Friday, 24 February 2012

 Today, while sitting at the ice cream counter at the local soda shop (as Owen and I often do on Friday afternoons), he asked what we’d be doing tomorrow.

“Well,” I said, “I think you should guess.”

He just kind of looked off into space with a glazed six year-old look on his face. Predictably, he said he had no idea what we’d be doing.

“It’s something that we’ve done before on Saturday mornings,” I said.

He scratched the side of his face, but was still stumped.

“Do you want me to give you a clue?”

He jumped at this offer.

I thought for a second. “Goggles,” I said.

He looked me in the eyes as if to say, “I’m sorry but that’s just too cryptic.” He tried to think of an answer, but still came up empty-handed.

“Want another clue?”

He did.

“Apron,” I said.

He thought for a second, then said, “we’re gonna make pancakes!”

I laughed. “When have I ever made pancakes with you?” I told him I didn’t even know how to make pancakes, and then added, “And what in the world would we need goggles for?”

Owen realized the humor in this, and he laughed, too.

Then I gave him a final clue. “Lowe’s.”

That time, he got it.

Saturday, 25 February 2012

Before participating in the above activity this morning, Owen and I ran around the store collecting goods: a space heater, a circular saw, door hinges, and seven bolts of insulation. I planned to also purchase a humidifier, but they didn’t have the one we wanted.

So then, about an hour later, I needed to shove all of that stuff into my two-door Cavalier, while still allowing room for Owen and I to fit inside and drive safely.

Well, thanks to help from a friend who – along with his two sons – joined us at Lowe’s, I managed to squeeze everything in. This meant barely giving Owen the room he needed to shoehorn into the back seat, sitting on the trunk to get it closed, and foregoing any sort of ability to see out the left side of the vehicle. Fortunately, I routed a way home that necessitated only one non-controlled intersection left-hand turn.

In what was probably the most surprising moment of the weekend, Owen and I arrived home safely. I spent the next six hours cutting wood pieces for the ceiling in our workshop and subsequently installing insulation.

Man, that sucked.

Thankfully, the space heated performed excellently, so I wasn’t cold. Otherwise, though, I was miserable. Turns out, it’s best to have three hands when installing heavy wood sheets above my head. But I only have two. My in-laws suggested placing the wood pieces about the studs, but that only worked for a small portion of the garage, then the crossbeams got in the way. There was saw dust all over my face and clothing, and I had to recut a couple of pieces. Even worse, I sometimes had to remove a piece after installing it because I discovered I had nailed it in at a bad angle (and it’s tough to judge this while balancing it on my head and doing the nailing). Later, I rolled out the insulation, and this meant that nasty crap was bothering my eyes, nostrils, and hands all evening. I even tore open a three day-old wound in my left hand, so that was a nice touch.

Owen stayed out in the workshop with me most of the time. He kept me company and “helped.”

Sunday, 26 February 2012

Yeah, more of the same today.

At about 9:00 this morning, I drove to Home Depot to pick up the rest of the wood sheets I needed. I loaded them into my Cavalier and, while doing so, some lady woman walked by and laughed at me. She must’ve been thinking, “You’ll never fit those wood sheets in your little car.” Ha! Boy, if she only knew.

From 10:00 – 5:30 I was in the workshop. Owen again kept me company for most of the time. In the afternoon, Jennifer brought out a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich + a bottle of water. I brushed off the sawdust and fiberglass and gobbled up the comestibles. Jennifer also took a couple of BEFORE and AFTER pictures, to show how bad I am at installing a wood ceiling.

Sore and bruised, I hobbled into the house and took a shower, then gorged on dinner, and sat down to watch the Oscars.  As I predicted, The Tree of Life didn’t win anything, so that’s good.

Tuesday, 21 February 2012

Man, I totally missed a golden opportunity today.

So there I was, in my supervisor’s office this afternoon. And he casually notes his need for new spectacles. I made some comment in reply, then we carried on with the rest of our meeting. After talking about work-y stuff, I brought the conversation back to eyewear; using his earlier comments as a springboard, I gave him tips regarding flixible hinges, anti-reflective coating, how to minimize eye magnification, and how to keep his lenses as thin as possible.

