Quote of the Day...
"I'm just gonna go ahead and wait for MP48's, so I can play them on my HHDDVVDDBVD player."
The goings-on of one certain self-purported musical semi-genius...
Quote of the Day...
"I'm just gonna go ahead and wait for MP48's, so I can play them on my HHDDVVDDBVD player."
That's all for now... more to come.
And before all you in the Red Sox Nation start worrying about what those enraged Rockies fans did to your beloved Fenway... don't call the cops. Call off the search party. Everything is cool. I'm not talking about THAT Green Monster...
Nope -- we sold our couches last night! Major kudos to my wife who is becoming quite the internet shopper now turned internet seller! Sarah found some old pictures we had from the house in MD and posted them on CraigsList. Then after a weekend and a day, we had a guy come over last night and just like that - bing bang boom - we were $400 richer and 2 couches lighter. SUPERB! It stinks that we're still paying on them, but you might remember from an earlier post that the monster couch was never able to make it down into the basement, no matter how hard we pushed, pried, prodded and perthwuddled (OK, I made that last one up... there was no perthwuddling). With all the other furniture, not to mention the color of the monster, it just wouldn't work in the living room.
Now we have the sleeper sofa with slipcover in the front room, all the boxes have been temporarily moved from the living room to the guest room, the rug has been put down and we are waiting to see if the sleeper sofa is gonna sell. I kinda like this CraigsList thing. Much more immediate than eBay, and a much better option for larger items. I'm sure a lot of you have heard of it, but for those who haven't, CraigsList is a free consumer-focused garage sale basically. Since it's all locally-based, people look things up by area and then negotiate with the seller. It's strictly a cash deal, and unlike eBay, CraigsList assumes no responsibility for financial transactions. The reason I like it is cause it's immediate, it gets searched a ton, and offers some quality USED stuff. As long as you heed the old "caviat emptor", everything's hunky dory. So anyway, I think I might be putting some more stuff up there for people. If they want them -- great. If not, oh well. 


You know you are addicted to coffee if ...

I recently discovered that there is serious scientific evidence that velociraptors had feathers, which, as world-shaking discoveries go, is somewhere above "trilobites had more flexible dorsal axial structures than previously thought" and below "iguanadons created a backdoor pilot for a gritty crime drama set in Minnesota."
This should create some serious debate and consideration in the paleontology community, which would be a perfect time for a supervillain to capitalize on the confusion and take over. Imagine the unparalleled might of an evil genius -- possibly wearing some sort of powered armor -- with a vast army of tenured paleontologists and paleoclimatologists at his disposal. I don't think I need to point out that the ensuing chaos and carnage would be nifty.
That's why I'd like to help this hypothetical overlord along by presenting some of my own intensely scientific discoveries concerning some of the higher-profile prehistoric vertebrates out there. While my discoveries will be extensively detailed in the prestigious Quarterly Bulletin of the International Society for Academic Mendacity, I give you a preview here.
Apatosaurus Had Wings
For decades, nobody knew how apatosauruses supported their massive weight except for the people who studied them. This seems silly to me. If a person has to be smart to understand a dinosaur's physiognomy, then how did the dinosaurs, who had brains the size of various edible legumes, manage it? According to my calculations, apatosauruses would be far too stupid to figure out how to stand up. That's why I'm fairly certain that they had huge, feather-covered, pink wings, which they flapped constantly. That's pretty easy to understand, right? Just flap, you big stupid lizard.
All Dinosaurs Were Big
Countless dinosaur picture books start out by saying, "Not all dinosaurs were big. Some were only slightly larger than a chicken." I have applied the scientific method to prove this wrong. Hypothesis: The idea of a tiny dinosaur is just ridiculous. Experiment: Say the following out loud: "Hey, look at that tiny dinosaur!" It sounds stupid. Conclusion: Dinosaurs were so huge. I suggest that eventually researchers will discover the existence of "prehistoric shrinkweed," a poisonous plant that shrank various dinosaurs before killing them, thereby giving the false impression of chicken-size dinosaurs.
