no.30 - The Dehydra

From time to time my wife will ask me a perfectly normal question, like "What should we do for dinner?" and my mind will snap, reacting like an viper uncurled.

Do I have to make dinner now? We can't order out? Can't she see I'm busy? God that's a crappy song playing on iTunes. Why is she looking at me like that? Dinner? Dinner isn't for an hour! What the hell?!?

I might grumble out one or two of these irritable thoughts before my wife calmly asks me if I have been drinking...

...enough water.

Invariably the answer is no.

Dehydration makes me irritable. Sometimes very irritable. My wife knows this and knows slaying this demon is just a matter of getting me to drink a glass of water or two — though her efforts to get me to drink when I am in this cantankerous, dehydration induced mood are not unlike trying to get a dog to swallow a pill.

I did not realize until I was about thirty that many of my grouchy mood swings were a simple matter of mild dehydration.

My short fuse for all twelve years of grade school can be directly linked to the fact that I drank no water at all during the day. The gum-stuck, saliva sodden water fountains were our only source and we were only allowed to drink from them at the teacher's discretion, twice a day, if we were lucky and even then you could expect no more than a mouthful. In reality my only liquid intake was a single pint of coldish, usually chocolate, milk from a carton with my salty, salty lunch.

A normal, lazy adult should drink about three liters of water a day, but few do. Usually I drink enough to keep myself from being a complete bastard, but not quite as much as I should.

When I do drink enough, I feel better, I'm more polite and I get more done. This sort of productivity is probably not to the benefit of this blog, which does not reflect my better moods. When you do read a particularly cranky post, the first thing you should ask is: "How thirsty was he?"

no.29 - The Roman Gods

Since a filmstrip first beeped me through a survey of mythology, I have harbored some measure of resentment for the Roman pantheon of plagiarized Gods.

The Romans not only copied the Greek Mythology, but they took the art too. They copied statues and urns and then destroyed the originals in a rapacious attempt to make everything their own. Imagine if the Monkees had tried to pull this crap with the Beatles.

But perhaps what galls me most is the utter lack of logic to it all. How could the Romans possibly believe the laws of Earth and man were governed by a set of Gods that they stole? Did they think the Greeks almost got it right? Did they pass it all off as a coincidence? Weren't they afraid that, no matter how many times they called him Jupiter, Zeus was going to clobber them?

Probably not. Religious faith and conviction, then as now, tend to ignore the obvious when the obvious contradicts what we want to believe.

My heritage is half Greek, and I suppose this is why I take particular umbrage at the theft of the ancient Greek Gods. But this is a ridiculous form of nationalism - one for a nation I don't belong to, and to which I have no ties. Anyone who takes a step back will see that the antecedent to Zeus and Jupiter, by a thousand years or so, is the Egyptian Sun-God Ra — and he didn't exist either.

no.28 - The Hostaroo

If you attempted to visit 1,000 demons in the last 24 hours, you were greeted by a pop up window asking for your User Name and Password. You probably fled, annoyed or confused, many of you not to return. Those of you who did, thanks for your patience.

Why did this happen? I have theories. My hosting company says they turned off all of my web sites because I was over my bandwidth for the month. This is possible. Possible but strange - neither of my two statistics trackers show more visits or usage on my sites than in previous months.

This was frustrating, but the simple solution was to increase my bandwidth usage - a simple matter of a few clicks from the right person. Unfortunately, the first three persons were the wrong people - either without access, or motivation or concern for my tenuous mental health.

But I am hesitant to criticize because I do not yet have all the excuses facts. And, whether they are in the right or wrong, taking this site back down is only a few clicks away for the wrong Meatball & Beagle-loving, Bannana-nub advocate/Lara Flynn Boyle fan at my hosting company who does not like being criticized.

no.27 - the letter "C"

I dislike the letter "C". Not only is it useless on it's own, serving no purpose that "S" and "K" don't already handle, but it has the audacity to chum up to "H" amd "K" in order to have some job security.

In the case of "CK" the letter "C" adds nothing but a visual embellishment. The letter "K" is very kind in this regard, but I think "K" is being an enabler.

In the case of "CH" we have a more useful pairing, but one which clearly should have been assigned it's own dedicated letter, rather than being an awkward digraph. (Good job Czech, Slovak, Quechua, Welsh, Breton and Belarusian!) But eager, talentless "C" latched on to "H" and got there first.

