my brief careers in 4-H or Cub Scouts. And there will probably never be an inspirational sports movie about the time my indoor soccer team won its league championship (Although there totally should be; we were awesome!).
No, mostly our nation’s entertainment industry has limited itself to producing mildly soul-killing updates on the television shows and movies that brought me so much joy when I was younger.
This isn't a new trend, I realize, but it seems to be picking up speed. Writers and producers don't have time to wait for their audience to actually become nostalgic about something. They have to create the nostalgia out of bailing wire, papier mache and the tears of tiny infants.
It was just a few years ago, remember, that the viewing public was subjected to remakes of before-my-time material like The Mod Squad, The Avengers and Bewitched. And while I'm not sure it's fair to say anyone was truly nostalgic for a show about the hilarious consequences of a human marrying a witch, at least enough time had passed that it was possible.
Now, the window between original and remake keeps shrinking. The past 12 months alone has brought newfangled versions of at least four television programs I enjoyed in my youth which, I swear, wasn’t all that long ago.
The adaptations met with varying levels of success. Transformers, which took its inspiration from a series of half-hour commercials for a line of toy robots, was big and stupid but ultimately kind of fun. I could have done without the scene where a robot relieved itself, but I’m willing to let it go.
I didn’t see either Underdog, about a super-powered canine, or The Chipmunks, but I saw trailers for both and feel confident when I say the would have made me weep for the lost innocence of youth and the death of creativity. Or maybe they just would have made me nauseous.
The movies share some characteristics. Both bring live action into what was once entirely a cartoon world, and both feature Jason Lee, who seemed pretty cool back when he was making movies like Mallrats and Chasing Amy but who now apparently sees nothing wrong with scenes in which he eats chipmunk poop.
I don’t know what the deal is with remakes and bodily function-related humor, but it makes me really nervous about any potential MacGuyver remakes.
Just a few weeks ago, NBC relaunched American Gladiators, the long lost and little mourned competition in which ordinary folks went up against steroid-crazed “Gladiators” with names like Thunder and Tower and Bulkyguy in events that involved whacking each other with padded sticks and rolling around in oversized metal balls. Watching the remake, which somehow managed to bump the crazy level of the gladiators up about three notches and which features Hulk Hogan and Mohammed Ali’s daughter as hosts, I had a hard time remembering what I ever found appealing about the original.
There are more remakes coming, too. A live-action version of G.I. Joe, perhaps the finest cartoon of my childhood, is due soon. So is a remake of Knight Rider, which promises to be awful, but in a completely different way than the David Hasselhoff-filled original.
I imagine the trend will only pick up steam. The window between original and remake will only get shorter.
I, for one, can’t wait for the theatrical release of Saved by the Bell: The Movie.
Sorry, Swedes
I don't have anything in particular against the Swedes. I spent 10 months living among them during my junior year of high school. I studied their culture, a surprising amount of which revolved around pickled herring and cheese sandwiches. They are a fine, sturdy people who possess many admirable qualities, not least the ability to live in a country that is dark for a good seven-ninths of the day during the winter. Trust me, Sweden is a good place to own a franchise on a flashlight shop.
Sweden has also produced many things that are of great benefit to the world as a whole. I am a big fan of their meatballs, their red gummy candies and their bikini teams.
So please, believe me when I say I have no quarrel with the Nordic peoples as a whole. But I worry that if I have to shop at their furniture store one more time I'm liable to punch someone in the head.
Fortunately, given my marked lack of upper body strength, that is unlikely to do any significant damage. It sure would make me feel better, though.
IKEA, that massive marketer of hex wrench-assembled furniture, caused a big stir when it opened several years ago in Bloomington, it's gigantic blue-and-yellow building proclaiming its overwhelming Swedishness to anyone driving by. People lined up for days for the chance to be the first to buy attractively priced knickknacks with whimsical, pseudo-Swedish names.
I have been to IKEA precisely three times since that day, and I believe a little piece of my soul died each time.
The crowds are part of what drive me crazy about IKEA. For someone whose job involves talking to other people I have remarkably little patience for humanity as a whole.
Actually, I'm generally OK with individuals. It's when you gather a bunch of people as a group, cram them into a confined space and wave bargain-priced glassware in their faces my eyelid really starts to twitch. This is why my rare trips to the Mall of America are typically followed by me locking myself in a dark room for about a week.
It's the design of the store that bugs me most, though. If you've never been, basically you enter through one door, go up an elevator and, with the exception of a few shortcuts, are forced to wander through acre after acre of competitively priced sofas and bed frames. There's only one way in. There's only one way out.
