Beer! Brewing! Need a name and label!

In keeping with my new years resolutions for 2010, I brewed a new batch of beer yesterday.  It's an Irish Red Ale, which they say is a lot like a Scotch ale but not quite so Scottish.

I had to start by buying a new stopper and air lock because I broke the old one with the last batch.  Turns out if that rubber stoppers get hard and dry as they get old, and if you push too hard, they actually slip down into the carboy.  We managed to work it out, but we broke the airlock during bottling.  So anyway, with the new equipment in place and a fresh ingredient kit from Beer, Beer, & More Beer, we brewed.

The beer looks great.  It now ferments and settles for two weeks, then I'll bottle it.  Two weeks later, just days before the opening game of the World Cup, it will be ready to drink.

The only problem is, I need a name and a label for it.  Normally I'd do this myself, but I'm turning to you, all my friends, to do it for me.  This is probably as close to a blog contest as I'll ever come, so you better jump on this opportunity before it expires.

The task:  Name the beer and create a label that can be printed on Avery 5264 labels, which are a great size for both the 22 ounce and the 12 ounce bottles.  These are 3-1/3" by 4" with rounded corners, and you need to be aware that I am not very good at printing bleeds unless you also provide me a six-up version that can be printed on my Mac Mini.

The context:  This beer will be consumed mostly in a hot tub with the World Cup on the big screen.  Some will be given away to friends, probably.  Children may be present, so no X rated labels.  (Actually, feel free to send X-rated labels.  I just won't pick them as winners.)

Submissions:  Email the name and artwork to me at dudleypj@gmail.com, no later than May 23, 2010.

The prize:  I dunno.  Maybe, like, I'll say thank you.  And you'll get the thrill of having your work displayed on beer bottles in my home.

Let us pray, or, like, whatever.

Dudes, it is the National Day of Prayer here in the good old U S of A, despite what some fuddy-duddy judge dude says.  Our founding fathers had the good sense to set up a system of government that separates church from state, and which leaves enough wiggle room for the state to cozy up to the church when it wants.  Cozying up is good.  I like cozying up, given the right cozy-up partner (that cozy photo there's me and Carrie Underwood).  And wiggle room is good, especially with that same cozy-up partner.  And really you can cozy up almost anywhere, especially if... sorry, lost my train of thought there.  What day is it?

Oh, right.  National Day of Prayer, which causes much angst and gnashing of teeth.  Did you know there's a group called Freedom from Religion Foundation?  I like the concept because, really, isn't freedom what this country's all about?  The pilgrims left Europe because the church didn't like the way they worshipped the old white-haired dude in the sky with the big beard and the magic finger.  Which is weird because all of them worshipped that same dude, from the same book.

But the Freedom from Religion Foundation has a really funky acronym.  FfRF.  Sounds like something a dog says when its got a tennis ball in its mouth, or the sound that comes out when you get latte foam up your nose by accident.  I think it's because of this funky sounding acronym that they are so wound up and tense over religion.  They think people are making fun of them, saying "FfRF" and giggling, so they feel like they have to prove themselves or something by being as militantly devoted to their cause as Franklin Graham is to his.

Here's what I think:  We don't need a National Day of Prayer.  Congress, back in the ancient days of the 50s or whenever, solved a problem that didn't exist and didn't need solving.  People who pray have like fifty-two days of prayer already.  Some people pray every day.  They really need another one where the government tells everyone who doesn't pray that we should all be praying?  On a Thursday in May?  This is necessary?

No, it's not necessary.  It doesn't help the spirituality of those who are already spiritual.  It doesn't create spirituality in those who aren't.  It's not like National Day of Prayer raises awareness of God.  National Day of Eating Fewer Trans-Fats, now that I could get behind.  It's practical, and there's a public health aspect to it.  But there's only one purpose a National Day of Prayer can serve, and that purpose involves solidifying the political power of the religious over the non-religious.

But instead of joining in that battle, I think I'll quote from two very wise men.

“Life is short and complicated and nobody knows what to do about it. So don’t do anything about it. Just take it easy, man. Stop worrying so much whether you’ll make it into the finals. Kick back with some friends and some oat soda and whether you roll strikes or gutters, do your best to be true to yourself and others – that is to say, abide.”
--The Dude

“Sir, my concern is not whether God is on our side; my greatest concern is to be on God's side, for God is always right.”
--Abraham Lincoln

And, with one final thought from Mr. Lincoln, I say, "Happy National Day of Prayer."  Take it easy.

looking for happiness in the bottom of a D cup

Here in California, we have a lot of fake boobs.  We also have a lot of things that create fake happiness.  Napa offers wine, Marin offers marijuana, and Genentech offers Valium.  These mind altering substances offer a brief illusion of happiness but do not actually make people happy.  Fake boobs may or may not make certain people happy, for real.

A week or so ago a woman in Orange County went so far as to fake some credit in order to pay for her new fake boobs.  She was looking forward to hitting the bars to show off her new chest, but it looks like she'll be spending time (six months) behind bars instead.

Back in 2005, ABC aired a story about a new trend:  parents giving their children boob jobs for high school graduation.  Presumably, the gift was limited to daughters.  But again, this is California, so anything's possible.  The best line from this story:

The gift of breast implants costs about $7,000. "But I don't think you can put really a price on your child's happiness," [Jennifer's mom] said.

That's right.  No price is too high for our child's happiness because, you know, money can buy happiness.  If the Jaguar doesn't do it for you, maybe a nice rack will.  If that doesn't work, maybe Xanax is for you.

Here in our very own elementary school, my younger son acted and sang in the school play.  He was a cardsman in Alice in Wonderland, and although it wasn't a starring role, he had several lines and loved every minute of it.  By all accounts, the play was a smashing production, and I agree.  Really well done, with some terrific performances.  Around the last week of rehearsals, though, I heard an ugly rumor that some of the little girls (these are 10 and 11 year olds) had begun taking anti anxiety medication because of the pressure of this play.  This wasn't about boobs, of course.

