Addicted to Foo-foos
A Beach Slapped Humor Collection: 2009
Barton Grover Howe
BGH Publishing
Lincoln City, Oregon
http://www.bartongroverhowe.com/
Other Works by Barton Grover Howe
FICTION:
Beach Slapped: A Novel
Parrot Eyes Lost: A Surfland Day Trip
NON-FICTION:
Flying Starfish of Death: A Beach Slapped Humor Collection: 2008
Smashwords edition of Addicted To Foo-foos: A Beach Slapped Humor Collection: 2009. Copyright © 2011 by Barton Grover Howe. All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, contact BGH Publishing at bartongroverhowe@gmail.com.
Cover design by Sharalyn Hay
While the author has made every attempt to provide accurate contact information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is dedicated to the people of Lincoln City, Oregon:
The butt of my jokes and the muse of my life
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank faculty and staff of Anchor College. Without their help,
I’d still be begging my publisher to publish this book.
Thus, I’m free to beg for other things, like rum drinks in local bars.
Contents
If I could talk to the animals — I'd be scared - Jan. 7, 2009
Losing weight, one annoying friend at a time - Jan. 14, 2009
The truth about lying - Jan. 21, 2009
Dumb things I have done (and still do) - Jan. 28, 2009
Hiding from my boss, and other professional moves - Feb. 4, 2009
It's not all about me, though I would like a book - Feb. 11, 2009
Stay safe, stay away from me - Feb. 18, 2009
Take my Chrysler, please - Feb. 25, 2009
Otters, tourists, residents and other signs of doom - March 4, 2009
Don't you just hate people who hate to complain? - March 11, 2009
Man of the year? Woman? I don't care, just vote Me - March 18, 2009
$380 bead sheep and other signs of Yuppie-dom - March 25, 2009
Lewis and Clark's diet tips and other leftovers - April 1, 2009
A visit from Catty Claws - April 8, 2009
What happens in Vegas is less fun with students - April 15, 2009
One word: "Manvertising" - April 22, 2009
A tale as old as this spring and a Beauty and a Beast - April 29, 2009
Boldly go — or you're an idiot - May 6, 2009
Sing to the world — and make sure the mic is off - May 13, 2009
Keep it simple so I can keep my house - May 20, 2009
Shining a light on vigilante justice - May 27, 2009
Baseball sucks. Kid baseball sucks more. - June 3, 2009
How to spit crickets and other things I’ve learned - June 10, 2009
A fine line between sleep and elbows - June 17, 2009
Winners and losers and why it sucks to be both - June 24, 2009
I'm a fruity guy - July 1, 2009
Welcome to the Oregon Coast. Try not to die - July 8, 2009
A maxi-pad fails to earn its wings - July 15, 2009
Self-inflicted wounds on the planet Touron - July 22, 2009
What bears really do in the woods - July 29, 2009
Some need to be shot, metaphorically, of course - Aug. 5, 2009
A pancreatic panacea and other organs I'll miss - Aug. 12, 2009
Improving medicine one sexy doctor at a time - Aug. 19, 2009
Standing up for what I believe in — whatever it is - Aug. 26, 2009
Food Nazis at home and work - Sept. 2, 2009
Jump starts and other adventures in motoring - Sept. 9, 2009
Thank God for Mondays - Sept. 16, 2009
I lied - Sept. 23, 2009
Does thee take her to inflict natural disasters? - Sept. 30, 2009
Cause & defect: How a coupon sent me to the couch - Oct. 7, 2009
Clearly flipping a finger at the world - Oct. 14, 2009
Why I was a big liar and my students aren't - Oct. 21, 2009
Maybe my wife would prefer I read Playboy - Oct. 28, 2009
Implements for everything — I think -Nov. 4, 2009
Ignoring the ignorant for a better tomorrow - Nov. 11, 2009
Coach well — or die - Nov. 18, 2009
Vanity, definitely, New York-style - Nov. 25, 2009
My sex life is apparently everyone's business - Dec. 2, 2009
Big moments in life for $5.95 - Dec. 9, 2009
Lies I need to believe - Dec. 16, 2009
Happy Holidays! How was your sucky decade? - Dec. 23, 2009
I'm not miserable, and this is a problem - Dec. 30, 2009
Addicted
To
Foo-foos
First of all: my thanks for buying this compilation. It means that you liked my first compilation enough to actually plunk down more money to keep reading. Speaking as a writer, you have no idea how self-vindicating it is to find that people are willing to actually give you money to be a smart-ass.
I have long suspected people would pay me money for this and since it beats actually working for a living, it’s nice to see I was right.
My first humor column got me no money whatsoever, as I wrote it while working on staff at a local newspaper. Years later, of course, I put it in my first compilation where thousands of people read it – and I still made no money, having basically given the book away. On the surface, I must admit this seems quite silly.
