Best Idea Ever?

I know I said this post would be religiously themed, but I just experienced something wonderful. 

I've fallen into the habit of reading news articles whilst I eat my lunch.  Distracted by a particularly good read on mind-reading (seriously), I picked up a small piece of grilled chicken and an icing flake from a cookie.  After the initial shock wore off, the unlikely combination was surprisingly delicious.  A perfect duo of taste and texture.  Based on this discovery, of which I am most assuredly the first, I am currently developing a business plan for The Real Chicken Pot Pie®.  Potential investors are welcome.

Anyway, I thought I would share that.

Syncopation

In light of the season, this will (well, should) be the first posting in a brief series on topics of a religious nature.  Some will be lighthearted, some will be serious, and some, like the one you are about to read, are so vital to the welfare of your mortal soul that you must absolutely read them.  And now, the topic of the day, the first step on the narrow bridge over the abyss of eternal damnation, is:

JESUS HATES SYNCOPATION

This occurred to me over the course of two Sundays.  Due to the recent illness of the church music director, the choir recycled the music list from the First Sunday of Advent for the Second Sunday.  One of the songs, "In the Day of the Lord," contains a particularly infectious syncopated rhythm in a scandalously titillating 6/8 measure.  Such was the power of these notes that they were in my head for the entirety of those two Sundays. 

While I was humming along, much to the chagrin of my wife, I couldn't think of another church song that contained such a syncopation.  I've come to the conclusion that, for whatever reason, church music singer-songwriters believe God hates syncopation.  Our God must be one that dislikes surprises.  Jesus likes his accents on the beat, thank you very much, and would prefer we don't go all wily-nily with the melody.  Think about it.  How many traditional church songs can you think of with a syncopated melody?

Albeit, there are those that flout the rules.  Beethoven added an unexpected eighth rest in the final strains of his "Ode to Joy" movement in the Ninth Symphony, which, given his advanced and cantankerous age and deafness, could be construed as a giant F*** You to the church.  Indeed, many hymnals today convert this eighth rest into a quarter rest and put the accent on the beat where it belongs.  Christian alternative rock bands depend heavily on syncopation, because God knows their lyrics couldn't carry their songs.  Unable to compete in mainstream alternative rock, these bands brought their acts to the Christian stage for the refreshing lack of competition and the even more refreshing, mostly disease-free, Christian band groupies.

It appears that plenty of devout crazy people agree with me.  A search for "syncopation in church music" turns up a delightful article in Sabbath Fellowship called, simply, "Christian Music?".  Ephesians 5:19 says, "Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord."

This apparently translates into:

"No one who has an indwelling Saviour will dishonor Him before others by producing strains from a musical instrument which call the mind from God and heaven to light and trifling things." 

The article goes on further to target syncopation:

"Syncopated music with its rhythmic emphasis is intoxicating to the mind. The hypnotic effect of strongly rhythmic music using intense harmonies has a damaging effect on the mind and body."

In other words, the melody of "Camp Town Races" is described like cocaine.  Doo-dah?  Doo-dead.

Ridiculously Giant Red Bow Makers Face Tough Times

In the recent Big Three hearings on Capitol Hill the focus has been primarily on the potential collapse of Detroit automakers and the imminent loss of auto worker jobs. Half of which have been outsourced to Mexico.

But lost in the hubbub of these hearings are those honest, hard-working Americans that corporate media sources rarely mention. Like the pilots of those private jets being auctioned off by GM, Chrysler and Ford. And like those guys who make the giant bows that go on the top of cars.

As new car sales plummet in this dismal economy the collateral damage is staggering. Ridiculously Giant Red Bow makers have shared in Detroit's past successes, but these days their Ridiculously Giant warehouses lay full with their celebratory product. The demand these days is nonexistent. To all those hubbies out there asking Santa for a shiny new Lexus, prepare to be disappointed.

Ridiculously Giant Red Bow makers have attempted to diversify. One such manufacturer fitted three elephants last month with his finest Ridiculously Giant White Bows, a wedding gift for a rich man in Dubai. Banks are looking at Ridiculously Giant Red Bows to dress up their foreclosed properties coming up for auction. And rumor has it that an even bigger Ridiculously Giant Red Bow will be used to gift wrap the White House for Barack Obama's arrival in January, smartly taking advantage of the after-Christmas sales.

The Ridiculously Giant Novelty Wrapping lobby has been calling in favors on Capitol Hill and rallying support for the Ridiculously Giant automaker bailout. Will it be enough to save the truly American, truly Ridiculously Giant, red bow? Only time will tell.

(Hubbub is scandalously underutilized in the written word. I'm bringing it back. Hubbub.)

The Ants Go Marching One By One...

Ants in nature are an entomological wonder that are rightly praised for their complex social networks and considerable physical strength. 

Ants in my kitchen are creepy, devious little critters that must be squished with tenacity at all costs.  Right now the loss of my house would be acceptable collateral damage if I could annihilate these guys.  In all wars the loss of innocent life and property are expected bumps in the path to victory.  Only the resolute press on toward their most worthy goal.

We never had an ant problem before.  I am fastidious with crumbs and I've Windexed any stickiness I have ever found.  This morning, however, one of my cats made the decision to vomit near our kitchen.  In the darkness that is 5:30 am I stumbled upon this Monday morning gift and bemoaned the weak stomach of my feline.  Then I noticed the black specs.

After that it is all a blur.  The rage and confusion of war does that to people, I hear.  I sprayed and skooshed, but they kept coming.  I beat them back, but the little buggers were relentless.  My orange tabby helped by licking up several unfortunate members of the ants' front line.  I am sure she vomited them up later.

It was only five minutes, but it felt like five days.  My eye twitched from the toxic combination of adrenal overstimulation and ant poison.  The war dead lay before me on the laminate field of battle.  The shell-shocked wounded wandered about dazed and confused.  This day was mine, but I knew they would be back.  I will be ready.

…hurrah, hurrah.

This New Brand of Patriotism

Question:  If the US Government bails out the domestic auto industry and we all effectively become shareholders in GM, Ford and Chrysler, does that mean it would be unpatriotic to buy a Honda?

Probably not.  Every dependable consumer survey consistently ranks import quality, as a whole, above domestic quality.  The choice of an import over a domestic is more a matter of overall quality and value than patriotism, no matter what Toby Keith may tell you.  Unlike banks, the auto industry isn't suffering because it overextended itself on bad loans.  The Big Three are hurting because they horribly misread their target consumers while their Japanese counterparts understood us perfectly.  They offered us what we wanted at a price we could afford.  They spent large sums of money improving the quality of their interiors while the Big Three developed bigger engines and larger wheelbases. 

I think, in this case, the free market is working extremely well.  The Big Three offered a product that was out of sync with market desires.  Imports filled that void.

Most of the major import brands (Toyota, Honda, Nissan, Hyundai) operate factories here in the US.  If the Big Three failed, there will be pain.  There will be a lot of unemployed people.  But I wager that the Toyotas of the world would be willing to pick up the slack.  They may even recapitalize some of the Big Three factories.  They already have the vehicles we want--small cars, sedans and crossovers with good gas mileage and defensible quality.  Why should we loan the Big Three billions so they can reverse engineer what the import brands have already figured out?  We didn't bail out the electronics industry when it was overrun by superior Asian imports.  Why should we bail out the automakers?

By next year, however, I imagine we'll all be part owners of Ford, GM and Chrysler.  We will have a financial stake in the cars that they produce.  Consider it a tax to keep 2.5 million people employed.  The next time you see an Employee pricing deal at the GM dealership don't consider it an incentive.  We all work for them--we deserve that employee discount.  In fact, you should walk in there like you own the place.

New Orleans Ranks Highest in Crime

In what might be considered a boom for the struggling gulf coast hip hop community, New Orleans is now considered the most dangerous place to live according to the CQ Press' "City Crime Rankings."  New Orleans-based rap artists have been seeking legitimacy ever since new, up-and-coming hell-holes like Camden, New Jersey started to crowd the more traditional hell-holes of Oakland, Detroit, and the Big Easy.

However, this new survey will go a long way in establishing cred for urban lyricists born and bred in the south.  When postulating on the moral dilemmas that are aggravated sexual assault and second-degree murder, Li'l Wayne and P. Miller are now considered experts in their field.  Because when I am being educated on the who's and where's of cappin', I want to be damned sure that the information is reliable.  Felonies are fun!

