I was purchasing a few summer skirts for the girls from Boden last night and when I went to enter my name and address information I was impressed by the number of options available in the “Title” drop-down menu.
“Nurse” Books by amaztype
We had our family’s annual white elephant gift party this last week and the treasures bestowed this year were absolutely (and sometimes literally) breathtaking. I dare say it was even better than last year. But don’t take my word for it. Over the next few days, I’ll post pictures of some of the unique gems that were (sometimes literally) unearthed this year.
When the night was over, I walked away with this beauty. Yes, I know! I can hardly believe it myself! It’s a wall-mounted découpage clock that uses chess as a metaphor for the natural enmity that exists between cats and mice. (Think Tom and Jerry as Kasparov and Karpov.)
Aficionados of the art of découpage (a name derived from the French “découper,” or “cut out”) will recognize the signs of quality workmanship right away. For instance, rather than being constructed of a single piece of wood, the base is made of “plywood” which consists of a number of thin layers of wood called “veneers.” (“Veneers” were also used on 18th-century neoclassical mahogany furniture and Hilary Duff’s teeth.)
It’s sure to keep very accurate time since its “genuine quartz” movement uses the same technology that is found in many of the clocks that hang on the walls of some of the offices that reside in the basement of the Smithsonian Institution. And the clock mechanism itself is actually mounted behind the wood, so only the hands of the clock are visible. Brilliant!
In a classic example of design restraint, the clock face only has digits in the 12, 3, 6, and 9 positions. The other numbers (1, 2, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10, and 11) are merely implied by the lines radiating out from the center. And I don’t know about you, but nothing screams “small mammals playing board games” like Engravers Old English MT.
And you probably noticed this right away, but this exquisite example of American craftsmanship also features an anomaly that is sure to increase its value in the future. Much like the famous “Inverted Jenny,” the image of the cat and mouse has been reversed. Chess boards traditionally start with a black square on the left.
I still need to have it appraised for insurance purposes, but once that’s taken care of, the “It’s a Cat and Mouse Game” Découpage Clock will enjoy pride of place on the wall of Emma’s and Zoe’s bedroom. At least, it will if I can somehow get rid of the persistent musty odor of damp plywood that emanates from the piece even though the wood is bone dry.
Yes, this precious figurine of a young boy from Bulgaria, Greece, Iran, Italy, and/or the United Arab Emirates is in need of repair, but that’s no reason not to place it on your mantle…where it will wait, silent and still, until the first moonless night when it will climb down from its decorative perch and go room to room, visiting each sleeping inhabitant and scooping out each of their eyeballs with its tiny, cold, plastic hand.
This should probably be over in the Tidbits section, but…a real-time clock featuring Japanese girls doing synchronized dance movements to a jazz riff on Lerner & Loewe? Come on! How insanely cool is that?
I think they’re selling polo shirts, but, as I always say, do you really need an excuse for Japanese girls doing synchronized dance movements to a jazz riff on Lerner & Loewe?
Is there a 24-hour cable channel in Japan with this sort of thing? You know: All Japanese Girls Doing Synchronized Dance Movements To A Jazz Riff On Lerner & Loewe…All The Time?
If not, there should be.
[Note: I’ve turned the sound off by default so you aren’t driven insane by the constant ticking, so be sure to click on the small speaker icon in the lower right for the full effect. Also, you can click on the movie or visit the UNIQLOCK site for a full-screen version.]
I teach the 9-year-olds in Primary (Sunday School), and this week’s lesson was based on chapter seven in the book of Matthew:
Matthew 7: 24-27
Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock:
And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.
And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand:
And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it.
At the end of the lesson, I wanted to illustrate that you can’t always rely on your own judgement in determining whether something is solid or not. And what better way to make that point than with non-Newtonian fluids?
So, in addition to the lesson manual and my scriptures, I packed up a pan, a large spoon, a measuring cup, and a Ziploc bag full of cornstarch, and headed to church.
The Primary lesson went quite well, and when it came time for our little object lesson, I sent two of the boys to fill the measuring cup with water. While they were gone, I showed everyone the Ziploc bag with cornstarch. I explained that cornstarch was a very fine powder, similar to powdered sugar. (In fact, most powdered sugar contains cornstarch where it acts as an anti-clumping/anti-caking agent.)
The kids asked if they could feel the cornstarch, but I knew that if I let them stick their fingers in the bag, we’d end up with cornstarch everywhere. So I told them they could come up and feel it inside the bag.
A few of the kids came up to the front and felt the cornstarch in the bag, but one of the little girls didn’t just feel the bag, she squeezed it. Hard. And…
POOF!!!
The Ziploc bag, the opening of which was aimed straight at my face, exploded. It was like she’d pulled the pin on a cornstarch grenade. I waited for a few seconds for the dust to clear, but then I realized the reason that I couldn’t see anything was that my glasses were covered in cornstarch. I took them off (revealing a perfect outline of where they had been) and looked down. There wasn’t an inch of me that wasn’t covered with cornstarch.
Just then, the two boys who had left to fill the measuring cup with water opened the door to the classroom. I turned, and the boys, being greeted by a large powdered ghost and the hysterical shrieks of a dozen laughing kids, nearly dropped the measuring cup and ran.
Chaos ensued. But by the end of class, we managed to get things cleaned up (somewhat) and we were able to recover enough cornstarch from my clothes for a slightly scaled-down version of the original experiment.
As a teacher, I sometimes wonder if the things that I say will be remembered. Probably not. But I have a feeling that, years from now, in a religion class at BYU, they’ll come to the seventh chapter of Matthew and some kid in the back will raise his hand and say…
“When I was nine, I had this crazy teacher who thought it would be a good idea to illustrate this point with non-Newtonian fluids…”
If that’s the case, the next time we get to this part of the New Testament, I may just pull out all the stops and do this:
Of course, that would work for Matthew 14, too…
White Elephant
A white elephant is a supposedly valuable possession whose upkeep exceeds its usefulness, and it is therefore a liability. The term derives from the sacred white elephants kept by traditional Southeast Asian monarchs in Burma, Thailand, Laos and Cambodia. To possess a white elephant was regarded (and still is regarded, in Thailand and Burma), as a sign that the monarch was ruling with justice and the kingdom was blessed with peace and prosperity…
P.T. Barnum once sent an agent to buy a white elephant, sight unseen, hoping to use it as a circus attraction. When it arrived in Bridgeport, Connecticut, it was covered with large pinkish splotches and was not white at all. The public was not impressed and Barnum had to keep his “white elephant” hidden from public view in a stable while he tried to decide how to recover some of the high cost. The elephant later died when his stable burned down.
Source: Wikipedia
As you might guess from something like the Tiny Pineapple Nurse Book Collection, my family excels at White Elephant gift exchanges. All through the year, we hoard the obscure, the bizarre, and the grotesque, waiting for the perfect opportunity to unload the atrocities on unsuspecting friends and family members. And if our first White Elephant party of the year is any indication, this year’s haul could be one of the best/worst ever.
Here are just three examples of the glorious bounty so far…
I don’t even know where to start. The blue eye shadow? The lush lower lashes? Or perhaps the fact that the yellow looped-yarn outfit isn’t an outfit at all; it’s the body of the thing? (The “hood,” which gives the whole thing a distinct Zippyesque quality, is actually stitched into the doll’s skull.)
I had this cherubic spawn of craft-hell sitting in my room for a few days, but even though I’ve returned it to its rightful owner, if I wake up in the middle of the night, I can still see its ghostly specter sitting on my dresser, feeding on my soul.
The sad clown watches,
His tender tears set in wax.
Light the wick and weep.
I’m sure this candle was a rich pearlescent white when it left the craftsman’s workbench, but the passing decades have given this waxy homage to “Le Clown Triste” the same yellowish hue as rancid tripe. Every time I even look at the thing I feel like I need to wash my hands.
Wendy can be thankful that I didn’t end up with this beauty, otherwise it would be on its way to Kauai right now.
This music CD was presented to my sister-in-law, Pam, by her Czech gynecologist, Dr. Dalibor Hrádek. It features an original four-part composition recorded at St. John the Baptist Church in Glandorf, Ohio on January 21, 2001.
Dalibor: Part 1 (Clip) (60 seconds, 1Mb, MP3 format)
Unfortunately, I’ve been conditioned to associate this style of organ music with silent films, leaving me with the impression that mornings around the Hrádek breakfast table must have been like something out of Murnau’s Nosferatu.
Pam informed me that there is a companion piece: Dolibor: playing the organ for his son…
Maybe next year.
Farting Teddy Bear
- So cute, so cuddly…so surprising!
- Hilarious!
- He just can’t help himself!
- Press the remote and he farts!
- Guaranteed laughs for everyone!
People just can’t keep their hands off our cute little Teddy Bear! But they are in for a surprise! Because when they cuddle him, you press a button on a remote and he breaks wind! Guaranteed laughs for everyone! Your friends will be so charmed they’ll want to hug him again!
I especially like the inset of the dinner party guests being “charmed” by the Farting Teddy Bear.
No doubt this was a group of strangers, standing around awkwardly, drinks in hand, not quite sure what to do or say. But the seasoned host knew that sometimes the best way to break the ice is to cut the cheese. So, with the touch of a button, the evening is saved and individuals of different ethnicities, social classes, and political persuasions are brought together by a flatulent ursine plush.
Just think of the possibilities. What would happen, for instance, if we shipped the little tooter to North Korea, thereby turning the upcoming six-party talks into seven-party talks? Maybe, just maybe, this sign of the apocalypse could actually avert an apocalypse.
North Korean Foreign Minister: “The resolution cannot be construed otherwise than as a declaration of war! We will deliver merciless blows without hesitation to whoever tries to breach our sovereignty and right to survive!”
Farting Teddy Bear: “F-F-F-F-F-F…”
NKFM: “Heh, heh, heh… Did someone let an issuance of gas? Oh, I see. It was the toy! How amusing. Where was I? Oh, yes…we will strike with…!”
FTB: “F-F-F-F-F-F…”
NKFM: “Ho, ho, ho, ho! That farting of the bear is indeed delightful. It puts me in remembrance of my nephew, who also farts. But while it is difficult to remain angry in the face of such gassy merriment, I must again state that we will not sit by while imperialist aggressors make…!
FTB: “F-F-F-F-F-F…”
NKFM: “HA, HA, HA! The farting must be stopped or my side will be stitched from such laughing! Oh! My stomach begins to ache! We must finish the meeting presently or my breath will leave me!
“Let us have an agreement of compromise, shall we? We will stop our program of nuclear armament in return for many shipments of oil for heating and a case of the butter of peanuts. Preferably Skippy. Preferably smooth.”
FTB: “F-F-F-F-F-F…”
NKFM: “WHA-HA-HA-HA-HA! Whomever is causing the bear to fart must stop at once! I cannot bear it! Wait! Bear it? I created a joke without meaning to do so! HA, HA, HA!!! I am both surprised and pleased! Come, let us sign the documents and then adjourn for kimchi and soju!”