But it’s what they call a loss-leader: giving people something for free in the hopes that they will like it and actually go buy more. That’s hard logic to argue with, especially when you consider that’s the main reason people go to Costco on Saturdays: Get free samples, eat until you don’t need to pay for lunch, and then spend $37.99 on a 100-count bag of chimichangas.
Burp.
Continuing the analogy, however, what you now hold in your hands is that written bag of chimichangas. Something you’ve been willing to pay for having gotten a cheap sample to whet your appetite. And – also like the chimichanga – I promise no surprises; what you sampled before is what you get now.
Nothing’s worse than getting home from Costco and discovering that whatever it was you sampled in the store, what you have now in your home, is nothing like that. Were they lying to you before about what you were putting in your mouth? Was there some secret preparation technique they neglected to tell you? Was it the residual bacon in your teeth from the chocolate squares in aisle 37 that made it taste so good? It was something, and now the only taste in your mouth is bitterness.
No bitterness here; these columns are just like my other ones. Nothing rewarding about them, no higher purpose involved, no attempt to make you a better person. (I believe we may still be talking about chimichangas.) Is there the occasional bit of healthy residue? Possibly. But not so much that you feel like you swallowed something weird.
Enjoy.
Barton Grover Howe
Lincoln City, Oregon
bartongroverhowe@gmail.com
If I could talk to the animals – I'd be scared
Jan. 7, 2009
Being a teacher, I have recently returned to work from two weeks of vacation, ready, recharged and excited to work with today’s young people. I believe we’ll start with math skills, and mainly that it’s only 74 days until spring break.
This doesn’t mean I don’t love my job, I do. But the truth is, when I spend my days at home, I get to learn all kinds of things, first being that my wife hates me for having two weeks off when she has to work. I have encouraged her to apply for a job at Chrysler; they seem to have lots of time off of late.
I’ve also learned just what it is my cats do when I am not at home, which is largely nothing. No surprise there. But actual confirmation that I’m spending $108 a month to pump cat food into multiple stomachs that don’t do anything but throw it back up on my rug is a little annoying.
Not that they don’t ever move. Every time I come within six inches of them, they perceive it as a threat to their very existence and run as fast they can down the stairs so they can resume sleeping on another pillow nowhere near me. If inbred behaviors are any indication, when it comes to cats’ evolutionary place on the buffet of life, cats must have been snacks.
In truth, this is why I really don’t mind being back in school after two weeks off. At least there, when someone tries to flee my room I can make them come back through a combination of threats, phone calls home and tiny darts. I can’t do this with my cats; they don’t listen to a word I say. (And they move too fast for the dart gun.)
Indeed, if my two weeks with felis cati has taught me anything, it is to appreciate the things that separate Homo sapiens from the lower species. The most important being that only Homo sapiens giggle at their own name well into seventh grade (and in places like Arkansas, continue to be offended by it.)
There are other things, of course, that clearly separate us from animals, although they do call into question just how much “lower” they really are. Among lions, for instance, when a leader’s first period of leadership is done, he is relegated to the edge of the pride and eventually left to die. Most sociologists agree this country would have been far better off if Bill Clinton and George W. Bush had done the same thing.
Even those things that we used to consider uniquely human are now debatable. For many years it was accepted that only humans used tools, until we discovered that sea otters use stones to crack open shells. At the Oregon Coast Aquarium, their sea otters have even been known to steal screwdrivers and hide them. (This is true.) Many Alaskan otters, still upset about their virtual extermination and the Exxon Valdez, are learning to use guns. (This should be true.)
Also, we used to think humans were the only ones with organized language, (although the rise of texting is making some scientists reconsider). But now we know that whales and dolphins do so as well. In the years to come, scientists hope to decode this language, mainly so we can figure out just how whales feel about thousands of tourists a year checking them out while they’re both naked and eating. (The whales, not the people, thank God.)
I also suspect we’ll discover that thanks to Flipper, humans have forever tipped the balance of power in a millennia-long blood feud between dolphins and tuna. Worse, that the tuna have been talking to the otters. “See, Charlie? All you have to do is put your fin right here and pull back on the trigger.”
Living this close to the ocean, I must admit this concerns me, especially if the otters start talking to my cats. On the other hand, I’ll bet my cats can say Homo erectus without giggling.
I’ll let you know in 74 days.
Losing weight, one annoying friend at a time
Jan. 14, 2009
Living in a small town, it's nice to know there are all kinds of people willing to lend a hand, which, unless you're having a prostate exam, is always a good thing.
Better, many of them actually thank you for giving them the opportunity to help. A remarkable fact when you consider some people's idea of getting help is asking someone they barely know to liberate an unknown creature from a live animal trap. Stunning even, when they're still thanking you after that animal turns out to be a wet skunk that sprays them in the mouth.