209 murders in 2007 in a population of 250,000….those are about the same odds as your general Pick-3 lottery.  Anyway, here's the story:

New Orleans ranks highest in crime, survey finds Story Highlights
New Orleans had 209 murders in 2007, according to CQ Press

New Orleans followed by Camden, New Jersey; Detroit; St. Louis; Oakland, California

    
(CNN) -- A controversial ranking of U.S. cities' crime rates indicates New Orleans, Louisiana, has the worst crime rate, while a New York exurb has the lowest.

 The CQ Press "City Crime Rankings" list named New Orleans its most crime-ridden city based on a reported 19,000-plus incidences of six major crimes -- including 209 murder cases -- in 2007.

The Gulf Coast city of about 250,000, still grappling with the aftermath of 2005's Hurricane Katrina, was followed in the rankings by Camden, New Jersey; Detroit, Michigan; St. Louis, Missouri; and Oakland, California.

The lowest crime rate was reported in Ramapo, New York, about 40 miles northwest of New York City, with only 688 total crimes and no reported killings in a city of about 113,000. It was followed by Mission Viejo, California, south of Los Angeles; O'Fallon, Missouri, outside St. Louis; Newton, Massachusetts, west of Boston; and Brick Township, on the New Jersey coast.

Previous editions have been criticized by criminologists and the U.S. Conference of Mayors as a misreading of federal crime statistics. The FBI, which compiles its own Uniform Crime Report statistics, warns that ranking cities against each other can produce "simplistic and/or incomplete analyses," and the American Society of Criminology called last year's CQ report "an irresponsible misuse of the data."

The study's publishers said they dropped previous characterizations of "safest" and "most dangerous" from this year's study, calling those qualities "perceptions of the individuals who live in these communities." But they defended the comparisons as a valuable tool for researchers and the public.

"The book provides the means by which individuals can compare local communities to other similar communities based on comparison to the national level of reported crime as well as crime rates per 100,000 of individual types of reported crime, violent and property crime categories, and overall," the company says in a statement accompanying the data.

The CQ report rated 397 cities larger than 75,000 and 356 metropolitan areas, some of which ranked very differently from their core cities alone.

The New Orleans area was third on the metropolitan-areas list, behind Pine Bluff, Arkansas, and Memphis, Tennessee. Camden, the second-worst city on the cities list, ranked 219th among metro areas. Among metro areas, Logan, Utah, north of Salt Lake City, had the lowest crime rate, followed by State College, Pennsylvania, and Ithaca, New York, the report said..

The data is drawn from FBI statistics on murder, rape, robbery, aggravated assault, burglary, theft and motor vehicle theft.

Running and the fools who partake in it

"One mile…no sweat.

Two miles…easy day.

Three miles…all right…

Four miles….that's enough…

Five miles…now who the $&^# are you???  $&^#ing Chuck Norris??"

A good day does not begin with a five-mile run.  That is a premise of which I am certain.  My justification for this statement are the following scenarios:

1.  You are running for "fun."  You have just expended large amounts of energy and placed undue amounts of stress on your joints and bones to effectively run in a giant circle.  Well done.  Your day will be filled with "runner's high," a form of misplaced self-satisfaction.  People will hate you and throw things at you.

2.  You are running from a bear or other hungry and malfeasant predator.  You have just expended large amounts of energy and chances are you are about to be eaten or brutally mauled.  This will not be a good day for you.

There are Runners, and then there are people who run.  I am a member of the latter community.  I run because I recognize the value of an appropriate amount of cardiovascular exercise, but mostly I run because the job requires it.  I am by no means a shirker of physical activity.  I fall comfortably within standards and for some reason can knock out sit-ups like a fiend.  But I hate running.  Oh, I hate it with a passion.  I hate the monotony.  I hate the pointlessness.  I hate that, by the well established laws of physics, I perform exactly no useful work when I run.  But, most pointedly, I hate Runners.

Runners are easy to distinguish.  They spend inordinate sums of money on shoes and air-wicking skin-tight clothing.  They have, without exception, nice calves.  They think paying for the privilege to run 26.2 miles is normal.  They can tell if you under-pronate just by looking at you.  They can name runners in non-Olympic years.  They invest heavily in gel packs and salt tablets and other lab-created accessories designed to prevent the body from killing itself during long-distance runs.  They subscribe to and actually read Runner's World.  They view a non-Runner as a project and will secretly slip half-marathon applications into coat pockets and desk inboxes.  They think a three-mile run is a "warm-up." 

Unfortunately I work with a large community of Runners.  So I tend to find myself in the mornings on long runs, finishing near the back of the group (but still finishing!).  Most days the Runners send a member to come find me and shout motivational things to me while I gasp and wheeze toward the finish.  Had I any strength, every one of these motivators would have suffered at least a bruised shin.

And so as I end my rant about running I would implore you to remember just one thing:  The first person who ran a marathon died.

He bled purple, she bled gold

Two Dead in Argument over Alabama-LSU Game.

We take football kind of seriously down south.


EVERGREEN, Ala. - Authorities say an argument over Saturday’s Alabama-LSU football game led to the shooting deaths of a couple at a home in southern Alabama.

Prosecutors identified the victims as Dennis and Donna Smith of Brewton. The shooting happened about 7 p.m. Saturday at the home of Michael Williams in the rural community of Owassa.

Williams was arrested and charged with two counts of murder.

Dennis Smith, an LSU fan, called Williams, an Alabama fan, after the Crimson Tide's 27-21 overtime win and an argument ensued, investigators told the Press-Register newspaper in Mobile, Ala.

The Smiths went to Williams' home. Investigators said Smith had a pistol and Williams had a shotgun and fired. Donna Smith was a relative of Williams’ girlfriend.

Business Plan for a Benedictine Monk

Recent events have convinced me that monks are completely underrated. Behind the auspiciously austere persona lies a religious man of power who controls some serious bank. The previous post below hints at some of this power. I've listed a few steps below if you are considering the Monk path:

1. Be a guy. Nuns don't have much cred beyond ruler slapping and penguin habits. If you want to be a nun and have some pull, you will have to actually be super holy (See the Mother Teresa Model).

2. Become a monk. This may be harder than first blush. To be honest, I haven't done any research.

3. Found an abbey in the New England area. It would be good if you had the backing of some living Saint.

4. Become an Abbott.

5. Open a boarding school so that you may share your divine vision with the youngest of God's children. Charge $40,000 per year for such enlightenment.

6. Solicit endowments from wealthy parents and invest wisely.

7. Profit. Show community support by purchasing cool toys like wind turbines and solar houses.

Wind Turbines - God is doing it. So can you!

I am in Newport, Rhode Island this week attending an Energy Management course. We needed a field trip for the course, and a couple geocultural aspects of this small state worked in our favor. For starters, ever since Roger Williams went all crazy up in these parts, Rhode Island has been very religious. This religious fervor led to the creation of numerous monasteries and parochial schools. The existence of old blood in the area has created schools with $40k tuition vying for rich kids. Every school is looking to distinguish itself, and the Portsmouth Abbey School does it with Eco-friendliness. Three years ago they put up a giant wind turbine:

That's a monk standing next to a wind turbine. How crazy is that? Anyhow, the wind turbine generates approximately 40% of the school's annual electricity needs.

Besides the monk mill aspect of the endeavor, I think wind turbines are an embodiment of the future. This white beacon of techno-beauty sits quietly, gently swoosh-swooshing as it generates 670 kW of power. It silently turns to face the wind and spins at a relaxing 28.5 revolutions per minute. It's like a giant white noise maker. I want one in my backyard.

It definitely makes a statement. At 164 feet high, it is visible from the main road about a mile away from the abbey. And even from that distance, the 77-foot blades look like they are spinning quite fast, and in fact they're spinning at a pace of 157 mph measured at the tip. And this particular wind turbine is a small one. It is the only thing I know that moves that fast and that quietly.

We need more of these things

McCain Won Louisiana

John McCain just won Louisiana. It is good to know that my vote will count for electoral votes, even though it appears we bet on the losing horse. Should be an exciting year.

No Iraq!

Well, I found out today that I will not be going to Iraq on January 5. This is a good thing. I did however volunteer for a trip in August 2010, but that is still far enough away that I don't have to think about it. Things could change before August 2010, but as of now I'm not going anywhere anytime soon. It is somewhat odd, however, because in the past three days I had mentally planned the entire evolution and was a tad bit upset that all that planning had gone to waste.

So, no Iraq for me quite yet. But when I came back to my government quarters today I discovered my elevator wasn't working. I guess you can't win 'em all.