Walking through the store I imagine I understand how cattle feel as they're herded down a long chute toward the slaughterhouse. Only instead of a guy with a hacksaw there's a cash register and a plastic bucket of ginger cookies waiting for me at the end of the line. I think I'm getting a better deal than the cows, but not by much.
I imagine it didn't help that the first time I visited IKEA, ignorant of the unidirectional traffic pattern, I circled the store in reverse, like a salmon swimming upstream. By the time I'd made it halfway I was hoping a bear would come along and put me out of my misery.
Still, when a store's got what you need it's got what you need. And since I needed more cabinet and counter space in my new kitchen I girded my loins, put in my favorite ABBA CD and made the short drive to Bloomington. I got my counter. Now I just need to put it together.
Is anyone good with pictographs?
Sweden has also produced many things that are of great benefit to the world as a whole. I am a big fan of their meatballs, their red gummy candies and their bikini teams.
So please, believe me when I say I have no quarrel with the Nordic peoples as a whole. But I worry that if I have to shop at their furniture store one more time I'm liable to punch someone in the head.
Fortunately, given my marked lack of upper body strength, that is unlikely to do any significant damage. It sure would make me feel better, though.
IKEA, that massive marketer of hex wrench-assembled furniture, caused a big stir when it opened several years ago in Bloomington, it's gigantic blue-and-yellow building proclaiming its overwhelming Swedishness to anyone driving by. People lined up for days for the chance to be the first to buy attractively priced knickknacks with whimsical, pseudo-Swedish names.
I have been to IKEA precisely three times since that day, and I believe a little piece of my soul died each time.
The crowds are part of what drive me crazy about IKEA. For someone whose job involves talking to other people I have remarkably little patience for humanity as a whole.
Actually, I'm generally OK with individuals. It's when you gather a bunch of people as a group, cram them into a confined space and wave bargain-priced glassware in their faces my eyelid really starts to twitch. This is why my rare trips to the Mall of America are typically followed by me locking myself in a dark room for about a week.
It's the design of the store that bugs me most, though. If you've never been, basically you enter through one door, go up an elevator and, with the exception of a few shortcuts, are forced to wander through acre after acre of competitively priced sofas and bed frames. There's only one way in. There's only one way out.
Walking through the store I imagine I understand how cattle feel as they're herded down a long chute toward the slaughterhouse. Only instead of a guy with a hacksaw there's a cash register and a plastic bucket of ginger cookies waiting for me at the end of the line. I think I'm getting a better deal than the cows, but not by much.
I imagine it didn't help that the first time I visited IKEA, ignorant of the unidirectional traffic pattern, I circled the store in reverse, like a salmon swimming upstream. By the time I'd made it halfway I was hoping a bear would come along and put me out of my misery.
Still, when a store's got what you need it's got what you need. And since I needed more cabinet and counter space in my new kitchen I girded my loins, put in my favorite ABBA CD and made the short drive to Bloomington. I got my counter. Now I just need to put it together.
Is anyone good with pictographs?
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Dude, put some pants on!
Dear naked guys hanging out in the locker room at the gym,
Seriously, guys, what's that all about? I get that there needs to be some degree of nakedness in the locker room. It goes with the territory when you've got large crowds of men who need to change clothes in the same room. And I get that, even in the typically reserved Scandinavian population of Minnesota, there are some people who are more at ease with the idea of lounging, stark raving naked, in a room filled with other dudes in similar states of undress. Maybe you're really excited about your body. Maybe you've reached a point in your life where you just don't give a darn. Maybe I'm just being uptight and I should applaud you for the level of comfort you have with your own body. If so, kudos. But I still don't want to see your fanny. There need to be limits in the locker room. A pants-up pact, if you will. Like I said, some level of nudity is unavoidable. Naked dudes in the shower is a given. I certainly don't expect the nation's gym-going public to suddenly wash up in their bathing suits. But if you're going to or coming from the shower, for god's sake put on a towel. I realize we all have basically the same parts, but I really don't care. My co-workers' cars all have engines that look more or less like the engine in my car, but I don't want to see them. Speaking of the shower, know that if one or both of us is naked in the locker room I do not want to talk to you. If I don't know you, please do not try to start a conversation with me in the shower. I don't want to be rude. I just really won't have anything to say to you. As long as one of us is showing more than 75 percent of our skin I'm not going to have an opinion about the big game, the election or the weather. Heck, even if we're close friends chances are I'm not going to want to chat. Please understand. I also accept a certain amount of nakedness is necessary as people change from street to workout clothes and vice versa. Still, some of you seem to stretch this farther than is absolutely necessary. There is really no reason to be topless and bottomless at the same time. Changing clothes should not take long. And it should not involve conversation with the person at the locker next to you. Again, my level of chattiness is nearly directly proportionate to the degree to which I and those around me are clothed. And I'm not all that talkative to start with. I don't understand men who choose to perform detailed acts of personal grooming at the gym, but if you truly feel the need to shave in the locker room, please put some pants on. Finally, to the guy my brother saw Sunday using the urinal while mooning anyone who happened to look the wrong way — seriously, you don't think that was a bit much? Put some pants on!