From this I have learned two things: 1. I owe someone a lunch and a bottle of Listerine. (Or tequila, their choice.) 2. Helping people can be fairly awkward.
I mention this last one not so much because getting skunk smell out of your insides is weird. (Although I have to imagine after rebuffing friends' offer of a prostate exam, it's more than a little rude to ask for help medicating the other end.) But because if my students at school help me one more time, I might have to bury them out back - and that would be awkward to explain to their parents when I see them at Ace Hardware. ("Yes, this is my third shovel this month. Why do you ask?")
Every day I have a group of about a dozen students who gather in my journalism lab for lunch. And with the arrival of the Chinook Winds Celebrity Weight Loss Challenge, they have once again taken on the role of policing me from my worst gastronomic tendencies.
First among them is Jace, who is so militant about keeping fatty things out of my mouth that the other students have taken to calling my diet "Jace Watchers." If I was as committed to my health as Jace, I would be a supermodel (albeit a hairy one). I would also have to commit suicide because at least three times a week I decide I have to kill Jace.
Last year during the challenge a parent brought the entire cast of, "Little Shop of Horrors," homemade cinnamon rolls. Not only would Jace not let me have one, when he left to work on something else, he stationed the biggest football player in the school between me and the food. I pondered throttling them, but since Jace's mom is my friend, I thought that would be rude. (And I couldn't reach the football player's neck.)
Next is Casey, who doesn't so much monitor my diet as he does my entire existence. Before he can even scold me about my need to be in a celebrity weight loss challenge, he reminds me that I am probably not even a Lincoln City celebrity. And even if I am, it's still a title akin to being named "Best Golfer in Siberia." A fairly humble and modest person, Casey's goal is to make sure my ego can fit through the door, along with my butt.
Next is Sam the enormous football player, who I think got even taller in the last year, despite the fact that he should have been out of puberty three grades ago. 'Nuff said.
Not that everyone is mean to me; Brian has often been the anti-Jace, willing to fetch me a Burger King breakfast sandwich when I'm having a particularly bad day. (Any day with Jace, Casey and Sam.)
Unfortunately, even that sweet release of fat is now denied me, as the transmission in Brian's car is currently lying on the floor of his garage. I have contemplated giving him the keys to my BMW so he can go on food runs for me. But I'm pretty sure that would be fatal for both my career and my life, as my wife's office lies between the school and Burger King.
And so I go into this third edition of the Chinook Winds Celebrity Weight Loss Challenge with a group of students fully armed against my arms holding anything that actually tastes yummy. Admittedly, however, it feels good to know there are so many people who care about me. even if it's only because if they told any of their other teachers to "Get that away from your pie-hole, fatty," they would get expelled.
The truth about lying
Jan. 21, 2009
Friday marks 1,096 days — that’s three years for those of you still counting on your fingers — of marital bliss with my wife. A time of mutual discovery, we’ve spent our time learning how to live with one another and reducing those areas of incomprehensible incompatibility to a tiny few.
Like marital mystery No. 497: Why does my wife insist on asking me questions she not only knows the answer to, but will also hate the answer?
Witness: As a household with many stupid cats who have no idea how good they have it living indoors with free food and no domestic predators save for the vacuum, my wife constantly worries they will escape when I leave the door open. This is a valid concern; our French doors have warped in the rain and don’t exactly close right. (Apparently, it does not rain in France; perhaps that explains all the burning cars.)
So, being a concerned husband, I actually used power tools and drilled many holes in our door to install a device designed to keep the door pressed shut when I neglect to overcome its Frenchness. (Heck, I was committed enough to drill three times as many holes as I actually needed.) I did this because I love my wife, I tolerate our cats, and having left the door open three times and let the cats out twice, I decided this would be the best way to assure she never murdered me in my sleep.
Which is why I was befuddled the other day when she saw the door slightly ajar and asked me: “Is there a reason you left the door open?”
“Well, yes, I’m a clod, and those doors are warped. That’s why I spent $38 on that device and nearly drilled my thumb through installing it.” That would have been the correct answer.
But clearly that’s not what my wife wants, because she already knows that. I know this because I’ve told her multiple times and each time she gets really angry. So clearly, she wants another answer: “It must have been the wind.” Or, “Maybe there’s a cat stuck in it. Did you check to see if they all still have their faces?”
The one I have resorted to most often, however, is the simplest: “I didn’t do it.” Is this is a brazen lie? Yup. But if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that while the truth can set you free, it also gets you pummeled. So, as long as you’re being asked stupid questions, you might as well give a stupid answer. At least then you’re even.
At this point, you’re probably thinking I am an idiot husband. Perhaps, but at least I have the virtue of being an honest one. Which is why I will now cop to marital mystery No. 9 (my fingers are getting tired): Why does my wife insist on stating the obvious if all it’s going to do is make me nuts?