Classy

During my recent travels to Rhode Island (the land of Peter Griffin), I elected to ride first class for my brief flight from Dulles to Providence. I still cannot say for sure why this honor was afforded me. Perhaps it was my innate sense of growing self satisfaction. Perhaps it was my stylish GAP wool jacket. Perhaps it was because my seat, 9F, had a large "Do Not Occupy" sign on it. No one can say for sure. All we can discern from this event is that the flight attendant Ramona, a lovely girl from Bavaria, chose me to rise above my peers and to venture "inside the curtain," as us first classies like to call it.

During the next fifty-three minutes I experienced the ecstasy that is extra legroom and unabashed servitude. I used a pillow, even though my head was adequately cushioned. I used a blanket, even though I was adequately warm. I kicked off my shoes because the other first classies had done the same. I tell you, flying in your socks is like hot cocoa by a roaring fire in December. True first classies spurn the idea of ordering alcohol during a short flight. They wish for everyone to know that a mere beer is nothing to them. They pay $126 for the class upgrade so that the poor wretches on the other side of the comfort curtain know that the first classies can afford it. Wealth and privilege is nothing unless people know it. So, in keeping with the unspoken rules of the cabin, I ordered a Sprite Zero, earning an extra bonus point for watching my calories when luxury and beverage selection might induce me otherwise.

When the plane landed and Ramona welcomed us to Rhode Island with her Bawarian W's I knew the dream was over. I was, for the first time in my life, the first one off the plane. I looked back at my beloved seat on that Canadair regional jet, and longed to take it home with me. We had grown close over those fifty-three minutes, and I could tell it would miss me as well. But alas, the whore had another paying customer boarding in half an hour. It may have loose morals and a seat 28 inches wide, but it taught me a lot during my virgin trip inside the curtain. I don't know if I will ever see it again, but we will always have Providence.

Anyway, I'm in Rhode Island for the week, and already I've discovered that the only thing Quahog in Rhode Island is a small clam restaurant. I am so disillusioned and it is only Tuesday.

Matt Wiliams: The New American Hero

Last month, Texas Tech student Matt Williams participated in one of those cheesy kick-a-field goal-for-free-stuff contests during halftime at his school's home game against Massachusetts. He easily made the 30-yard field goal, earning a free year's worth of rent (which he turned down).

However, that was not the end of the road for Matt Williams. Red Raiders coach Leach was so impressed by Williams' performance that he pulled him out of the stands and put him on the team. The following week against Kansas he went 9-for-9 on extra points. Against the pivotal Texas game last night, he outscored the entire Longhorns team 8-6.

Matt Williams isn't a hero because he can kick field goals. Matt Williams is a hero, a cult icon, because he legitimized the dream. When a fan picks up the extra point ball and throws that perfect spiral back down to the field, it could be his big break. When a young man throws a stiff arm during the game of touch football before the big game, someone could be watching. You could laugh at their aspirations, you can mock their dreams, but they can tell you, "It could happen." And now, thanks to Matt Williams, they are right.

Waiting

Well, it is Sunday, November 2, I may have to go to Iraq. on January 5 I won't know until at least Monday, possibly Tuesday. They were nice enough to let me know of the possibility on Friday with no resolution until the following week.

It has been a fun weekend.

It sucks because a year-long trip to Southwest Asia requires no small amount of preparation and planning. I've spent the entire weekend making up these plans. I am incredibly anxious.

I figure there is a one-in-four chance I will be leaving in January. Multiplied by the duration of the deployment, twelve months, my "share" is three months right now. I should feel three-months-in-Iraq concerned, which is probably right, because I definitely don't feel 12-months concerned.

Well, I guess we'll find out in a day or two.

Passion vs. Pragmatism

Aside from the obvious ideological differences, which are relatively few and mostly minor, the most glaring inequity between Democrats and Republicans is a matter of personality.  As a whole, Democrats are more passionate, and Republicans are more pragmatic.  Of course there are exceptions on either side (John Kerry is the polar opposite of passionate, and current Republican foreign policy is hardly pragmatic), but for the most part I think the definition stands.

Think about it.  Democrats are often described (by themselves and by their enemies) as liberal, bleeding-heart, activist, etc.  Republicans are better known for being conservative, stodgy, stingy and numerous other elderly adjectives.  Democrats are young.  Republicans are old.  So goes the joke, "What does a Democrat grow up to be?  A Republican."  Democrats treat their candidate like rock stars.  Republicans view their nominees more like CEOs.

Democrats will crowd stadiums in frigid conditions to attend rallies.  Republicans would rather watch on TV.  "Sorry, Mr. McCain," they would say.  "It's cold and it's past our bedtime.  And you shouldn't be out there, either.  We can't have you catching the sniffles and going all William Henry Harrison on us."

And while I believe each side can produce intelligent, informed and articulate people to debate important issues and produce meaningful solutions, I am confident this election, like all the others, will be decided on Election Day by stupid people.  People I wouldn't trust with a pair of scissors.  People who will vote judging by how they feel at that exact moment.  People who get their information from email forwards.  People who may not vote if it is raining or if there is a line at the polling location.

They will drive our country this year.  Racists who would vote for a guy who slept with their spouses before they voted for a black man will give McCain a boost.  Inner city black residents will be bussed to polling locations on the party dime to vote Obama.  This Sunday, churches across the country will temporarily void their tax-free status as political sermons sway the uninformed believers.  Last-minute ads will shamelessly slander the candidates and celebrities will throw out their endorsements to sanctimoniously support policies that sharply contradict their public lifestyles.  The race to the finish is less a race and more of a boxing match, a final round where the only acceptable finish is the TKO of the opponent.

And so goes the democratic process.

The Squirrels are running on Wall Street

Okay, so I lied.  It turns out starting a new job is a little bit busier than I had anticipated, and I was not able to get posts in for the first two days of October.  My bad.  From now on, posts every day.   Except maybe weekends.  And holidays. 

It seems like most people today are watching this bailout vote.  And they should be, considering each and every one of us has a $2,000 stake in it.  I won't pretend to understand the mechanics of this bailout, but it seems to me that we (as in, US) will borrow $700 billion dollars (from China, the Middle East, etc) to buy lots of bad debt from our large banks and investment firms.  So when our neighbors default on their sub prime mortgages we will default on our loan from China.  The way I see it either we'll have horrible credit in a couple years and be forced to borrow from shady countries like Malawi or Finland, or we'll all be speaking Mandarin when the Chinese repossesses our country.

Anyway, back to the point at hand.  Like everyone else, the stock market is watching the bailout vote closely.  And it cracks me up because our markets, which are usually ascribed macho animals like bears and bulls, is acting like a squirrel.  That's right, the market is a tad squirrellish today.  We have brokers sitting on the floor right now timidly bidding the market up, like a squirrel trying to snatch an acorn in an open field.  "Do I want the stock? oh I want the stock. can I have the stock? I'm gonna get the stock."  Right now the market is up about 200 points, fueled by wishful thinking.

I guess we'll see what happens.  If the bailout is rejected, stocks will drop precipitously once more as the bears eat the squirrels.  If it passes, the squirrels have already spent their wagers on optimism and the resulting climb won't be nearly as exciting. 

Damn squirrels.

Frisbee

I lied. Here is one more post for FY08.

I just noticed on Stuff White People Like that White People like Frisbee sports. This is tragic. The official sport of my Navy community is Ultimate Frisbee. We are so discriminating. No wonder we have only two black officers. This is straight up ludicrous. I am so calling the 24-hour Diversity Hotline. They shall hear from me, I promise you. PT tomorrow morning will be basketball or an equivalent sport invented to embarrass the White People.

Long time, No see

Wow, it's been a while. I blame my eyes. Ever since I went under the laser, I just haven't felt up to the kind of recreational typing this blog requires.

However, focusing on objects is no longer a chore. With my near-normal vision, I hope to get back into this blog. I'm making a promise to myself to try to write every day starting October 1 (my New (fiscal) Year resolution). FY09 will be a literary epic, just you watch.

I know I don't write very well off the cuff, so hopefully this exercise will make my writing less painful with less forethought.

In addition to this life-changing odyssey, I also start a new job on the 1st. It promises to be a big day. See you on the other side. Adios, FY08.

-Bryan

Warning: This Post contains a laser. Avoid direct eye contact.

I had my informed consent today for my refractive laser eye surgery next week. Informed consent is standard procedure for any elective surgery, and generally involves a group of surgeons graphically describing all the bad things that could happen to you. It is a rather frightening process, as they begin with the generally benign side effects like dry eyes and move swiftly and passionately into the more juicy side effects, like corneal collapse. And, like the good students of science that they are, surgeons never commit to absolutes.