----------------
Now playing: The Shins - Your Algebra
via FoxyTunes
Seriously, guys, what's that all about? I get that there needs to be some degree of nakedness in the locker room. It goes with the territory when you've got large crowds of men who need to change clothes in the same room. And I get that, even in the typically reserved Scandinavian population of Minnesota, there are some people who are more at ease with the idea of lounging, stark raving naked, in a room filled with other dudes in similar states of undress. Maybe you're really excited about your body. Maybe you've reached a point in your life where you just don't give a darn. Maybe I'm just being uptight and I should applaud you for the level of comfort you have with your own body. If so, kudos. But I still don't want to see your fanny. There need to be limits in the locker room. A pants-up pact, if you will. Like I said, some level of nudity is unavoidable. Naked dudes in the shower is a given. I certainly don't expect the nation's gym-going public to suddenly wash up in their bathing suits. But if you're going to or coming from the shower, for god's sake put on a towel. I realize we all have basically the same parts, but I really don't care. My co-workers' cars all have engines that look more or less like the engine in my car, but I don't want to see them. Speaking of the shower, know that if one or both of us is naked in the locker room I do not want to talk to you. If I don't know you, please do not try to start a conversation with me in the shower. I don't want to be rude. I just really won't have anything to say to you. As long as one of us is showing more than 75 percent of our skin I'm not going to have an opinion about the big game, the election or the weather. Heck, even if we're close friends chances are I'm not going to want to chat. Please understand. I also accept a certain amount of nakedness is necessary as people change from street to workout clothes and vice versa. Still, some of you seem to stretch this farther than is absolutely necessary. There is really no reason to be topless and bottomless at the same time. Changing clothes should not take long. And it should not involve conversation with the person at the locker next to you. Again, my level of chattiness is nearly directly proportionate to the degree to which I and those around me are clothed. And I'm not all that talkative to start with. I don't understand men who choose to perform detailed acts of personal grooming at the gym, but if you truly feel the need to shave in the locker room, please put some pants on. Finally, to the guy my brother saw Sunday using the urinal while mooning anyone who happened to look the wrong way — seriously, you don't think that was a bit much? Put some pants on!
----------------
Now playing: The Shins - Your Algebra
via FoxyTunes
Friday, January 11, 2008
A manly weekend
I've never claimed to be particularly handy. Actually, I've frequently said just the opposite. Carpentry and I go together like peanut butter and asparagus.
When my dad and I successfully built a coffee table a few years ago it was less a sign of my skill with hammer and nails than it was a evidence there truly is a higher power in the universe and he really wants me to have sturdy furniture.
Still, I am a man and thus not entirely immune to the lure of power tools. If Tim Allen and the inexplicably long-running sitcom Home Improvement have taught us anything — and I would argue they haven't — it's that all men are drawn to heavy equipment on a genetic level.
My dad and I spent New Year's Day working on our second furniture project. I realize hoping for two successful efforts in less than a decade might have been a little ambitious, but the sofa table we built seems sturdy enough. And it's definitely attractive enough for the location I have in mind, tucked in behind a couch where nobody will ever see more than its top.
Last weekend I decided to push my luck. I didn't necessarily plan it this way, but Sunday turned into what I'm calling my Manly Power Tool Day. I drilled. I sawed. I hammered. I got so much done I felt like I should be in a commercial for pick-up trucks. One of those ones where the Toyota Tundra uses its massive engine and rigid frame to haul the remains of the Titanic to the surface, maybe. Or where a Ford F-150, thanks to the power of its oversized brakes and big honkin' leaf spring single-handedly brings peace to the Middle East.
And, OK. Maybe installing mini-blinds in my office isn't the most masculine of activities. And maybe there are tougher-sounding things to do than install what the signage at Home Depot described as a "closet system" in my bedroom. But the important thing to remember here is that there was a drill involved. And a jig saw. And I still have every single one of my fingers and most of my toes.
There was almost no bleeding involved, though, so I'm declaring the day a resounding success.
While we're on the subject, I have to admit I'm new to the concept of the closet system. I apparently wasn't savvy enough about the world of fashion to realize keeping clothes off the floor required a system. Running a solid NFL defense requires a system. Beating the odds at the blackjack table requires a system. Hanging your clothes in the closet requires a stick. But then, you can't charge ridiculous prices for a closet stick.