Again, to explain: Standing in our hotel room preparing our store-bought dinner, she unpacks everything to reveal that when I grabbed the plastic silverware I neglected something: “Well, there’s no napkins because YOU forgot to get them.”
This, as if there’s someone else who could have forgotten them. Who this person would be in our romantic room for two, I don’t know. Perhaps there’s a frog in my pocket I don’t know about.
It could be suggested, I suppose, that this is her way of teaching me to remember the napkins. That whether through constant reminders of my error or just making me nuts, I will eventually remember such things. Love makes you do funny things, I guess.
It will not, however, make me remember the napkins, because I ALWAYS forget the napkins. I am a chronic napkin-forgetter for the simple reason I didn’t use them the first 37 years of my life. Having grown up using my pants and various random objects — it’s why I tolerate the cats — to clean my hands, I never remember napkins. You would think after three years she would know this and give up on the napkins.
But she never has, never does, never will — on the napkins, or on me.
Mystery No. 1, I suppose. And God-willing (and columns notwithstanding) I plan to have a lot more years to figure out.
Happy anniversary, sweetie, and I’ll try to remember to close the door when I get the napkins.
Dumb things I have done (and still do)
Jan. 28, 2009
As a typical bipedal mammal, I have done some dumb things in my life.
There was the thing in high school where a freakish combination of Totino’s pizza, a high-velocity spatula and my mother’s brand new countertops resulted in being banned from the house for a week. (Or maybe I was just hiding; my mom was wicked-scary mad.)
There was the thing in college where I forgot to pay a certain fine and found myself a guest of the local constabulary. It was a fascinating afternoon, one that taught me the virtue of both paying things on time and keeping your brother’s phone number memorized. (Parents’ number, no good; my mom was still mad about the countertop.)
And then there was the time in Osaka where I got to spend the entire day with a Japanese customs agent explaining why an ice skater would be getting carpel tunnel syndrome. (That, and some countries just have zero sense of humor about Sudafed.)
Please understand: I am not proud of these things. Other than serial killers and Brittany Spears, no one celebrates the bad things in their life. But they are part of what makes us human and thankful that no matter how bad a choice we make, someone in Hollywood will always put us to shame.
But even with all the stupid things I’ve done, there is nothing like doing a stupid thing in a small town. Because unlike my other episodes, where the knowledge of my lapses in judgment extended to just a small circle of friends and the occasional Japanese German shepherd (they have them), I think everyone in Lincoln City knew I’d had an impromptu side-of-the-road meeting with one of Lincoln City’s finest within 45 minutes.
I’d love to say I find this surprising, but let’s be honest: the most popular page in this newspaper is the police blotter. Patrick Alexander could write a story saying half of city council had just bolted town and the other half were lighting city hall on fire and people would flip right past it on their way to the blotter to see who got arrested for getting tanked and assaulting a dumpster.
Not that everyone in a small town feels this way. My students don’t read the blotter. Not out of any conscious choice, but because they don’t read the newspaper at all. (This is why I can insult them all the time.)
I don’t read the blotter. For one thing, I’m too busy reading me. As someone who’s pretty much A.D.D., I’ve usually forgotten what I wrote by Wednesday. But I also have better things to do, like still trying to convince my mother 24 years later that the holes I put in her countertop were a freak accident. (Truly: the woman has the memory of an elephant.)
My wife doesn’t choose to read the blotter. She doesn’t have to; she sits next to a police scanner at work. Which is why not two minutes after my close encounter with the Lincoln City Police Department, my cell phone was ringing and I heard her voice saying: “Honey, is there something you want to tell me?”
What I said to her I cannot repeat here, but suffice to say it was the wrong answer. Because forgive me for saying so, one of the last vestiges of privacy I should have as a man is the ability to get indicted for low-level offenses and have that be a secret between me, my God and the judge from which I will grovel forgiveness.
Instead, I actually had to tell my wife the truth, which, in principle, I’m in favor of. In reality, I would have liked a little more time to make up a good lie before she called.
As opposed to lying to the police officer who pulls you over; I’ve always found complete and total honesty to be the best policy there. Just consider for a moment that from the seated position, he looks awfully tall and imposing, especially with all those weapons strapped to his belt, mere inches from one’s face.
Even so, my minor infraction is not a significant enough incident to wind up on page A8, a fact that greatly disappointed my students when they flipped right past the front page.
At least it got them to read the paper.
Hiding from my boss, and other professional moves
At the age of 40, there is no way to fully explain to anyone how I managed to wreck my left thigh muscle hiding from my boss under my desk.
But what the heck, I’ve got space to fill, so why not?
It began on the Martin Luther King Jr. Day national holiday, when there are always a lot of educator-persons roaming the school halls. Because even though it is our day off, we have discovered the only way to get anything done in a school is to make sure no children are actually in it.