Me: "Doc, will I have poor night vision?"
Surgeon: "There is a non-zero chance."

Me: "Doc, will a freak power surge cause the laser to carve "Kilroy was here" on the back of my skull?"
Surgeon: "There is a non-zero chance."

Awesome.

Anyway, after about an hour of glowing testimonials artfully peppered with dire warnings we finally got to meet the surgeon. A nice, slightly balding Navy doctor in scrubs and a white coat pulled over--what is that?? Is that a cast on his hand??

Bad sign.

So, my surgeon has a cast on his left hand. No biggie, right? Controlling a laser is as simple as a couple keystrokes on a computer, right? That's what he said. He also told us that, while most patients receive Lasik as opposed to the competing procedure, PRK, he was hoping that we would all be PRK patients because he couldn't do Lasik with a cast on his arm.

Really bad sign.

If you are unfamiliar with the differences in laser eye surgery, as I was until nine o' clock this morning, it can be summed up fairly simply:

PRK: A painful, longer recovery.
Lasik: A painless, quick recovery.

Hmm. At this point I was almost too informed to give my consent. I am usually very trusting when it comes to medical professionals, but even I have my limits. I was ready to mutiny against this doc and find myself another cast-free surgeon to zap my eye.

But then I had my one-on-one, and I copped out. I couldn't commit. He produced some very convincing reasons to perform PRK instead of Lasik. Most of those reasons involved colored maps of my eyes with numbers that I didn't understand. But there was an orange spot in the otherwise yellow center of my left eye. This apparently was bad for Lasik, which, if performed, could one day, many many years from now, if the planets are aligned just right and I am standing on my head, result in spontaneous corneal collapse. The same corneal collapse they warned me about! It's a non-zero chance! I couldn't risk it!

So I'm a PRK guy.

I think Lasik would have worked for me, but this surgeon looks like a documenter, and I'm sure he would have documented the crap out of me had I ignored his recommendations. You live and die in the Navy based on documentation, and having that in my record would have screwed me somewhere down the road. ("I see you went against your eye surgeon's recommendation forty years ago. I'm sorry, sir, but Lasik directly caused your arthritis and we cannot treat you.")

Anyway, I go under the ray gun on Monday. I'll share the experience here.

Ezekiel 33

I am Catholic.  Not to toot our own horn or anything, but I think we've got a good thing going.  We've got apostolic succession all the way back to St. Peter and a pretty awesome sovereign nation.  Do the Baptists have a sovereign nation?  No.  And Mississippi does not count.

As a Christian, I am a huge fan of the New Testament.  In relation to other religious texts, I think it lays down a decent framework for a belief system.  It has a good message and, aside from Revelations (what is that??) you could live your life by it and come out doing okay.

The Old Testament, on the other hand, is a piece of work.  It is like Christianity's rough draft.  If the New Testament speaks of love, the Old Testament is all about judgment and punishment.  It makes for decent literature, but, religiously speaking, it causes a lot of conflict when everyone is walking around being holier than thou.  It was a good first crack at monotheism, but I think it fell a little short.

For instance, Ezekiel 33:8-9, which was our first reading this past Sunday, says:

"If I say to someone wicked, "Evil-doer, you are to die," and you do not speak to warn the wicked person to renounce such ways, the wicked person will die for this guilt, but I shall hold you responsible for the death.

If, however, you do warn someone wicked to renounce such ways and repent, and that person does not repent, then the culprit will die for this guilt, but you yourself will have saved your life."

That is like a license to be preachy.  In fact, it is an order to be preachy.  God commands it.  If you see someone so much as lift a finger on the Sabbath, as a Christian you would be encouraged--nay, required--to nag this person.  And Christians don't need any help being naggy. 

Oh, and "naggy" is not a word, but it should be.

New IPO: BRY

The Navy has invested a lot of money in me.  I know this because they continually remind me.  The latest figure they've told me is $300k, not including normal pay and compensation.  That is a lot of money, but they must have some idea what the Return On Investment (ROI) is.  I'm curious when they expect to see some profit.  Will I have to pay dividends?

That got me pondering.  I'm a pretty good guy with a healthy amount of common sense and ambition.  I know what exactly what you're thinking.  "My God, he is a shameless braggart!"  Yes, that may be.  But you are probably also thinking, "How can I get in on that action??"  With the stock market the way it is these days, it is hard to pass up on a sure thing like me.  I may not be flashy like Google, but I can provide you a steady rate of return over the long run.  I'm a catch.

The Navy got me off the ground with some initial venture capital, and now I am ready to go public.  The Navy insures me to $500,000, which is a reasonable assessment of my value.  Assuming the SEC approves my application, I expect that my IPO will begin October 1, 2008.  I will issue 50,000 common shares priced at $10.  Of these shares, 25,001 will be held by my wife, who, in addition to her majority ownership, will be chairperson of the board of directors.  The remaining 24,999 common shares will be released to general public.

I encourage you to hop aboard this gravy train.  A copy of the Prospectus for this IPO will be provided to serious investors upon request.

Another X on the wall

Living in a cubicle for eight hours a day has its challenges.  For one, no matter how many Dilberts or family photos you thumbtack to the wall, nothing can mask that Misery Gray color.  Second, it is difficult to mark the passage of time.  Without a window or any insight to the outside world, it becomes nearly impossible to adjust to the changing months.  My daytime world is a consistent partly-cloudy 72 degrees. 

In light of this challenge, one of the universal activities of our close cubicle fraternity is counting the days.  We all need to know we're getting closer to the end.  It doesn't matter that we haven't defined the end yet, it just feels good to know we're getting there.  Much like POWs.  A lot of people mark X's (or, for the tragically perky, smiley faces) on their calendars.

That's quaint.

I, on the other hand, mark the passage of time with urinal pads.  Navy contracts are beautiful in their complexity and their manic attention to detail.  We just don't hire someone to "clean the bathroom". No, no. Our contract with the custodial provider says "You will replace all urinal pads on the first working day of each calendar month."  It is precisely that attention to detail that makes me proud to be an American. 

Today is one of those contractually important days.  I go to the bathroom at around 10:00 this morning and, while in the process of relieving myself, I receive this fragrant burst of lilac aroma.  I look down and sure enough, written on the urinal pad in Sharpie is 9-2-08.  Today is a good day.  I settle back into my hygienic routine and let lilac blossoms remind me that August is over.  That is a good thing.  Toward the end, August was starting to smell a bit like urine.

What did Houma do to you, Jim Cantore?

Gustav is about an hour away from making landfall.

Where is The Weather Channel's Jim Cantore? Houma, Louisiana.

Where is Gustav going to make landfall? Houma, Louisiana.

Houma, you must have pissed Jim off real bad. Good job.

Jim Cantore, Meteorologist, Hurricane Whisperer

Being fine with being confined

I've been on nine planes in the past thirty days. By my own reckoning, that qualifies me as an expert on air travel. I logged more time in airports during August than I spent in the office. I've been delayed and rerouted more often than not. And, despite this, I think air travel, for the most part, is okay. I'm okay with the extra bag fee, because I go entirely carry-on. I'm okay with the no-fluids rule, because I rely exclusively on hotel hand-outs. And I'm okay with the overbooked flights, because I am good at finding new flights. It's like a game of skill and deception that I play with multi-billion dollar companies.

But by far the cruelest joke the air travel industry plays on its travelers are the waiting areas by each gate. They are inordinately large. I typically take up five seats. One for me, one for my laptop, one for my suitcase and two just in case I need them. It is like my own bastion of personal space. And I'm not the only one who does this. We all abuse these seats. My favorite spot is the row of seats looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the tarmac. At the jetway. At the fragile tube of winged aluminum that, through a well-known miracle of aviation (called the "Bernoulli Effect"), will manage to fit all of the passengers in the waiting area.

I don't think airlines should give us the option of sitting in such opulence. I need a conditioning period. I cannot go from personal space Nirvana to being tickled on my nose by some guy's ear hair. It is a shock to the system, and one day it will kill someone. Like a cold pool, I need to ease myself into the controlled asphyxiation that is an airline cabin. Let me brush against an elbow. Let me hear a bit of labored, nasal whistling. Have me laugh awkwardly at an old lady's non-funny observation about weather and maple syrup.

