get @baffled

"Banff", print by @baffled, c. 2003

Available in the lobby...

Surely one of the greatest advancements in technology over the past decade or so has to be the self-checkout thingy at the grocery store. They are great: a ten or fifteen item limit (depending on the store), very little, if any, waiting time and you can swipe your credit card or fire in a $20 bill and off you go. What's not to like? Sometimes, when things are particularly busy, one can end up waiting a minute or two in line. That's okay: the wait in the regular lines is horrendous. 

So it was, recently, that I had queued up for the self-checkout at the local grocery store. Even though it was busy, things were moving quickly through the line. Now, we all know the feeling of irritation bordering on insane rage we feel when someone has more items than are allowed in the express checkout lane. That is not what happened on this occasion. No, the item limit was not exceeded. The cause of irritation for those of us yearning for a quick exit was an unassuming gentleman who had only three items to scan. He scanned them, perhaps a little slowly and methodically, but three items didn't take too long. This is where the plot thickens: after negotiating the payment screen, this fellow did not swipe a credit card, nor did he insert cash into the appropriate slot. No, our new friend decided that the best thing to do in the express self-checkout super-fast lane would be to write a check (that's "cheque" in every other English-speaking country in the world) to pay for his three items. 

As many of you can imagine, the writing of a check (cheque) takes an extraordinarily long time in relationship to the target amount of time each shopper is supposed to spend navigating the self-checkout. An extraordinarily long time. A really, really extraordinarily long time. The tide of shoppers swirled around our new friend as he stoically tried to find a clerk to help him pay by check (cheque). The rest of us finally made it through. It took an extra four minutes, which is, as anyone knows, an eternity when spent waiting in a self-checkout queue. A small group of us followed our new friend out into the parking lot to help him confirm that all four of his tires were in desperate need of air. 

Then, we all went home and carried on with our lives, not giving this incident a second thought.

I gave you everything

Except perhaps myself

I should have expected this

But I have to tell you

That knife really hurts

Do you know what I got in the mail yesterday? No, of course you don't. Was it a letter from Publisher's Clearing House offering me a chance (at very good odds) to win a gagillion bajillion dollars if I just take a moment to subscribe to thirty-seven magazines? No. Was it a note from the Tax Man returning to me funds that had been improperly deducted from my earnings, without interest under the guise of a "refund"? No. Was it a letter from my doctor advising that the lab results were incorrect and that his previous estimates should now be read as "months" instead of "years"? No.

I got something even better: I got a summons for jury duty. What fun! It is the price one pays for voting, I suppose. Never mind that it has the potential to screw up one's life for weeks.

So now all of my thoughts are directed at coming up with some way to escape from jury duty. I used to think that if I reported with the biggest Bible I could find and didn't answer a single question without first consulting it, I might escape. That won't work around here though. It might serve as an automatic qualification. I may have to play the atheist card and see how that goes.

Still, it might end up like Twelve Angry Men. Perhaps there's a book to be had after all... With my luck the case would probably be about by-law infringement for not cutting your grass often enough.

We shall see...

The nations of Nifway and Aggla had been at war for some time. It was in December of that fateful year that the Nifwanian army made its final push toward Shanju, the capital of Aggla. There, there lay siege to the great city for many days. The generals of Aggla, seeing their numbers dwindle, fled, trying to reach safety in the hills beyond the city. The soldiers of Aggla, proud fighters though they were, soon surrendered to the warriors of Nifway. At first, the people of Shanju were relieved that the siege was over, and hoped that peace and order would be restored. 

When the Nifwanian troops captured the gate of Shanju, all exit from the city was cut off, and nearly one third of the defeated army remained within the city walls. Peace and order was not what Nifway brought to Shanju. The warriors of Nifway began searching the city, killing any soldier of Aggla they found. Within days, the streets of Shanju were littered with the dead. The murderous rage of the Nifwanians was not confined to the soldiers of Aggla: citizens of the city who tried to flee were also killed. Women and children were not spared. Shops were looted and sacked, the soldiers taking anything and everything they wanted, at will. The warriors of Nifway were so brutal, so callous that they invented contests to see how many of the people of Shanju they could torture and kill in a given time. They occupied the city for nearly six weeks, death and terror their constant companions. 

Some say the King of Nifway himself gave license to his soldiers to behave this way. The people of Nifway deny that the Incident at Shanju happened at all. Nifway, in time, met a foe more capable than Aggla. In due course, Nifway was crushed, its main cities laid waste and scores of its people dead. The people of Aggla have not forgotten...