Which brings me to "C"'s most egregious sin is - it's placement: Third! The most useful and common letter, "E", is two letters behind! Some believe the alphabet was arranged to evenly distribute letters irrespective of their importance, but, let's face it, the alphabet is weighted towards keeping all the oddballs at the back. Sorry "X","Y", and "Z", but you know it's true.

Don't be fooled by the fact that "C" presents itself as necessary, appearing in simple words found in every child's primer. Krazy Kat would beg to differ.

no.26 - Lara Flynn Boyle

Looking like a villain out of the old Dick Tracy comics, Lara Flynn Botox Boyle had a guest spot on Law & Order the other night and it has troubled me. She was so unrecognizable as to spark this witty bit of discourse in my home: (more...)

My wife: Lara Flynn Boyle looks awful.

Me: That is not Lara Flynn Boyle.

My wife: Yes it is.

Me: Not it's not.

My wife: Yes it is.

Me: Not it's not.

My wife: Yes it is.

Me: Not it's not.

My wife: It is.

Me, wandering over towards the computer to check: I really do not think it...

My wife, smiling: Yes it is.

Me, discovering once again that my wife is right: Holy crap!

Ms. Flynn Boyle's face looked like a puffy bag of poorly administered injections. Her lips would have looked more natural if she had bought a wax pair and held them between her teeth. Her forehead and cheeks were nearly immobile, like a stroke victim's. She could barely speak, let alone act. I started to feel bad because, perhaps she had suffered a stroke or was on steroids for some unknown medical condition.

The one ray of hope? She appeared to have put on a little weight, which she desperately needs. Unfortunately when I saw the two little pencils she was hobbling along on, and the prominent display of ribs and vertebrae in the unfortunate and strangely gratuitous bikini scene, I realized she isn't any healthier - she just has a few extra pounds of botulism in her face.

As the episode itself dragged on two things became clear. The first was that the writers of Law & Order are no longer content to rip their stories from a single headline. I'm sure it's boring for them and it would now appear they must rip two headlines and put them together at random. In this case they stitched together Michael Vick's dogfighting and fake vintage wine. There was a third "theme" about whorey reporters, but I don't think this was taken from the news.

The second thing that was clear was that the writers can't stand Lara Flynn Boyle. Maybe they resent having to write lines for a faceful of mumbling Botox, but they took every possible opportunity to humiliate her, at one point having a theoretically respectable DA refer to her as a "lying slut" and, of course, writing in a completely unnecessary scene that required her to strip down to a bikini and slide her bony ass into a hot tub while two police watched from a conveniently placed rooftop nearby. In the end her character collapses into a quivering heap, realizing the consequence of her terrible, terrible sluttiness.

The thing that disturbs me most is that I now share at least some of the writers' distaste. They, and I, should clearly feel pity for a woman who must be oblivious to any of this. Does she have any friends? Couldn't someone suggest to her that maybe she stop putting collagen and botulism in her face? Maybe over dinner? Please?

no.25 - The Mirror

A few years ago, at a gay rights rally, I witnessed an incredible thing. Among the many protesters there was this nervous-looking twenty-year old kid who was vehemently complaining about how awful and disgusting gays are because of their choosen sex act.

The brunt of his complaint was being weathered by a single, sleepy, chain-smoking young gay male who was clearly annoyed, but managed to weather a lot of insulting and ignorant questions with a calm, even demeanor. (more...)

The anti-gay protester shrilly asked, "how could you put your... you know... there!"

He really wanted to make it clear how disgusting he thought the gay sex was. He had obviously put many, many hours into imagining it.

"Don't knock it 'til you try it." The gay man said.

The kid burst into an overzealous fit of nervous laughter. "No way. Not uh! Ha ha. No thank you."

The gay man took a deep last drag, crushed out his cigarette and shrugged.

The kid's face turned beet red. "It's... it's sodomy!"

The gay man lit his next cigarette and nodded.

The kid's nervous laugh grew louder and more staccato. I was sure the kid was going to lean in close, and ask:

"Ummm... What's it like?"

He did not, but he continued to probe his gay adversary for as much information as he could. I like to think the confrontation ended with the kid putting down his hate sign and walking off, hand in hand with the gay smoker - committed to getting his new gay friend off cigarettes and not other men.