So after offering these helpful tidbits, my supervisor asks: “So, did you work in the eyeglass industry at one time?”

I said: “Yes.”

Dammit! Sometimes I’m so stupid. What a missed opportunity. I should have responded with something better.

What I should have said: “No, I’m just THAT knowledgeable about nearly every aspect of humanity. Aren’t you glad you hired me?”

I’ll be kicking myself about this for a long time.

Wednesday, 22 February 2012

I delivered speech #9 in Toastmasters today.

As you may recall (if not, read HERE), I had considerable difficulty coming up with and deciding upon a topic that met the requirement of the speech. The only criterion was that it be persuasive…but I just couldn’t find anything that worked well with my knowledge set and the audience.

Anyway, for a while I considered doing something completely absurd, such as “Why Hall and Oates are the Greatest Band in the History of Rock and Roll,” but I kept struggling with how I would prepare 5-7 minutes worth of information on such a lousy topic. Then I changed ‘er up and decided to go with a speech on being left-handed, but as my wife deftly noted: What exactly would I be persuading people to do?

So then, this past weekend, I was conveying to my wife some of the fascinating information I learned while reading Greg Laden’s blog, specifically, THIS POST. In the midst of my staccatic rant, Jennifer said, “Hey, you should use this topic for your speech on Wednesday, you sexy hunk of masculinity” (I’m paraphrasing).

Huh. Thought I. That’s not a bad idea.

As luck would have it, I had a chance to speak with Greg on Sunday. He gave a lecture on evolution at the Roseville Library. Or, wait – that sounds confusing. What I should say is: At the Roseville Library, Greg gave a lecture on evolution.

Anyway, I told him of my plans to purloin his information and use it to further my goal of achieving the Competant Communicator Certificate from Toastmasters. He was more than happy to supply me with additional information, and even passed my name on to a couple of other biologists, who then wrote to me with a gallon of other web posts I might find helpful. (I did!)

So, I gave my speech today. It wasn’t as good as my backwards speech, but I was still pleased with my performance. Of the eight speeches delivered today, I won the “Best Overall Speech” award – it’s kind of like winning an Oscar only it’s made of Hershey’s chocolate, not gold, and only, like 30 people were watching, not 997 million.

Thursday, 23 February 2012

As long as I’m talking about nerdy science things, let’s switch from Biology to Physics.

Okay, back in 2003, when my wife and I were loyal subscribers to Discover Magazine (yeah – isn’t that funny? Jehovah’s Witnesses who subscribed to Discover. Talk about cognitive dissonance), there came an issue with an article asking:

What if Einstein was wrong?

Of course, Einstein was wrong a number of times, most notable in his choice of hair stylist. As a human, he was error-prone just like the rest of us you, but the article tried (and succeeded) in teasing readers with the thought that maybe, just maybe, the greatest genius in the history of the Solar System has now been proven wrong.

This is a fascinating line of thought for a number of reasons. For one thing, it shows that science continually progresses. For two thing, Einstein’s theories and discoveries were so far ahead of their time, it would be amazing if we had now – finally – 100 years later, been able to one-up Mr. Smarty-pants. For three thing, the scientist or engineer or technician who does succeed in proving Einstein wrong is sure to become famous in her own right.

The article, though, pretty much ends by saying, “Well, if Einstein is wrong about A, B, or C, we haven’t proven it yet.”

I wasn’t surprised.

Late last year, the scientific community was abuzz with the announcement that some uppity European scientists observered faster-than-light (FTL) particles. Of course this was front page news. What’s funny is that the big news wasn’t so much the discovery of FTLs, but the fact that such a discovery proved Einstein was wrong about his fundamental assumptions.

I didn’t buy it.

When my wife asked, some six months ago, why I didn’t believe it, I said, “‘Cause Eisntein wasn’t wrong…these guys are just jumping the gun.”

In fact, I was even editing an essay (as part of an internship I am engaged in right now) recently, and the writer, in trying to show that no facts are immutable, noted that even Einstein has now been proven wrong. I kicked back on this; I made a note in the margin to the head editor saying that I didn’t think this was accurate. I said: “I like XXXXX’s idea of showing that science can change and be refined, but this is not a good example.” So, that part of the essay was altered.