I think Southwest is doing it right. They put you in corrals now before boarding your flight. This is a beneficial experience--the sooner you feel like livestock the better. Take two minutes at the beginning of the flight to introduce yourself to your seatmate. I recommend the following:

"Hi, my name is Bryan. For the next two hours we will inadvertently touch and bump each other in ways that, at altitudes less than 30,000 feet, would be construed as harassment. Please excuse me if I don't make eye contact with you when we deboard."

Where Is Jim Cantore??

In the panic and paranoia that precedes a hurricane like Gustav, it is easy to get lost in the endless and diverse predictions about who is going to suffer death and destruction. After all, the National Hurricane Center issues hurricane warnings that stretch for hundreds of miles--they can't even tell you where the storm will hit, and preface every one of their discussions with a statement to that effect. And even if "Hurricane conditions are expected within 24 hours," there is a big difference between 74 mph winds and 140 mph winds, between a six-foot storm surge and a 25-foot storm surge. Who's going to get it?? It may be easiest to believe that one pundit who brings the storm to your backyard--because paranoia likes being right--but if you really, really want to know where the storm is going, you need only ask one question:

"Where is Jim Cantore??"

That son of a bitch from the Weather Channel is the goddamn right hand of Satan. About 24-36 hours before the storm hits, Jim meanders down to some little coastal town and hunkers down in a hotel. And then he waits for the storm to come to him.

And it does. Like some kind of hurricane whisperer, Jim coaxes these little cyclones toward his cameras just so he can perform his award-winning ,"Macho Weatherman" type of journalism. Jim duly notes the passage of the storm as the world falls apart around him. He will masterfully watch the storm surge sweep away Chevrolets ("The tide is a bit higher than average!") and he will give due consideration to the hotel that collapses beside his bunker ("We have debris!").

My advice for getting through tropical events is simple. Don't panic, don't be paranoid. Unless you see Jim Cantore at your local supermarket. Then you should run like hell.

Why are you smiling, Jim??

Happy Birthday, Blog

Hey!  This blog is a year old now!

Yay.

Welcome, Friends

I don’t get China. And I suspect that, if you live in the United States, you probably don't either.

I think our ability to empathize with China's ideological analog to democracy (communism, totalitarianism, etc) is somewhat limited by the freedoms we enjoy here. I'll provide a couple examples from the Beijing Olympics opening ceremony.

Example 1
The beginning of the ceremony showcased a spectacular fireworks display that began, for television viewers, with fireworks in the form of footsteps leading from historic Beijing to the Bird's Nest stadium. The footprint fireworks were later discovered to be digitally created.

Typical American reaction
Why would you spend millions to fake a televised fireworks display?

Official Chinese reaction
We spent millions of dollars and put in months of effort so you wouldn't find out it was faked. We even added a camera shake representative of a helicopter and consulted with meteorologists to get the hazy sky right.

Example 2
An adorable young Chinese girl brilliantly performed a national song. She was quickly elevated to the status of "National Hero." Turns out she was lip-syncing. To another girl's voice.

Typical American reaction
Was the other girl so ugly that she could not be publicly appreciated for her talent? Are you telling us that, out of a pool of 1.5 billion people, you couldn't find a girl that was both cute and a decent singer?

Official Chinese reaction
During official rehearsals it was decided that the owner of the voice was not fit to visually represent China. We should be commended on finding a replacement (with good teeth) on such short notice.

Example 3
The ceremony opened with 2,008 performers beating a perfect war-like cadence on 2,008 replica ancient Chinese drums. Lost on the rest of the world was that the Fou drum, not readily recognized outside China, was actually a large pot that a host would fill with water or wine. The host would drum the pot to show welcome to guests.

Typical American reaction
Umm, is that war paint on their faces? I'm a little uncomfortable…

Official Chinese reaction
What?? What says "Welcome, Friends" better than 2,008 drummers chanting in perfect unison? Do you need more?? Would 2,000,008 drummers make you feel more welcome? Because we can get them.

Cruise Chronicles: Cruise Nazi

Cruise Chronicles - My wife and I recently returned from a nine-day Caribbean cruise. These are our tales.

I think the term, "Nazi" is overused. Nowadays we use it as an adjectival noun* to describe anyone who is being a totalitarian asshole about a particular subject. The most famous pop culture reference is, of course, the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld. But in that instance it was intelligently used. A comedy about Jewish people addicted to a decidedly fascist cook? Comedic gold.

"No soup for you!"

I have no qualms about people imitating this sitcom work of art, nor do I have problems with people using a defunct political party to spice up their conversation. I just advocate the diverse use of all the screwed up political movements.

So, when I say there was a cruise Nazi, you can rest assured that I do not use that term lightly. This guy was a freakin' no-kidding, goose-stepping Nazi. Our first encounter with Adolf was on the pool deck. He finished his Heineken (of course!) and motioned to the nearest waiter, "Hey Jose!" The waiter was indeed Hispanic, but casual inspection of his name tag revealed that his name was not, in fact, Jose. I was willing to dismiss this, as perhaps Adolf had a previous waiter whose name was Jose and it was difficult for him to tell them apart. He was old, and that was understandable.

But then he did it again. To an Armenian. I was beginning to suspect a White Power connection. But this still didn't make him a Nazi. Just an asshole.

Our confirmation came a couple days later on the promenade deck. We had assumed our usual chairs, and, like all the old people, devoured our latest books. Adolf took a seat several chairs down from us and began chain smoking. He was soon joined by another old guy, because old people are like chromosomes. You always see them in pairs, and if you do happen to see just one of them, you had better steer clear. It can only be trouble.

Sorry, back to the confirmation. Midway through their conversation, Adolf said to his new friend--let's call him Eva--in the most matter-of-fact tone, "You know, I don't agree with everything he did, but Hitler had some pretty good ideas."

Now that is a Nazi.

*Adjectival noun...damn, I'm grammatically awesome.

Cruise Chronicles: Dancing Waiters

Cruise Chronicles - My wife and I recently returned from a nine-day Caribbean cruise. These are our tales.

Cruise lines recruit from poor nations worldwide, offering men and women the opportunity to make a better life for themselves and for their family. All the cruise lines ask for is hard work, long days, and unyielding courtesy. Oh, and they must dance for us.

Why??

Why do wait staff dance at dinner? Who thought this was a good idea? My ongoing theory is that your typical cruise passengers become insecure when their waiter from Honduras speaks better English than they do. This insecurity, is, of course, not pleasant. So we make our wait staff dance for us when they need reminding of the proper pecking order.

Waiter: Sir, may I offer a full-bodied Tuscan Chianti to complement your filet?

Sir: I don't like your tone. Please flail your arms so I can feel superior.

Cue music: Cent, five cent, ten cent, dollar. Cent, five cent, ten cent, dollar.

Okay, it isn't quite that bad. Sometimes we twirl our napkins in the air to support of our favorite waiter. But they have to earn that.

Side note: One of the dance songs was "Hey Look Me Over," the Broadway tune that was purchased by Huey Long and turned into our alternate LSU fight song, "Hey Fightin' Tigers."

Cruise Chronicles: The Towel Menagerie

Cruise Chronicles - My wife and I recently returned from a nine-day Caribbean cruise. These are our tales. Cruise veterans such as myself expect excellence from our cabin stewards. Sure, they work 16-hour days so that we may enjoy four-star accommodations, free room service, and an evening turn-down all for the average nightly cost of a HoJo's, but we demand more. We demand towel animals.
The first night I was a little disappointed. I mean, there was a mint on the pillow and fresh towels in the bathroom, but where was the towel animal? It was Royal Caribbean, for Pete's sake. I expected better.
The second night, after our formal dinner, we were greeted by a puppy in our state room. Yes! More animals would follow. A bat, a rabbit, a crocodile, a gibbon (or baboon?) and an elephant were part of the linen zoo that was our state room. Our rabbit wore my wife's sunglasses. Apparently our cabin steward was so dedicated to his craft that he rummaged through our things to bedeck his creations in life-giving accoutrements. I encouraged it. I purposely left out sunglasses, rings, watches and bowties with the unadulterated hope that they would end up on a future animal. Can you anthropomorphize an animal which is really a towel? I believe you can.

Bat(h) Mat.

Trix (as in silly rabbit...)

Mortimer the Crocodile.

Gibbs.

Ray.

Lelephant. (li'l and elephant preciously combined)

Cruise Chronicles: Buyer Beware

Cruise Chronicles - My wife and I recently returned from a nine-day Caribbean cruise. These are our tales.