Well, the votes were pretty evenly distributed (almost every entry got at least one vote), but when the dust settled, Jenny’s harrowing tale of fur vs. flatus carried the day.
“Hiiiiiii-yaaaaaaaa!” Without a second’s thought, Norm flung aside his hat and camera to meet the advancing buffalo’s menacing horns with a mighty pants-splitting “Rotten Egg Special,” courtesy of the philly cheese-steak he’d had for lunch mere hours before. And not a moment too soon: for the instant he felt the beast’s hot breath upon his fanny, his own deadly “hot breath” caught in the mammoth creature’s belching nostrils like a deadly nerve gas. Rock and tree and soil shook as 2,000 pounds of raw, untamed muscle slapped the earth, the animal at once as still and dead as the stones that showered down upon its motionless carcass. Norm landed, as agile as a feline, with a soft “thump” in the long grass beside the matted, stinking fur and the still glassy eyes.
Unfortunately, her entry is so wordy that the resulting 0.75pt font size renders the whole thing unreadable. Which, in this case, is probably for the best.
Jenny should be sporting a new TP T-shirt by this time next week.
Based on Jenny’s comment, I think we need to have a little contest…
Leave a comment and tell us what’s going through the mind of the hapless Yellowstone photographer. The author of the best entry, chosen by a panel of undistinguished judges, wins a Tiny Pineapple T-shirt.
Watson, our Honda Element, is the consummate road trip vehicle. It is rock-solid reliable, it has plenty of room for suitcases and backpacks, the stadium seating gives kids in the back a decent view of the road ahead (decreasing the incidence of motion sickness), 39.1 inches of rear-seat legroom give the passengers plenty of room to spread their stuff out, and when we get home, the stain-resistant seat fabric and urethane-coated utility floor make it a breeze to clean up.
But there were two features of the Honda Element that we really came to appreciate while “on safari” in Yellowstone this year.
The Honda Element has a “tailgate,” an automotive artifact usually only found on pickup trucks or certain motorized vehicles from the mid-twentieth century called “station wagons.” So named because it is located on the “tail” of the car and sometimes opens like a “gate,” many people see the tailgate as merely a cargo access and containment device.
But with a bowl of Honey Smacks in your hand and a crisp mountain breeze in your face, it is the perfect impromptu breakfast nook, complete with an unbeatable view of the sunrise at the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, or the sunrise in front of the Yellowstone Lake Hotel, or the sunrise at Old Faithful…
One of the difficulties you encounter while on safari is trying to view dangerous wildlife up close without meeting the same fate as the hapless photographer on the Yellowstone “Do Not Approach Buffalo” flyers.
Well, with the Honda Element this is no problem at all. Simply pop out the removable sunroof and you are Serengeti-ready.
Whenever wildlife makes an appearance, passengers in the back seat can unbuckle their safety belts (after the vehicle has come to a complete stop, of course), stand up on the rear seat, and while resting their bums on the rear headrests, survey the savannah with comfort and ease.
And it doesn’t matter what side of the vehicle the point of interest is on since everyone has a 360° view of the veldt.
If an especially photogenic specimen appears, the driver can simply hand his (or her) digital camera to someone on the wildlife observation deck for a bisons-eye view of the roadside attraction.
These are two very compelling features that Honda should be touting. Yet nowhere in the product literature is there a mention of either the “breakfast nook” or the “wildlife observation deck.” Sure, they list a “tailgate” and a “removable sunroof,” but perhaps it’s time for the Honda marketing department to start thinking outside the boxy car.
“A power and passion beyond words draws these two lovers together. Their hearts beat as one, for they are…soul mates.
“‘Soul Mates’ is inspired by Lee Bogle’s famous painting of the same name, accurately sculpted and hand-painted to recreate the artistry and emotion of the original work. The two lovers’ bodies are entwined in a sensuous, back-to-back embrace. Their passionate pose is visible from all angles, enhanced with real fabric fringe, feathers and beads.”
The less I post, the more traffic I get. It’s an odd phenomenon, and the only thing to which I can attribute it is my uncanny ability to brighten any room…just by leaving it.
But my relative silence for the past few months has nothing to do with increasing readership and everything to do with doing laundry.
Life Laundry is a show on BBC America where they help people who have incredibly cluttered homes. We’re not talking about everyday clutter here…we’re talking crazy-cat-lady-but-without-the-cats clutter. The first thing they do on the show is empty everything out of the house, stacking it on the law. Then they go through all of the rubbish that has collected over the years, forcing the homeowner to make hard decisions about what stays and what goes. Then, after all the excess has been sold, donated, or trashed, they allow a reasonable number of carefully-considered items back into the newly-redecorated house.
But Dawna Walter, who hosts the show, isn’t so much an organizational expert as she is a storage therapist. (Think: Dr. Phil meets California Closets.) So as the homeowners go through their mountains of belongings, she helps them understand the reasons they got into trouble in the first place. Some people are hoarders because they grew up with nothing. Some people keep everything from their past because they don’t much care for the present and have no real hope for the future. And as you watch them make this personal journey of self-discovery and handy storage solutions, it’s all very cathartic.
I had a similar catharsis with my own personal belongings a few years ago, but I hadn’t catharted enough. Because, while my sock drawer is impeccable, I still had an incredible amount of cruft clogging up my brain. I couldn’t get from the temporal lobe to the occipital lobe without circling through the parietal because of all of the old newspapers I had stacked in the hallway.
So, for the past four months, I’ve had my life out on the lawn: sorting through the crap, quitting about a dozen non-paying part-time “jobs” I’d picked up somewhere along the way, finishing up a number of long-overdue projects, and tying up what seemed like tens of thousands of loose ends (technical, personal, professional). It was, quite honestly, a miserable four months, with little sleep and even less down-time. But it was worth it. I think.
But now, before I can move a reasonable number of carefully-considered items back in, I need to acknowledge the reasons I got into trouble in the first place.
They are numerous:
But my biggest problem is that I keep falling into the trap of “If time allows…”
“After the girls go to bed, I need to finish the laundry, clean the bathroom, and re-string the autoharp. Then, if time allows, I’ll work on <insert really-meaningful-and-important-but-not-absolutely-urgent project here>.”
…or…
“This weekend I have to rebuild those two computers, upgrade the school’s firewall, and varnish my thighs. Then, if time allows, I need to get back to work on <insert really-meaningful-and-important-but-not-absolutely-urgent project here>.”
Those really-meaningful-and-important-but-not-absolutely-urgent projects are, as the name would imply, the ones that are the most meaningful and important to me personally; the ones I don’t want to rush through or try to do when I’m distracted. And I keep thinking that if I can just get the trivial and tedious stuff out of the way, I can really concentrate on the really meaningful and important stuff.
But the problem with “if time allows” is that time doesn’t allow for crap. The trivial and tedious stuff always expands to fill all available time, so while the trivial and tedious stuff gets done, the really meaningful and important stuff never does.
I’m Getting Stuff Done, just not the right things.
Of course, this isn’t time management rocket science. (Mr. Covey and His 7 Dwarves were tackling this problem a decade ago.) So now that the laundry has been folded, and the previous obligations have been fulfilled, and the deck has been cleared, and the palette has been cleansed, and the belfry is bat-free, let’s see if I can get the right things done.
“You look at me with eyes of love;
You never hold a grudge…
You think I’m far too wonderful
To criticize or judge.”
It has been almost a year and they’re still looking. But with the addition of “…and the like…” I’m hoping that they’ve lowered their “monster” threshold to the point that they’ll finally accept my spine-tingling “Tale of the Menacing Potgut.”
Everyone’s had a full week now to reflect on their own lives and formulate their New Year’s resolutions for 2006, right? While a certain amount of introspection at this time of year can be quite healthy, I think it’s important to avoid falling into the trap of “navel-gazing.” So, it’s about time everyone stopped thinking about themselves and started thinking about me.
For the past few years I’ve done a really lousy job of setting and achieving realistic goals, so this year I’m going to get around my own lack of initiative and imagination by outsourcing my New Year’s resolutions. Akin to my sister Amy’s eternal question:
“What should I do with my hair?”
…I’m asking:
“What should I do with my year?”
This potentially unwise exercise should probably only be undertaken by those who know (and love) me, but total strangers are welcome to weigh in. Just keep the following in mind when making my New Year’s resolutions for 2006:
Ready? Set? Goal!
[Note: Comments that are rude, inappropriate, or that point out the futility of my longing for Ms. Knightley may be removed at the author’s discretion.]
When Australia’s Big Pineapple went on the market this past summer, the article about the sale in The Sydney Morning Herald, began with the following:
“One of Australia’s best-loved ‘big things’ — the Big Pineapple — is on the market and could soon fall victim to progress.
“Residential developers are expected to snap up the 34-year-old tourist attraction which, in addition to the giant fruit, features 80 hectares of prime real estate on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast hinterland.
“The Big Pineapple agricultural tourist attraction is one of Australia’s oldest ‘big things’, second only to the Big Banana in Coffs Harbour, New South Wales.”
As soon as I read the phrase “second only to the Big Banana” I knew that my life wouldn’t be complete until I’d found a postcard depicting this most massive of fruits. And, wouldn’t you know, I chanced upon an auction on eBay that featured not only the postcard on the right, but this postcard of the Big Pineapple as well. $2.50 really can buy happiness.
Both postcards are stunning examples of using of natural photographic color and careful composition to draw the viewer into the scene. As for the herbaceous lettering in the foreground of the Big Banana postcard, wasn’t “Itors Velco” Trespassers Will’s Swedish next door neighbor in the Hundred Acre Wood?
And for those of you who would like to know even more about the Big Banana…
“This 40 year old giant structure modeled on a prize winning banana is probably the most photographed object in Australia. At any time of the day cameras are clicking away — individuals, couples, honeymooners, small groups, families, whole coach loads of people — all recording their visit to The Big Banana. Many are returning with children and grandchildren to continue a family tradition. Frequently the comment has been; ‘The Big Banana is not as big as I remember’. Well, it is still 11 metres long, 5 metres high, and 2.4 metres wide but the surrounding developments have lessened its impact.”
(“The Big Banana is not as big as I remember?” “Surrounding developments have lessened its impact?” That’s just what every honeymooning male want’s to hear, isn’t it?)
Where you can see a list of all 146 “Big Things” in Australia and learn that Queensland has the highest density of “Big Things,” with 11.87 “Big Things” per million capita. (A factoid sure to impress your next date.)
To qualify as a “Big Thing”, a structure must obey the following “formula”:
- At least twice the size of the object it represents.
- At least twice human size.
- Dominant and accessible.
- Lifelike quality of construction.
- Enterprising and/or locally representative.
Problem: Chicks dig guys who read smart stuff, but the Aeneid is a yawn-fest maximus.