That day I was shocked at how closely this kid conformed to the stereotype of the repressed anti-gay protester. And it was not just him, there were scads of them out there with signs and bibles all desperate too prove how very, very not gay they were feeling. It is disappointing, but sometimes stereotypes turn out to be true.

Seemingly unrelated to any of this, I published a rant the other day about the "arrogant audiophile", decrying their arrogance and their dim view of science. When I was finished, I went to the biggest audiophile site I could find on the web and posted a link in their forums so they could read what I had written and respond.

The reactions, unsurprisingly, were not positive. Some were over the top, complaining that the audiophile is a suffering, put-upon minority in society. Some surprised me with their even handed response, suggesting that I was perpetuating an annoying stereo-type and perhaps I should take a look at why I was posting.

I still think it's ridiculous and telling that Michael Fremer* and Adam Blake refuse to have their assertions tested about the so-called amazing quality of the outrageously over-priced Pear cables. The CD marker thing was absurd and has been quietly and conveniently forgotten. And Dolby 5.1 sound? Well, I don't really know anything about the numbering system, so it's not too surprising to find myself in error regarding it's cryptic specifics.

But...

I also linked directly to one forum, referring to it's contributors as "these guys" who I was claiming to be sick of, when in actuality I knew nothing about them. My post in their forum was labeled "Hello Audiophiles - You've been demonized."

Yes, I wanted to generate a little traffic to my fledgling blog, but perhaps this title was a little on the inflammatory side.

If there is one thing that aggravates me about human nature it is our persistant refusal to admit when we are wrong, often at the expense of all good logic and fairness.

So, I admit I was wrong.

I also need to remember that I am the guy who could not enjoy Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire because the projector was too dim and played the movie in freakin' mono. I am the guy who once had everyone on my floor in college to play the same summer sound effect CD simultaneously so one cold day in our dorm would really sound like summer. I am the guy who demanded iTunes refund my dollar for Bexar Bexar's song "Pay Attention" because it contained an errant click and a pop. (It should not have.)

And perhaps in posting my rant, I had concerns that my own album might suffer under the scrutiny of trained and polished ears. (I know little about audio engineering and I am sure this has resulted in somewhat lo-fi experience)

So in thinking about all of this, I have a question for the audiophiles out there about the audiophile experience.

"Ummm... What's it like?"


I don't expect that we will go off now, hand in hand, but perhaps someone could recommend a decent pair of moderately priced bookshelf speakers?




* It has been brought to my attention that Michael Fremer is still pursuing the challenge.

no.24 - Secret Bitterness

My freshman high school English teacher told us that everyone has a dark hidden part of themselves; an ugly secret which, if revealed, could be the ruin of everything. In his case it was drinking, and he was "secretly" drunk at the time, but his point was well taken.

I often think of this when I eat a banana. (more...)

If you have ever eaten a banana — and I am guessing that you have — you know what is lurking at the end. A sour, bitter, nasty little nub whose flavor seems designed to undo the banana's sweet deliciousness. (An astute, anonymous commentator on this blog has brilliantly and repulsively dubbed it, the Bananus.)

I assume it is by design, compelling us to spit out what must be the banana's seed. Still, I prefer the softer approach of fruits like the Kiwi, whose seeds go down easily with the understanding that we will eventually poop them out in the jungle.

no.23 - Rattail

Rattail, who ambles around the playground in sweat pants with his inexplicably out of date Anakin Skywalker/80's hair, has a special status in our household. He is known as "that mean boy." He is the boy who introduced my daughter to cruelty.

What he did was very small, and would not be worthy of more than a minute's attention, but for his intentions.

All he did was break a stick.

Last summer, my daughter, who was then two, found stick one day on the playground. Nothing to you or me, but to her it was a magic maker, a bat, and a tree all at once. She walked up to Rattail, a six year old boy playing alone in the sandbox, and said proudly to him, "Look at my stick."

He looked. Then he calmly took the stick out of her hands, snapped it in half with grin of satisfaction and waited for her to cry.

But she did not cry. My daughter was dumbfounded. She has been pushed and kicked and had things taken from her on the playground before — this is just the way it is being a kid — but I think she always understood the logic under the actions, even if she disagreed. This was different. This was done specifically to make her unhappy.

