(This is where I’d put a segue if I had one)

Tennis player Andre Agassi used to advertise cameras using the slogan “Image is Everything.”  He is probably glad that this insipid phrase was presented (barely) tongue-in-cheek, because at the time he was saying it he purposefully looked like this (and may have been using fake hair to augment the look):

Do not try this at home

(I will conveniently fail to mention the fact that, back then, I thought his hair was really cool).

Last month I got a stark example of how hard it is for one to maintain a carefully crafted image.  I was sitting in an orthodontic waiting room with a few other parents of teenagers.  We were the proud, the few, the people who had already exceeded our lifetime benefit limits on orthodontia.  A man drove a hulking SUV into the parking lot and took a seat near me while his daughter got her braces adjusted.  He was wearing a fair amount of denim and black, and had a bit of an understated “tough guy” aura about him.  I wasn’t exactly intimidated by him, but let’s just say that if a terrorist had come running into the waiting room I would’ve deferred, waiting to see if the denim guy wanted to tackle him first.

His cell phone rang, and the ring tone was the opening guitar riff from “Bad to the Bone.”  Perfect.  But then he had to talk.  And despite his best effort, he couldn’t keep his voice low enough for me to not overhear this:

“Hmm?  Ranch dressing?  Okay.”

So with apologies to George Thorogood and/or any of the Destroyers:

On the day I was born, the nurses all gathered ’round
And they gazed in wide wonder, at the joy they had found
The head nurse spoke up, said this one’s true colors have shown
“He acts like he’s tough, but he’ll fetch Ranch Dressing home.”

I broke an artichoke heart, before I met you
I’ll break a thousand more baby, before I am through
I wanna be yours pretty baby, yours and yours alone
I’ll use my denim money, and I’ll fetch that Ranch Dressing home

This year we attended a “trick or treat” style festival at our kids’ school.  One young lad was dressed head to toe, including a mask, in a hazardous materials (haz-mat) outfit.  Just for fun, Laura asked him about his costume.  He replied (with a muffled mask voice), “I think I’m a spas-mat, but you’d have to ask my mom.”  Indeed.

Am I the only person in the world who when he hears the word “Budapest” immediately thinks of an insect infestation of Chinese religious statuary?

This paragraph is actually written to one specific young lady.  I don’t know her name.  I stood behind her in a line at a Nashville water park, waiting to return my locker key and win back my five dollar deposit.  In the course of a one-minute wait, I learned that her boyfriend, who at the time was engaged in a spirited and profane discussion with park employees, was named Chuck.  After Chuck departed the scene, his girlfriend apologetically explained to the employees that he was “only like that” when he had been drinking, which is also when he assumes his alter ego named “Chuck Nasty.”  I might add that after listening in context, I am fully confident that “Chuck Nasty” is an endearing moniker bestowed upon Chuck by Chuck.  I am also supremely confident that Chuck finds the whole “Chuck Nasty” concept more entertaining and clever than anybody who has met him, will ever meet him, or is generally sentient.  So I just wanted to drop this note in here on the off chance that the young lady might ever Google “Chuck Nasty” and stumble across this.  I have some important advice for her:  “You seem like a sweet, beautiful young lady.  Please, run.  Far.  Just run.  Off you go now.”

I have heard there is a method of cooking called “fusion,” in which two different types of cooking are combined (e.g. barbecue pizza).  I offer this next concept free for the taking for any entrepreneurial types, as a goodwill offering from my blog as a sincere attempt to improve economic conditions worldwide:  catfish sushi.

There is a similar concept to “fusion” cooking in the sports world.  You may be familiar with the biathlon, which is an Olympic event in which folks from snow-intensive countries race around on cross-country skis and pause periodically to fire weapons.  I can only presume (because I refuse to do the research) that the sport was founded when two guys named Lars and Sven got into an argument about whether “fight” or “flight” was the best way to escape a polar bear, and then their friends chose to honor their memories by combining both of their failed techniques into a goofy sport.  There is also a sport called “speed golf” which combines running and hockey.  (Just kidding – it actually combines running and curling).  I confess that my idea for a new sport is a blatant rip-off of speed golf, but I think it could be even bigger.  I’d call it “Fast-Bassin’.”  If you can imagine a bass fishing tournament mashed up with a 10K race, you pretty much get the idea.