Granted, the specific stick that was in my closet when I moved into my house last month was less than adequate for the job, having fallen to the floor as soon as I hung my clothes on it. Still, I think elevating metal rods and wire shelves to system status is just asking for trouble. Next thing you know the appliances will unionize.
It's hard to complain too much, though. As of Monday night my windows were still covered and my clothes were still hanging high and proud.
Thanks, furniture gods!
----------------
Now playing: The Black Keys - The Flame
via FoxyTunes
When my dad and I successfully built a coffee table a few years ago it was less a sign of my skill with hammer and nails than it was a evidence there truly is a higher power in the universe and he really wants me to have sturdy furniture.
Still, I am a man and thus not entirely immune to the lure of power tools. If Tim Allen and the inexplicably long-running sitcom Home Improvement have taught us anything — and I would argue they haven't — it's that all men are drawn to heavy equipment on a genetic level.
My dad and I spent New Year's Day working on our second furniture project. I realize hoping for two successful efforts in less than a decade might have been a little ambitious, but the sofa table we built seems sturdy enough. And it's definitely attractive enough for the location I have in mind, tucked in behind a couch where nobody will ever see more than its top.
Last weekend I decided to push my luck. I didn't necessarily plan it this way, but Sunday turned into what I'm calling my Manly Power Tool Day. I drilled. I sawed. I hammered. I got so much done I felt like I should be in a commercial for pick-up trucks. One of those ones where the Toyota Tundra uses its massive engine and rigid frame to haul the remains of the Titanic to the surface, maybe. Or where a Ford F-150, thanks to the power of its oversized brakes and big honkin' leaf spring single-handedly brings peace to the Middle East.
And, OK. Maybe installing mini-blinds in my office isn't the most masculine of activities. And maybe there are tougher-sounding things to do than install what the signage at Home Depot described as a "closet system" in my bedroom. But the important thing to remember here is that there was a drill involved. And a jig saw. And I still have every single one of my fingers and most of my toes.
There was almost no bleeding involved, though, so I'm declaring the day a resounding success.
While we're on the subject, I have to admit I'm new to the concept of the closet system. I apparently wasn't savvy enough about the world of fashion to realize keeping clothes off the floor required a system. Running a solid NFL defense requires a system. Beating the odds at the blackjack table requires a system. Hanging your clothes in the closet requires a stick. But then, you can't charge ridiculous prices for a closet stick.
Granted, the specific stick that was in my closet when I moved into my house last month was less than adequate for the job, having fallen to the floor as soon as I hung my clothes on it. Still, I think elevating metal rods and wire shelves to system status is just asking for trouble. Next thing you know the appliances will unionize.
It's hard to complain too much, though. As of Monday night my windows were still covered and my clothes were still hanging high and proud.
Thanks, furniture gods!
----------------
Now playing: The Black Keys - The Flame
via FoxyTunes
Sending Jesus a text message
The last time I spent any significant amount of time in a church I was there to write a story about a community meal program. About the only exposure I get to religious sermons is when I accidentally flip on some television ministry on a Sunday morning. So I'm hardly the best person to comment on what would or would not be an offense to God. I'd hazard a guess He'd be none too thrilled if Paris Hilton were cast as Mary in a new Christmas movie, but I have no idea if the "Grow Jesus" figure I was given for Christmas (grows six times its size in water, though surprisingly does not float) will keep me from having a happy afterlife.
God's got a sense of humor, right? I mean, how else can you explain aardvarks?
Still, there's one new trend that has sparked divided opinions in people more knowledgeable than I about the petty annoyances of the Lord. And it's an issue I suspect will become increasingly common as technology becomes a bigger part of our daily lives.
According to a Reuters story, Vatican representatives have expressed disapproval of a new Italian company that allows the faithful to download images of saints to use as wallpaper on their cell phones. Representatives of the company, which is available at www.santiprotettori.com/indexusa.html, say they are simply offering an updated take on "santini" — images of saints that the faithful tape to the dashboards of their cars or carry in their wallets.
I don't pretend to understand exactly why they do this, but it seems like a kind of holy version of Pokemon, only a lot less popular with pre-teens. (He's using St. Pio of Petralcina — Go, St. Lucy of Siracusa! Use your vow of chastity defense!)
Some in the church, however, see the downloadable saints as much less innocent.
"This is in really bad taste," Bishop Lucio Soravito De Franceschi, a member of the Italian bishops conference committee for doctrinal matters, reportedly told told the Turin newspaper La Stampa.