Since the day Rattail broke her stick, my daughter has not forgotten. She wants to know what to do if she sees Rattail again and he tries to break her stick. No doubt she is wondering what to do now that she knows the world has such people in it.

I must keep in mind that he is twice her age and size and apparently unencumbered by my daughter's sense of right and wrong, or parents who can be expected to do more than indulge him. He is a kid we know is willing to kick his own father in the face in the course of a tantrum and feel nothing about it. We've seen this, together, my daughter and I.

I must also keep in mind that I want to teach her the right thing because I want to tell her to kick him in the balls but I know this is not correct.

"Tell him no." I say. I don't want her to fear him. I don't want him to win.

"I will tell him 'NO!'" she says loudly.

"And I will keep you safe." I explain, but buzzing in the back of my mind is the ugly reality that this will not always be true.

Yesterday, when little Rattail walked by us in the library, his rat tail was gone. His sweatpants and sour face remained. My daughter did not notice him. She remembers what he did, but not who he is. Perhaps this is for the best.

no.22 - The Arrogant Audiophile

I am sick of the audiophile who pretends to have the hearing of a dolphin and must listen to his music without distraction in a hermetically sealed sound-proof room.

These are the guys who claim you must spend hundreds of dollars on cables and wires to have what they consider a passable system, but when put to the test, they can't tell the difference between their beloved $100 cables and a coat hanger.

These are also the same folks who, for years, claimed you could draw on the outside edge of a CD with green Eberhard Faber Design Art Marker (No. 255) and magically improve the clarity of sound. This would work because... well lasers are red, and that's the opposite of green, right?

These are folks committed to the science of music, as long as that "science" involves jacking up prices of components and does not involve any manner of objective analysis.

It's all crock, even this 5.1 Dolby garbage. Really guys, it couldn't be 6 point Dolby? The sub woofer really means so little to you as to only account for a tenth of a point?

Frankly, if I am going to listen to Patsy Cline sing "Crazy" I would like it to be playing quietly on the one functioning speaker in my car stereo, on a fuzzy A.M. station from about forty feet away, as a storm approaches at dusk on the plains.

What the "audiophiles" don't realize is that, day after day, many of us are listening to compressed MP3's on our little white ear buds and we are happy. Do you know why? Because listening to music is not passive. We bring ourselves to the music. The imperfect music enhances our imperfect lives.

no.21 - The Meatball Grinder's Giant Balls

The meatball grinder is the great sandwich equalizer. It can be served in small, cheapo corner groceries or atop the swankiest five star hotels. Either can be atrocious. Both could be legendary.

For years I have used the meatball grinder as my compass. Like the fundamentals of Earth, Water, Air, and Fire, the meatball sandwich consists of four basic elements: Bread, Meatballs, Sauce and (usually) Cheese, and through these elements one can learn volumes about an eatery.

If you make sandwiches, the meatball sandwich exposes you for what you are.

The bread should be both crusty and soft. This is the easiest element to get right and the one that is so often very wrong. Quality matters here, but mostly, the bread is mearly a delivery system for the other elements. If the bread is too thick or too thin, the grinder is compromised. If the bread is soggy, all is lost.

The sauce is the most subtle of the four elements, the one which can add nuance to the sub. A meatball sandwich can withstand a mediocre sauce, but a great sauce improves everything. If the quality of the sauce is good, the meatballs themselves have often been attended to with the same care. However, be warned, a tasty sauce is sometimes used disguise low quality meat. Conversely, and more common, many good and even great meatballs have been found in a bath of tomato-flavored oil and water, or a sludge of tasteless pale red.

The cheese is, by some, considered an extra. This is a bad sign. If the maker of your meal asks what type of cheese you would like on your meatball sub, they are really saying a request for American Cheese or Swiss would be okay. It is not.

The cheese should be mozzarella, grated and then melted while the bread simultaneously toasts. It should not be three slices of waxy provolone with the meatballs slopped on top to do the dirty work of cheese melting. (Provolone is often substituted, but only because it is cheaper and it is easier to manage in an office cubicle.)