Solution: The language may be dead, but that’s no reason to bore yourself into the same state. These gripping tales, retold in the ancient tongue, will hold your attention for minutes on end!
Bonus: Leave them lying on your coffee table and women will assume your future offspring are destined for the Ivy League.
![[Book Cover]](/archives/2005/11/images/cattus_petasatus.gif)
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Cattus PetasatusVirent Ova! Viret Perna!!Quomodo Invidiosulus Nomine Grinchus Christi Natalem Abrogaverita Doctore Seuss
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![[Book Cover]](http://images.amazon.com/images/P/014015339X.01.TZZZZZZZ.gif)
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Winnie Ille Pua A.A. Milne
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Arbor Almaa Shel Silverstein
“The Giving Tree is here rendered in exquisite Latin, a language whose own simple grandeur complements that of Silverstein’s original story and illustrations. Arbor Alma adds one more dimension to this multifaceted classic. This Latin-language edition is a welcome, all-occasion gift, a delightful way to revisit a treasured tale, and an enjoyable way to refresh your high school Latin.” |
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![[Book Cover]](http://images.amazon.com/images/P/1582348251.01.TZZZZZZZ.gif)
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Harrius Potter et Philosophi Lapisa J.K. Rowling
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![[Book Cover]](http://images.amazon.com/images/P/0865165068.01.TZZZZZZZ.gif)
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Vere, Virginia, Sanctus Nicolaus Est!a Francis Pharcellus Church
Features:
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Shocked, shocked I am to come across such hate speech (link not child-safe) on the Internet.
What is this country coming to? I tell ya, it’s a sad day when a fundamentalist minority can try to cram its narrow-minded, rigid automotive morality down the throats of others. What happened to tolerance and an appreciation of the automotive diversity that made this country great?
I believe in a man’s constitutional right to choose, and while I would never buy an H2 myself, I would never presume to tell a man what he can and can’t do with his own car loan.
I believe that H2s should be safe, legal, and rare.
A snippet of a conversation with my brother about his recent find:
Hilary Duff’s new music video is in heavy rotation on the Disney Channel right now and Zoe is quite a fan. As she and the other girls were downstairs singing along (very loudly), I found myself upstairs in the kitchen with my sister Jenny trying to defend the rather indefensible position that Ms. Duff’s Metamorphosis was one of the finest pop albums of 2003. To take some of the heat off me, I brought up the subject of Hilary’s new (and rather unfortunate) porcelain veneers and I was trying to find just the right word to describe what was wrong with them. But as I fished around, all I could come up with was:
“They’re just so…so…veneereal…”
As in:
As a counterpoint to 100% Customer Satisfaction (which is, quite ironically, the #1 result on Google for that particular phrase right now), I’d like to share with you some examples of exemplary customer service that I’ve experienced recently. I do this somewhat hesitantly, because I wouldn’t want these establishments to be taken advantage of once people find out how accommodating they can be. But I think it’s important to recognize the companies (and, perhaps more importantly, the people) that get it right…without resorting to bloodshed.
So tonight I’d like to start with an email exchange that took place recently between me and the good folks at Veer.
To: Service at Veer
From: Grettir Asmundarson
Subject: Britney called. She wants her shirt back…I recently purchased a T-shirt from you folks:
I called before I ordered to ask about sizing/shrinkage and after talking with a sales rep I ended up ordering a medium. I have a 38” chest, so I’m on the low end of the medium range, but I wanted to leave enough room for shrinkage. When the shirt arrived, I tried it on and I was pretty sure that after it was washed it would be the perfect size. However, after washing the shirt in cold and drying it on low (which is even more cautious than the tag recommends), I now have a fantastic, fitted belly shirt that any adolescent girl would love. Unfortunately, I’m not an adolescent girl.
I’ve honestly never seen a T-shirt shrink that much in my life. And while it makes me feel quite manly and muscly to wear something so tight and fitted, I’m not sure the general public should be subjected to my bare midriff on a regular basis.
So, how can I go about arranging for a return/exchange? Or can I not return/exchange it because I’ve already washed it? Anyway, any help you can give would be appreciated…
Cheers,
Grettir
To: Grettir Asmundarson
From: Service at Veer
Subject: Re: Britney called. She wants her shirt back…Hello Grettir,
Thank you for your email and your wonderful sense of humor in the face of such shrinkage!!
We are very sorry that this happened with your product. To be honest, we haven’t heard of such severe shrinking happening with other men’s medium shirts we’ve sold, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen!
Of course we’d like to replace it for you, but my concern is that the replacement may have the same thing happen. Here are a few options for you to choose from:
- We can send you a replacement Veer Sofa shirt (would you like to try an even larger size to start?)
- We can send you a replacement t-shirt, perhaps in a different style.
- We can call it a day and simply refund you for the shirt rather than take the chance the replacement may shrink as well.
Let me know how you’d like to proceed and I’ll make sure it gets done for you today.
Thanks again for your feedback and for being a good sport in the face of bare midriffs — We appreciate it!
Kind Regards,
Elescia
Customer Service Sales & Support
Veer
Visual Elements for Creatives
http://veer.com
To: Service at Veer
From: Grettir Asmundarson
Subject: Re: Britney called. She wants her shirt back…Yes, it is difficult to put on a brave face in the face of shrinkage, but I’m holding up OK. And after getting the opinion of a few of my more fashion-sense-enabled colleagues, they informed me that while it did shrink more than one would expect, referring to it as a “belly shirt” was probably overstating things. (I don’t know, though. I’ve only got about 1/2” of clearance and if I so much as inhale there is definite ab-age.) And they felt that a Large would probably be sufficiently long. Even if it shrank as much as the Medium, it would probably still give me an additional inch of modesty-assuring fabric below my waistline.
So, I think I’d just like to arrange to exchange my Medium for a Large, if that’s possible.
To: Grettir Asmundarson
From: Service at Veer
Subject: Re: Britney called. She wants her shirt back…For you?
Of course! ;)
Look for a large Men’s Sofa t-shirt coming your way soon.
And if you know anyone with a slightly shorter torso that you can donate the shrunken shirt to, feel free! (But don’t make fun of them — that’s just mean.) Or if you ever want to show your midriff off around the house or at the gym…go for it!
Cheers, and have a great day,
Elescia
Customer Service Sales & Support
Veer
Visual Elements for Creatives
http://veer.com
Two days later I received not only a large, men’s Sofa T-shirt, but a Veer Logo Beanie and a Veer 2005 Calendar Planner, too. And shortly thereafter they added a small note below the T-shirt sizing chart:
* Women’s tees are shape-fitting girly sizes. Men’s sizes are snug-fitting too. You may wish to order one size larger than usual.
Well, as far as I’m concerned, Elescia deserves a big, fat kiss and/or raise (depending on Veer’s workplace sexual harassment and/or compensation policies) and a title change to Supreme Goddess of Customer Service and/or Liaison to the National Organization for the Abolition of Belly Shirts (NO-ABS).
Note: Like the shirt? Download the desktop wallpaper. It’s called “Relax” and it’s about a third of the way down on the left.
During my last doctor’s visit, a middle-aged female nephrologist from Romania complimented me on my “lean muscle mass.”
Just fold your arms…
Created with Pierre Chatelier’s Mozodojo.
“This lucky bear was ‘Born to Bingo’! With her bingo cards scattered about her and her silvery charms close at hand for extra good luck, she listens to each number called, marking her cards with her lucky dauber. The competition may be keen, but soon she’ll be the first to shout, ‘BINGO’!”
“As buckets of silvery coins spill out of his machine, this adorable fellow can ‘bearly’ believe his good fortune. But with lady luck on his side and a pile of money at his feet, it looks like this betting bear is a big winner!”
With only two weeks left until Christmas, you may be asking yourself, “What special something should I get for that especially special someone?” The answer, of course, is a canned meat gift box. But for everyone else on your list, might I suggest one of Maria Samuelson’s Blobbies.
Acknowledgement of Blobby Bias: Maria is my sister-in-law. But even if she were not, there’s no way I could browse her beautifully-designed site without giggling. She deserves some sort of an award for the names alone:
And their descriptions are as delightful as their names.
I am the proud owner of two of the amorphous plushes myself. I purchased one of the very first Blobbies, Whale Dog w/Spotted Trousers, shortly after I enthused about them back in June. Then, a few weeks ago, a Bubba Tatuman, Jr. arrived unannounced in the mail. (A gift for helping get Maria’s online shop up and running.) But it wasn’t just any Bubba Tatuman, Jr.; it was a Limited Edition Commemorative Tiny Pineapple Bubba Tatuman, Jr.:
They now watch over my desk like a red-billed oxpecker on a rhino, reminding me of the symbiotic relationships that nurture and sustain me…and of the importance of checking myself for ticks. And they will soon be joined by two more, as there will be one for Emma and one for Zoe under the tree on Christmas Day.
So, go visit Maria’s site. Even though they’re selling just about as fast as she can make them, there are still many to choose from and there’s a promise of new ones in the coming days. If you’re enchanted but strapped for cash, there are freebies like desktop wallpaper and buddy icons. And you can even send a Blob-E-Gram, Holiday Picnic, starring Señor Pooglins and Sir Cutlet, which poses the timely question, “What if Che Guevera had been a Wheat Thin?”
If that were really true, would I be eating at Panda Express?
I woke up at 1:30 A.M. Thursday morning with the distinct impression that I should buy a new car. Being broke, this didn’t make a lot of sense.
“Surely,” I thought to myself, “in my current financial situation there’s no way in the world that I can afford to buy a new car.”
But after lying in my bed for an hour, unable to shake the feeling, I got up and started doing the math and soon realized that there was no way in the world I could afford not to buy a new car. So, I’d like to introduce you to Watson, my new 2004 Honda Element.
Watson is going to be a total babe magnet, I can feel it. After all:
Watson is going to save me over $200/month in reduced car payments, improved fuel economy, and lower insurance rates. Chicks dig fiscal responsibility.
Watson is black. Black is slimming.
Three words: Composite body panels.
Hondas practically scream “TESTOSTERONE!”
Watson is boxy and practical, yet funky enough to attract hordes of adoring females who are, themselves,…um…boxy and…uh…practical.
OK, perhaps I didn’t think that last one through well enough…
Dear Ladies,
No matter how much you would like to believe otherwise, Mr. Darcy is, and always has been, all about the Benjamins…er…King George IIIs. Take away his £10,000 a year and his only appearance in Pride and Prejudice would have been in the form of a letter to Charles Bingley somewhere in Chapter 3:
Dear Charles,
It is with great sadness that I must write to inform you that I will not be able to join you at Netherfield Park this summer. As you may know, my dear sister, Georgiana, was recently married to George Wickham and, as a result, I have become indebted to Mr. Wickham for reasons I cannot disclose even to you, my dear friend.