But this was:  A retailer in the UK was recently forced to pull a product from its shelves.  The product?  Bikinis for girls younger than 10 years old.  Bikinis with padded bras, for girls younger than 10 years old.  The article notes an anonymous source with a possibly reasonable explanation for this, but really.  Come on.  Really?

Padded bras for little girls?  Women stealing money to get boob jobs?  Children taking anti anxiety medication to make it through the school play?  Parents buying their daughters new boobs to create self esteem?

What the cuss has happened to us?

At least this lady knows how to teach her son proper values.  If he's gonna steal the Xanax she hid in her bra, she's gonna turn him in to the cops.  Talk about looking for happiness in the bottom of a D cup.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Poor Louisiana.

too much salt? not enough salsa!

Brazil has leapfrogged California.  No, not economically.  According to Wikipedia, California's Gross State Product (GSP) is $1.8 trillion compared to Brazil's $1.5 trillion Gross Domestic Product.  (Personally, I think California's grossest state product is asparagus, but that's not my point.)

My point is that Brazil now has the coolest government.  We already knew they had the best beachware, but now Brazil's health minister is urging the country to cut down their high blood pressure.  While we here in the US fret about things like salt intake, Brazil is pushing exercise, from dancing to sexual intercourse.  (I'm guessing that the reason the rate of high blood pressure rose in 2009 in Brazil is because of the minister's announcements.  If I knew the government and the health industry were behind me, I'd do everything I could to juice up my blood pressure right before my doctor appointment.  You know, to get the prescription.)

Back in 2003 we had a choice to make in California.  Our governor was kicked out, and we had 135 candidates on the slate in the special election.  Eventually we selected The Terminator, who has proved to be mostly inoffensive.  That's about the best I can say for him.  We thought it would be totally cool to have a kick-ass actor as governor again.  Harken back to the time when Dutch was governor.  A tough guy for tough times, a real Americ... um, tough guy that understands guns and manly modes of transportation such as horses and motorcycles.

Me, I hoped we'd go a different film star route.  I hoped we would follow Italy's lead.  In 1987, a full 16 years earlier, Italy saw the wisdom of electing a former porn star to Parliament.  Cicciolina, a Hungarian born porn star, in 2002 failed to win an election for mayor in an Italian city.  I am sure defeat was hard for her to swallow.  Maybe, had she won, we would have had ridden her tail--um, coattails--to a victory of our own.

Yes, we had our very own ex-porn star running for governor of California, the eighth largest economy in the world.  Mary Carey, a former ballet dancer and current porn star, ran on an 11-point platform that included making lap dances tax deductible.  Carey promises to run for President of the United States when she turns old enough (35).  According to Wikipedia, she will be eligible for that position the 2016 election.  And why shouldn't she?  She's already familiar with all the other positions politicians engage in.

If only we'd elected Carey, we'd still be ahead of Brazil.  Plus, when a porn star urges more sexual activity, it feels authentic.  When a regular old health minister does it, it seems... doctory.  Like the old guy with cold hands that tells you to turn your head and cough.  I'd much rather hear it from Carey.  Plus, I'm sure she's very familiar with politics since, being a California based porn star, she is likely familiar with the club at which the RNC hosted some, um, "meals."  Which means she's probably heard a lot of political chit-chat through the years while she was working.

California's loss may be Louisana's gain.  Porn star Stormy Daniels is preparing to run for Senate against disgraced Republican David Vitter.  I dearly hope she wins.  I'm considering moving to Louisiana just to vote in this election.  How a Senator can co-sponsor a constitutional amendment to protect marriage, then get caught with his pants down like he did... and still be electable is a big question.  And now that he's running against a porn star.  It just doesn't get any better than that.

God bless America!  (And Brazil a little bit, too.)

PS:  Be sure to keep your salt intake low.  And get your blood pressure checked regularly.

Wednesday invades Saturday

Today is Saturday.  And a GLORIOUS Saturday it has decided to be.  Which, unfortunately, means a lot of weed pulling.  But it also meant a youth soccer tournament between Walnut Creek Soccer Club (my son's local club) and youth teams from Sheffield Wednesday.  No ash clouds in sight (or any other clouds for that matter.)

Wednesday arrived Thursday to play Saturday.  They may also be playing Sunday, but they won't be playing my son's team.  My son is on the second flight team, and only the top flight are in the tournament.  I don't have any idea what the results were, but judging from the American parents' comments, it seems Wednesday schooled our boys pretty good.

But what was fun for my son was a coaching "clinic" the Sheffield coaches put on today.  Essentially it was four weeks of practice squeezed into sixty minutes.  They asked my son's team to be the practice squad, so a few of the boys and a few younger ones were run through a frantic but professional set of drills.  It was great to see the demeanor and action of the coaches, watch how they ran the drills.  I didn't take any notes at all because, thank God, I don't have to coach this year.  Hooray for me!  Yay!

The best part of the day was the language barrier.  The boys had no idea that "in ya come" means "stop the drill and come listen to me."  They had no idea that "have a breather" meant "stop the drill and take a rest."  One boy said that the main coach (who had a wee hint of Scottish brogue) was completely unintelligible, and not a single word was understood.

Here are some more of the photos.  Sorry they stink.  They were taken on my blackberry.  My son is #61, the one clearly exhausted after the first drill.  (Apple doesn't fall far from tree.)

Here, Sam is successfully dispossessing one of his good friends.  A natural defender, my boy.  Again, apples and trees, limited distance relationship.

Final wrap-up before quitting.  No breaks for an hour--the boys did a terrific job keeping after it and represented their club well.  Very coachable set of boys, those.