Anyway, I’m writing about this now, because it appears all is once again right with the world. Labeling their story as “Breaking News,” Science Insider says that Einstein’s theories are still in tact. It turns out, the scientists at CERN – not Albert Einstein – were the ones who made an error in their calculations.

Huh. That’s funny. I wouldn’t have guessed that. I mean, whenever I perform a calculation that disagrees with Einstein, my first thought is: “Hey, look! I just proved Einstein wrong! I better take this to the press!”

I hope it’s obvious I’m being facetious here – if I, or you, or anyone else is ever in a situation where it looks like our math is at odds with Einstein’s…we better check our calculations…’cause I assure you: the error does not lie with the person who was so intelligent, their last name has become synonymous with genius.

 

This is Albert Einstein. He knows more than you do. Deal with it.

Saturday, 18 February 2012

Back in my earlier days – a dark time when I was without children and hadn’t yet reached 30 years of age – my wife and I watched movies all the time. It wasn’t unusual for us to go to the local non-Blockbuster video store and rent three movies, then return those five days later and rent three more. This thus followed a practice I began in my teens, when, after the family went to sleep, I would drag the TV and VCR into my bedroom and watch a movie I had borrowed from the local library. (I worked at the library, so I could rent them for free.)

But with the rise of Netflix, and the appearance of, first, a child and, then, children, our movie watching has waned. We have been proponents of Netflix for nearly a decade, but during that time we have mostly rented TV shows. A 45-minute or half hour show is way, way easier to squeeze in at night after the kids f-i-n-a-l-l-y go to bed.

Well, this post will detail our sudden, undoubtedly temporary, return to those halcyon days of your you’re yore.

Last night, we watched Moneyball. ‘Twas a decent flick. We only watched it because it’s nominated for a barrel of Oscars, including Best Picture, Best Actor (Brad Pitt) and Best Supporting Actor (Jonah Hill).

Tonight, we watched Bridesmaids. No, Bridesmaids is not nominated for Best Picture, but it does have two nominations, including Best Supporting Actress for Melissa McCarthy. Several people have raved about this movie, saying it’s the funniest movie they’ve seen lately and that I’ll really laugh at some parts.

Well…it was funny. In some parts. I don’t think I ever had one of those tears-running-down-my-face laughs, but I chuckled a few times. Maybe guffawed. There were scenes that I know were supposed to be funny but, for me, acting ridiculous just ins’t that funny on film (although it is funny in real-life). A co-worker told me she viewed the movie as one long Saturday Night Live sketch. That helped me put it into perspective. Like so many SNL skits, the players are often having more fun than the audience. For five to ten minutes, that’s fine. But not for two hours.

 Sunday, 19 February 2012

This evening, we pissed away 139 minutes of valuable time by watching something called The Tree of Life. It’s nominated for three Oscars: Best Picture, Director, and Cinematography. It might win the Cinematography award…and that’s all it should win.

We laughed at the film before it even started; a title card appeared on screen informing us that the film’s producers recommend that, in order to hear all the whispering in the film, we play it loud. Ha! Okay, so right away we know someone did a lousy job mixing the audio.

After that, the film bolted out of the gate promising. It began with one of my favorite bible verses:

Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?…when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of god shouted for joy? -Job 38:4,7

And then showed scenes of a family in the 1950s romping in their yard and going about their day. Then tragedy stikes. There’s a great scene of the mom collapsing, and then the story flashes forward to the present day. An adult man – evidently one of the three boys from that family in the 1950s, though I never figured out which one – is depicted walking around a downtown area, riding an elevator, and otherwise lost in thought.

Suddenly, there are about twenty minutes of screen saves. Nope, I’m not kidding. Beautiful, yes. Interesting, no. If you want to see the sort of images I’m talking about, just go to NASA’s Astronomy Picture of the Day. There, at least, you can read fascinating descriptions and not have to sit through meaningless pretentions.

After that, the film follows an impressionistic route. We are shown several slices of life. The mom is gentle and caring; free-spirited, even. The Dad is a harsh disciplinarian. He’s the kind of Dad that encourages his kids to be assertive and not take crap from anyone, yet simultaneously wants the kids to obey him like he’s some sort of god. Every so often, the story cuts back to teh present day and we watch that man (Sean Penn) riding the elevator. It’s all supposed to mean something, I guess. Only, it doesn’t (check the discussion boards if you don’t believe me).

