Tuesday, February 21, 2012

Sticky Message

Dear Don:

You may not recognize me, but I'm the sticky note you've had on your computer monitor for over a year now. I say you may not recognize me because you've obviously forgotten me, I've become just another piece of accidental decoration in your bachelor's office.

I don't want to make you mad, because I do treasure our time together, but don't you think that if my message were important enough to jot down and press onto this monitor that it would have been important enough to take care of, I don't know, eleven months and three weeks ago?

You've re-stuck me several times in the past year, from one edge to the other, once or twice sideways as if you were trying to remember to do something with me. I recall you once dusted me; what kind of commentary is that?

What I'm trying to say is my life as a sticky note is supposed to be like Kurt Cobain's, brief and spectacular, not like Courtney Love's, drawn-out and desperate. I'm supposed to be there for the aha! moment, for that idea that has to make it from your head to your fingers right now. You refer to me, put the idea on me into a more permanent form, and then set me free to join my brethren in the wastepaper basket. This half-life, this undead purgatory you've consigned me to just isn't natural.

Please, Don, for the love of 3M and all that's holy, do something with me! Don't leave me on your monitor for another year.

I'm begging you....
   Your Sticky Note

Friday, February 17, 2012

Criminal Gut Bugs

I was just reading an article in Scientific American that outlined how various animals' gut biota can affect their behavior, including choice of mate and, perhaps, their evolution. It's already suspected that gut biota play a large part in propensity to obesity, asthma, etc.
   This got me to thinking...
   Shouldn't some microbiologist do a study of hardened criminals, harvesting their intestinal bugs to see if there is some commonality, some bacteria or yeast or what have you, that non-convicts do not have?
   I know, this sounds like phrenology, and people with 'low, criminal foreheads,' but it is an idea grounded in science. And what if you find something? What if treating recidivism among convicted felons were as simple as a course of antibiotics?
   Just putting it out there.

What Do You Do... What Do You Do?

Another way I know I becoming an old codger far before my time: I actually write my political representatives, both State and Federal. So sue me, I think it's important to be heard.
   Which brings me to my point...
   What do you do when your elected representative doesn't understand the legislation before the very committee he serves on?
   I wrote to one of my Senators - Federal - about a piece of legislation that had come before the Senate Finance committee. Which he serves on. I got a very polite letter back explaining that my issue wasn't really a Federal government issue, and that I should take it up with my State representatives.
   Let me make this point again - this was concerning a piece of legislation that has been pending business on the Senate Finance committee since November. He's telling me that my issue isn't a Federal issue, when there's a piece of Federal legislation on his desk HE SHOULD ALREADY KNOW ABOUT.
   Choking on my own bile, I wrote him back and explained that this was indeed a Federal issue, and as a matter of fact the entire reason I wrote him was to voice my support for a Senate-sponsored bill referred to the Finance committee. Which, I reiterate, he serves on. I was polite, don't worry, I don't need the FBI knocking on my door.
   While I wish I could say I'm surprised that my elected representative is ignorant of a piece of important legislation that he should be considering carefully, I'm not surprised at all. Very disappointed, but not surprised. And I'm stuck with this nimrod until 2014. I don't know what to do. Other than vent my spleen online, that is.
   I'm trying not to become a cynical and jaded old man, really, I'm trying hard. But crap like this isn't making it easy.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Here Come The Judge...

So I was driving to work this morning, stupid early, and there was something on the radio about the Supreme Court. I don't remember the context, it may have been just a passing mention. It did, however, spark something in me. Hands gripped tight to the steering wheel I loudly proclaimed:
   'Here come the judge, here come the judge, order in the court 'cause here come the judge.'
   Now, let's put this in context. I barely remember this line. It's from Laugh In, which, if I recall properly, went off the air before I started kindergarten. It's from another time, my parents' time, and yet there I was, spouting off a catchphrase like it was 1971 all over again and people hadn't grown completely jaded with catchphrases.*
   Why am I appropriating pop culture from a time when I couldn't even tie my own shoes? I have no idea. None. I'm pretty sure most people who were around to see Laugh In on broadcast TV - three channels, no waiting, plus PBS - don't even say 'here come the judge' any more. Who would? And why?
   I'll just chalk it up to my synapses firing randomly and bringing up associations that would have made sense to Nixon when he said 'sock it to me.'
   Crap. Just did it again.

* where's the beef?

Saturday, February 4, 2012

Gun Show Musings

Well, I did it again, I went to another gun show. I went partly because I had Saturday afternoon free and partly because gun shows still fascinate me. It's like when you roll past a car wreck on a cold, rainy night, you know you should just stare straight ahead and not gawk - it's really none of your business - but you can't help but take a peek.
   I think my fascination for gun shows is related to my love for Vegas, both are honest in their enthusiasm for separating you from your money, and they don't pretend to anything else. Mostly.

At the gun show:
   Elmer Fudd. Seriously. A thin, tiny man with a huge gimme cap on his head the size of Elmer's hunting cap. His cap, his shirt, and his pants all were the same non-color of beige, like he was the janitor of his hunting lodge. And he carried the largest hunting shotgun over his shoulder, almost as tall as he was.

   Vacuum-packed cheese. I guess it doesn't need to be refrigerated? Because vacuum-packed cheese don't melt? Best part: the lady was almost sold out for the day.

   Eat N Tool. I'm certainly not one to do commercials for stuff, but it is a marvel of modern engineering. THIS is what the President means when he says that manufacturing should come back to the USA. There is nothing more American than one tool you can slip in your pocket that will absolutely, positively save your ass in the event of a zombie apocalypse.
   I'm assuming, of course, that it's made here in the US. If it's not I don't want to hear about it. Especially if it's from Canada.

   Neck tattoos. Maybe I was just noticing it more, but there seemed to be an awful lot of young men with neck tattoos. It's just so ill-advised. And icky. If you're thinking about getting one, don't.

   Baby strollers. Like ten different ones. Really. What better place for a man and his toddler to bond than next to a table full of Glocks? I know parents want to get out too, especially if they've been cooped up with crying little poop machines. But this is like the neck tattoos: just don't.

   A surprising lack of anti-Obama stuff. The last few guns shows I attended* were chock-a-block with all sort of vitriol for our Commander-in-Chief. Didn't see one 'guess he can't' poster this time. I don't know, it's anecdotal and only for this one particular venue, but the Pres may be widening his voting base. Or the GOP nomination debacle is doing it for him.

   The knife-sharpening yokel. There's nothing more unsettling than seeing someone's gap-toothed, dim-witted relation lazily scraping a hunting knife across an oiled whetstone like he's on the set of Deliverance.



* a phrase I never, ever expected I would write