So, when I heard my boss mention my name in the hallway, I thought it would be fun to hide myself. Partially because I didn’t want her to find me and partially because I wanted to practice for “Dick Cheney Day.” And it was diving under my desk that I so badly cramped up my left thigh muscle that I’m pretty sure I can still be mistaken for John Wayne after one too many cowboy movies.
Hearing this story, some of the more mature people in my life have suggested that perhaps at the age of 40 it’s time I stopped hiding under desks. But, hey, what do 12-year-olds know?
They don’t have a boss, unless you count me, and that doesn’t matter because I’m probably hiding under a desk. (Who needs a holiday?) Someday, they’ll have a boss, and they’ll want to hide under something at work, too.
Hopefully, they don’t drive a steamroller.
You might be thinking at this point I don’t like my boss, but that is not true. My boss, new to the school district, is young, inspiring, full of ideas, and is simultaneously raising three children with her husband. A whirlwind of innovation and energy, she is a constant reminder that my life is pretty much a failure.
This is why I hide under my desk when she comes around. I’m sure she has some new, dynamic, amazing idea that will remind me that I need to update my U.S. History curriculum to include Monica Lewinsky (a suburb of Warsaw).
This week, she’ll be coming around in bunches, as it’s time for my evaluation as a teacher. A yearly ritual for all teachers, it’s viewed differently depending on how long you’ve been in the profession.
For some of those who’ve been at it since communists were in the news (or the suburbs of Warsaw), evaluations don’t mean much since it takes an act of God or Mary Kay Latourneau to get fired. For people with far less tenure, these are very important evaluations, because one of the easiest ways to save money during tight budgets is to get rid of teachers who can’t find Martin Luther King Jr. on a map. (If you can find Dick Cheney, you get a raise.) As a relatively new teacher, I take these things quite seriously, and after much reading, I know now that Martin Luther was King of Atlanta and the Protestants (A 60s Motown band.)
Not that I’m alone in my fear of evaluations; everyone hates being judged by the boss — and they should, since the bosses themselves screw everything up.
If you watch Star Trek (or pay attention in physics), you know of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle: That the sheer act of observing something changes its behavior. Or something like that; I was listening to The Protestants on my iPod.
So, if we apply Heisenberg to your boss watching you work, the sheer act of him or her observing you changes the result. Ergo, everything that goes wrong is in fact your boss’ fault. (Note: Ergos go best with Mrs. Butterworth.) Indeed, I think we should skip evaluations all together, save for one: William Shatner is a terrible actor.
I actually shared this theory with my boss the other day, and being a dynamic, whirlwind-type person, she was impressed that I could actually spell “Heisenberg.” Not quite as impressed with my theory of evaluations, she told me she’d see me Monday.
I plan to be under my desk.
It's not all about me, though I would like a book
Feb. 11, 2009
This is a very special column at Beach Slapped, and not because we plan to exploit one of our regular characters with a story about bulimia or hemorrhoids.
No, it’s special because this edition marks one year of this column appearing here in The News Guard. That’s right, 52 consecutive columns, which I know from community feedback constantly leaves you wondering why this paper can’t afford something better, like Sudoku, or at the very least an incompetent drunken astrologer. (Yes, those last three words are redundant.)
For those of you who have been fans since the beginning, I say: “Thank you for reading.” For those of you who only recently discovered Beach Slapped, I say please call my publisher at 994-2178 and ask her to fund a book with all of my columns in it. If enough people do so, I promise I will donate all my profits to a worthy cause supporting bulimia, hemorrhoids or the U.N. Foundation for a Better Margarita.
In all fairness, however, an anniversary is supposed to be a celebration of a union, in this case, my writing and this newspaper. We are a team, and like great teams throughout the ages, I honestly believe everyone here wishes me great success while also hoping I will die in a horrible accident.
Because let’s face it, if you a professional journalist-person there’s nothing like hearing that people are skipping over your award-winning journalism so they have time to read about someone’s underpants and body hair. And quite honestly, they should feel this way; what does it say about our society that while real journalists are trying to make the world a better place, some hack gets to monopolize a whole page — with color! — while trying to shill a book? (Again, that’s 994-2178. Ask for Georgia.)
That’s why in this ongoing celebration of the glory that is me, I’m going to let this column focus on the other writers who share these pages. I do this because I want you to appreciate all they do and so no one will spike my drink with cyanide at the annual Christmas party.
First is Patrick Alexander, who is very cool, partially because he is from Scotland. A country with a long and glorious history since being discovered by Mel Gibson in 1995, Patrick exemplifies the best of his nation because he alone can wear a kilt without making it seem like he showed up six months late for the Iris Festival.