"It is a distortion of sacred things ... selling 'santini' for cell phones is horrifying."
I don't know how God would feel about my Grow Jesus, but I'm guessing Bishop Lucio Soravito De Franceschi wouldn't be cool with it.
I have mixed feelings about the whole thing. On one hand, I can see how some people might object to treating the images of saints the same way you might treat, say, the photo of the funny road sign you snapped on your last road trip (Buckle up — the life you save could be your own self).
And cell phone saints open the door for technology to horn its way into other aspects of religion. Before you know it people everywhere will take confession by text message. "Bls me Fr. 4 I hv snnd. Kthxbai."
On the other hand, is putting a picture of Saint Patrick on your cell phone really that much worse than sticking Jesus' trading card in your wallet? Let's be honest: there are much worse things you can download on your cell phone.
I know. I get e-mails about them all the time. I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure God wouldn't be thrilled about those.
----------------
Now playing: Teddybears - Little Stereo
via FoxyTunes
God's got a sense of humor, right? I mean, how else can you explain aardvarks?
Still, there's one new trend that has sparked divided opinions in people more knowledgeable than I about the petty annoyances of the Lord. And it's an issue I suspect will become increasingly common as technology becomes a bigger part of our daily lives.
According to a Reuters story, Vatican representatives have expressed disapproval of a new Italian company that allows the faithful to download images of saints to use as wallpaper on their cell phones. Representatives of the company, which is available at www.santiprotettori.com/indexusa.html, say they are simply offering an updated take on "santini" — images of saints that the faithful tape to the dashboards of their cars or carry in their wallets.
I don't pretend to understand exactly why they do this, but it seems like a kind of holy version of Pokemon, only a lot less popular with pre-teens. (He's using St. Pio of Petralcina — Go, St. Lucy of Siracusa! Use your vow of chastity defense!)
Some in the church, however, see the downloadable saints as much less innocent.
"This is in really bad taste," Bishop Lucio Soravito De Franceschi, a member of the Italian bishops conference committee for doctrinal matters, reportedly told told the Turin newspaper La Stampa.
"It is a distortion of sacred things ... selling 'santini' for cell phones is horrifying."
I don't know how God would feel about my Grow Jesus, but I'm guessing Bishop Lucio Soravito De Franceschi wouldn't be cool with it.
I have mixed feelings about the whole thing. On one hand, I can see how some people might object to treating the images of saints the same way you might treat, say, the photo of the funny road sign you snapped on your last road trip (Buckle up — the life you save could be your own self).
And cell phone saints open the door for technology to horn its way into other aspects of religion. Before you know it people everywhere will take confession by text message. "Bls me Fr. 4 I hv snnd. Kthxbai."
On the other hand, is putting a picture of Saint Patrick on your cell phone really that much worse than sticking Jesus' trading card in your wallet? Let's be honest: there are much worse things you can download on your cell phone.
I know. I get e-mails about them all the time. I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure God wouldn't be thrilled about those.
----------------
Now playing: Teddybears - Little Stereo
via FoxyTunes
The things I'll do for terrible television
I’m not sure if it was during the three hours I waited for the Comcast technician to show up, or the sixth time a customer service representative put me on hold or the second trip in less than a week to the Comcast office, but at some point last week I found myself wondering just how much hassle I was willing to put myself through in the name of having access to a wider selection of bad television shows.
The answer, apparently, is a lot.
It really shouldn’t be this hard. I’ve never had a significant problem with a cable company before. Service technicians showed up on time. The service was reliable. Even when there was a problem it worked in my favor. I once got free cable for a year because the company forgot to charge me.
Apparently now I’m paying.
Things went bad pretty much from the start. All I wanted to do was get cable hooked up in my new house. I called the company’s 800 number and told them what I wanted. They told me I couldn’t have it. Apparently the last person to live in my house was a deadbeat who didn’t pay his cable bills. If I wanted access to quality programming like America’s Next Top Model, they said, I’d have to apply in person so I could prove I was who I said I was.
For the record, I am.
Still, even that wasn’t too bad. I set up an installation appointment and even got a great rate on programming.
That’s when things really got obnoxious.
The installation technician showed up last Saturday two minutes before the end of his three-hour installation window. He looked at my house and told me he couldn’t do the job. The house wasn’t connected to the system, he said. It would have to be a new installation, and he didn’t have time, he said.
This confused me, I’ll admit. I was fooled by the fact there was a cable coming out of the wall in two separate rooms in my house. It seemed logical to me that someone would have had to have had cable service at the house in order to be guilty of not paying his bill.