I had a terrible thought yesterday. Well, maybe not terrible, but uncharitable to be sure. I had parked the car expertly between the lines in my parking spot, and when I returned, someone had parked over their line and made it impossible to get into my truck via the driver's door. I noted that the spot next to me was for handicapped parking, and that the offending vehicle did, in fact, display the blue tag with the wheelchair symbol. That didn't stop me from remarking rather loudly "I thought these spots were for physically handicapped people, not the mentally handicapped!"  I then left a little note on the window, you know, the one about "don't park so close next time so I won't have to use a fucking can opener to get into my car"... 

Actually, that is pretty spot on. Not terrible at all...

It is odd, isn't it, how some events will conjure up associations from long ago, things we haven't thought of for years? Take the recent earthquake in Chile, for example. You don't hear about Chile too much (except perhaps when someone makes a comparison between the flag of Texas and the flag of Chile - the Chileans were first, by the way), but whenever it comes up, I automatically think of Chilean table grapes. They are excellent grapes, but that is not important to this story. What is important to this story is that, having automatically thought of Chilean table grapes, my mind turns next to trade unions.

Why, you may ask, does my mind hop from Chile, to table grapes, to trade unions? A long time ago, in another life, I had the misfortune to practice a craft which carried with it compulsory membership in a powerful trade union. Now, before we go too far down the road and discover just how much I loathe the trade union movement as a "movement", let me just say that I do believe there is a useful purpose to be served by trade unions in bettering the conditions of workers throughout the land. There. Just to be clear, by "bettering the conditions of workers" I mean things like not having to go down the coal pit without safety equipment, not having to handle radioactive material with your bare hands, a decent minimum wage, and so forth. I do not mean things like getting an extended lunch break or mandatory smoke breaks every fifteen minutes or the right to "down tools" and stage a walk-out if the delivery driver is from another, different union that wears different colored shirts or something.

We have lost track of our excellent Chilean table grapes. Back in the day, there was a notice board in the lunchroom where union notices were posted. There would be notices about meetings and rallies and which politician to support. There was also something called a "Hot Sheet". The "Hot Sheet" was a list of goods and services that, in the less than humble opinion of the union executive action group, were made or delivered in ways that exploited workers, and that we, as dutiful union members were to avoid at all costs as a show of support. One of the items on the "Hot Sheet" was Chilean table grapes. We were not to buy them, nor were we to frequent any establishment that sold them.

To give you some idea of what a mischievous bastard I was even back then, it was always a great joy for me to bring some grapes to work early, put them on the table for all to enjoy, watch my union brothers and sisters eat up all those delicious grapes and then turn the basket over (in passing) to display the "Product of Chile" label. It was always a delight. They never did figure out who was bringing in those grapes...

I have said this before, but there are certain stereotypes prevalent in youth sport (no matter what the sport is). My youngest son has played t-ball, soccer and now basketball, and in each of these there are a few distinct types of participant. There are those children who "get it" and play the game well, compete fairly and properly. There are also those who spend the entire time gazing up at the clouds or down at the flowers (much like Charlie Brown in the outfield), those who spend the entire time rushing around like they have just consumed a six-pack of Red Bull, and those who spend the entire time exploring either the contents of their shorts or the contents of their nostrils (usually to the same effect). All of which is perfectly fine, really. This isn't serious stuff just yet.

Today's game of "youth basketball" had something special, though. There is one boy on my son's team who, to be fair, has some very special needs indeed. This poor little chap (let's call him "Edgar") isn't all there, and usually spends his time wandering around not engaging with any of the other children. From time to time the basketball will strike him in the head, and he will look around, bewildered as to where he is, and why. I am not sure if his parents are oblivious to this or simply wish to expose him to "normal" play. At any rate, it was a treat today because this boy spent the entire 45 minutes of the session wandering around the court grabbing his crotch and making a sort of "screeeeeee" noise. He would approach other children and do this, much to the consternation of their parents. He seemed fixed on one other boy (we will call him "Seymour", who always seems to be crying because the other team just scored a point) in particular, whose father happens to be an ex-Navy Seal. Seymour's father kept yelling at him to just get away from Edgar, whose own father just kept smiling and waving. The coach/referee/director of the program didn't do anything about it, and it actually became quite embarrassing for everyone by the end of the session. 