As this financial obligation exceeds the modest income provided by my late father’s estate, I have been forced to take a position as a file clerk at the firm of Crumpet, Biscuit, Muffin, and Scone, Ltd., in Cheapside. And since I have only been with the firm for a few months, I have not yet accrued sufficient “vacation days” to allow for a trip at this time. Perhaps next year.
I was so looking forward to this summer. As my current economic situation allows me little contact with the fairer sex, I was hoping that my visit to Netherfield, with its attendant parties and dances, would enable me to finally meet some pretty girl with dark eyes, a pleasing figure, and a lively playful disposition.
Instead, you’ll spend the summer at Netherfield attending parties where you will no doubt monopolize the only handsome girl in the room and I will spend the summer in London being slighted by women who are in no humour to give consequence to a file clerk.
Sincerely,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
Sincerely,
Grettir Asmundarson
When I was 12 years old, I displayed one of the worst examples of timing in the history of moviegoing by attending a screening of Jaws on opening day, Friday, June 20, 1975. What I had forgotten to take into consideration was the fact that I was scheduled the following morning to take part in the Boy Scouts’ Mile Swim…in the Atlantic Ocean.
I spent my entire time in the water with two simple goals:
To maintain as much distance between myself and Daryl Reynolds as possible.
To swim the entire mile side stroke.
I’m absolutely mortified by it now, but at the time I rationalized my first goal by concluding that there was nothing in the Scout Handbook that forbad leveraging the laws of Natural Selection to one’s own advantage. I figured that Daryl, being a rather husky boy, would be the most likely to be mistaken for a seal or sea lion, so if some myopic Great White went for poor Daryl I didn’t want to get caught in the feeding frenzy.
The second goal was based on the principle that by swimming on my side I presented a smaller target for any marine predators coming at me from below. (As anyone who has seen the one sheet knows, they always come at you from below.) And, if it missed me on the first attempt, I might have enough time to swim over by the succulent Daryl and the shark might opt for him on the second go-round.
The Succulent Daryl and I were the only ones swimming that morning, with our Scoutmaster and Assistant Scoutmaster following behind in a support dinghy, and I can only imagine how frustrating my survival strategy must have been for them.
“You know, Grettir, you’d be able to swim much faster if you weren’t doing the side stroke.”
“That’s OK, I’m not in a hurry.”
“But Daryl’s getting quite a ways ahead of us.”
“I don’t mind.”
Fortunately for The Succulent Daryl, the Mile Swim went off without incident, except for the time when the support dinghy brushed up against my leg and I screamed bloody murder thinking it was a brush-by before the final attack. I think I may have even wet myself, but it’s kind of hard to tell when you’re doing the side stroke.
LONDON, England — April 1, 2004 — Keira Knightley, star of such films as Pirates of the Caribbean, Love Actually, and Thunderpants, announced today that she did not turn 19 last month as had been previously reported, but that she is, in fact, 29 years of age.
“I had to lie about my age because Jerry Bruckheimer (producer of Pirates of the Caribbean) prefers younger actresses. It never occurred to me that by lying about my age I would be giving up any chance of finding true love and happiness with Grettir Asmundarson.”
Mr. Asmundarson, an obscure weblog author from Utah, has recently had to implement a new dating policy due to increasing demands by younger women. The new policy, which went into effect today, states that he will only date women who are closer to his own age than to the ages of his daughters. This new policy would have disqualified Ms. Knightley.
“I couldn’t lie anymore,” Ms. Knightley stated, tears streaming down her face. “If I have to choose between my career as a teenage ingenue and the rapture I find in Grettir’s arms…the arms win, hands down.”
This news follows the recent announcement by Claire Forlani that she would be moving to the United States “to be closer to an obscure weblog author from Utah.” Ms. Forlani would not comment on speculation that the recent fight involving herself and Ms. Knightley in a swanky London nightclub was related to Mr. Asmundarson.
“That 19-year-old strumpet can say what she likes,” said Ms. Forlani. “He’s mine.”
I’ve been having some rather bizarre dreams lately, but now I’m starting to show up in other people’s. My friend, Mary, recently sent me the following:
“Lately you, Jenny, Kim, Kate, Janet, and Amy have been showing up in some wacky dreams. For example, I recently had a dream in which Peter and I and some of the others mentioned above couldn’t find you and were worried about you. We finally tracked you down in an apartment complex in a scary downtown area. You were sitting and brooding in a big arm chair in an unlit corner and when we asked you what was wrong, you said darkly, ‘Well, let’s just say…that when I was a white man, I liked white women…but now that I’m a black man, I like black men.’
“My apologies if you don’t find this as hilarious as I did when I woke up.”
No apology necessary, I do think it’s hilarious. But one has to wonder what kind of vibe one has been been giving off to inspire such a thing.
I was at a Chinese restaurant with my daughters the other day and we were looking up our Chinese Zodiac signs on our paper place mats. Emma, it turns out, is a Boar. Zoe is a Tiger. I was hoping for something especially butch, like the Tiger, or the Dragon, or even the Horse. Instead, I’m a Rabbit. A great, big, fluffy, cuddly, floppy-eared bunny.
Robin: What’s he do, nibble your bum?
And if that wasn’t enough of a blow to my manhood, get a load of that last line.
Next Week: Dissed by a napkin…
I’d just been cast as the lead in the musical version of Stephen Fry’s film, Bright Young Things, on the London stage. I was quite excited, mainly because I’d always admired Mr. Fry’s work and was looking forward to getting to know him personally.
Unfortunately, the whole time we were rehearsing he ignored everyone completely, preferring to spend his time glued to a brand new version of the Konami Dance Dance Revolution arcade game that he’d had installed backstage.
This new version of Dance Dance Revolution not only had the basic platform with the four arrows, it also had various musical instruments and noisemakers mounted around the handrail. So, not only did you have to do all of the fancy footwork, you also had to keep your eye on the screen and blow the bicycle horn, play the concertina, or crash the cymbals, etc., when required.
Mr. Fry was really quite good, but he had a habit of flailing his arms about as he danced, so you couldn’t even approach him to ask a question without the risk of losing an eye.
After two weeks of rehearsal I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I screwed up my courage, approached Mr. Fry as he was right in the middle of a stunning performance of “Dynamite Rave SSR,” and was going to say (over the thrum of the machine), “Mr. Fry, I really admire your work,” but all I got out was, “Mr. Fr–,” when I was nailed by a gong mallet right in the left temple. The next thing I know, I’m being wheeled across the stage on a small lorry to a waiting ambulance.
I had to drop out of the show, but that wasn’t the worst part. For weeks thereafter, everyone visiting me in the hospital kept making jokes about my unfortunate experience with “Fry and Lorry.”
The pun was so teeth-grindingly bad that it actually woke me up.
Einstein Bros. Bagels has jumped on the low-carb (or in this case, lower-carb) bandwagon with their new Lower Carb 9 Grain Bagel. I remember enough from my cellular biology classes that I’m not particularly worried about my carbohydrate consumption, but I was intrigued by the lower fat, the 25 grams of protein, and the 10 grams of fiber. So, I tried one the other day.
I must say I’m amazed. It’s hard to believe that the bagel only has 28 grams of Total Carbohydrates. I would have thought that sawdust and birdseed, which I presume are the two main ingredients, had more carbs than that. They must have achieved their lower carb numbers by leveraging the fact that humans can’t digest cellulose.
I do have one suggestion, however. To avoid possible litigation, Einstein Bros. might want to consider affixing a label to each bagel with the same warning found on containers of Metamucil:
WARNING: Taking this product without adequate fluid may cause it to swell and block your throat or esophagus and may cause choking. Do not take this product if you have difficulty swallowing.
Oh, Chex of Wheat. Oh, blessed Chex.
Oh, Atkins-shunned bowl of rapture.
Thy carbs are complex. Thy fiber, divine.
My tummy is full of your whole-grain goodness.
Like tiny, caramel-colored, corduroy, throw pillows
Lost in a sea of regret and skim milk.
I add two teaspoons of sugar.
It forms a sludge on the bottom.
While I eat, I read the box.
“CONTAINS WHEAT INGREDIENTS.”
So do I, my friend.
So do I.
Wouldn’t you know, the one gift I was counting on for 98.62% of the people on my Christmas list this year is out of stock until after Christmas.
It looks like I’m going to have to go with Plan B. My personal favorites:
My ex-wife has done quite a bit of work on the house since our divorce. In fact, she has been so successful in transforming the basic, early-’60s, suburban split-level into a beautiful, traditional Japanese home (complete with beautiful tatami floors and delicate Shoji panels) that Edward Zwick decided to use the house to film the interiors for The Last Samurai. This was very good news since the income generated by the production would help her defray the cost of the very expensive renovations.
There was just one problem: Tom Cruise.
That greedy little git decided to charge my ex-wife certain “acting fees” for the privilege of having him in her home. These fees were structured on a rather byzantine scale that was based on how much of the room he used in any particular scene. If he was only standing in one place, the fee was relatively low. But if he walked across the room (especially if he covered over 50% of the floor space) his fee skyrocketed. And, wouldn’t you know, he was purposely blocking his scenes so that he was always walking from one side of the room to the other.
This egregious exploitation of his power as a movie star and producer of the film was outrageous, but it was made even more so by the fact that, even though my ex-wife and Mr. Cruise were dating, that wasn’t enough to induce him to reduce his acting fees. The way things were going, the frivolous charges would have devoured any money my ex-wife would have earned from the production, leaving her no choice but to sell the home she had worked so hard to create.
I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit by and watch her be added to the long list of exploited and bankrupted homeowners Tom Cruise had left in his wake his entire career. I spoke with Nicole Kidman to see if she could provide me with any insights and she expressed the opinion that the only way he would ever change would be through the use of physical force. Force, according to Nicole, is the only thing he understands.
So, I wedged myself into the crook of a cherry tree, where I would be obscured by the cherry blossoms, and waited for Tom to pass. My plan was to leap on him from above, pin him to the ground, and hold him there until he promised to change his ways. At the very least, he needed to reduce his acting fees in light of the fact that he was in a relationship with my ex-wife.
Sitting there in the tree, I had plenty of time to reflect on the situation. I mean, what a jerk! It’s no wonder Nicole divorced him. And I’m really surprised that Oprah Winfrey, who is a huge Tom Cruise fan, hasn’t seen through his pathetic, shallow exterior to see the greedy and exploitative cad underneath.
But as I sat there, waiting and fuming, I felt a tug on my sleeve.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“Dad,” Emma said, tugging on my sleeve again. “Are you awake?”
“I am now. What’s wrong, Emma?”
“I’ve got a really stuffy nose,” she said, sniffling ineffectively to demonstrate her problem. “I can’t sleep.”
“I’m sorry about that, Em. Why don’t you go back to bed and I’ll bring you a decongestant and a glass of water.”