There’s one part where the kids ask their mom to tell them a story of when she was young. She relates a tale of when she rode an airplane. The kids find this enthralling, and the movie cuts to images of the mom, as a teenager, riding a prop plane. Then it cuts to her floating about three feet off the ground, under a tree. It’s funny, to me, this was the only thing that made sense: instead of the mom actually saying “Riding in a plane made me feel like a bird; like I was floating,” the film-makers simply show us how she was feeling. I say this is funny because, judging from the FAQ pages at Internet Movie Data Base, this one scene appears to have baffled people more than any other.

The film ends (long after it’s finished, in my opinion), with bare-footed people walking on a beach towards the water. They might be in heaven, or maybe it’s hell. Sean Penn is there, and he meets up with his family from the 1950s. Not sure why. They embrace him as if he’s the son who died decades ago, and they’re so glad to see him again. Even his abusive father seems happy. After showing us a blurry light bulb for, like, the fifth time, the film mercifully fades to black and we see:

Directed by Terrence Malick

I immediately groaned, and my wife asked what was wrong. I reminded her that Malick is the director who dropped that turd known as The Thin Red Line at the theaters back in 1998. That, I believe, is the worst film I ever saw at the theaters. I was so bored, I got up to use the bathroom and didn’t return for twenty minutes, finding myself more interested in the hallway carpet patterns.

My wife said we are probably the kind of people who like to have stories spoon-fed to us, and don’t like cryptic films like this one. Maybe. But while I love having to search for meaning, or having to pay rapt attention to a complicated plot, I hate it if there’s no pay-off. As I mentioned before, you can search online, but no one knows what the film means; ergo, it has no meaning. I could easily write a poem, or a story, or a script that is so “deep” and “layered” that no one understands it. What would the point be? Did I really make something beautiful, or did I just construct something that has no meaning and tried to pass it off as poetry? The answer is B.

If you want to see a movie that doesn’t spoon-feed you the meaning, watch Magnolia, Being Jon Malcovich, Adaptation, About Schmidt, Inception, Memento, 2001, The Birds, or Dancer in the Dark. All movies with layered meanings and/or deep symbolisms. And all way, way better than whatever it was I just watched.

Monday, 20 February 2012

Happy Presidents’ Day! A day that, unlike Veterans Day, knows how and where to use an apostrophe!

We were going to stay home and honor some of the amazing middle-aged rich white men who have made our nation great – like Martin Van Buren, James Buchanan, Chester Arthur, Warren Harding, and Gerald Ford – but decided to cancel our Commander-in-Chief plans and, instead, go to the theater.

Today we saw Hugo.

Hugo is based on the awesome novel The Invention of Hugo Cabret, which I first read about two years ago and, conincidentally, am currently reading to my son.

The book, of course, is better. The book begins with a prologue by a character named Professor Alcofrisbas. The professor invites us to pretend we are in a darkened theater and then, as we turn the pages, the curtains rise, and the image zooms in on a boy’s eye. The film dispenses with Alcofrisbas – he’s not in the film at all – and doesn’t begin the film with the same excited antipication. I was hoping for a voice-over, or a curtain rising on a black-and-white Paris. Alas, no luck.

The film fleshes out the Station Inspector character, even giving him a love interest. Unfortunately, during the first five minutes of the film, the Inspector fumbles and trips all over the place, rending the film a near-slapstick. As the Inspector is played by Sasha Baren Cohen, perhaps I should have expected it. Still, the story is not a comedy, and the absurdity of his character in the film – especially so soon in th efilm – give the wrong impression. I cringed.

The book’s uniqueness is due largely to its reliance on full-page images; unlike many story books with pictures, the pictures in Hugo Cabret don’t just enhance the tale, they help tell it – the book would make little sense without the images. As film is such a visual medium, I wish Scorsese would have taken a cue from the book and relied more on images and less on dialogue. Particularly, I would have jumped for joy if the movie had begun with a showing of the 14 minute silent film that forms the drive for the plot. 