Finally there are the meatballs. The quality of these is paramount. If the meatballs in the grinder could not survive on the outside of the sandwich - moved, say, to a side of pasta — the meatball grinder is not worthy. If a bite of meatball, without sauce, is unpleasant, the meatball grinder is a fraud. If the meatball does not taste of beef something is very wrong. This last problem is shockingly common, leading me to wonder what sorts of meats I have eaten in my life.

But most vexing of all meatball problems is the modern meatball which consists of enormous fat grey monstrosities the size of softballs, jammed into a grinder is if the circumference of the meatball were all that mattered. They are often so big they must be sliced in half to fit the sandwich. These artery-clogging meatstrosities are constructed under the theory that quantity is better than quality and they are usually pulled from a frozen bag and microwaved, possibly one at a time because of their enormous size.

From an architectural point of view, the giant meatballs tend to slide out, making this sort of sub-sandwich impractical for travel, work or, in my most recent experience, the waiting area at my daughter's gymnastics class. Besides tasting like an approximation of meat, the vast size throws off the sauce ratios as the surface area of the meatball becomes too great, requiring more sauce than can be ladled into the limited space between the bread. This means the grinder is hopeless. Sauce cannot hide it and cheese can not bury it.

These behemoths have surely grown over time. Being smaller when I was young, I should now perceive everything as smaller, not the other way around. But meatballs, I think, have slowly increased in size and, I must admit, so have I.

no.20 - the Worm

The worm visits every city in the world, with the possible exception of Wellington, New Zealand where the atmosphere may be too friendly and collegial to engender wormy behavior.

The main attribute of the worm is that it does not want to wait in line. These people — these worms — in order to get what they want, feign obliviousness to the rest of the population of the Earth in order to cut the line.

Sometimes they work in pairs, pretending not to notice the other six thousand people standing in the heat, waiting for entrance to the vatican city. Sometimes they work alone, sneaking into boarding Group 2 on the plane out of Newark when their ticket reads Group 8.

I've seen them dressed as Gandalf, attempting to "apparate" into the line at the release of the final Harry Potter book. I've seen them in shorts, with fat hairy legs, grabbing someone else's scuba tanks "by mistake" so they can get on the dive boat without waiting another half hour in the bare Caribbean sun. I've seen them find that little gap, over and over — the one where normal people leave space others to get by — and stand at the back of the very short line they were "lucky" enough to find at noon on a Saturday at the Louvre.

"Oof! look at dis very short line ve has found!"

The worm will not make eye contact. The worm will pretend not to notice it's "mistake". When confronted, the worm will have difficulty hearing, or seeing or understanding in the hope that they can play things out until they are inside, where the matter will be dropped.

More often than not, the worm is fat - frequently obese. No doubt line cutting is not the only place where laziness rules their day and the time they save in line is probably time spent eating.

We have all thought about being the worm. Waiting in line is not fun. But being the worm is making a choice to screw your fellow human beings because being the worm is saying your fellow human beings are less important than you — they can wait longer, and, if they don't get in to see the Taj Mahal because you took the last viable place in line... well... too bad.

The worm has no conscience because it can not. Each time my wife and I watch someone worm their way into the line ahead of us, we name it out loud: "Worm."

But the worm should know this: When you push your way past others to see the treasures of the world, you will never truly be able to appreciate them, because that would require the thoughtfulness you choose to leave at the door.

no.19 - Flying Cars

The future was supposed to include flying cars. But like round buildings, and video phones, flying cars are cool, but make no sense.

Forget about the fact that human beings are just too dumb to navigate the skies en-masse. If you have ever watched a flying car prototype wobble around, you may have noticed the dust, leaves, twigs and small animals that get blasted into a churning tornado of air as the car takes-off and lands. This is because, in order to stay airborne, the car must blast out a jet of air with a force equal to or greater than its own weight - like an overgrown angry hair dryer used for propulsion.

But therein lies the problem. Flying cars are not coming. And because of this, even though I am now living in the days that I once thought would be the future, it never feels like the future to me.

no.18 - Angry E.L.F.

If you do not work in fire safety and you are setting something on fire to make a point, you are, in the words of Will Ferrell, a "cotton-headed ninny-muggins."

This includes rich fat bald dudes who light their cigars with a hundred dollar bill, and it includes poor skinny kids with scruffy beards who set fire to childishly named McMansion developments.

No one is impressed.