As I walked to the kitchen, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. If my daughter hadn’t awakened me, I would have made a terrible mistake. In the light of day (or 1:58am, at least), it seemed ridiculous that I would accept anything Nicole Kidman said at face value. It was obvious that she had an agenda. She was probably just trying to get me to beat Tom up because she couldn’t get Lenny Kravitz to do it.
Besides, given the nature of the film he was making, Tom Cruise would have undoubtedly been carrying a Samurai sword on his person. And even without a sword he could certainly beat the crap out of me. What could I have been thinking?
I carried the medicine back to the girls’ room and sat on the edge of the bed as Emma chewed the pills and took a few big gulps of water.
“Thanks, Dad, I feel much better already.”
“So do I, Emma.”
“Good night,” she said, pulling the covers up under her chin. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Come wake me up again if you can’t get back to sleep.”
“OK, Dad. I will.”
“With any luck,” I thought, “She’ll save me from doing anything else stupid tonight…like asking Halle Berry to marry me. Sure, it’ll probably seem like a good idea at the time, but deep down I know it would never work.”
The question popped into my head the first time I saw the restyled BMW 7 Series. It was still there when I caught my first glimpse of the bizarrely-sculpted-for-no-apparent-reason-including-aesthetics Z4 Roadster and when I saw photos of the new yawn-inducing X3. But after seeing one of the new 5 Series Frankensteinian monstrosities today, I can’t hold it in any longer. I have to ask…
Who, exactly, was behind the decision to outsource all of BMW’s design work to Hyundai?
In the spirit of the season…
I’m thankful that the original estimate of $2,800 for a new transmission for my car was revised downward to a mere $2,000 for just a transmission rebuild.
I’m thankful that Gwyneth Paltrow has had the decency to give me a little post-divorce mourning time before asking me out. I just wish that Claire Forlani and Naomi Watts had shown the same restraint.
I’m thankful that success hasn’t gone to my head. In fact, I think I can safely say that it hasn’t gone to any other parts of my body either.
I’m thankful that I’ve stopped weeping in the shower. That’s progress, right?
I saw this sign outside a local church yesterday:
I do hope they meant hoedown…as opposed to, “Monique, I’ve fallen off my four-inch heels and I can’t get up!”
I just received the following “Amendatory Endorsement” to my automobile insurance policy:
In other words, if I wake one morning to find that my car has been crushed beneath a giant, radioactive, mutant portobello mushroom, I’m screwed.
Novell cancelled my corporate cell phone a few months ago and I called AT&T Wireless today to see about getting a $22.18 refund I have coming to me.
“I’m sorry,” said the gentleman on the other end of the phone. “I don’t show that you have a credit on your account. In fact, you owe us <insert five-figure dollar amount here>.”
“What?”
“It shows that you have a balance due of <insert five-figure dollar amount here again>”.
“You’ve got to be kidding me?”
“No, sir…but this isn’t just for one phone. It looks like there are 861 cell phones on this account.”
“On my account?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In my name?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think there’s been some mistake. I think all of the Novell corporate cell phones have somehow gotten assigned to my individual account.”
“That could be, sir.”
“So, how can I correct this? I need to have all of those cell phones reassigned to the Novell corporate account.”
“Sorry, sir, you can’t do that. Someone from Novell will have to call and have those phones transferred back to them.”
“But they weren’t supposed to be assigned to me in the first place…”
“That doesn’t matter, sir. You don’t have authorization to reassign them to the Novell corporate account. Someone from Novell would have to do that.”
“Ummm…just out of curiosity, could I cancel them all, if I wanted to?”
“Well…uh…yes, sir, you could.”
“So, let me get this straight. The fate of every cell phone within a Fortune 500 company now lies in the hands of an employee who is being laid off in four days’ time. And the only option said employee has to resolve this problem himself is to cancel all of those cell phone accounts.”
“[silence]”
“I’ll call you back…”
Why is it that every time I turn to A&E they are in the middle of some dreadful specimen of “criminal justice programming” or “forensic detection documentary” with Bill Kurtis’ ponderous voiceover detailing the grisly career highlights of some serial rapist or mass murderer?
Do they consider that crap to be “art” or “entertainment?”
I just received my “URGENT — LAST NOTICE BEFORE EXPIRATION — ACT NOW!” notice from Sunset Magazine. As a valued subscriber, they are offering “to extend my subscription for one more year at $29.00 — that’s 46% off the cover price.”
As is my habit whenever I receive a magazine subscription renewal notice, I went to the Sunset Web site and found that any schmuck walking in off the Internet is being offered two free issues and, “if I like Sunset, I will receive 10 more issues, 12 in all, for $16. That’s a 70% savings off the newsstand price!”
Yes, that’s $29 vs. $16.
They pulled this same thing last year and when I called to ask about the difference in pricing I was informed that I couldn’t compare the two offers. They were “completely different.”
You see, as a valued subscriber, I’m not given the option of just renewing my basic magazine subscription. If I want to renew, I’m required to sign up for “Exciting New Bonus Sections” covering either “Seasonal Travel” or “Garden Color” (my choice). In other words, they’ll paste a measly 8-page insert into four issues every year and charge me an extra $13/year for the privilege.
So, this year I’m going to do the same thing I did last year: I let my subscription lapse and they called me a few weeks later offering to renew my subscription, sans “Exciting New Bonus Sections,” for $12.
[Editor’s Note: I came up with the title for this entry first, but by the time I got to the end I couldn’t for the life of me remember how I was going to tie it in. It had something to do with Sunset’s recipes. I’m tired.]
From the New York Post’s Page Six:
Dance Lessons
“Dancer Isadora Duncan spent her final days trying to educate Henry Ford. A letter dated 1927, the year of her death, is on sale at momentsintime.com for $15,000 in which Duncan defends her choreography against the auto magnate’s charges that it was too sexual. Ford wanted children taught classical dances such as the waltz rather than racier styles like the Charleston. ‘Just as you would not teach a child of any free Republic the doctrines of Louis XV or George III,’ Duncan chided, ‘so you would not teach to a child the courtesan movement of the Minuet or the coquettish sex expression of the Polka.’”
Myron Floren: Coquette?
Mint has been used as a breath freshener for centuries. In the middle ages, young men who were on their way to their beloved’s would alter their course in order to pass by the herb garden first. They would pull off a few peppermint leaves, toss them into their mouths, and chew them for a while in hopes of covering up the stench coming from the abscessed molar that they had yet to have the blacksmith pull.
This historical association of “mint” with “fresh breath” seems to be so ingrained in our collective psyche that nearly every toothpaste and mouthwash you buy today is mint-flavored. Listerine is, of course, the obvious exception, but its competitors mocked it so mercilessly by saying that their own products left your breath “minty, not mediciny,” that Pfizer finally relented and came out with Listermint. This just reinforced the belief that the ultimate aspiration of all human beings should be to have a mouth of which it could be said that it is “minty fresh.”
But our mouths are not enough anymore; now they want our whole heads. Nearly every hair care company has come out with some product that has mint as a featured ingredient. In fact, Aveda’s most popular product line is their Rosemary Mint Shampoo and Conditioner, whose “tonic properties of rosemary and peppermint cool and revitalize your scalp.”
But the “tonic” and “cooling” properties they are touting are not necessarily coming from the peppermint, per se, but a derivative thereof:
mint (‘mint) n. Any of various plants of the genus Mentha, characteristically having aromatic foliage and nearly regular flowers. Some plants are cultivated for their aromatic oil and used for flavoring.
menthol (‘men-“thol) n. A white crystalline organic compound, CH3C6H9(C3H7)OH, obtained from peppermint oil or synthesized, and used in cigarettes and as a mild topical anesthetic.
So, of course it leaves your scalp feeling “cool”; you’ve lost all sensation from the ears up.
I first noticed this “mild topical anesthetic” effect when using American Crew’s Daily Shampoo and Conditioner. They say that the menthol in these products “cools and refreshes the scalp,” but I found that as I rinsed the conditioner out of my hair some of it would run down my body and, if I wasn’t careful to rinse it off completely, I’d get a rather unwelcome cooling and refreshing effect in an area of my body that doesn’t usually react well to being cooled and refreshed.
This mentholic sensation is referred to as a “tingle” by the makers of Denorex, the anti-dandruff shampoo:
The tingle tells you it’s working, and Denorex leaves your scalp feeling fresh and clean!
…and numb. Come on, guys, admit it. The only thing that tingle is telling you is that you just smeared the active ingredient in Vicks VapoRub all over your head.
I firmly believe that when it comes to the bathroom:
| Aromatherapy: | Good |
| Anesthesia: | Bad |
And I can think of a few other rooms in the house where that axiom holds true.
Don’t you wish everything in life was as easy as dialing a gear-driven slide?
When I first saw this advertisement from Jockey…
…I didn’t immediately reflect on what a sensual pleasure it is to have your hair cut by a beautiful woman.
I didn’t think about her cradling the back of my neck as I leaned back and rested my head in the shampoo sink. I didn’t think of her reaching across my face to turn on the water and catching the subtle fragrance of the perfume on her wrist. And I didn’t think about her taking the sprayer and rubbing it slowly against my scalp, the warm water making me a little fuzzy-headed.
I didn’t think about her pouring the shampoo into her cupped hand and then working it into my hair, her fingernails applying just the right amount of pressure on my scalp. Not too hard, not too soft.
I didn’t think about her rinsing the shampoo out of my hair and applying the conditioner, the smell of cherry and almonds filling the air. I didn’t think about how there would be no fingernails this time, just the tips of her fingers sliding effortlessly through my hair. Around and around they would swirl, my head bobbing softly left, then right, then left, then right.
I didn’t think about her rinsing the conditioner out of my hair and then cradling the back of my neck to raise me up out of the sink. I didn’t think about her plopping a towel on my head and softly dabbing at my hair, then throwing the towel around my shoulders and saying, “Follow me.” And I didn’t think about how I would be thinking, “Anywhere….”
I didn’t think about sitting down in the chair and having her appraise me in the mirror. I didn’t think about how she might ask, “So, what are we doing this time?” And I didn’t think about how thrilled I would be that she remembered me from last time. “I just need it cleaned up a little…I’m trying to grow it out,” I might say, hoping she would think that I was only six inches of hair away from looking like Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall.
I didn’t think about her running her fingers through my hair, feeling her way around the back of my head, and then grabbing my bangs and pulling them down over my eyes. And I didn’t think about her grabbing her scissors and working quickly and expertly, the air tinged with the danger of having a sharp implement whizzing past my ears and eyes.
I didn’t think about hearing the soft hum of the clippers as she cleaned up the back of my neck and then grabbing her soft brush to sweep the hair off of my cheeks and neck. I didn’t think about the chill that would pass down my spine as she blew softly on my ear to remove a few stray hairs. And I didn’t think about her putting her soft hand on my shoulder, smiling, and saying, “Done.”
I didn’t think about any of those things.
All I though was, “Ooo, itchy. He’s going to get hair down his waistband.”