There Were No Tyrannosaurus Rexes Named 'Rex'
These huge predators may have been designed by nature to be unstoppable eating machines, but they also knew a trite name when they heard one. Thorough investigation of late Cretaceous wedding registries indicates that the most common name for male T. rexes was "Jayden," followed by "Palmer." The three most popular female T. rex names were "Ashley," "Ashlee" and "Ashlie," in that order. There was one T. rex named "Dex," but he had no friends.
Dinosaurs Were Not Huggy
If you go to the gift shop for any museum even remotely related to dinosaurs, you'll find disturbingly inaccurate scale models of the giant lizards covered in fuzzy, velvety skin and stuffed not with massive bones and organs but with some sort of synthetic plush material. Even more disturbingly, if dinosaurs looked as they are depicted in these models, they would not have been able to survive, hobbled as they would have been with soft, rounded teeth and claws. I hate to think of our nation's cribs and strollers containing such startling apocrypha. I'm sure that once my paper is published, gift shops and toy stores will quickly throw away all their obsolete dinosaurs and replace them with accurate models, ones with bony limbs; harsh, scaly skin; and razor-sharp teeth and claws that slice open soft tissues at the slightest touch.
Iguanadons Created a Backdoor Pilot for a Gritty Crime Drama Set in Minnesota
The show is called Twin Smittys, and it's about twin cops named Smith, one of whom is upstanding and lives in Minneapolis, and the other of whom is crooked and lives in St. Paul. Or vice versa. Each week, they solve crimes and clash with each other, caught between personal morals and family loyalty. The show has some mafia guys and some polygamists and some ladies who always want sex -- it really has HBO written all over it. Everyone swears a whole lot. The iguanadons have chosen me as their sole representation; give me a call.
I got this in an Email the other day from my grandfather... and it was definitely worthy enough to post. Enjoy... it's a great read.My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car. He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet. "In those days," he told me when he was in his 90s, "to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it." At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in:"Oh, bull----!" she said. "He hit a horse." "Well," my father said, "there was that, too."
So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none.
My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines, would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.
My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. "No one in the family drives," my mother would explain, and that was that. But, sometimes, my father would say, "But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we'll get one." It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us would turn 16 first. But, sure enough , my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown. It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my brother's car. Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but it didn't make sense to my mother.
So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father's idea. "Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?" I remember him saying more than once.
For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps -- though they seldom left the city limits -- and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.
Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage. (Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)
He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church. She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home. If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests "Father Fast" and "Father Slow."
After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: "The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored."
If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, "Do you want to know the secret of a long life?"
"I guess so," I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.
"No left turns," he said.
"What?" I asked.
"No left turns," he repeated. "Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic. As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn."
"What?" I said again.
"No left turns," he said. "Think about it. Three rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three rights."
"You're kidding!" I said, and I turned to my mother for support.
"No," she said, "your father is right. We make three rights. It works." But then she added: "Except when your father loses count."
I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing. "Loses count?" I asked.
"Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes happens. But it's not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again."
I couldn't resist. "Do you ever go for 11?" I asked.
"No," he said " If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another day or another week."
My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90. She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102. They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bough t a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom -- the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.) He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.
One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.
A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, "You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred." At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'm probably not going to live much longer."
"You're probably right," I said.
"Why would you say that?" He countered, somewhat irritated.
"Because you're 102 years old," I said.
"Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed in bed all the next day. That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night. He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said: "I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet..."
An hour or so later, he spoke his last words: "I want you to know," he said,
clearly and lucidly, "that I am inno pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had
as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have." A short time later, he died.I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long. I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life, or because he quit taking left turns."
Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who treat you right. Forget about the one's who don't. Believe everything happens for a reason. If you get a chance, take it. If it changes your life, let it. Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it would most likely be worth it.