Boy Scout Jamboree

When I was seven years old, I tried cub scouts and pretty much failed out.  I never thought much of it over the years until my boys joined cub scouts... and loved it.  The more they loved it, the more involved I got.  The more involved I got, the more they loved it.  So, recently, I found myself completing the training to become an official Assistant Scoutmaster.  Which was almost like waking up one day and finding out you live in a Brady Bunch house with a white picket fence in middle class suburbia.

Here's my house (courtesy of google maps street view):

Anyway, my first Scout event as a newly minted Assistant Scoutmaster was the Northern California Jamboree to celebrate the 100th anniversary of scouting in the US.  They expected about 16,000 people to attend, including scouts, adult leaders, volunteers, and staff.  Instead, they got 20,000.  Although not all 20,000 camped overnight, there were lots of tents.

The middle of the three photos above was our troop's camp site.  The others are just random photos from our little corner of the fairgrounds.  Imagine this fifteen times over, and you're getting close.

Some of the newer boys let their moms pack for the two-night campout.  We expected to hike our gear in about a half mile from the parking lot, but fortunately for this new scout, we were able to drive right up to the tent site.

Sam was also a new scout, on his first outing since bridging up from cub scouts.  He'd been on many outings with the troop, but always as a sibling and never as a scout in his own right.  Here he is, in full regalia.

The Jamboree was actually quite well run.  Although there were 20,000 people on the fairgrounds on Saturday, I never had to wait in line for a bathroom longer than a minute.  Food, on the other hand, was a mixed bag.  They provided tickets for the concessions booths for lunch on Saturday.  We were lucky and waited only 30 minutes for a hamburger and chips.  People who went after us waited more than two hours to get food.  But dinner was done cafeteria style, and it went smoothly.  Here's the line for dinner; it took our group about ten minutes to get from this point to meals in hand.

Although many of the lines for the events seemed long (we abandoned the BMX biking line after 15 minutes because we were only 20% through it), Sam still managed to have a ton of fun.

He climbed.

He tied fishing lures.  (We don't fish.)

He arched.  Archeried.  Shot arrows.

Did a number of other fun things, too.  All in all, it was a good event.  But I could wait a hundred years til the next one.  I prefer camping out in the wilderness rather than among 20,000 other people.

tax code gone wild

The US Chamber of Commerce has a blog.  They call it the Chamber Pot.  Sorry, Chamber Post.  For some reason that s always drops off when I read it.  Today they linked me to the video below, which would make FOX News proud (if anyone over at FOX News could understand it).



OK, sorry, I showed a little bias there, didn't I?

Over at the Center for Freedom and Prosperity, where I think they consider Glenn Beck a little too far left for their satisfaction, they say this video "exposes hidden tax of IRS compliance."  In the end, I was very disappointed to find, the narrator does not actually expose anything.

Personally, I think a flat tax with a minimal set of rules makes a lot of sense.  The IRS as it exists today is even more ridiculous than the health care industry.  Throw out the tax code.  Establish a flat income tax.  Abolish exemptions (except the extremely poor) and tax-based subsidies.  The 1040 would be reduced to a quarter page (half a page including instructions).  What's not to like?

This video does highlight some staggering statistics which prove is that the current tax system and the IRS are huge, wasteful bureaucracies.  There's an unfortunate undertone of "it's all Obama's fault" which is no surprise if you look at the other articles and videos at the Center for Freedom and Prosperity.  And in the end, the exposé of the hidden tax is that, yes, companies hire people to comply with tax law, and those people are paid out of the companies' taxed revenues, and their salaries are then taxed, and golly gosh darn it when they invest their money that gets taxed too!

I'm not really sure what the point of this video is except to make everyone feel worse than they already do about April 15th, the IRS, and government waste.  And of course it's only going to get worse since Obama put the IRS in charge of... something.  What did she say at 2:06?  Oh yeah, Obama "put the IRS in charge of enforcing a government run health care system."

Wait a second.  WTF?  THE IRS RUNS THE HEALTH CARE SYSTEM?

Oh shit.  Now they really CAN take your spleen or whatever if you don't pay your taxes.  My god.  The cost of compliance will soar.  But it'll still be less than the cost of non-compliance.

But doesn't it all sound better when read by a cute college girl sporting a spaghetti strap top and a glowing tan?

Spring Break halfway mini travelogue

Out in California, where we don't have a "ski week" in February, we take our spring break at the logical and civilized time of Easter.  This is bad because the cousins in Connecticut are in school this week, but it's good because we have all the attractions and museums to ourselves.

We flew out on Saturday the 3rd, the day before Easter.  My older son had given up air travel for Lent, but when I reminded him that he's a devout Atheist and explained what Lent is, he relented.

Easter involves about 35 relatives all getting together at "the club" (a local former one-room schoolhouse that is more of a community center built in the 1950s than what most might think of when they hear "the club" up on "the hill").  I have a wonderful, fun family, and my extended family on my stepmom's side is as quirky and wonderful as my own.  Couple that with 75 degree sunshine all day, and you've got yourself a grand old Easter dinner.  Oh, and since my sister turned 50 on Wednesday, we had cake and sang and lit candles.  But only a few, symbolically, because after all it's an old schoolhouse and probably would have gone up like a bundle of straw.

We also colored Easter eggs in the morning. This is a tradition that I loved as a kid but now treat with unbridled apathy.  My boys, however, love it (for about 2.3 minutes, just enough to pretend that the white eggs have picked up a healthy pinkish glow from the dye).  What I love is that the main Easter egg company is named Dudley.  Why?  Who knows?  But it is an undisputed truth that everyone, simply everyone, needs a Bendable Dudley.