“The remarkable likeness of the beloved painter is handcrafted and hand-painted to capture the smallest detail. As he gazes off into the distance, chin in hand, you can imagine Thomas Kinkade envisioning his next masterpiece.”
Even though I complain about it occasionally and dream of moving somewhere more exotic and cosmopolitan, my hometown was recently voted the 7th-best place to live in America by Men’s Journal magazine.
Provo/Orem, Utah
Metro Population: 320,800
Median Household Income: $40,197
Median Home Price: $136,837
Climate: 15 inches of rain, 58 inches of snow, and 232 days of sunshine per year.No full-strength beer here, but there’s just about everything else a man could want: one of the nation’s best job-growth rates; housing prices that continue to stay low; proximity to national forests, 10,000-foot peaks, and rivers teeming with 17-inch brown trout; 300 inches of white gold on the slopes in winter; and one of the highest ratios of women to men in the country. But no full-strength beer.
I guess it just goes to show that the grass is always greener where they get more than 15 inches of rain per year.
This week’s dream careers:
What I’m doing about it:
I have a cold. I have a really bad cold. I haven’t had a cold this bad in years. I was a little worried that I might have the flu. That would have been terrible…and I would have been really sick, too.
My friend, Kate (the unabashed turophile and Queen of Safety), has admonished me for three winters in a row to get a flu shot. I have always scoffed at the suggestion since, being well under 65 and of relatively sound (though scrawny) body, I don’t fall within the parameters of people for whom they usually recommend a flu shot. In other words, flu shots are for geriatrics and wimps.
This has led Kate to call me a “vector,” which I think is a really cool nickname (ala The Matrix), but I don’t think that’s the spirit in which it is meant. I think she means it in the Typhoid Mary/Patient Zero sense. So, when I thought I might have the flu, I cringed at the thought of the inevitable “Remember the influenza epidemic of ‘03, Vector Man?” reprimands that would follow.
But, luckily, it’s just a really bad cold. There are no vaccines for colds. Everyone is a vector for colds. I’m off the hook. I’m also congested.
I honestly didn’t plan on saying anything about the recent passing of Mr. Rogers. I knew that there was going to be a great deal of ink (and/or pixels) devoted to the man, and I figured it was probably going to come in two waves. First would come the usual eulogies and respectful retrospectives. Then the dismissive “Grow up, people! He was just some white guy in a cardigan who lived in an overly-simplistic, artificial environment with creepy hand puppets…” contingent would follow.
But even I, cynic that I am, was taken aback by a third wave of invective that was hurled in Mr. Rogers’ general direction with such volume and force that I felt like I had to do something. I mean, it’s one thing to disparage a man’s life’s work just because it didn’t speak to you personally, but some folks have gotten downright nasty (literally). I feel like I should say something profound to counter this third wave of rubbish, but my cold medicine (I’ve got a wicked cold and sore throat today) has probably rendered me incoherent. (As if that’s ever stopped me in the past…)
I spent part of my childhood in Iceland, where there was only one English-language television station on the local U.S. Air Force base. It only broadcast for about four hours every day and it didn’t have any kid’s shows at all until the last year we lived there, when they added a full hour of Captain America and the Incredible Hulk cartoons on Saturday morning. We thought we were living in a media nirvana.
Living in this children’s programming wasteland meant that I came a little late to Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. By the time I started watching him, when I was 9 or 10, I was well out of the target demographic. While I used to love it when he would visit Chef Brockett to make a nutritious fruit salad, or when Picture Picture would show how loaves of bread were mass-produced, I wasn’t too sure about the Neighborhood of Make Believe.
I mean, I kind of understand the “creepy hand puppet” sentiment because Lady Elaine Fairchild used to scare me to death. I was pretty sure that if I lived in the Neighborhood of Make-Believe, she would have konked me on the head with her Boomerang Toomerang Zoomerang, dragged me behind her Museum-Go-Round, and beat the crap out of me on a daily basis unless I relinquished my lunch money. I, in turn, would have spent a great deal of time and energy restraining myself from slapping Henrietta Pussycat <meow, meow> upside the <meow, meow> head <meow>. (Do you see how the cycle of violence is perpetuated?)
But it never occurred to me to be dismissive just because I was far too sophisticated (at 9 years of age) to really appreciate the show. The fact that there was any kid’s programming at all was a wonder to me.
I did, however, fall into the trap a little later on in life. When I was a wee bloke, I loved Rogers and Hammerstein musicals. Every year, when “The Sound of Music” would come on (this was pre-VCR…post-talkies), I would sit there glued to the TV, fantasize about having Julie Andrews as a governess, and think about how brave I would be as we fled over the Alps ahead of the Nazi hordes. I was pretty sure I would look great in Lederhosen, too. (I’ve got the legs for Lederhosen.)
But, years later, as my tastes matured, I got to the point where the simplistic story lines and syrupy-sweet lyrics of a Rogers and Hammerstein Schmaltzfest just didn’t cut it anymore. I had discovered Stephen Sondheim and, because I was in the middle of that “more-sophisticated-than-thou” phase that we all go through in life, I thought his darker, edgier vision was much more attuned to my newly-cultured palette. During this period of my life, if someone would suggest that I go see a local production of “Oklahoma” that a friend was in, I would roll my eyes (literally), sigh the sigh of the terminally bored, and think to myself, “That’s baby stuff.”
[Tangent: Which reminds me of an episode of Arthur (one of the best shows on TV today) in which Mr. Rogers (voiced by Mr. Rogers) comes to stay with Arthur’s family for a few days, but Arthur doesn’t want anyone to know because all his friends think that Mr. Rogers Neighborhood is a “baby show.” Turns out that even though everybody tries to act cool and say that they’re “too old” for Mr. Rogers, they fall all over themselves when the actually meet the man.]
There’s a book (long out of print) entitled Playwrights, Lyricists, Composers, On Theater, that features transcripts from a series of forums that had been conducted by the Dramatists Guild Quarterly back in the late sixties. These forums were kind of like Career Day at school. People would get up in front of an audience and sort of riff on what they did for a living. But instead of hearing from an insurance broker or a civil servant, you got to hear from people like Edward Albee, Paddy Chayefsky, Arthur Miller, Walter Kerr, Arthur Laurents, and Stephen Sondheim.
The transcript from the forum featuring Stephen Sondheim (imaginatively entitled “Theater Lyrics”) begins with the following:
To start off with a little history: I first got into lyric writing because when I was a child of 11 my parents were divorced and we moved to Pennsylvania. I moved there with my mother, and among her friends were the Hammerstein family. They had a son my age and we became very close. Oscar Hammerstein gradually got me interested in the theater, and I suppose most of it happened one fateful or memorable afternoon. He had urged me to write a musical for my school (George School, a Friends school in Bucks County). With two classmates I wrote a musical called By George, a thinly disguised version of campus life with the teachers’ names changed by one vowel or consonant. I thought it was pretty terrific, so I asked Oscar to read it — and I was arrogant enough to say to him, “Will you read it as if it were just a musical that crossed your desk as a producer? Pretend you don’t know me.” He said “O.K.,” and I went home that night with visions of being the first 15-year-old to have a show on Broadway. I knew he was going to love it.
Oscar called me in the next day and said, “Now you really want me to treat this as if it were by somebody I don’t know?” and I said, “Yes, please,” and he said, “Well, in that case it’s the worst thing I ever read in my life.” He must have seen my lower lip tremble, and he followed up with, “I didn’t say it wasn’t talented, I said it was terrible, and if you want to know why it’s terrible I’ll tell you.” He started with the first stage direction and went all the way through the show for a whole afternoon, really treating it seriously. It was a seminar on the piece as though it was Long Day’s Journey Into Night. Detail by detail, he told me how to structure songs, how to build them with a beginning and a development and an ending, according to his principles. I found out many years later there are other ways to write songs, but he taught me, according to his principles, how to introduce character, what relates a song to character, etc., etc. It was four hours of the most packed information. I dare say, at the risk of hyperbole, that I learned in that afternoon more than most people learn about song writing in a lifetime.
I remember having to stop after I read that because my ears were popping due to extreme changes in intellectual altitude. In my mind, Stephen Sondheim and Oscar Hammerstein were polar opposites. I couldn’t even comprehend them being in the same room, but there was Stephen Sondheim explaining how Oscar Hammerstein provided him with what amounted to a six year course of study on how to write musical theater. Referring to his first real job on Broadway, he says:
…this was the first professional work I had done, and I was prepared to do professional work only because of what Oscar had made me go through.
I wasn’t quite sure what to do with this information. How could I reconcile my distaste for the “baby stuff” lyrics of Oscar Hammerstein with the high regard in which Stephen Sondheim obviously held his mentor and friend? The answer came a little further on when he was asked about his favorite lyricists:
I’ll tell you a little bit about what I like about them. The best thing about [Cole] Porter, the most astonishing thing to me is not his facility with words — facility with words is fairly common. He believed what he wrote, that’s what kills me. Oscar did too. Oscar was able to write about dreams and trees and grass and stars because he believed in them, and what Porter believed in was gossamer wings. No man on earth can write “gossamer wings” except Cole Porter, and nobody has been able to imitate Porter successfully because they don’t believe what he believed.
It’s that simple. What makes Oscar Hammerstein’s work worthwhile is not that I believe in the things he wrote about. It’s that he believed in them. Doesn’t the whole modern ideal of embracing diversity in people boil down to the ability to appreciate the gifts and beliefs of others, even though you may not possess those same gifts or hold those same beliefs.
If you really cherished diversity, how could you not cherish Mr. Rogers? There was absolutely no one like him. Heaven knows, he never followed fads, he never sold out, he never altered his presentation as a result of focus group research (“Could you talk a little faster? 78% of respondents said that they felt uncomfortable with your delivery. And we need to do something about Mr. McFeely. 67% felt that someone younger would provide more efficient parcel delivery and be less likely to hang around shooting the breeze instead of delivering their Vanity Fair in a timely manner. UPS guys in those brown shorts scored very well with the 17-35 female market segment.”) He was an honest, caring man who, “according to his principles” and in his own way, was doing good in the world for millions of small, adults-in-training every day. Heaven knows there are blessed few on this earth about which the same could be said.
So, whether I liked Mr. Rogers (or not) has absolutely nothing to do with it. It was never Fred Roger’s obligation to be true to me. He only needed to be true to himself — and he was. And that’s what made him great. And, as far as I’m concerned, the neighborhood is a little scarier place without him.
Today I’m wearing a black turtleneck, my Elvis Costello glasses, and three days worth of stubble. I just caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window and realized that I’m only a beret away from being a Beat poet. <pow, pow>
It’s spooky, I tell you. I live thousands of miles away, we’ve never met, and yet somehow Jodi knew that I was unshaven this morning. (Why, yes, I do always assume that Jodi is talking directly to me…)
For the past three days I just haven’t been able to face (no pun intended) the idea of shaving. It’s just too much that early in the morning. It’s all I can do to get out of bed, get dressed (although I do manage the ascot, as Jodi requested), and get to work. I just want to stay home, lounge around in my skivvies (and ascot), watch bad TV, and not be bothered by day-to-day hygienic minutiae.