In any case, he left and I called to set up a new appointment. I explained my situation and was put on hold. For a very long time.
While I waited, the technician came back. His schedule had been rearranged, he said. He had time to help me now. He was going to do one quick job and he’d be back. Easy as that.
So, he left. And the customer service rep. to come back on the line to tell me she’d canceled my installation and was ready to schedule a new one. When I explained that was no longer necessary, she seemed dubious. She wanted the technician to check in when he got back.
She had good reason to be uncertain.
When the technician came back he told me he could no longer do the job because the installation had been canceled and he didn’t have access to the good deal I’d gotten at the store. The best he could offer, he said, was a bigger package — even more channels I don’t care about! — for twice the price.
Somehow it didn’t seem like a great deal. So, I made another call to customer service. They couldn’t find the deal I’d gotten, either, and sent me back to the store. It was annoying, but for the kind of money I could save I figured it was worth it. So, I jumped in the car and rushed to Richfield, where the office was located, before they closed Saturday afternoon.
They couldn’t find my deal, either. Apparently this particular cable package existed in this dimension for only a brief moment last Wednesday afternoon thanks to a sub-atomic disturbance caused by solar flares, global warming and the inexplicable fact that According to Jim is still on television.
I’ve been assured now that the situation will be taken care of by the time a technician returns to my house this weekend, but I have my doubts.
A nice set of rabbit ears has never looked quite so good.
The answer, apparently, is a lot.
It really shouldn’t be this hard. I’ve never had a significant problem with a cable company before. Service technicians showed up on time. The service was reliable. Even when there was a problem it worked in my favor. I once got free cable for a year because the company forgot to charge me.
Apparently now I’m paying.
Things went bad pretty much from the start. All I wanted to do was get cable hooked up in my new house. I called the company’s 800 number and told them what I wanted. They told me I couldn’t have it. Apparently the last person to live in my house was a deadbeat who didn’t pay his cable bills. If I wanted access to quality programming like America’s Next Top Model, they said, I’d have to apply in person so I could prove I was who I said I was.
For the record, I am.
Still, even that wasn’t too bad. I set up an installation appointment and even got a great rate on programming.
That’s when things really got obnoxious.
The installation technician showed up last Saturday two minutes before the end of his three-hour installation window. He looked at my house and told me he couldn’t do the job. The house wasn’t connected to the system, he said. It would have to be a new installation, and he didn’t have time, he said.
This confused me, I’ll admit. I was fooled by the fact there was a cable coming out of the wall in two separate rooms in my house. It seemed logical to me that someone would have had to have had cable service at the house in order to be guilty of not paying his bill.
In any case, he left and I called to set up a new appointment. I explained my situation and was put on hold. For a very long time.
While I waited, the technician came back. His schedule had been rearranged, he said. He had time to help me now. He was going to do one quick job and he’d be back. Easy as that.
So, he left. And the customer service rep. to come back on the line to tell me she’d canceled my installation and was ready to schedule a new one. When I explained that was no longer necessary, she seemed dubious. She wanted the technician to check in when he got back.
She had good reason to be uncertain.
When the technician came back he told me he could no longer do the job because the installation had been canceled and he didn’t have access to the good deal I’d gotten at the store. The best he could offer, he said, was a bigger package — even more channels I don’t care about! — for twice the price.
Somehow it didn’t seem like a great deal. So, I made another call to customer service. They couldn’t find the deal I’d gotten, either, and sent me back to the store. It was annoying, but for the kind of money I could save I figured it was worth it. So, I jumped in the car and rushed to Richfield, where the office was located, before they closed Saturday afternoon.
They couldn’t find my deal, either. Apparently this particular cable package existed in this dimension for only a brief moment last Wednesday afternoon thanks to a sub-atomic disturbance caused by solar flares, global warming and the inexplicable fact that According to Jim is still on television.
I’ve been assured now that the situation will be taken care of by the time a technician returns to my house this weekend, but I have my doubts.
A nice set of rabbit ears has never looked quite so good.
They've gotta (try to) give me credit
Say what you will about the junk mail industry. Call them vile names. Accuse them of wasting paper. Visualize yourself punching them in the face. Whatever your opinion, though, these are people who clearly know their business.
I closed on my new house in late November and by the time I moved in last Sunday I'd received somewhere in the neighborhood of 83 applications for pre-approved credit cards, all in my name and with my current address. At this rate, I figure I'll have enough to paper the bathroom by the end of the year. Add in the menus, coupons and other special offers and I could probably move on to the smallest of my bedrooms by early February.
If we really want to get serious about catching Osama bin Laden, we just need set the countries armies of bulk mailers loose in Afghanistan. They'd have anthrax-laced MasterCard offers and warnings that the warranty on his car is about to expire sitting on the stoop of his cave within a week.