Monday we drove out to Bradley airport and the New England Air Museum.  This is a wicked cool museum, with a truly impressive collection of original, restored, and replica aircraft.  This includes the original oldest remaining aircraft in North America--a balloon basket from a hot air balloon from the late 1800s.  Military and civilian aircraft, with a tremendous amount of history and factual information.  Highly recommended.  Oh, and don't miss the B-29 in the Bomber Wing.

Tuesday we split up.  The boys went with the grandparents to laser tag and some other nefarious deeds that we parents didn't really want to know about.  Meanwhile, Maria and I went south to the my father's birthtown and the current town-of-residence of one of my very bestest childhood friends.  We and Larry lunched at a little restaurant right on the shore, complete with lobster bisque and a crab salad sandwich.  Some things just aren't available in California.  Then we took a walk out to the beach.  Another gorgeous day.

Wednesday we went to the Pequot museum at the Foxwoods casino in southeastern Connecticut.  I'd heard it was really spectacular as Native American museums went, so I had high expectations.  And I happily say that it far exceeded my high expectations.  I really recommend this museum.  The fact that it is near a casino should have tipped me off that there would be bare breastage, however.  (No, not the docents--the statues in the Pequot Village).  The toplessness of these figures was neither tasteless nor gratuitous, however.  And frankly, by the end of the Pequot Village exhibit, I was a little surprised to emerge back into the museum and see women wearing shirts.  I do love the fact that it's up front and center, so to speak, on their web site.  As the curator says, "Get a load of those... beads!  In her necklace!  Yes, those are some beads."

Wednesday we nearly forgot to call my sister and wish her happy birthday, but we didn't.  Forget, that is.  We called after dinner and sang into the speakerphone.  To her answering machine.  A typical Dudley birthday celebration.  Happy 50th, sis!

Thursday (today), we split again.  Maria and my stepmom were going to see some NPR speaker in New Haven tonight, so my dad and the boys and I hightailed it over to a truly manly museum:  Battleship Cove in Fall River, Massachusetts.  You may remember that last year at this time, we visited the HMS Belfast in London.  But that was merely a single ship, and that only a Cruiser class.  Battleship Cove has not only a legitimate, full size, wholly kick-ass battleship (the USS Massachusetts), but also a Destroyer, a submarine, some funky Russian missile boat, two PT Boats, and a landing craft like the one used in the D-Day invasion.  This museum rocked.  I thought the guns and magazine on the Belfast were impressive.  Holy smokes, the guns on a real battleship are daunting.  I did not get a photo of it, but the projectile hurled more than 12 miles by those turret guns are exactly the same height as my 10 year old son.  And they weigh far, far more.

You can see the boys sitting on that block in the foreground, under the guns.  The superstructure is behind them, with the I-195 bridge in the background.  This is another highly recommended museum if you have any interest at all in WW II history, military history, big ships, or whatever.  Plus, the woman working the snack bar on board was one of the friendliest servers I've ever met.

That's it so far.  We've also watched a few DVDs--UP, Hoodwinked, and Amelia. The boys are watching Live And Let Die as I write this.  We have two more full days, then earlyearly Sunday morning we take off.  Maria and the boys return home, and I go on to Minneapolis for three days of business meetings.

Spring Break should be more than a week.  It should last all Spring.

Shocking look into government spending

As part of my Day Job, I subscribe to a number of email newsletters from places like the Public Affairs Council, the US Chamber of Commerce, Boston College Center for Corporate Citizenship, etc.  Sometimes I read what they send me.  Usually I just glance at the charts.  A couple of weeks ago, this one caught my eye, from the Business Civic Leadership Center (BCLC), an arm of the US Chamber:

With the health care debate raging and the war in Iraq raging and old people raging, I found this chart fascinating.  We spend nearly a quarter of our budget on Defense and one-fifth each on Social Security and Medicare/Medicaid.  Combined, about two trillion dollars, nearly two thirds of our total federal budget.  In comparison, TARP seems miniscule, a mere rounding error.

Then I noticed that pale blue area, the "Other Discretionary."  Most people might think the person who made the chart spelled it wrong and should have spelled it "Slush Fund."  A concerned citizen, I decided to a little investigative journalism of my own worthy of the most popular of cable news networks.  What I turned up was the shocking allocation of that $437 billion, which I've detailed in the chart below.

With this shocking breaking news information in hand, I polled a random sample of the American people, including the crazy toothless homeless guy on Market Street, three drunk Norwegians trying to flip over a cable car, and two telemarketers who called me during dinner time.  I think the findings from the survey, detailed in the chart below, show what Real Americans think of Obama.  And it's not pretty.

It's time to take back our country, Americans.  I mean, we all adore Ellen because even though gays should never be allowed to marry, lesbian bondage strip clubs are cool and Ellen is funny usually, so that's OK.  Simon is still Simon, but Randy has to go.  I don't care how many records he's making with Gladys Knight.

4,387 and counting

Honor and remember them.  Because we all need to be reminded from time to time.

scary, confusing health care reform

The Kaiser Foundation polled 2,002 American adults in January on their feelings about the health care legislation being debated in Congress.  I think most of it's pretty useless, but this question in particular caught my eye:

As of right now, do you generally (support) or generally (oppose) the health care proposals being discussed in Congress? (Is that strongly support/oppose or somewhat support/oppose?) (ROTATE OPTIONS IN PARENTHESES)
Based on one-half sample (n=980)  01/10
Strongly support   19%
Somewhat support   23%
Somewhat oppose   10%
Strongly oppose   31%
Don’t know/Refused   16%

Support (42%) vs Oppose (41%) is pretty even, but intensity is distributed unevenly.  People who oppose the proposals really oppose them, and people who support the proposals just sort of support them a bit.

No doubt opponents of the legislation will latch onto that as "proof" that even people who like it don't like it that much.  I, however, don't think that's what this says at all.