I figure if I wait long enough, scruffy will become fashionable again and I’ll be ahead of the curve. Wait, I’ve never been ahead of any curve ever. Wow. Me…a trendsetter. That would be great! If I became a style icon, it would bring new meaning and purpose to my empty and rather meaningless existence.
I should probably get out of bed, shower, shave, and get myself dressed. I want to look halfway decent by the time the fashion press arrives.
I had the most bizarre dream last night. In it, Justin Timberlake and I were the best of friends and we were in Canada for some sort of national celebration where he was going to be honored for something or other (presumably his humanitarian efforts on behalf of teenage girls the world over).
At some point a panic broke out and the young, screaming girls at the front of the crowd were being crushed against the front barricades. Justin and I leapt into action, pulling the girls to safety. The girls, who by then had turned into Naomi Watts, Nicole Kidman, and various other very attractive women, expressed their gratitude for our efforts and asked if there was anything they could do to thank us <wink, wink>…and that’s when I woke up.
No matter how hard I tried to fall back asleep, there was no going back. It was gone. But for the longest time I had that lingering glow that comes from having a celebrity as a best friend and the opportunities for heroism (and Naomi Watts) that arise as a result of that friendship.
For those of you who are curious, Justin is quite charming and down-to-earth when you get to know him.
I have become hopelessly addicted to Einstein Bros. Power Bagels (not toasted, thank you) with peanut butter and grape jelly (light on the peanut butter, please).
Those damn hand-held seductresses, with their sweet nectar oozing out the sides with each rapturous bite, have me in a grip from which I cannot escape. Their siren song compels me from my path each morning to indulge in their hearty, dense flesh, imbued with the sweetness of raisins and dried cranberries, a cinnamon bouquet redolent of Ceylon, and the piquant nuttiness of….well…nuts. I arrive at work late, reeking of peanut butter, trousers stained with large dollops of grape jelly, acting hyper-normal in hopes that my coworkers won’t notice anything abnormal about my abnormal behavior.
“What?” says a friend, as I pass. “Einstein’s again?”
I glance down at the 32 oz. Diet Coke (with lemon) in my hand, the cup emblazoned with the Einstein Bros. logo (two little men peering into my soul through bagel monocles). “Uh, yeah,” I fumble, trying furiously to think of something that might explain a normal person’s serial dining habits. “It’s, um, it’s right on my way to work…”
“Well, you must really like it,” he offers.
I smile the half-smile of a man who is no longer a part of this world. A man who has turned himself over, body and soul, to his wanton lust for tasty baked goods. Some may pity me, but this is a culinary prison from which I have no desire to be freed. If this is hell, I have no need for a heaven.
A recent conversation got me thinking of where the Hardy Boys might be today…
“Frank and Joe sat in their Chevy Nova across from the Stagnant Arms Motel. Empty Cheetos bags littered the floor of the car and Frank was tentatively sipping his 44 oz. Super Big Gulp of Mountain Dew trying to figure out whether his bladder could wait until their quarry emerged from Room 262. Joe leaned his head against the passenger-side window and wondered if Frank was ever going to let him drive again.
He had accidentally backed over Frank’s girlfriend, Callie Shaw, three years earlier while solving the Mystery of the Bounced Checks, breaking her leg in five places. It had been an honest mistake. He had been distracted by Chet Morton who had him in a head-lock and was attempting to give him a “noogy” at the time of the accident. (Joe had given up on asking Chet to stop giving him noogies quite a while ago. Every time he made the request, Chet would give him a wedgie, so now he just sat there and let it happen. An awful lot of Joe’s life seemed like that now. He just sat there and let it happen.) But even after countless lectures on driveway safety, Frank still wouldn’t let Joe behind the wheel.
Frank sat up abruptly and muttered, “Hey, Mario Andretti, there he is.”
Oscar Smuff stood outside of Room 262 straightening his tie. Behind him, in the doorway, stood a short, stocky forty-something redhead in acid-wash jeans and a Def Leppard T-Shirt.
“Start taking pictures, Speed Racer,” Frank growled, slugging Joe in the arm.
“Darn it, Frank,” Joe winced, as he rifled through the pile of Maxim magazines and candy wrappers that lay on the seat between them looking for the disposable camera that he’d purchased at Wal-Mart the day before. “I’m trying to.”
He finally found the camera and started snapping pictures as fast as he could, but he had to pause after each snap to advance the film with his thumb. By the time Oscar Smuff had made it down the stairs and into his car Joe had only been able to get two, maybe three, decent pictures. They were so far away that he didn’t think Mrs. Smuff would be able to recognize her husband anyway, let alone the bimbo who had been standing behind him.
“Great camera work, Mr. Blind Spot, ” Frank sneered as he pulled out to follow Smuff’s car, signalling properly and merging smoothly with the flow of traffic while obeying all traffic laws and making sure not to surpass the posted speed limit in the pursuit.
From The Hardy Boys and the Mystery of the Fleabag Motel
http://www.theholylandexperience.com/map/index.html
“Themed costuming, shops, craftsmen, dramatic enactments and music, even themed landscaping and food and beverages throughout the facility take guests out of the 21st century and transport them on a memorable journey that is unequalled anywhere in the world,” explained Bill Coan, whose firm, ITEC, was responsible for the design and production of The Holy Land Experience.
Just a couple of thoughts:
I managed to leave my Wenger Swiss Military Field watch in my pants pocket when I did the laundry last night. It didn’t make it through the washer and dryer alive.
I loved that watch. It had a rugged simplicity that I saw as an analogue of my own. Now that it appears to have had mere simplicity, I’m having to consider that I, too, might just be simple.
Perhaps I was expecting too much of the watch. With it’s military origins, I had assumed that it would be capable of withstanding tough military conditions, but then it occurred to me: how rugged does a watch created for the Swiss Army really have to be? The Swiss Army doesn’t actually do anything. They just sit around being neutral. A Swiss Army watch probably needs to be able to withstand the rigors of vigorous café debates about the qualities of various chocolates. It could also be scraped against a stone counter top while filling out a Swiss bank account deposit slip, but that’s about the worst action it would see.
Once again, I think I’ve been the victim of clever marketing. Damn the Swiss and their holey cheese!
In 1987 Estée Lauder introduced a new fragrance for men called Metropolis. The Encyclopedia of World Perfumes provides the following “olfactive description” for the fragrance:
Sage Lavender Basil Mandarine Spicy (Clove, Cinnamon) Neroli Sandalwood Patchouli Vetiver Mossy Ambery
In 1988, Metropolis won a Fragrance Foundation Recognition Award, often referred to as “The FiFi” (no, I am not making this up), and it is still considered by many to be one of the best men’s fragrances ever produced.
I loved that cologne. It was my cologne. Everyone who knew me associated the smell of Metropolis with me. It’s not that I reeked of the stuff, but people loved the smell of Metropolis and, by association, they loved me, too.
But, today, if you were to go to an Estée Lauder counter and ask for Metropolis, the personal aesthetic consultants behind the counter would most likely stare at you blankly and offer to hose you down with either Lauder Pleasures for Men or the new Lauder Intuition for Men. I doubt that most of them have even heard of Metropolis.
Why? Because Liza Minelli killed it years ago. Over a decade ago, Estée Lauder spent an obscene amount of money to advertise Metropolis with a series of ill-conceived television ads that (if memory serves) featured Liza Minelli in all her sequined glory, ballroom dancing with various anonymous, tuxedoed hunks as she intoned the wonders of Metropolis.
It bombed…big time. It was one of the most disastrous advertising campaigns in history. Most experts look back and say that the problem was that they never made it clear that Metropolis was a men’s fragrance. I would contest that it wouldn’t have mattered if they did.
Q. How many men are going to buy a cologne because Liza Minelli tells them that it’s fabulous? Let me rephrase that: How many straight men are going to buy a cologne because Liza Minelli tells them that it’s fabulous?
A. None. (OK, I bought it, but I started wearing it before I saw the commercials.)
Q. How many gay men are going to buy a cologne because Liza Minelli tells them that it’s fabulous?
A. Blessed few…at least not in 1988. After all, we’re not talking about the 1972 Cabaret Liza here. We’re talking about the 1988 Rent-A-Cop/Arthur 2: On The Rocks Liza.
And this is well after Calvin Klein’s Obsession ads had fundamentally changed fragrance advertising. It’s hard to imagine what the folks at Estée Lauder could have been thinking? But, it doesn’t matter now. Metropolis is gone. It’s gone and I’ve searched the world for over a decade without finding anything to fill the void.
It’s no wonder no one loves me. Damn that woman…
As long as we’re on the subject of fragrance ads…OK, as long as I’m on the subject of fragrance ads…I think the latest compaign for Ralph Lauren’s Romance is an interesting example of women’s and men’s differing ideas of what “romance” really is.
If you look at the advertisement for Romance for Women, it is a gorgeous black-and-white photograph of two beautiful people caught in a moment of quiet intimacy:
They stood facing each other. Neither spoke. He reached up with his strong, capable hands and slid her crisp, white blouse off her shoulders and down her arms, binding her wrists delicately behind her. His fingertips traced their way back up her arms. He took her gently by the shoulders and pressed his forehead to hers. She looked down, her eyes gazing first at his chest, then down past his rippling stomach, to where his tanned, supple skin constrasted against the white of his jeans. She closed her eyes, afraid that the moment might vanish, but the warmth of his breath on her soft eyelids told her that this moment — this man — was indeed real.
Her haltered top restrained her heaving bosom but it could barely contain her beating heart. She leaned into him, arching her back slightly to maintain contact. He reached up and lifted her chin. She almost couldn’t bear to look at his face for fear losing herself forever in his deep brown eyes. He slid his hand onto the back of her neck and pulled her softly, gently, toward him…pausing just as their lips were about to touch.
“I will love you forever,” he whispered as the rest of her world melted away.
…or something along those lines. <pause> Whew! <dab forehead> Is it hot in here? Pardon me, I’m feeling a little light-headed. <clear throat> Anyway…
Contrast that with the ad for Romance for Men. It, too, is in black-and-white, but the tones are much darker. And this is an action shot: the picture is slightly blurred, hair is flying, and the guy has spun around to reveal a chain tatoo on his bulging bicep. As for the woman, you can’t even tell what she looks like anymore, but that’s OK because this ad is all about the guy. Yes, this is a man who is in command of himself and the situation:
He grabbed her roughly and spun her around, pulling her toward him and thrusting his tongue into her mouth.
Now that’s romance. At least men think so…or at least Ralph Lauren thinks that men think so.