The plan isn't perfect, I'll admit. Since nobody actually opens their junk mail this particular strategy would have limited strategic value.
While we're on the subject of moving (We were, weren't we? Back before we started talking about terrorist leaders?) I have a few thoughts.
First, and maybe most important, don't do it. I can't emphasize this strongly enough. Moving solely with the help of those people either closely related or indebted enough to you to feel obligated, is not a pleasant experience. My house would be so much tidier now if I'd never moved in. The floors wouldn't have gotten mud tracked over them. And I'm sure nobody would have left a big gouge on the stairwell because the couch we were trying to move upstairs was squeezed in tighter than Britney Spears in her Video Music Awards outfit.
I realize not all people feel this way. When I was growing up we moved so many times I started worrying we were on the lam. At one point we moved from a house on the 16th fairway of a golf course in Stillwater to a new house on the fifth hole of the same course.
I figured my parents had blown up a government lab during a protest of the Vietnam War or something. Anyway, that's the story I told all my friends. I didn't care if it was true. It sounded a lot cooler than any alternatives.
If you must move, I seriously recommend doing it sometime other than a day in early December when the temperature is somewhere in the neighborhood of absolute zero. I don't know if boiling water would have frozen when thrown into the air last Sunday, but it was cold enough that a light fixture in my stairwell shattered when all we did was ram a couch into it. Talk about brittle.
I also recommend putting a ham into the oven as soon as you start moving. I don't care if you don't like ham. It smells really good. Also, the oven will provide some heat.
I'm not sure when this moving process will actually be over. There are boxes and bags I have yet to fully unpack. There are some that haven't made it out of my old residence yet. I don't have cable TV. I don't have an Internet connection. I don't even have all the pieces of my desk yet.
But if I ever need a sweet rate on a credit card I'm set.
I closed on my new house in late November and by the time I moved in last Sunday I'd received somewhere in the neighborhood of 83 applications for pre-approved credit cards, all in my name and with my current address. At this rate, I figure I'll have enough to paper the bathroom by the end of the year. Add in the menus, coupons and other special offers and I could probably move on to the smallest of my bedrooms by early February.
If we really want to get serious about catching Osama bin Laden, we just need set the countries armies of bulk mailers loose in Afghanistan. They'd have anthrax-laced MasterCard offers and warnings that the warranty on his car is about to expire sitting on the stoop of his cave within a week.
The plan isn't perfect, I'll admit. Since nobody actually opens their junk mail this particular strategy would have limited strategic value.
While we're on the subject of moving (We were, weren't we? Back before we started talking about terrorist leaders?) I have a few thoughts.
First, and maybe most important, don't do it. I can't emphasize this strongly enough. Moving solely with the help of those people either closely related or indebted enough to you to feel obligated, is not a pleasant experience. My house would be so much tidier now if I'd never moved in. The floors wouldn't have gotten mud tracked over them. And I'm sure nobody would have left a big gouge on the stairwell because the couch we were trying to move upstairs was squeezed in tighter than Britney Spears in her Video Music Awards outfit.
I realize not all people feel this way. When I was growing up we moved so many times I started worrying we were on the lam. At one point we moved from a house on the 16th fairway of a golf course in Stillwater to a new house on the fifth hole of the same course.
I figured my parents had blown up a government lab during a protest of the Vietnam War or something. Anyway, that's the story I told all my friends. I didn't care if it was true. It sounded a lot cooler than any alternatives.
If you must move, I seriously recommend doing it sometime other than a day in early December when the temperature is somewhere in the neighborhood of absolute zero. I don't know if boiling water would have frozen when thrown into the air last Sunday, but it was cold enough that a light fixture in my stairwell shattered when all we did was ram a couch into it. Talk about brittle.
I also recommend putting a ham into the oven as soon as you start moving. I don't care if you don't like ham. It smells really good. Also, the oven will provide some heat.
I'm not sure when this moving process will actually be over. There are boxes and bags I have yet to fully unpack. There are some that haven't made it out of my old residence yet. I don't have cable TV. I don't have an Internet connection. I don't even have all the pieces of my desk yet.