Health care legislation is unbelievably complex.  Other than the military, I can't think of any other topic the government takes on that has more special interests entrenched in more ways, with more at stake.  It's an utter mess right now, and trying to fix it is like sending a rookie pet groomer into a small room containing all the animals from the San Diego zoo.  If the lions and gorillas don't get her, the snakes most certainly will.  (And watch out for that koala.  Seriously.)

Anyway, because it's so complex, no one really understands it.  I'd bet even the authors don't understand their own legislation fully.  (These are the same people, after all, that thought it important to rename "french fries" to "freedom fries" when the French declined our invitation to participate in America's worst foreign policy decision in history.)

The implications and ultimate consequences of health care reform, both intended and unintended, are unfathomable.  That makes it easy to oppose and difficult to support.  It's human nature to oppose confusing changes, even if those changes ultimately will be beneficial.  If the changes are confusing, it's hard to know for sure whether they're beneficial.  And all those entrenched special interests have an easy time making them seem ever more confusing and scary.

Mini Minion Meet

Almost a year ago, I traveled halfway around the world to meet Robin in person, along with a few other wonderful EE minions.  Today, I had the great pleasure of seeing Robin again, this time on her home turf, or very nearly, in Alexandria, Virginia.  I also met her husband for the first time (yes, lads, sorry, but Robin is married) and liked him a lot despite his being Welsh.  Or possibly because he is Welsh.  I've only known one other openly Welsh person, and he's a good guy.  So maybe that's it.

This mini minion meet--or, better put, a minion mini meet although neither Robin nor I is what anyone would call "NBA height"--occurred at an Irish pub because, I suppose, it is Saint Patrick's Eve.  Which sounds vaguely like a the name of a very bad idea from a feminine products company.  And also because Robin is Irish.  Or, Irish German.  Depending on whose facts you believe.

In any case, much fun was had by all even though not one of us drank Guinness, which surprised even me.  Robin and I talked about writing and many other things.  More important, since Robin's Day Job is actually related to my line of work, we discussed business.  In fact, we discussed business for a number of minutes, during which the waiter conveniently delivered the check.  And it should be noted that if I had ordered a room service dinner on this business trip, which undoubtedly I would have done had I not met Robin and her husband, the bill would have been far higher.

It is a pleasantly odd feeling to be meeting a person for only the second time in your life yet fall instantly into a comfortable banter as if you grew up together.

Unfortunately, Chris was unable to leave her Things unsupervised and make the 90 minute drive to join us.  Which I don't quite understand since her facebook status seems always to imply that the supervision she provides is not always relevant to their activities anyway.

Finally, a note to all reading this:  We must do this again soon, with a larger contingent.  Fellow minions, what say ye?

What did Bede know, and when did he know it?

Aerin never misses a chance to remind me I'm a nerd.  I admit, the evidence is relatively strong.  I have an engineering degree and know how to use the vi editor.  My preferred mode of humor is the pun.  And I played Dungeons & Dragons as a kid.  OK, and in college.  Yeah, even after I got out of college, had a job, and was married.  But by then it was Advanced Dungeons & Dragons.

Anyway, my love of D & D fueled also my love of Anglo Saxon history.  I think I own more books about the time of Alfred the Great than any other topic except perhaps writing.  So imagine my excitement to read this article about a new archaeological discovery of a mass Viking grave.  How cool!

You don't need to read the article.  You can just get the summary from the sidebar, which I've copied verbatim over there, below on the right.

• 51 bodies were unearthed near the site
  of the 2012 London Olympics
• On Friday, scientists announce the men
  were Vikings from the Dark Ages
• The men, who were beheaded, were found
  near the Olympic sailing venue

But I think the scientists are chasing the wrong questions. It's all well and good to try to figure out where the Vikings came from using iodine or isotopes or dialysis or whatever it is they use. And to examine in tiny detail all the wounds they received, like some sick S&M history voyeur.

What I really want to know is, why were they executed near the Olympic sailing venue?  Why not near, say, the Olympic velodrome?  Or the Olympic fencing venue?  Science may never reveal the answer to this mystery.

phrases to fear

I once heard someone begin a speech with something like this:  "We all know the three biggest lies.  Number three is, of course, 'I'll respect you in the morning.'  Number two is, 'The check is in the mail.'  And the number one biggest lie is those three little words: 'I'll be brief.'"

We've all worked with people who start every conversation with something like, "I know we don't have much time, so I'll make this quick."  Then they talk for 20 or 30 minutes, making no progress and repeating themselves frequently.  Eventually we just sigh and roll with it because we're not rude enough to say, "Three minutes is quick.  You have three minutes."  And then hold them to it.  We're weak in that way, and we become the enabler when we should be sending them to On and On Anon, the 12 step program for compulsive talkers.

Worse, however, is a phrase I've begun hearing a lot and seeing even more as the subject of emails.  "Quick question," they write.  Are they being hopeful?  Evasive?  Or is it simply like knocking on a door, a generic sound that indicates they want to talk to you?  What I've found is that, yes, the question is indeed always quick.  Providing the answer, however, is typically epic in scope.  I imagine a White House email:

From:  Da Prez [obama@whitehouse.gov]
To:  Bernanke [ben@economistsgonewild.com]
Subject:  Quick question
Ben, quick question for ya:  How should we fix this thing with the economy?

In the rare cases where the "quick question" has an answer at all, the answer is undoubtedly so complex and nuanced that it would make for a good PhD dissertation subject.  Or two.

But neither "I'll make this quick" nor "quick question," nor, for that matter, any other phrase uttered in English, can generate the kind of visceral terror resulting from these four words:  Dude, you're on speaker!

moms and dads

The fabulous Kiersten posted today about her young child wanting an ice cream cone for breakfast.  The post, and some of the comments, reminded me of a Bill Cosby story I'd seen him perform 25 years ago.  So I searched youtube and came up with it right away.  Having only about 35 hours of work to complete in the last 30 minutes of the day, I decided I had plenty of time to watch this 10 minute story.  (And blog about it.)