A group calling itself the E.L.F. claims to have set fires in a place called the "Street of Dreams" in order to punish the development for its poor environmental practices.

Why both parties appear to have given themselves insipid names, I don't know. A visit to the "Street of Dreams" web site reveals their taste in web design, like their taste in names, seems to be derived from a 12-year-old girl. Meanwhile, the Earth Liberation Front's page has thousands of lines of text, some of it current, none of it formatted, but all of it preceeded by a promise of "Rock Hard Erections." If you are going to be an eco-terrorist, I guess it makes sense to have a side-line.

Among the E.L.F's stated rules are that they will "take all necessary precautions against harming any animal — human and nonhuman." This would seem to indicate they attempted (and feel they succeeded) in clearing the area of squirrels and field mice before proceeding to burn the homes down. And burning stuff? Not good for the environment. If these homes are not "ecologically sound" it's a safe bet that green smoke did not stick to the neighborhood.

For reference, burning down homes is not the way to make an environmental point. It does send a message, but it's the same message teens with self-esteem issues send when they drive around at night knocking over mailboxes.

But apparently the E.L.F's point is not to send a message, but to cause "economic harm." They are failures on this point too. Maybe they don't realize that these places are insured. And yes, the insurance companies may briefly suffer, but then they will turn around and just raise my rates, and yours. (Insurance is gambling and make no mistake, the insurance company is the House.)

All that "E.L.F." has accomplished is to provide cover for any sleezy property owner who wishes to cover up their own arsonist schemes. Not smart.

The only positive here is that the word "Elf" reminds me of Will Ferrell pouring syrup on his pasta.

no.17 - The Three Tined Fork

For a god commanding ocean and sea, perhaps three prongs make sense. For a farmer bailing hay or a devil tormenting souls, so too do three prongs seem appropriate.

But three prongs no longer have any place at the dinner table.

What skimpy silverware manufacturer has felt this was the way to save money? Does that single tine of silver cost so much?

But according to Henry Petroski's The Evolution Of Useful Things, the three tined fork is nothing more than a throwback on the evolutionary chain that started with the knife, gave rise to a dual pronged fork and which will no doubt, at some extravagant time in the future, lead to a fork with five tines.

Being rooted firmly in the present, I would prefer elegance of my four prongs, but I am ready for the future if this is how it comes. I will not, however, accept this Neanderthal fork near my plate, unless it is the giant one my mother uses to serve turkey on thanksgiving.

-as suggested by Moira from Dreamdogsart

no.16 - Jim Henson's Pneumonia

At dinner tonight I said to my daughter, "Do you want to hear a song about being green?"

"Okay."

"It's sung by a frog." I added.

"Yes, yes yes!" She said.

We had just been talking about frogs and the color green.

I got up and I put on It's Not Easy Being Green and when I sat back down, I started to feel sad.

It's a sad song, but sadder still because I was transported to a moment the summer after I graduated from college when, for reasons too strange and complicated to explain here, I was visiting a friend on the set of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: Secrets of the Ooze.

I had been there for a few days. My friend, had been doing the hard work of coordinating a performance under a hundred pounds of turtle costume while the puppeteers controlled his face.

That night, sitting around drinking and having a good time, these guys were all talking about working on Sesame Street when I asked what I thought was an innocent question.

"Was Jim Henson really as good a guy as he seemed?"

All the puppet work on the film was being done by the Henson Creature shop. They all knew him. Personally. The puppeteer nearest me lost his smile and his face pulled into a grim expression. The air seemed to leave the room. "Yeah." He said, closing his eyes. "Yeah, he was."

These guys loved him. They loved him like a father and a great friend.

They pretty much hated everything else. They hated the crappy movie they were working. They hated the directors and the producers and, man, they hated Vanilla Ice (a "star" in the movie and at the very brief height of his fame). They hated the script so much they forced me to read it so I could suffer along with them. They hated the food and the beer and coffee they got in the morning. They hated North Carolina (where they were filming) and probably South Carolina too.

But they loved Jim Henson. Jim died of Pneumonia a little more than a year before.

"He should have gone to the doctor." One the puppeteers said quietly as if Jim had broken his heart. The party ended as everyone drifted back to their rooms or out of the house.

Listening to Jim Henson sing that song, you can hear how gentle he was, even doing something as seemingly unimportant as pretending to be a frog.