There are many milestones in the cruise industry. The first lifeboat. Balconies. The first lifeboat that actually floated. Reggae music introduced. The drink, "Coco Loco." Ice rinks. Disney characters on demand.

Probably one of the more profitable milestones, however, was the first boat to sell stuff on cruise ships. Since the first time man walked in the sand and declared it slightly enjoyable, people on vacation have been eager to spend willy nilly. I suppose the psychological barrier to large expenses has already been broken and people don't feel that guilt when they buy things. It is kind of like placing a three foot-high wall of sand bags on the other side of a levee. Once that water breaks through the levee it will pause for a hummingbird's heartbeat before going over those little sandbags.

This psychological freedom, if you will, is why outlet malls flourish at beach locales, despite the surprisingly ignored fact that no one needs Waterford crystal to sip their Coco Locos, nor do people need a pair of Timberland boots to trudge through the waves. Car dealerships abound in Atlantic City. You've won $500 on slots?? Let's buy a Lexus!

Cruise ships will sell you crap (duty free!) at every corner. Liquor, jewelry, perfume, cosmetics. Whatever you may want on your cruise vacation. Oh, but you can't drink the liquor on the boat (they plugged that loophole years ago). They also have art auctions and casinos, in case you want to lose your money faster. The sequence of operations for these businesses is strange enough that it should alert the moderately intelligent individual:>

1. They open when the ship enters international waters.

2. They close when the ship enters port.

hmm.

It seems those pesky government regulators don't like these shops, auctions and casinos operating within their jurisdiction. So the ship waits until it enters international waters, free from commercial codes and gaming commissions, where it can take your money with unfettered abandon. Auction houses in the US are highly regulated industries and are professionally run. Art auctions at sea are unregulated and will sell you valueless art by plying you with free alcohol and preventing you from your right to due diligence by limiting your information of the pieces.

We took a nine-day cruise for $899 each. That is $100/day for food, lodging, entertainment and a 2400-mile boat ride. I imagine those old people sitting at the slot machines were subsidizing my cruise vacation. So, here are my suggestions for saving money on your next trip:

Bryan's Money-Saving Cruise Rules

1. If you are not me or my immediate family, spend often and in excess. You're paying for our trip!

2. Never ever buy art on a cruise ship. Shop at Wal-Mart for the same prints.

3. Buy liquor only if you are an alcoholic and need to save that extra $2 on your next bottle of Kahlua.

4. Buy jewelry/perfume only if you broke any of the above rules and need to score points with your significant other for immediate redemption.

Astronomy is Racist

In the news today:  "Texas County Official Sees Race in Term 'Black Hole' "

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,380143,00.html

Due to this shocking revelation in Dallas County, astronomical observatories around the nation are in danger of losing federal funding and theoretical physicists face numerous civil suits.  The terms "dark matter" and "dark energy" have been stricken from scientific literature, as they are obviously thinly-veiled terms meant to keep the black man down. 

Says one activist-cum-amateur astronomer, "Why would anyone name a gravitational singularity a 'black ho?'  It's a galactic lynching." 

When told the correct term was actually "black hole," the same activist replied, "Oh, I have no problem with that," and left to find a real job.

Nevertheless, special interest groups are seeking to revamp the scientific vocabulary.  The "Milky Way" is prejudiced against Asians, who have a genetic disposition toward lactose intolerance.  The Big Dipper is an obvious mockery of the chronically stupid.  Uranus is under fire for inciting involuntary sexual harassment.

"Our goal is to remove all potentially offensive terms that these scientists have dreamt up for their own personal amusement," said one woman with way too much free time.  "Like quark.  I'm not sure what that is, but I am pretty sure it is offensive to someone."

Cruise Chronicles: Departure

Cruise Chronicles - My wife and I recently returned from a nine-day Caribbean cruise.  These are our tales.

One of the especially endearing elements of my latent obsessive compulsive behavior is my obsession with arriving to places on time.  I like to be so on time, in fact, that I often get there several hours early.  This makes for awkward dinner parties.

Most chronocentric (nice!) vacation elements punish you for arriving early.  If you get to the airport too early you have to wait at the gate through several other flights while the counter people eye you suspiciously and the security people take a more-than-cursory glance at your properly sized carry-on.  So you sit there and buy a (three dollar?!) bottle of water and wait until you have to pee, which will be the only respite from your monotony.  At hotels if you get there before the official check-in time you'll be in the lobby rooting through the ten thousand brochures featuring quaint local activities like the Senior Glass Blowing demonstration or the $20/person See Our Backyard tour.  Your only hope is to come across the fossilized remains of that morning's continental breakfast. 

But cruises reward you for getting there early.  The boat leaves at 4:30 pm?  Get there at 11.  You'll avoid all the lines, be shuffled aboard quickly by employees who are still smiling and cheerful because they have yet to deal with That Old Cranky Guy or Six-Kid German-Speaking Family.  Once onboard they let you walk around like you own the place.  Bars are open.  There is fresh food at the buffet.  Unlimited soft serve! 

The four hours before our boat actually left were some of the best times on our vacation.  We were local to the cruise terminal, and almost adjacent to my Navy base, so we dropped off our car on Navy property (free parking! YES!) and had one of my coworkers drop us off at the terminal (valet!).  We slipped through the embarkation lines and were on the boat in less than twenty minutes.  The boat was ours.  We staked out our window seats, sipped our Virginia Sunrise (boat drink #1) and toasted as the ship departed.  Our suitcases were among the first delivered to the staterooms, and my early and pleasant conversation with the maitre' d guaranteed us a private dinner table away from That Old Cranky Guy and Six-Kid German-Speaking Family.  Unfortunately, however, I misjudged the time needed to walk from our stateroom to the dining room and we arrived at dinner an fifty-six minutes early that evening.  It was to be the only flaw in our otherwise schedule-perfect departure day.

A Dickensian Landscape, in Sepia

I may have mentioned this before, but I work in a shipyard that at times appears to be ripped from the pages of a Charles Dickens novel.  Indeed, Charles Dickens was writing Great Expectations when this shipyard was in its neo-Industrial heyday, and Dickens' father was a clerk at a Navy pay office.

Today we were further blessed to have a nearby wildfire blanket the shipyard in soot, smoke and ash.  Visibility was down to a quarter-mile and the mid-morning sun only managed to turn everything a dirty amber color.  It was like my own personal live-action, old-timey photograph.  I think even Pip would have been depressed.

Tough Times

I figure the construction industry is one of those bellwethers of the economy.  Construction, be it new buildings or renovations in existing buildings, is one of the first things cut from the government budget when money is tight.  Salaries come before maintenance. 

I just found out that one of the superintendents I've worked with for the past year and a half is being laid off by his company.  He has been doing a good job for me, and it pains me a little to see him go.   The guy is at least sixty and has some health problems, so I'm not sure what he's going to do.  No one is hiring these days.

He is just one more in the unemployment line.  I shouldn't take my job security for granted.

Did you notice?

Did you notice the stunningly clever pun in the title of the last post? That's political commentary gold right there.

I ran from Israel as fast as I could

I don't like to post at the beginning of a work day. I usually have something to do (today isn't any different) and it is incredibly bad form to be both reading the comics AND blogging. Multitasking several recreational activities at work is strictly taboo.

But I read this headline next to my morning Dilbert and had to blog:

Report: Israeli Minister Says 'We Will Attack Iran' if Nuke Program Continues<

What?! Israel is retarded. The minister goes further to say that the United States will support Israel during such an attack.

Oh hell no. It is like Israel ran behind us after poking a sleeping bear. A big bear. An angry bear. A bear that may have nuclear weapons.

I understand that Iran hates us for our socioeconomic imperialism. I got that. It is probably not a good thing that our first colony, which we established right on top of the most historically disputed region EVER, is antagonizing the arguably most powerful and certifiably most crazy nation in the region.

I don't know about you, but I advocate dousing Israel (or at least their minister) in honey and running like hell.

Monogoneutic

I am all for smart kids. If there were a Junior Nerd Olympics, I'd be there with my cowbell and giant foam pointy finger cheering on the little freaks. I was definitely a nerd (still am), and I looked the part (still do). I married a nerd, because, as you may recall from recent Discovery Channel documentaries, nerds travel in herds. I was statistically bound to marry one of my own. I also hate stupid people. My wife is a humanities nerd, which is very useful and impressive to unread people like myself. Nothing accentuates your argument better than a well-placed Milton reference. I am a science nerd. I know a lot of the typical constants (mass of the earth, Avogadro's number, the produce code for bananas) and basic conversion factors. I know exactly how many gallons of Jello it would take to fill my living room. In addition to the GPA advantage, Jello calculations are why every fraternity house typically recruits at least one nerdy physics major.