You should watch it now before reading further.  It contains great wisdom for the observant.




What, you ask, is the great wisdom contained therein?  The fact that mothers and fathers do not always see things the same way.  I have learned this over time myself, after becoming a parent.

See, moms care about things like nutrition, rules, conventions, and discipline.  Dads care about convenience, happiness, and... well, convenience and happiness.  When a dad imposes discipline--and it has been this way since caveman days--he does so for only one of two reasons.  The first and most important reason is that he is deathly afraid of the mom.  The second reason is that the discipline happened by accident.

There are no other reasons.  A dad may tell you he's got the children's best interests at heart when he makes them do their 15 minutes of homework before letting them play nine hours of Wii.  Even though they actually have nine hours of homework, which they "finished" in 15 minutes.  In reality, however, the dad is terrified of what the mom will say (and do) when she finds out that Wii was played without the homework being done.

The wisest of dads figure out early on exactly where the line is between frustrated mom-sighs and apoplectic rage explosions.  We can live with frustrated mom-sighs.  In fact, most husbands are entirely inured to frustrated mom-sighs since they occur almost every time a grizzled veteran mom encounters her husband.

Moms don't understand how dads can go through life appearing carefree and happy.  Here's the secret:  Dads are genetically incapable of understanding that something is undoubtedly about to go horribly wrong with the children.  Doughnuts for breakfast?  Moms see scurvy and rotten teeth.  Dads see happiness.  Video games?  Moms see a short community college stint followed by years of unemployable drifting.  Dads see development of eye-hand coordination, problem solving, and bonding time--along with happiness.

For all you new dads out there just beginning to understand this concept:  the trick is in finding that point where you do just enough.  Doughnuts for breakfast... with sausage and juice, maybe.  Video games after homework is "done."  If you can master the skill of doing just enough to keep from being run through with the meat thermomether, then you have a great career ahead of you in public service.

a crisis of faith

I have, for some years now, been a faithful but fringe member of the Church of the FSM.  OK, I might never actually have joined, but somehow I think the church leaders don't really mind.

But recently, thanks to author Stuart Neville (who may or may not be involved in this, but he posted something to his facebook status about it, and anyway you should check him out because he seems to be cool even though I've never met him and he lives on the other side of the ocean, but I digress), I've discovered a new belief system that has me questioning my faith in the FSM.

But really, is Pastafarianism incompatible with Dudeism?  This is a question that scholars will ignore for decades, if not centuries.  And that's just as it should be, man.

American Idol, gonna mess your mind

When football season ends, I don't despair in the same way I used to.  Because the Premier League is still going strong, and now I have American Idol.

It's a guilty pleasure, for sure.  I don't vote during the elimination rounds--no patience for it--but I do like to handicap the horses during the auditions and try to pick out the final few.  I picked Taylor Hicks and Adam Lambert, for example, as probably top-fours in their seasons, before they even made it out of Hollywood week.

This year, I have a new favorite who will probably not even make the top 12.  Siobhan.  Why?  Check out her tattoo.  That's right, it's the Gashlycrumb Tinies artwork!  And as you all know, that particular Gorey masterpiece was the inspiration behind my Unlucky 26.  So Siobhan, I'm in your corner, babe.  Call me.  If you win it all, I'll let you tattoo Marrow Manor on your other arm.

When I was in college, I actually had a pretty good singing voice.  I sang all the time, but only when I thought no one could hear.  I had no voice training, did not come from a musical family.  My instrument of choice was drum sticks.  Then, my junior year, I took a sight singing course and had a blast.  I was one of the better students, but that wasn't saying much, to be honest.  I performed better in my ballroom dance class, where, truth be told, all the girls wanted me as their partner.

Anyway, I digress.

At the beginning of my senior year, I took a chance.  The UC Men's Octet, a phenomenally talented and amusing a cappella group, was holding auditions for all parts (alto, tenor, baritone, and bass).  I grabbed the sheet music for the audition song ("Mood Indigo"), headed to the music building where they had rooms with pianos, and practiced.  I couldn't ever quite hit the higher notes in the tenor range, so I tried the baritone part.

The day of the auditions, I was thrilled to see that only the current Octet and about ten auditioners were in a small studio room.  No public humiliation.  My humiliation would stay private.  They were nice enough to ask each of us if we ever had any music instruction, so I was able to set expectations appropriately before even singing a note.

A few went before me, and man, were they good.  A tenor and a bass.  I knew I could never be as good as they were.  But here was my one chance to sing with the Octet, albeit only three of them and in a small room.  So I gave it a go.  We sang through it once, and I knew immediately I had started in the wrong key.  I never corrected out of the wrong key, but dammit I sang the right notes in that wrong key, and they were good notes, and my voice was smooth.

They were very kind.  The head guy said, without a hint of patronization, "I'm not sure that was exactly right.  Let's try it again."  This time I hit the right key and sang quite well, in tune.  Until the last few bars, when instead of the baritone harmony I sang the progression of the tenor melody.  If I'd had any remaining chance, I knew I killed it then.  Still, the guys were super nice.  They asked if I wanted to audition as a tenor.  I knew I wouldn't hit the high range, so I declined.

Listening to the rest of the auditions, I knew I was out of my league.  But really, I knew that going in.  And unlike so many tone-deaf American Idol hopefuls, music was not my life.  It just seemed like a cool thing to do.  I almost left before they announced the results, but I'm glad I didn't.  All the guys auditioning and in the Octet were beyond nice the whole time, encouraging and not the least stomp-on-your-dreams cynical.

To this day, I am stunned I even tried out.  But that's the only way I've ever gained in life--by stepping outside my comfort zone and taking a risk.  That one didn't work out, but I am so glad I did it.