I think there should be a whole different "type" for Edgar: kids who clearly have issues but are quite entertaining nevertheless...

One of my sons is of teenage years, and as such, acne is an issue to be dealt with, and for this, we visit the dermatologist. The dermatologist is a lovely, bright lady who stands about 4'9" tall. She is always pleasant and spot on medically with treatments and so forth. She has one very disarming quality, though: she is a very loud talker. Very loud. So loud, in fact that every patient knows what ails all the other patients on any given visit. She cannot help it, I guess. She even has a sign in reception acknowledging that she speaks rather loudly and will do her best to keep it down.

What this means in practical terms is that we try to communicate our issues via sign language so that there is a lot less shouting. We can avoid embarrassment this way. On our most recent visit we learned far too much about the patient in the next room as we could hear the good doctor open the door, enter the room and, after a muted introduction, shout "Good heavens Mr. Williams, that is a ferocious rash you have on your scrotum!" 

Micro-poetry from fortune cookies...this time at Pei Wei. {My Winter Receipt Inside It}

In addition to the usual mysteries of life, the universe and everything that tax us every day, today there were two additional puzzles that vexed me. The first: why, when there is a perfectly good litter box close by, would the cat decide (and I use that verb with care) to shit on a blanket on the couch? The second: why, when nobody is looking, would the dog decide to eat it?

Don't tell me that it's about protein, because I'm not buying that one. Have you ever washed a dog's mouth out with soap? I have. Oh yes. Don't look at me like that. I did it, and he did have a potty mouth. What to do about the cat is another matter entirely. Cats are far more clever and cunning than dogs. I think, in the end, the cat will win. 

I have to remember to check my boots in the morning before putting them on...

I heard an amusing story the other day about a fellow who was brought up in a fairly conservative, religious family. Back in 1975, when he was about 15 years old, his attention began to turn rather earnestly toward girls, women and sex. From time to time he was able to surreptitiously purchase a copy of Playboy magazine, which turned out to be a fairly satisfying experience for him. His conservative, religious upbringing though, also saddled him with tremendous feelings of guilt for purchasing the magazine (quite clearly not for the articles but rather for the plentiful pictures of naked women). So it was that he felt compelled to somehow dispose of or destroy the magazine, and one evening as the family gathered around the fireplace after dinner it dawned upon him that after everyone had gone off to do whatever it was they were doing, he could throw the Playboy into the fire and be done with it. Nobody would ever know. He would be in the clear. 

So, when the moment presented itself, he sneaked into his room and retrieved the magazine and put it into the fire. Much to his alarm, the magazine did not burst into flames; it just sat there, barely smoldering. Research tells us that back in those days, Playboy was a much heftier magazine than it is today, so it wouldn't burn as easily as it might now. Undeterred, our young man grabbed the poker next to the fireplace and began to stir up the fire, hoping to ignite the offending article which was now sitting in plain view, should anyone happen to wander back into the living room. His brother did wander back into the living room to watch television, so our young man had to sit blocking the fireplace, turning the magazine page by page so they would ignite. It took the better part of an hour for him to secretly burn the Playboy. To reinforce his feelings of guilt, when he observed himself in the mirror afterwards he noticed that the side of his face that had been closest to the fireplace was actually burned (just a little); a physical reminder of his shame.

Listening to this story got me thinking: surely there must be other examples of this phenomenon out there, no? Young men everywhere, at some time or other, fearful of their mothers looking over their shoulders, must have tried to get rid of their porn and ended up in a situation not unlike our young man here. What a tricky business it is growing up...

"This isn't fucking happening! This isn't fucking happening! This isn't fucking happening!"

"Don't say that! Whenever someone says that in a film some horrible creature jumps out from behind a tree or something and devours one of the stragglers."

"Well, this isn't a film, Harold; this is real life, and whatever made that noise back there is probably some horrible creature. I hope it jumps out and devours you, since this hike was your idea."

"Thank you very much! Get outside and do more stuff, she says. We need to go camping more often, she says. Well here we are, sweetheart, under a full moon, out in the middle of fucking nowhere with no GPS or anything, and some horrible creature following our every move, just waiting to pounce. Is that good enough for you?"

"This is your fault, Harold! It doesn't say anything about this in the guidebook and you refused to stop and ask those locals back there for directions!"

"Locals? Directions? Those three were a perfect example of how shallow the gene pool is around these parts. I wouldn't be surprised if they --- "

"Harold?! Harold?! Oh my God! Harold! Where are you?!"