But I don't know what monogoneutic means (Google does - an adjective describing an organism that produces only one brood per year) and I couldn't spell it to save my life. But some fourth grader can.

The National Spelling Bee is one of the more depressing things to watch. These kids are absolutely brilliant--the youngest qualifer this year was eight years old. Eight years old! But I think they put their eggs in the wrong basket. They study continuously for this event. One girl read the dictionary cover-to-cover seven times. She has favorite words to spell. But when will anyone ever need to spell monogoneutic?? And these poor kids, instead of having a normal childhood, are drawing imaginary letters on their arm, contorting their features, or developing any combination of nervous tics trying to spell words that only a roomful of very specialized, even more nerdy fungal biologists would appreciate. And, at the Scripps Howard National Spelling Bee, they have a comfort room, a room set aside for the losers when their hopes are crushed because they cannot spell numnah (a saddle blanket). They need this room because the kids will cry for more than an hour after they are eliminated. How nice.

And watching this thing! Obviously, I am on duty. Otherwise I'd be doing something else besides blogging about a spelling bee. But the National Spelling Bee is more awkward than an Office episode. You sit there and watch these young kids break down on national television. The audience is just as stressed. There is no murmuring or cheering. Polite applause will do. The announcers say little, and when they do, they are usually patronizing the kids.

Anyway, I wish those children luck. I hope they turn their brilliance to a more fruitful and decidedly less stressful calling.

End of the World Update Part 2 - China

More than 50,000 are missing or dead in the China earthquake.

So, what's going on in Asia? The combined total of deaths in the earthquake and the Myanmar cyclone is large enough to offset the global population growth for an entire day. That's a lot of people.

And China? China is, in many respects, our economic and political equal. They are considered by many to be a superpower and, having already established their global economic influence, are rapidly growing and flexing their military to project the political power. If the 20th century was the American century, all signs indicate we are living in the naissance of the "China Century."

And yet, when an earthquake strikes their less-developed regions, more than 50,000 perish. Why is that? Why is it that their schools are among the more poorly-constructed buildings? Place a similar earthquake anywhere within the United States, Japan, or any other developed nation, and I guarantee less casualties.

Human rights, and the requisite concern for human life, is not the priority it should be in China. In a recent article in a fire protection magazine (I know, I gotta get a life), the fire protection engineer for the "Water Cube" Olympic pool in Beijing, currently under construction, boasted that the new building would indeed meet all national fire codes, employing creative engineering strategies that minimally satisfied the technical parameters of the code. In other words, rather than sacrifice open spaces and "unique" bubble-like construction material (that emits less-than-pleasant fumes when burned), the engineers chose to squeeze by on code compliance. They met the letter of the law, but definitely not the spirit. Not a facility I will be occupying. Ever.

A global superpower with a questionable human rights record is, frankly, rather terrifying. Imagine if Stalin controlled Russia at the height of the Cold War. A national sense of self-preservation is the key controlling factor in any strategic conflict. A country with less concern for the lives of enemy noncombatants, and, ultimately, its own citizens, will be willing to risk more and to accept greater casualties. A country with such an attitude toward human rights can always win through attrition, assuming the adversary is less than or equal in size. At 1 billion strong, China has a significant advantage.

End of the World Update

Developing countries are having a particularly bad week dealing with disasters:

-Cyclone Nagris, a storm no more powerful than Katrina or a Dean, smacked Myanmar last Saturday, killing at least 22,000 people, a number that will likely double or triple before it is all said and done.  The military junta government is blamed for not issuing warnings before the storm and for hesitating to accept aid after the storm.  The meager amount of aid that is trickling into the country cannot reach the hardest-hit Irrawaddy Delta because of the nation's poor infrastructure and absent emergency services.  Pallets of food are unloaded by hand because the airport didn't have any forklifts available.  Rampant inflation and price-gouging is placing the cost of bare essentials--a bag of rice now tops $40--painfully out of reach of a populace where the average daily income is less than $2.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24478247/

Fog - The Great Equalizer

Normally, I hate foggy days.  They are dark and gray and the air is so humid that the fog clings to you.  Like a form of misery that sticks to your skin. 

But today is different.  Today, the fog is my friend.  Today, I heard one of the office dwellers exclaim, in her shrillest voice, to no one in particular, "Ugh!  My window is all gray!" 

Gray, you say?  Gray, like a cubicle wall perhaps?? How does it feel, you over-indulged window-hoarder??  I may never rise to your level, but today, yes, today you have fallen to mine.

Not that I'm bitter.  But someone, some time ago must have made the conscious decision that optimum soul crushing could only occur if cubicle walls were gray, and today we suffer in his legacy.  We have all thought about this gentleman, and how we want to bludgeon him with a stapler. 

So forgive me if, on this foggy day, I smile as window offices experience the same instantaneous morale drop for which cubicles are notorious.  Today, I celebrate Cubicle Appreciation Day.

Jerk Dolphins

Dolphins are, without a doubt, freakin' awesome.  With surprising frequency I come across a story on a news site about some heroic dolphin somewhere risking life and flipper to save some non-dolphin.  I think you could argue--successfully--that dolphins, by their actions, are more Christian than Christians.  However, dolphins are known to engage in sexual relations for pleasure, so you know they aren't Roman Catholic.

These heroic dolphin exploits got me thinking: How many of us people would punch a shark to save someone we didn't even know, let alone someone who wasn't in our same biological order?  Not many.  Conversely, I would wager that there is a significant percentage of people who would gladly spoon-feed someone else to that same shark if it meant they could get away.

Even if we assume that dolphins as a species are more altruistic than people, I don't think this Good Samaritan trait is universal among any species.  There has to be some jerk dolphins.  But you never read stories about those dolphins…they somehow avoid detection.  I can only think of two reasons for this:

1.  Dolphins as a species do not tolerate jerks as well as we do.  They may have an excellent system for weeding out the bad apples.  When that shark comes along, the rest of the pod might subtly nudge the jerk to the outside of the group.

2.  Jerk dolphins are really good at what they do, so stories of their misadventures never quite make it back to the rest of us.  I imagine that coming across a dolphin jerk while you are in the process of drowning would not bode well for you. You'd be thinking "Flipper!  Help me to shore buddy!"  Your new dolphin friend, always smiling, would nod his head and go "A-a-a-a-a-a-a!" and offer you his dorsal fin.  As you grab it he begins to swim, with all his dolphin might, further out to sea.

Bottom Line:  If you get yourself into a situation where you need a dolphin's help, the dolphin you are dealing with is probably an order of magnitude smarter than you are.  Hope jerk dolphins aren't as prevalent as jerk people.  And never call a dolphin "Flipper."  Even the Mother Theresa of dolphins would drown your ass for that.

Bring it on, May

April 2008 is officially over in three hours.  Good riddance.  What a tiresome month.  May had better bring some good things, otherwise there will be heck to pay.

It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done...

A shipyard is not the most cheerful place to work.  The atmosphere is so sickeningly Dickensian that you could almost imagine Sidney Carton (or was it Charles Darnay?) sidling up to Madame Guillotine.  THWAP!

In such a setting, you have to take the little things that make you smile and embrace them.  Dilbert helps.  I also play games.  For every pun I can use in an email, I get two points.  Obscure nautical references in conversation?  Four points.  Making comparisons between my supervisors and Captain Ahab, without them noticing?  Ten points.  A bonus point is awarded if I can sneak Pequod into the comparison -- "You're right, sir, it would Pequod an achievement getting complete cooperation on our little whale of a problem.  Perhaps you could spearhead the effort on this one?"

I also eat a sizeable quantity of Goldfish.  You know, those little cheddar fish-shaped crackers?  The ones that always, always smile back??  The ones whose incessant grinning and vacant eyes make you want to bite their heads off, which you can do because they are, after all, not even real fish and it does no good to anthropomorphize a cracker???  Why won't you frown, fish?!!

But mostly, for my own personal kicks, I rely on the absurdity of my coworkers.  Today I had to wait until after lunch.  One of the elderly gentlemen, who is the uncontested general of the Nap Time Brigade (see an earlier post from April), also believes that the farther away a person is, the louder he has to talk to them on the phone.  Today, the individual was at a desk approximately thirty miles away, so the old guy had to talk at a moderately loud volume to ensure the sound of his voice traveled intact over that thirty miles of telephone cord.  Our guy, so it happens, is volunteering to be a contestant on our command's version of American Idol, although we will not use that trademark and we don't limit ourselves to just singers.  If this was ten years ago, we would call it a talent show, but this is the New Navy and we are hip.  But, as it turns out, our Nap Time Brigadier General is an avid ballroom dancer, and regularly partners with his wife in such contests. 