A day in Facebook Ads

I, like most people who've spent more than six minutes on the internet, have been trained to ignore anything that shows up in the far right column of a web page.  It's only ads any more.  But recently I've been intrigued by the ads that Facebook is choosing for me.  So I captured a sampling of ads that Facebook gave me today.

This is the one that got me started.  Apparently, it's telling me that if I am a father and make very little money, I can have hot, overly-made-up chicks smiling at me in provocative ways.  Presumably, this is what a scholarship will do for me.  But wait, this appears to be a correspondence or online degree.  This is the internet.  I don't need to take online classes to find hot, overly-made-up chicks smiling at me in provocative ways on the internet.  In fact, it's almost difficult to avoid that kind of thing.  (Be careful what links you click, folks.)

Aaaah!  Now they're telling me I can become the Unabomber if only I sign up for their online scholarship thing.  Is this dude a dad?  I can pretty much guarantee he doesn't bring home more than $45 grand, unless it's in the sack that he filled in the bank vault with his ski mask on.

Yeah, now that's more like it.  Forget scholarships.  Who needs school when you can have pecs and delts like that guy?  And all I have to do is drink whatever he's got in the bottle.  And I can be a UFC champion.  That's definitely worth a click.

This one definitely got my attention because I am certain that Wells Fargo did not make, buy, or approve this ad.  I'm guessing, though I'm not sure, that if you click this it will take you to the scholarships for dads site.  This one makes me a little queasy because it implies that I and my coworkers aren't already educated.  I do, however, like the gratuitous hyphen in re-imbursement.  This is a school I want to attend.  One that puts random punctuation where it's not needed, to clarify something that does not need clarification.

At least the Author's Guide is free.  At least it openly refers to self publishing and doesn't do those underhanded vanity publisher tricks, at least not at the start.  But really, does anyone believe that if you self publish your poetry, you will "get discovered by traditional publishers"?  That's like saying, "join Twitter and you'll get discovered by traditional publishers!"  I really hate products that prey on people's dreams with no actual hope of fulfilling them.

This one just has me befuddled.  There's an "average Team USA mom"?  At first I thought this was an ad for custom sports apparel.  Then I thought it was an ad for... um, something Olympic.  Then I saw it as a P&G ad.  More like a WTF ad.  What are they trying to sell me here?  Pringles?  Does P&G make Pringles?  Oh, I guess so.  I'll put this one down to a cute but ultimately stupid attempt at Olympics related nerd humor.  Moms, nerd humor, and Olympics--trying to hit a trifecta but coming in just outside of medal contention.

There were other ads, too, but these came up most often (apart from the Facebook feature ads).  I don't have any particular point in this blog post except to say that, yeah, now that I've paid attention, I fully understand how easy it was to train myself to ignore that right column on web sites.

God, guns, and the flag

Three stories that have come up in recent weeks:

• Man wants to rename a mountain
• Teacher has kid arrested for not reciting the Pledge
• Handguns flaunted in Starbucks

When people have a view to impose on others, they rarely stop at the line where reasonable discourse turns into insanity.  In fact, some of them already began on the far side of that line.

Here in Walnut Creek, there's a mountain.  It's only 3,849 feet tall, but more of the Earth's surface can be seen from its summit than from any other peak besides Kilimanjaro.  Thirty-five of California's 58 counties are visible from this mountaintop.  It is a key survey point for much of California.  And it's been called Mt. Diablo since as early as 1824, when San Francisco was little more than a Mexican military outpost of about 250 soldiers.

So of course a guy wants to rename it Mount Reagan.  Actually, he doesn't much care what the new name would be.  He just doesn't want to glorify Satan any more.  Apparently, God told him to file the petition.  Because, you know, God cares about this.

Meanwhile, in Maryland, a teacher had a 13-year-old girl removed from her classroom by school police when she refused to stand and recite the Pledge of Allegiance.  Oh, the humanity!  She must be a Communist, or a terrorist.  I am surprised she didn't end up at Guantanamo, labeled an enemy combatant.

Three things really bother me about this:  First, that this school has "school police."  Either this is a really tough school and the school police probably have something better to do already, or it's an insanely rich hoity-toity school where parents are worried about things like, you know, free speech.  I mean the exercise of free speech, and making sure it gets punished severely.  Second, that the teacher broke state law and violated school policy by trying to force the student to stand and recite the pledge.  Can we even call someone like that a teacher?  What, exactly, is she trying to teach?  And third, that some people actually think the teacher was doing the morally right thing.  That is scary.

We return now to the shadow of Mt. Diablo, where some kooks think it's really important to strap on handguns when buying coffee.  California has "open carry," which means that while it's illegal to carry a concealed handgun, it's not illegal to buckle one into your belt as long as it's not loaded.  The ammunition can be handy, just not loaded in the weapon.  For some reason, a group of people decided it was important to make everyone aware of this law by insisting on wearing their weapons when they got coffee.  Because you never know when there might be a firefight at the half-and-half pitcher.

It reminds me of a joke I heard in middle school:  Why does a dog lick its balls?  Because it can.

So, why does a man insist on flaunting deadly weapons in wealthy suburban coffee joints?  Apparently because he can't lick his balls.

We now return you to your regular programming of health care, global warming, foreclosures, the rotten economy, and Olympic medal counts.

Winter Olympics: guns, bikinis, and really cool sunglasses

I was shocked--shocked, I tell you!--last night when my younger son declared that the Biathlon was the least exciting winter Olympics sport to watch.  Considering that my two boys have more airsoft weaponry than most third world countries have actual guns, this declaration woke me up.  (I had fallen asleep, you see, because "ice dancing" was on the TV.)

I figured that anything involving shooting would keep my boys rapt.  Skiing and shooting.  Skating and shooting.  Hot dog eating and shooting.  Lawnmowing and shooting.  What could be more exciting, apart from maybe watching someone strap on skis and fling himself sixty feet skyward in a windmill tornado tumbling exhibition?  (OK, possibly if the skier were in fact doing this jump behind the biathlon shooting targets.)