But if I ever need a sweet rate on a credit card I'm set.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Looking ahead — and for a fork
I realize I'm supposed to get all contemplative at this time of year. 2007 is almost over. People everywhere are compiling lists of their favorite music, movies and celebrity scandals of the past 12 months. Well, phooey on that. Here, in no particular order, is what I'm going to remember from the year that's about to wrap up: I bought a house. That's pretty much it. I realize there was some other stuff going on. Some of it was fairly important. I keep hearing things about a Presidential election. I know one of the candidates is a Mormon, one used to be mayor of New York City and one used to be an actor on Night Court or something. I suspect at least three or four of them are just plain nuts. But that's all about that I can tell you about the campaign. I'm sure someone will let me know when I need to start paying attention. I'm fairly confident we celebrated Christmas recently, but I can't be sure. People gave me gifts. I gave some wrapped packages to other people. There were family members in town I hadn't seen for a while, and I kept hearing annoying, Christmas-related songs on the radio lately. For the past month or so, though, I haven't thought about much besides buying and moving into my first home. I'm sure you know that, though. I keep writing about it. Don't worry. I promise I'll stop soon. For weeks now I have been surrounded by boxes. I'm awash in cables and cords. I've got so many wires connecting my DVD player to my TV and my TV player to my speaker system and about a dozen other audio-visual components to each other that I'm not sure I'll ever be able to puzzle them all out. I'm a little afraid I'm going to push the wrong button and trigger a situation right out of WarGames, the 1983 classic in which Matthew Broderick nearly causes a global nuclear war while playing a computer game. I'm not sure how that would happen, but I'm not taking any chances. Slowly but surely, I've put away most of the bags and boxes I used to move my possessions to my new house, which has simultaneously made the house seem both cleaner and much emptier. I'm not sure if that's better than cluttered and full. I hauled the final load from my old home on Tuesday night — a fan, a jar of gumballs and four sheets of wood I'd been using in place of the box spring that didn't fit down the stairs to my bedroom. It was an odd collection of stuff, I'll admit. I still can't find my silverware, though. And pretty soon I'm going to run out of things I can eat with my fingers. I have cable TV (finally). I have an Internet connection. I have done dishes in my new dishwasher and laundry in my new washer and dryer. Sometime this week I'll have to write my first mortgage check, although I'm kind of hoping the bank will kind of forget about it. That happens sometimes, right? I didn't sleep very will my first night in the new house, but that's gotten better. I've had to shovel a couple of times since I moved in. It wasn't bad. And it was certainly better than the two times I had to shovel before I had a single possession in the house. I'm not sure the house feels entirely like a home yet, but I'm sure that will happen. The heck with looking back, then. I'm looking forward to that.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
International relations
Dear unidentified Venezuelan woman, Please stop calling me. Seriously. Enough is enough. It was actually kind of funny when you called the first time last Thursday and tried to speak to me in Spanish. But when you left a voicemail message that consisted entirely of you singing unintelligible words to me, I started to worry I was in some bizarre Spanish-language sequel of The Ring. I spent the next few days waiting for a creepy girl to come crawling out of the TV at me, only in this case I imagine she'd be dressed like a bumblebee or something. When you called me 15 more times over the next four days, I started to feel like I was the victim of the least efficient stalker ever. Honestly, you called me two times as I drove from Farmington to Rosemount and three more as I sat in McDonald's trying to eat my lunch. It just seems like overkill. I hope you don't take this personally. It's not that I dislike you. How could I? To the best of my memory, the sum total of our intelligible conversation would, if transcribed, look something like this: Unidentified Venezuelan woman: Do you speak Spanish? Confused Minnesotan editor: No. UVW: What ... city ... are ... you? CME: Farmington, Minnesota. UVW: What ... city ... are ... you? CME: Farmington. UVW: I ... am ... Venezuela. It goes on like that for a while, but you get the idea. I can hardly claim I know you well enough to form an opinion of your personality. For all I know you're perfectly pleasant when you're talking to people who understand you. It's just that I'm not one of them, and I'm starting to question the value of continuing this long-distance conversation. I have no idea why you're calling me so much. I know everyone in your country is very excited about Twins pitcher Johan Santana, but I promise I don't have any inside information for you on his status with the Twins. Even if I did, what good would it do? You don't speak English, remember? We're kind of at a stalemate there, you understand? Of course you don't. As I write this it's been two days since I've heard from you, unidentified Venezuelan woman. Maybe you've grown tired of trying to figure out what city I am. Maybe you've finally figured out the intricacies of international dialing and are finally calling the person you've been trying all along to get through to. I hope that's the case. If I've heard the last of you, unidentified Venezuelan woman, I hope life treats you well. I hope the weather is nice in Valencia, which according to the city code in your phone number is where you're calling from. We've had a lot of snow here in Minnesota (That's a serious chubasco to you, if about.com has that translation right.). I can't say I'll miss you, unidentified Venezuelan woman, but you certainly made four days of my life a little more interesting. Seriously, though. Stop calling. Sincerely, Nathan Hansen
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