I’m not sure what it says about me as a man but, while I think the ad for Romance for Men is perfectly O.K., the Romance for Women advertisement is absolutely amazing.
http://www.lileks.com/comics/coffnerv/coff1/index.html
“Screw You, You Jittery Bitch!” or “The Adventures of Mr. Coffee Nerves”
My wife just purchased a new yoga mat. Here is the first item on the list of “Care Instructions”:
Clean your sacred space with saddle soap or an organic detergent.
I wouldn’t recommend it. The last time I cleaned my sacred space with saddle soap I got a really bad rash.
Can we lose the word “proactive” already? I heard it three times on NPR today.
With all due respect to Mr. Covey and his Seven Dwarfs, it’s a ridiculous word used by those for whom the word “active” is not active enough. We already have a perfecty good word that is more active than “active”: hyperactive.
As in:
“Our organization has to be based on a solid foundation of hyperactive and innovative behaviors in management, manufacturing, and marketing.”
…or…
“We need to recognize and run with opportunity and exercise the hyperactive spirit that we all have inside us.”
I also think that “hyperactive” better captures the indiscriminate churn of most management overhauls, where frantic activity and purposeless change are mistaken for actual work and progress.
I received a renewal notice for my subscription to Premiere magazine a while back. It said that because I was a valued subscriber I could renew my subscription for the special low price of $24.95. Out of curiosity, I visited the Premiere Web site to see how much people who are not “valued subscribers” have to pay nowadays. Here’s what I found:
| Valued Subscribers: | $24.95 |
|---|---|
| Unvalued Non-Subscribers: | $11.97 |
This happens all the time. Nearly every magazine that I subscribe to offers to renew my subscription at a “special low price” that is 25%-125% higher than the rate they’ll give to any schmoe who walks in off the street (or mails in one of those little subscription postcards, as the case may be…).
Is there any other industry that punishes its current customers as much as magazine publishers do? Can you imagine a salesman at a Honda dealership saying, “I saw that you drove up in a Honda Accord. We offer special pricing incentives to all of our valued Accord owners, so just add 40% to the price of any car you see on the lot.”
Yesterday, I went to cancel our subscription to Consumer Reports Online It’s a fine service, but we just didn’t end up using it enough to justify the cost. Near the end of the cancellation process it asked me if I’d be willing to keep my subscription if they dropped the price from $24.00/year to $18.00/year and I just sighed.
They didn’t give a damn about me when I was a “valued subscriber,” but as soon as I go to rejoin the unwashed masses I suddenly became someone worth showering with incentives.
I said, “No, thank you.” I can probably get them down to $11.97 if I play hard to get…
For our recent move, I rented a 26’ Super Mover from U-Haul to carry our belongings across town.
When I went to pick up the truck, they handed me a small piece of paper that featured a diagram of the truck and told me to inspect the truck, marking the location of any pre-existing dents or scratches. After circling the truck and making all of the proper notations, you could barely make out the outline of the truck underneath all the ink.
That, along with the 129,000 miles on the odometer, should have been my first clues that this was not going to be a quality moving experience, but I ignored the warning signs, signed the contract, hopped in, and started driving to our old house to pick up the first load.
There were two things emblazoned on the side of the truck. First, it stated:
Gross Vehicle Weight: 18,000 lbs. Max
Second was the assertion that the truck featured a:
Gentle-Ride Van
They got it half right because, while it was indeed a “gross vehicle,” the ride was anything but gentle. In fact, the vibration inside the cab was so bad that two-inch gaps kept appearing between the doors and the door frames. I was sure that the doors were going to pop off at any moment, but when I tried express this fear to my friend Dan who was riding with me, the engine noise was so deafening that he couldn’t hear me.
The ride was so unpleasant that after making one trip to the new house in the truck, my wife refused to make the return trip in our “Gentle-Ride Van.” I think she was also a little embarrassed because as we drove down the street with doors rattling, engine whining, gears grinding, and chassis creaking, passersby would reel around in horror thinking that a cargo plane carrying malfunctioning band instruments was bearing down on them.
Another problem was that second gear didn’t exist. OK, to be fair, second gear existed, but it was easier to shift from first to third rather than spend the five minutes it took to find the magic combination of clutch position, engine speed, and expletives necessary to get the beast into second. (To accomplish this yourself, simply put the truck into first, let out the clutch, wait until the engine gets to about 162,000 RPMs, and then kick it into third.)
The emergency brake didn’t work, either. It was more like a “suggestion” brake, suggesting to the truck that it would be really nice if it didn’t roll down the hill, but it wasn’t going to insist on it. And once you got the loading ramp out, someone would have to climb underneath the truck and put it back on track before you could push it back in again. The air coming out of the air conditioner was hotter than than the air outside. Even the AM/FM radio was DOA. (Not that you would have been able to hear anything anyway, but still…)
All of this wouldn’t have been nearly so bad if, two weeks after our U-Hell fiasco, my brother-in-law hadn’t pulled up in a gleaming Penske moving truck that he had just driven out from the Bay Area. As I stroked the unblemished paint, listened to the purring engine, and eyed the spotless interior, he talked about how great his moving experience had been.
I hate him.
It started as corporate self-promotion. Those little plastic screens that you find in the bottom of urinals used to simply say:
…but it soon evolved into lifestyle advice:
I’m sure that there were quite a few heroin addicts who were persuaded to reform after being lectured by a bathroom fixture, but I resent the rather sexist implication that urinal users are the only ones in need of drug-free advice. I hope that the tampon dispensers in the Ladies’ room carry the same words of wisdom.
Then they decided that you would take investment advice from a urinal:
After hearing his colleagues brag about their portfolios all afternoon, Mr. Robertson excused himself from the table and strode toward the bathroom. “I need a new investment strategy,” he muttered under his breath. “I have an impeccably balanced portfolio with asset allocations in line with my personal goals and retirement time line, but something seems to be missing. <zip> Hmm… Perhaps the world’s leading restroom hygiene service provider holds the key to my financial future.
And now they want to lure you to their Web site:
…where you are greeted by a Flash animation with background music rivaling that of the finest porn films. You can also view a video presentation extolling the virtues of becoming a Swisher franchisee where they actually use the word “pilferage” and discuss the glamorous possibilities of working with such “blue chip companies” as Dunkin Donuts and AMF Bowling Centers.
Why can’t they let a urinal just be a urinal?
I’ve been painting the ceilings at our new house for three days straight. My shoulders ache, my back is killing me, and my neck is frozen in a state that makes me look as if I’m keenly interested in local air traffic, but I think it was worth it.
We had no cats. I am allergic to cats. Six months ago, I said yes to one cat. We now have eight cats. How does this happen?
I’ve got a wife and two daughters who absolutely love animals. So, when “Our Spotted Friend” showed up in our neighborhood six months ago looking cute, skinny, and pathetic, my wife and daughters were immediately smitten with her. The deal was sealed when my wife gave her a can of tuna one day. From that moment, she was “our” cat.
Despite my allergies, I agreed that we could take her in on a trial basis. If I became a sneezing, wheezing, snotty-nosed mess, we would have to find her a new home. Otherwise, she was welcome to stay.
I didn’t become a sneezing, wheezing, snotty-nosed mess.
A few weeks later, a teacher at my kids’ school brought in a beautiful Russian Blue who didn’t have a home. Having said yes to one cat, I had lost all of my leverage by the time the second one came around, so we became the proud owners of “Grace” as well.
When we acquired Grace, she hadn’t been fixed and before we could take care of that particular matter, she became great with child. In fact, she became huge with child. Grace isn’t the biggest cat to begin with and by the sixth week she was almost wider than she was long.
On top of that, since we weren’t quite sure when she’d had her fling, we didn’t really know her due date. For the last three weeks we’ve been telling the girls, “Grace will be having her babies any day now.” I think they stopped believing us quite a while ago.
Well, last Thursday we were awakened by a persistent squeak that sounded like someone rocking back and forth on a rubber duck. For a while, I thought the sound was coming from outside, but then I realized that it was coming from somewhere in the the room. “It’s Grace!” I mumbled frantically, wiping the drool from the side of my mouth. “She’s having her babies!”
I stumbled out of bed and tried to figure out where the sound was coming from. At first it seemed like the sound was coming from the closet so I started rummaging through my wife’s 127 pairs of shoes. But after working my through the first layer of Doc Marten sandals, I figured out that the sound was coming from under the bed.
I peered under the bed and there was Grace, ever the tidy cat, “queening” on a plastic Nordstrom bag. The first kitten had already been born and was squeaking/mewing louder than I would have thought possible from such a tiny body and the second was on the way.
I slid the plastic bag out from underneath the bed and went to wake up the girls. We watched the process for the next hour as numbers 3-5 were born, after which the girls went back to bed while my wife and I stayed awake until the sixth and final kitten was out.
So, even though I was cat-free less than six months ago, the next 9-12 weeks will find us overrun by eight members of felis catus (L.). Thank goodness the little tykes are as cute as buttons…
I waltzed and I walked and I sang today,
As street folk watched me pass.
I sat and I thought and I felt today
That life was an ocean vast.
But deep in my heart I am sure
That my thoughts for you now are impure.
So, I’ll gambol and willow and limp all day,
As my heart sweeps the streets of love.
I washed all my shorts and socks today
And thought of your eyes so blue.
I pilfered a three-dollar watch today
And the tick-tock was saying, “You.”
When I think of you now it’s in terms
Of our meeting and transmitting germs.
But I’ll gladly get croup and wheeze all day
As my heart sweeps the Streets of Love.
It is not a very well-known fact that Sylvia Plath liked to dabble in musical theater, where she was really quite an accomplished lyricist. Some of her best work includes two songs from the unproduced musical, “Let’s Make A Dill.”
The first is a show-stopper entitled “We’re In A Pickle,” in which she is able to come up with rhymes for sixteen different pickle varieties, including:
I’ll go to work in a mercantile,
Just to provide you with a gherkin, I’ll
Show you that my looooove…iiiiis…truuuuue.
The second is “My Heart Belongs To You, Don’t Put It In A Ball Jar,” which, I understand, she later reworked into a novel of some kind. (Though I think the novel’s publisher may have made a typo on the title.)
Anyway, I recently came across another lyric that Ms. Plath had written that, as far as I know, had never been put to music. So, a friend of mine, Kathryn Bartholomew (an unabashed turophile, though that has nothing to do with this particular story) was kind enough to compose the following, which I would categorize as “a smashing little ditty.”
Tiny Pineapple is the home of Grettir Asmundarson, ne'er-do-well, sluggard, and wastrel.
Farting Teddy Bear
Breakfast at Inspiration Point
Do Not Approach Buffalo
Surveying the Savannah
360° View of the Veldt
A Bisons-Eye View
Soul Mates
Eyes of Love
The Big Banana
"Born to Bingo"!
Slots of Excitement
Watson
Jockey Underwear (Haircut)
Sign of the Apocalypse #238