So my boys eschewed the manliest of winter sports, the one involving the gun.  (By the way, I think women's biathlon should be moved to the summer games, and moved to the beach. It'd be like women's beach volleyball, only with bullets instead of a ball.  Girls, guns, and bikinis.  The IOC is missing a major ratings opportunity here.  But I digress.)

It got me thinking about other Olympic sports, though.

Curling.  OK, I kind of like it in the way I like ping pong and lawn bowling.  All three are well designed for the integration of beer.  But that whole broom thing... kinda girly, doncha think?  I mean, manly men don't do competitive sweeping.  When have you seen a Swiffer ad with a man doing the housework?  All they need is to add a guy at the end to pick up the stone, rinse it off, and put it in a dishwasher.  Emasculation complete.

Ice dancing.  Do we even need to go there?  This is the rhythmic gymnastics of winter.  This is figure skating for men who can't jump, and for women who are too big and fat to be thrown in the air like a high school cheerleader.  They should change this sport to incorporate some of the rules of the dance marathons of the 1930s.  Have all the couples on the ice at the same time.  Instead of sitting off in safety writing down random scores, judges would have to be on the ice, too, and tap the dancers on the shoulder when they've been eliminated.  And it would be a 12 hour marathon; if after 12 hours, more than one couple was still dancing, the judges could award style points to declare the winner.

Doubles luge.  WTF?  I mean, seriously?

I actually do enjoy watching some of the sports, if I've got nothing better to do like pick lint out of my navel or draw lines on the whiskey bottle to make sure the 10 year old isn't mooching.  Somehow I missed the US vs Canada hockey game, which is probably the one thing I would have sat down to watch in its entirety.  The downhill ski races are a bit like NASCAR in that there's almost certainly going to be a spectacular wipeout at some point, and that's OK because NBC in prime time tape delay won't show any actual serious injuries.  Cross country skiing is unfortunately like long distance running--truly an athletic competition, but fundamentally awful television.  I can allow figure skating because there's a manliness to tossing a petite girl into the air while zooming around on miniature swords strapped to your feet.  And speed skating--the one activity in all of humanity where a woman benefits from having enormous thighs.  Plus, as my son who is bored by the biathlon said, they get to wear really cool sunglasses.

So I guess the winter Olympics isn't all bad.  It's got guns, spectacular wipeouts, and really cool sunglasses.  The only thing it's missing is bikinis.

Random inspiration

I live in awe of those friends of mine who can post a blog post a day.  Sometimes two.  Or fourteen.  Sometimes with video.  Me, my posts have dwindled to maybe two a month (plus my weekly poem on the private blog).  That's OK.  I like my job.  I like my kids.  I don't much like housework, but it has to get done.

So tonight I turned to professional help.  The best help in the industry.  Right.  Google.  And Google pointed me to 1.4 million possibilities.  Here are a few that have potential (with a couple of suggestions from each), and which I may try using in the next few weeks.

• Imagination Prompt Generator
  What foods do you keep out of sight?
  What is in your car trunk?
  Name your boundaries.
• Random Topic Generator
  Relatives that give you the creeps
  Lying to your kids
  Poverty in Singapore
• The Brainstormer
  Letting go -- small town -- motor home
  Healing journey -- tribal -- fishing boat
  Madness -- cuban -- vineyard
• Special Projects Idea Generator
  Exclusive -- mechanized -- sport
  Pre-fab -- hand-crafted -- opera
  Artificial -- rubber -- vehicle

A little twisted, some of these, but they have potential.  What about you?  Do you have a favorite random topic generator, or a favorite place to get a prompt?

For some reason, I was put in mind of this:

SFWC Wrap-Up, or, "How I avoided the claws that catch"

Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
the Scottish Koala!

I'm paraphrasing, but I bring this up to say that today I made the Koala pleased.  Although she does not yet know it.  Today, I sent off query and pages to a fabulous, stupendous, wonderful, thoughtful, kind, intelligent, insightful, and very non-frumious agent that I met at the San Francisco Writers Conference over the weekend.  Another trait of hers is that there is a small but nonzero possibility that she may read this blog.  Did I mention stupendous and amazing?  I'm sure I did.

Last weekend I volunteered at the San Francisco Writers Conference for my third year in a row.  I absolutely adore (most of) the volunteers, speakers, and attendees.  Although after three years I find the content of the sessions a bit redundant, I still get a lot out of the conference.  Renewed enthusiasm, new contacts, a little new perspective and information, and most of all, fun.

I don't have much of a writeup about this conference.  I attended three of the four YA sessions I had wanted to hear, and I was assigned to Ransom Stephens' session about basic writing craft that was shockingly stupendous.  I worked the cafe and sold mediocre coffee at $3 per tiny cup (the hotel charged us $5 per cup).  I hung around with writers from Los Angeles, Salt Lake, Cincinnati, New Jersey, Florida, and--yes--even San Francisco.  I pitched two very kind and patient agents (did I mention stupendous and amazing?  oh, yes, I see I did) and waylaid a YA editor to bend her ear on some tough questions while waiting for the elevator.  And I did an awful lot of helping attendees find rooms, helping presenters remember to repeat the question, carrying boxes, etc.  Plus, since my wife also volunteered on Sunday and we had a room at the Mark Saturday night, we spent a pleasant Valentine's Eve in the city together.

All in all, a great weekend.

Today, the Day Job hauled me back in with a relentless efficiency and sucked all the life from my body before 2 p.m.  A little coffee reanimated my corpse, and by the boys' bedtime I was back in business and slapping together the query and pages.  Tomorrow:  the other wonderful, astounding, super-duper agent I met gets her query and pages.

Wish me luck.