Patrick is also cool because with his Scottish accent he can say just about anything and it sounds sophisticated, including, “Would you like some haggis?” A traditional Scottish delicacy made with sheep’s heart, liver and lungs and then minced with a bunch of other terrible crap before being boiled in the animal's stomach for approximately three hours, I am constantly afraid he will slip some into my drink at the Christmas party.
Next is Gwyneth Gibby, who despite having lived in Southern California is a fairly normal person. Even though I have known Gwyneth for several years, I really don’t know a great deal about her, save for the fact that she drives a Mini. And while it’s not really fair to judge people you don’t know, I’ve decided she could be a serial killer or even an actor in a hemorrhoid commercial, and I would love her just because of her car.
Finally is my editor, Allyson Longueira, whose job it is to keep me from writing about cat murder, pictorial descriptions of my showers and any sentence that includes the word “canoodling.” More than just my News Guard editor, our writing relationship began the day the space shuttle blew up over Texas and after all these years, I consider her far more than just a boss.
Indeed, Allyson is a very important person in my life, so much so that I hide behind her when I am assaulted by a heavily-armed, drunken astrologer — or pieces of falling space craft — just so her paper will continue to have me.
And there you have it: The wonderful writers of The News Guard. Please, next time you see them, tell them how much you appreciate them, but more importantly, let them know to tell their boss to publish my book.
Stay safe, stay away from me
Feb. 18, 2009
Sitting in room with mildly entertained people and videos with bad acting, I recently found myself surprised to be taking a first aid course and not watching a movie on the Sci-Fi network.
That’s why — should you be near me and suffer some type of injury or disease with swollen nodes — I suggest you wait for second aid: the EMT in the ambulance, the doctor at the ER, the janitor coming off a five-day bender. Anyone, as long as it’s not me.
I should say right now this was a very well taught course; the instructor was professional, thorough and always made me aware that she could poison me in my sleep without anyone knowing it. But it was very hard to learn in there because of my friend Susan, and so should someday someone’s node explode on my car, I’ll blame her.
Susan is like a lot of people in education these days: having worked in an emergency room and seen every kind of nightmare imaginable, she wanted something more challenging and decided to work in a school. As a result, every time there would be bad acting on the videos, Susan could remember a time she saw that for real, only with someone’s leg sticking out of their pancreas. It was very hard to concentrate.
So, even having already watched hundreds of hours of medical videos in my life, I still just know the basics. That proper medical aid is best rendered by fighting, talking to yourself and then stripping naked in some type of janitorial space before making out with a hot surgeon. (And to think in biology I thought “Grays Anatomy” was a textbook.)
I jest, of course; I don’t know any hot surgeons. But more importantly, as a result of my first aid class, I have learned the critical information I need to keep someone alive until their lawyer can arrive and sue everyone but my school district.
Lesson one: Everything is dangerous now, even if you don’t count the lawyers. With deadly needles, Hepatitis C and HIV, the mere act of saving someone’s life will probably kill you. This, in contrast to the good ol’ days when someone would be injured, the community would tend to his needs and then he would be left behind to be eaten by a wooly mammoth.
Lesson two: Medical protocols and beliefs have changed. When I took my initial first aid course, there were these complicated tables of breaths per minute and chest compressions that you had to know to give someone CPR. Thousands of people died every year because they didn’t keel over next to a mathematician. Today, it’s two breaths and 30 compressions, which is only a problem if your first aid giver is a moron — and like you want them breathing on you, anyway.
Another change is that when you drive you should never wear bulky clothes because it messes up the very advanced airbags that will save your life by exploding in your face. (The same does not apply to grenades; wear lots of parkas when driving with those in the car.)
And you’re not supposed to drive with your hands in the 10 and 2 position on the steering wheel anymore, since the airbag will snap your arms in the event of a serious crash. (Remember, now, airbags: goooooood.) These days, you’re supposed to drive with your hands above your lap. This is also safer if you’ve gotten in the habit of flipping people off while you drive.
Indeed, if you take this to the logical conclusion — that clothes are bad and arms breakable — the safest thing you can do in the car is drive naked with your knees. Bonus: it frees your hands up for drinking two mugs of coffee.
And don’t worry about getting burned; you can just swing by the school. Susan’s a trained medical person.
I’d help you, but I’ll be in the janitor’s closet.
Take my Chrysler, please
Feb. 25, 2009
As you may have heard, in the auto industry’s ongoing attempt to convert Detroit to a Third World nation, Chrysler will stop making the PT Cruiser.
Like many Americans who currently start their day with 24-hour news and the innate desire to return to the good ‘ol days of the Nixon Administration, I recognized this information as merely the first step. Soon, all PT Cruisers will be gone from our streets, relegated to the dustbin, like Edsels and naming men “Aubrey.”