Now I'm not making fun of this.  I believe ballroom dancing is technically challenging and a worthwhile hobby.  I commend the General for participating in such an activity, what with him being older than dirt.  But his enthusiasm just makes me smile.  I might have even giggled in fact.  You see, the General wanted to know the exact dimensions and composition of the stage he would be performing on, because a skilled a dancer as he needs the Proper Floor for his Proper Shoes, and if the Proper Floor was not available, he would bring the Proper Baby Powder so that he might prepare the Improper Floor so as not to scuff his Proper Shoes and affect his Superior Performance. 

I smile because, on the other end of that thirty-mile conversation, was some poor soul who probably was volunteered to organize this little talent show and had no idea where the talent show would be, or what kind of stage existed.  Up until that point, he had hoped and prayed that no one would volunteer and he could let it die quietly, but the General just guaranteed that wouldn't happen.  And just like Mr. Carton, you can bet he was praying to Jesus that this ordeal would be quick and painless.

THWAP!

It's the end of the world as we know it...

For people in my age group, that is, those of us born in the 80s, this is the first period of economic pessimism that has affected us. We weren't really cognizant of the stock market troubles in the late 80s, and we were still too young to feel the pain of the dot com burst--we didn't own stock, and gas was still cheap.

But in the past six months, I have watched my mutual funds reduced by 10 percent, and the value of my house has evaporated by a similar figure. When I started high school I remember seeing gas prices at 89 cents per gallon. That was less than ten years ago. A gallon of milk costs twice what it did when I started college, not six years ago. My cost of living raises are not keeping track with what seems to be an accelerating rate of inflation, driven by a growing global demand for our most basic resources.

Yet, to be quite honest, my standard of living has (to this point) been largely unaffected. Because we are fortunate enough to live in an industrialized (first world?) country, our lives are less affected by changes in market-controlled goods. Gas has increased 400 percent in ten years, but gas still only represents about four percent of my budget. Food prices are spiking, but grocery goods only account for fifteen percent of my budget. Non-inflationary items--mortgage and car payments, insurance and student loans--dominate my budget, and this little fact of American life insulates me and most of my neighbors from the worst affects of our current global economic crisis. When I dump $1400 a month into my mortgage, spending $2 instead of 77 cents on a pound of rice won't bankrupt me.

However, what hardly registers on our budgetary radar is causing riots in the third world. Families in less developed countries spend a significant portion of their daily wages on food, and during these rough times the cost of that meager nourishment is rapidly exceeding their income. Men are watching their families suffer from hunger, and out of desperation and dedication they try to get food however they can.

I think that we, as a global community, have passed the point in our history when an undeveloped country could, of its own volition, climb out of the third world and join the ranks of the industrialized nations. This threshold is defined by the availability of natural resources, the ease of exploitation of those resources, and the ability of that nation to control those resources. Though always steep, this hurdle to economic sustainability grows steeper still as we, the industrialized brethren, efficiently consume these resources and as our global markets, whether through hedging, speculation or sheer supply and demand, assign value to these resources that forever put these commodities out of reach of our poor neighbors. Even if an undeveloped nation is rich in resources, this wealth becomes more of a liability as the global community looks to exploit it.

There is very little hope now that those third world nations, scattered across the world but concentrated primarily in Africa and south Asia, will ever rise from their humble condition. A stagnant economic misery will ensure subsequent troubles befall such a country:

The country will become a welfare nation, a global poor box, an eternal goal of missionaries and humanitarians. In line with the "teach a man to fish" analogy, perpetual allotments of charity will remove any vestige of independence from the populace.

Exhiled from legitimate economic pursuits, illicit trade will be accepted, even welcomed by the impoverished. It is exceedingly difficult to preach the immorality of opiates to men who, after seeing their families sick with hunger, elect to grow poppies. Gemstone smuggling, drug trafficking, human trafficking exist and thrive under governments made incompetent by corruption or bankruptcy.

Governments will rise and fall as often as the seasons change. Loyalty is cheaply bartered and many seek the head of state in order to improve the quality of life for their respective sects at the expense of their rival countrymen.

External investment in the country's natural resources will enrich the current government at the expense of its citizens.

A global humanitarian crisis will utterly destroy the third world. For instance:

The current issue is, of course, global warming. As a citizen of a developed nation, I will most likely avoid major life-threatening consequences of my polluting heritage. Going green is, for me, fiscal common sense at best and a social responsibility at worst. I'll put up solar panels and plug in my car when it saves me money. However, global warming could lead to a drought in a third world country that will destroy an entire season's crop and bring a famine unto millions. Once again, my good fortune to be born in America insulates me from suffering.

Another possibility is a worldwide pandemic. A growing likelihood is that a superbug, encouraged to evolve by our industrialized use of antibiotics, could become highly contagious and spread rapidly throughout the world. A mortality rate of just one percent could leave 3 million Americans dead, overwhelming our health care system and keeping our docs, who may have gone forth in humanitarian aid, here at home. In third world nations, absent adequate health care, lacking vaccines or treatments, the mortality rate could easily be ten times that of developed nations.

Just some food for thought this Sunday morning. As you can probably tell, I am awfully bored and had some time to kill on watch.

An interesting application of this Development Threshold is that it applies to any nation today as well as any nation in the future. We have so efficiently removed the resources of industrialization from the earth that we have discovered and mined all the minerals that are close to the surface. It is only through our technology and sheer industrial effort that we continue to mine and drill. Oil no longer seeps out of the ground in Texas, nor can you find gold in Californian streambeds. We have created an environment where we need oil to get to more oil, and we need steel to find more iron. If a global catastrophe removed most of the world's population and along with it our industrial capacity, we have left our descendants a threshold so high that it will be difficult, if not impossible, to recreate an industrialized society.

I knew it!

Secretary of Defense Robert Gates, my (boss)^12, confirmed today what me and many of my Navy colleagues have suspected for quite a while: the Air Force is an over-indulged, sand-bagging fighting force whose failure to support our guys in Iraq belies its own illusion of self-importance.  Get over there and fly your remote control planes, for cryin' out loud. 

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/04/21/AR2008042100950.html?hpid=moreheadlines

Your Government at work

The clock strikes 1100.  Approximately ten hairless heads rise up above their cubicle partitions like a pack of prairie dogs emerging from their colony.  Timid at first, but ever emboldened, they cast furtive glances around the rest of the office.  Faces cast upward, they scent the air and comment on what was being consumed by their coworkers.  Finally satisfied by the relative quiet, a wizened old man in a flannel shirt solemnly nods and a younger male leaves the safety of his cubicle.  He reaches the light switch, looks twice down each corridor, and flips the switch.  Half the office goes dark as ten hairless heads retreat into their respective cubicles.  Each dons a ball cap placed strategically over his face, and proceeds to sleep.  All phone ringers are silenced.  Aside from the occasional self-indulgent snore, there will be no sound.  No disturbances.  No interruptions.  The clock strikes 1101, and the Hour of Darkness is upon us.

If you ever deign to listen to a government executive talk about the civilian workforce, you are bound to be told many, many times that our workforce is "experienced."  This, of course, means that everyone is old.  A corollary to this is that we aren't hiring young people, who just aren't attracted to life in the civil service.  Most would rather live out of their parent's garage and take a job at the local video store, which you know is going out of business soon, what with the Netflix and Redbox and all, but you don't care because hell, you get to watch whatever movie you want to and at least you are not sitting in some grey cubicle surrounded by octogenarians who you know will die the second after they retire because this is their life, and while that is depressing enough you continue to get emotionally attached to these people even though you know there is a very high probability that they will be dead in a year, just like that goldfish you loved for a week before you flushed it down the toilet.

I think most of our elderly workers hate their jobs as much as those twenty-something video rental specialists think they would hate those jobs.  Unfortunately, the old people are now committed to working for the government.  Once a government employee hits 15 years of service, it doesn't make financial sense to get out and give up the chance for retirement at 30 years.  They hate their jobs, but they cope.  They work less.  They work slower.  They darken half the office at lunch so they can sleep.  And now I'm typing in the dark.  Touché, old people.  Touché.

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