Nevertheless, the film does a superb job of brining the steampunk world of Hugo Cabret to life. Ben Kingsley shines as Papa Georges, the exposition of why the early films were lost in the Great War is actually more compelling than the book, and the denouement is satisfying, though not quite as exquisite as the book’s.

Having seen four of the ten Best Picture nominees, my vote is for Hugo. Come Sunday, I hope it wins.

Thursday, 16 February 2012

Well, I am pleased to announce that, according to an email I received from my University, I am officially down to four credits this semester. I was at eight credits, but it turns out that if you take five or more credits, they charge you an additional $60 for a “health services” fee.

This, of course is tantamount to robbery, especially from a school that already charges nearly a thousand dollars a credit. Also, if you don’t have health insurance, they tack on another $700+ per semester to put you under their insurance. Having insurance through my employer, I waive their insurance, but I was still outraged to see this $60 fee. Upon inquiry, I learned that it allows me to see the on-campus clinic.

“Wow,” you say, “$60 per semester to use an on-site clinic is a pretty good deal.”

No, it’s not. If I was to actually visit the clinic sometime this semester, I would still be charged a co-pay and my insurance company would receive a bill for the remainder. In a way, then, it’s kind of like if the school charged me a parking fee when I don’t plan to use the parking lot (and I don’t).

I complained to the financial office and my adviser. My adviser agreed it was a lousy fee for a part-time student who lives off campus and has his own insurance. He invoked the tired, “If they waive it for you, they’d have to waive it for everyone.”

I’ve heard this rationale in varied instances throughout my life, and it never holds water. There are two reasons why it doesn’t:

1) It’s not unfair to waive it for just me – assuming I’m the only one who’s complaining about it.

2) It indicated the person agrees something is unfair, in which case they should just change the ruling for everyone.

Anyway, in a more heated discussion with the financial department, the rep said there was nothing I could do about it, so I told her I would be dropping a class to bring me under 5 credits. She paused. I think she was shocked. She’d probably never met someone that would go to such lengths before, but, well, now she has.

The next day, my adviser advised me that the tuition board is taking this fee under consideration.

Anyway, yay! My steady history of dropping credits like a mad man at Hamline remains in tact.

Friday, 17 February 2012

Today, I submitted to a health evaluation at my place of employment.

A couple of weeks ago, they sent out something saying employees could get a $50 credit on their paycheck if they signed up for one of these evaluations. So I did.

An email arrived a few days ago suggesting that I fast in order to obtain the best numbers. So I did. This was surprisingly easy, actually, considering I’m a glutton. Last night, at about 10:15, I consumed a bowl of cereal. I went to bed shortly after that. This morning, I slept later than usual then, due to unrelated events, I worked from home for a few hours. I arrived at work at 11:00 this morning, hungry, but not ridiculously so.

I ventured straightaway to the appropriate conference room, where I had to fill out one of those bubble sheets, provdng my name, gender, age, address and phone number. Not to sound cocky, but I think I got 100% on it.

Then a nurse invited me into her curtained lair. As she began to take my blood pressure, she told me not to be alarmed if the reading was a bit high. I was, she explained, at work, and the stress of work could give me an abnormally high reading. She had also just drawn blood from my finger tip, and she said that could raise my blood pressure, too. Then she saw the results and said, “Oh, but that’s not the case for you.” She then asked if I was an athlete.

After measuring my height and wight, she also measured my total cholesterol, LDL (bad cholesterol), HDL (good cholesterol), triglycerides, body mass index, body fat percent, and glucose level. While recording all of the data, she inquired as to if I have any children. She then said that “people would kill for numbers like these,” and remarked that I was in “terrific health,” which is great news because surely I want to stay alive and vibrant for years to come while my children grow. She said it appears I am doing everything right in order to stay alive for a long time.

Ugh. Yeah, I do everything right, but only because, while I’m alive, I want to stay healthy. But now it sounds as if I still have over a half century to go on this merry-go-round until, one day, I find myself lying in a hospice, dying of nothing. Perhaps my children, who by that time will also be senior citizens, can comfort me with words like, “the guys from Guinness will be here shortly to verify your longevity record, Dad.”