Certainly, for an automaker to stop producing a car is not always a sign of bad times. Often it’s a sign of horrific times: two million explosive Ford Pintos can’t be wrong. So looking at the demise of the PT Cruiser I will say simply this: I hope all of them explode, too.
To review: the PT Cruiser is one of those retro-looking vehicles that Baby Boomers pine for: a reminder of the days when cars had lousy brakes, rock-hard dashboards that would split your skull, and one seatbelt for each seven passengers. Heck, this is why I used to like PT Cruisers. As someone who drives a BMW convertible, I believe a vehicle is about passion and happiness, regardless of price, environmental destruction or the potential to have fake wood pasted on the doors.
But it was in the spring of ’04 – leaving off the first two digits of the year makes it seem nostalgic – that I came to see the PT Cruiser as a symbol of all that is evil in the world. Could I be wrong? Sure; I used to think “Loren” was a silly name for men until I met a very large man with power tools who has that name.
Picture this, however: five years ago my girlfriend and I were cruising down the highway on the west coast of Florida enjoying spring break. We’re in said BMW, when suddenly she takes my six-week old convertible and, while trying to get us into the Starbucks parking lot, side-slams an 80-year-old grandma off the road into the ditch. Thank God grandma wasn’t driving a Pinto.
As you might imagine, this changed our relationship forever: I realized then that this woman would literally kill people to get me to a coffee shop. I could have married her right there. The car, however, was a complete disaster, with various German parts lying all over the highway.
Stunned into silence, she couldn’t believe she’d just wrecked my new BMW. But ratcheting up my best sensitive guy voice, I told her it was “just a car.” (I lied; I channeled what I thought “Aubrey” would say.) This is when she, too, realized she should marry me. A decision that even to this day she probably regrets, because she really hates my BMW.
But not as much as I hate the PT Cruiser. Because when she wrecked my car, it was just the first week of three weeks in Florida, days that would end with me, my beautiful Bimmer, and a week at the National Cheerleading Association championships in Daytona Beach. One week of pure, hedonistic stupidity, frozen pizzas and drinks (often together) in the middle of 8,000 college cheerleaders, every one of them wanting me, my car, and the national championship trophy I’d soon be carrying around in the backseat. (Hey, it’s my dream.)
But what did I get? A PT Cruiser from Enterprise Rent-a-car. That’s what I got to cruise Daytona Beach in. I was not cool, and even though I had that trophy, no one looks dead sexy in a PT Cruiser.
Although, now that I think about it, maybe it was for the best.
Because what clearly started out as one last romp through the woods of immaturity and cavorting with women impressed by a man who dresses like an animal (they exist) became something else. The cutie-pie who was just my girlfriend became the woman who would become my wife. She is my love now, not some car or gaudy award. My days with the PT Cruiser were not a sign of something gone wrong, but a statement of something I only now fully understand.
She wrecked my BMW on purpose.
Otters, tourists, residents and other signs of doom
March 4, 2009
From a weather perspective, the month of February was spectacular: a much-welcomed break in the winter of 2009, which based on our crappy summer seemed to start in 2007.
The sidewalks and beaches were packed with people, the highway with cars carrying tourists from the Valley. Looking around, it gave me a warm feeling that soon I could go back to hating all of them for being here.
To some reasonable and informed people it might seem like loathing tourists in a tourist town is stupid. But as anyone who’s had a colonoscopy can tell you, just because the doctor is good for your health, doesn’t mean you want them riding shotgun at the bar.
Personally, I have no problem with most tourists; I am perfectly willing to concede they have a right to be here, assuming they’ve never looked at my colon. I do draw the line, however, at people that discovered Lincoln City after I did. As this town was perfect when I found it, the arrival of anyone after me can only screw it up.
True, the genuine number of post-Aug. 5, 2005, arrivals is quite small, and at this time they do out number me. But if the people I stand behind at Safeway are to be believed, soon I will forget I ever actually lived anywhere but here and I can pretty much hate anyone that doesn’t have a Power Motors license plate frame on their car.
It’s important to keep track of these new people; as non-locals they come from other places with new thoughts and ideas. True, if I were to actually listen to them, I might learn something. I’ve even read that other places on Earth might be decent. But honestly, if life there was so great, why are they visiting and moving here in the first place?
Some people might think I’m overreacting. But from watching Superman movies (or Liberace, same thing), I know one man can make a difference. And if we don’t immediately get angry and bitter at every last tourist and newcomer that owns a minivan, one of them might slip in and screw things up.
This is why I hate sea otters.
For well more than a century, this area has gotten by just fine without sea otters. Sure, they’re cute and innocuous. And as a sign that maybe the human race might survive its own, short-sided environmental insanity, I note in all fairness not one of them has ever tried to look at my colon.
But ever since that fuzzy little water rat came to Depoe Bay, all anyone wants to talk about is the sea otter. Millions of state dollars spent to teach volunteers to “speak whale” now flushed down the toilet. Soon, thousands of whales will be out of a job.