Oh – I suppose you’re curious as to what my “numbers” are. Sorry, but if people are truly willing to commit acts of homicide for my numbers, then I don’t think I should be giving them out for free on the WWW like this. Send me a check for $100, and I’ll send you a thank you card with the numbers listed.

Tuesday, 14 February 2012

Happy 83rd anniversary of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre!

But instead of the date, let’s talk about the day: Tuesday. You know what’s great about today?

First, I filled up with gas. Super America offers double-coupon day on Tuesdays. They also take competitors’ coupons, so I showed up with a 20 cents off per gallon coupon, which they doubled to 40 cents. With gas costing $3.50 a gallon, this netted me a savings of over 10%. With nearly $4.00 in savings, I essentially got a gallon of gas for free!

Next, the family and I ventured to Ingvar Kamprad Elmtaryd Agunnaryd (or “IKEA,” if you prefer). Kids eat free on Tuesdays, so the four of us each had our own meals and beverages for a grand total of about $11.00.

On the way home, we stopped at the neighborhood car wash. Their Ultimate Car Wash (and dry!) is normally $9.00. But guess what? On Tuesdays, it’s only $6.00.

Thank you, Tuesday, for being such a lousy day of the week that retailers have to offer special, um, offers in order to get us to crawl out of our hovels!

Wednesday, 15 February 2012
What were you doing 20 years ago today? Unless you’re a nineteen year old (in which case the correct answer is “gestating”), you might have no clue.

Would it help if I told you February 15, 1992 was a Saturday? Still no?

Well here’s what I did…

Enjoying the three day Presidents’ Day weekend, my friend Joel spent the weekend at my house. He and I were invited to a talent show in the afternoon. My parents and sister weren’t home so, around noon, we made this video:

 

Later, we rode with some friends to the talent show. I expected to be just a spectator, but during the intermission, my friend Rhett suggested I show off some of my mad lip-syncing skills. “Okay,” I said, “but only if you come on stage with me.” Rhett had already been on stage during the first half of the show. He and his brother Ryan performed their song “Balalaika.” But being the affable guy he was, Rhett just shrugged and figured, why not?

Selecting a song was a no-brainer. My favorite song at that time was Paul Simon’s “The Obvious Child,” and during the long Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior weekend back in January, I borrowed my school’s camera and had fun making crazy videos with my friends. One of the fun videos we made was me lip-syncing to that song with Rhett and another Ryan (not Rhett’s brother) sitting on the floor behind me playing bongos.

I brought the camera home this weekend, too (see the above video for evidence of that), and I had it with me at this talent show. Ryan 2.0 was not at this talent show, but Rhett said he could simulate the percussion portion of the song all by himself.

We ran up to the emcee and signed up. About a half hour later, we did this:

I had a lot of fun that day, and met a lot of people that became good friends of mine. In fact, I even met the girl who would become Rhett’s girlfriend, who then backed out of a bus trip at the last minute, leaving a space for another girl, who I subsequently married. Got that?

But what’s happened to the people involved in this video?

Rhett and I engaged in volunteer work through the religion for the next four years. We married within months of each other. Later, we worked at Lenscrafters together. Rhett passed away over six years ago. The above video doesn’t do justice to his music talent. GO HERE for a better example of that. Or here. Or, for a real treat, go here. Better yet, just go here.

Jamin, who you can see on the right during much of the video continued to be my friend for many years. We drifted apart in adulthood and I last spoke with him in 2006, mere days before leaving the religion. Jamin passed away just over two years ago. I wrote about it IN THIS BLOG POST.

Joel, who is holding and operating the camera, stayed friends with me for a few years. Like Rhett, he was a groomsman in my wedding. Like Jamin, we drifted apart as we progressed through our twenties. He contacted me four years ago, saying he missed the good times we used to have and that he wanted to get together with me and Jennifer. In my response, I told him I would love to do that, but that he should probably know I was no longer a Witness, and I hoped that we could still be friends. He didn’t write back. Ever. He owns a barber shop in Victoria, so I hope things are going well for him. I have no idea how well he does at cutting hair, but he’s a helluva great guy, so you’re sure to have a good time if you patronize his business.

Ryan, who can be seen briefly running in front of the camera and then assisting with the sound board, is webmaster of the most boring website on the internet. He, alone of the people listed here, is still my friend.