And while you might think the whales will be just fine without us — apparently they ruled the oceans before we harpooned them all — consider their next conquest. Because almost unique among animals, sea otters know how to use tools. Sure, today they’re just pounding a rock on a shell to get food. But what happens tomorrow when they’re pounding on your door? Everyone in Amway and the Jehovah’s Witnesses is out of a job, that’s what.
The only good thing I can say about the otter is that it’s not a kite flier, because those people are also going to run this city into the ground. Yes, they make Lincoln City pretty and attract thousands of visitors a year, without whom I would have no one to rail against as I drive aimlessly around the D River Wayside parking lot.
But if wind farms all over the country have taught us anything, it’s that wind is a valuable resource — and all those kites in the air are stealing it. (Octopus kites take eight times as much.) Less wind equals less energy and the terrorists win.
What can be done to stop these people and otters? Well, bumper stickers help; there is no higher expression of democracy and passion than to stick a $1.57 emblem on your car.
But more than that you can leave: just pack up, and head out of the city. Unless you came after Aug. 5, 2005; I need you here to blame.
Don't you just hate people who hate to complain?
March 11, 2009
Have you ever noticed people who say “I hate to complain” don’t seem to hate it at all?
It’s as if by the very nature of saying they hate doing it, they haven’t done it at all. These people are not to be trusted, and I say this knowing I’ve just soiled the mortal soul of Michael Landon.
Landon was the twice-divorced actor who had an affair with a makeup artist 21 years his junior while teaching America what it meant to be a good family man. He did this by playing Pa Ingalls, the father of Laura Ingalls in “Little House on the Prairie.” Pa Ingalls was a wonderful father, despite never actually teaching his kid how to run down a hill without tripping over herself.
As the world’s most perfect father — we know he was perfect because no matter how many times he couldn’t find enough money to feed his family, his children still didn’t eat him — he always dispensed sage wisdom. In one episode he was so good at it he actually got to beat his son, Albert, with a belt just so Albert could be a better person.
Of course, Pa felt horrible about it. Which is why just before he took Albert out to the barn and beat him like someone who’d been caught on a Singaporean vandalizing spree, Pa told Albert how it would in fact hurt Pa more than Albert and that he really hated doing it.
(If you’re not wondering why Pa didn’t relieve his guilt by just leaving Albert alone or maybe even switching places with Albert, you are clearly a more worldly person than I am. I would have beaten Pa to death with a farm implement.)
That’s why as I complain, I tell you I’m going to enjoy it — and hope if you disagree that you’re not near a farm implement. Because after nearly two years of the massive spotlight from the hotel behind my house shining in my picture windows, I’m thinking about sending Pa Ingalls over there to feel bad about what he’s about to do.
Like many businesses in town, this hotel has a parking lot with tourists in it. Unfamiliar with the layout of the parking lot — it is large and flat — these tourists need an enormous amount of light to get from their cars to the front of the hotel. At least this is what I think happens. As all of the light seems to shine in my windows, I can only assume there are still tourists trapped in their cars wondering if it’s safe to use the sidewalk.
As a geography teacher, I have tried to appreciate this light coming into my bedroom and living room by serenading my wife with French music while wearing a beret. This seems only fitting since the hotel sends off the same amount of light used to illuminate Paris.
This amount of light anywhere but the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree and Siegfried and Roy’s sequined suits should be illegal, and in fact in Lincoln City it is, at least according to some city code I read once. But in my experience, calling code enforcement has proved about as useful as calling Michael Landon. (OK, I’m being unfair; Landon’s been dead since 1991. At least he has an excuse for not doing anything.)
I have, of course, tried calling the hotel; right after I moved in I left a message or two. No one ever got back to me, though. Perhaps they just want to see me in my underwear, volumes of chest hair and all.
After all, their light assures that no matter what happens in my house, day or night it is well lit, and since I spend a lot of time in my undies, I can only presume someone over there wants to see more of me. Heck, maybe if I went down to Highway 101 in front of their hotel in the buff they’d get a good enough view and finally turn that light off.
Talk about something we’d all hate.
Man of the year? Woman? I don't care, just vote Me
March 18, 2009
Before I begin this week’s topic: hairy men behaving badly, I would like to address something from last week’s topic: hairy men behaving badly. (If you want variety, go to Kenny’s and pick up a bottle of Heinz 57.)
Many people were curious to know just which Lincoln City hotel’s ginormous parking lot lights were shining in my bedroom windows and lighting up my evening nakedness. In truth, I had this information in there, as I think the more mostly-naked people you have in a lather — now there’s an image — the more likely you are to bring press coverage to your underwear. My editor, however, took it out because it is the policy of this newspaper to not allow one-sided opinion pieces to attack local businesses.