One more sports idea while I’m on a roll.  Many distance runners are now equipped with GPS devices that they can wear like a watch.  Such devices tell them how far they’ve run, how fast, where they’ve wandered off to in a lactic-acid-induced stupor, etc.  So my idea is to host a high-school cross country meet in a huge fenced-in area.  The catch is that there would be a starting line but no finish line.  And no defined course.  The kids would each be outfitted with GPS devices linked back to a central computer.  After the gun fires, the first kid to travel 5K wins.  They would look like a bunch of gaunt free-range chickens just racing around out there.  I have raced in maybe seventy cross-country meets, and I’m telling you running in one of these every year would have been GREAT.

There is a commercial on TV in which some company brags about how all their cheeses are “hand crafted” or some such.  And while I appreciate artisan-ship as much as the next guy, the next time I’m staring at the cheese aisle in the grocery, I’m going to see that company’s logo and think, “I wonder how many craftsmen actually touched that cheese, and how strictly do they adhere to their company’s hand-washing policy?”  I’m going to imagine some sweaty worker’s thumbprint embedded in that cheese.  Now maybe at home I’d prefer a hand-crafted grilled cheese sandwich, but we’re talking about mass produced products here.  If John Henry taught us anything, it’s that sometimes using a machine isn’t such a bad idea.

OK.  That’s all for cleaning out the mental filing cabinet.  Talk to you again soon.  Happy 2011!

QUESTION AUTHORITY

I find its tone a little presumptuous, especially considering it’s intended to promote independent thinking.  Every time I see one of them I have the same reaction:

Sticker:  QUESTION AUTHORITY
Mark:  YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME

I’ll question what I want to question, thank you very much.

But this time I noticed a delightful little detail that I enjoy even more than the inherent contradiction of the message itself.  Underneath the bold QUESTION AUTHORITY message was printed, in very small letters, the name of the company that printed the bumper sticker.

Followed by a copyright symbol.

I will not be sharing said photo.

Here’s what I wanted to add.  I took two quick photos at the race that I wanted to use as a compare and contrast feature.  Unfortunately I managed to misplace one of them, but it wasn’t the important one.  Just imagine the biggest, fanciest, most expensive recreational vehicle you have ever seen lumbering down the interstate.  I took a picture of one like that.

And then I took a picture of this one:

Who says today’s NASCAR is only a rich man’s sport?  Just for fun, I decided to see how many interesting things I identify in this re-purposed school bus.

1. It’s a re-purposed school bus.
2. It was painted red and lovingly given a sporty white stripe.
3. Window A/C units near driver and in back door.
4. Electrical generator mounted on rear extension.
5. Propane tank at-the-ready (sitting in the foreground).
6. Viewing platform on top with “safety” railing.
7. Ladder for handy viewing platform access.
8. Obligatory Dale Earnhardt “3” and Dale Earnhardt Jr (throwback) “8” on rear (kind of obscured by the ladder).
9. Painted windows for privacy in living quarters.
10. Curtains in mid-section windows, presumably to give an airy feel to the breakfast nook.
11. “His and her” (or perhaps “his and his drinking buddy”) stools for maximum comfort while sitting and watching 3.5 hour race.

I pretty much love that bus and would be willing to wager its owner has more fun at an average race than the guy in the fancy RV.  I could only think of one obvious suggestion for him to add during his next upgrade.

Considering that he is watching race cars from inside the oval track, I think those stools need improvement.  He should somehow work a swivel onto those stools.  And then he should add an electric motor with a variable speed controller.  Once the race starts, he could play around with the controller until he finds just the right speed that would allow him to rotate in sync with his favorite driver.  If he wanted to get fancy he could add programmable settings so that he could also rotate at caution-flag speeds.  Then again, if he wanted to get fancy he probably would be driving something else.

Shelby went on a second-grade field trip with her class on Monday.  They went to a place that features a miniature layout of the city of Lexington with sidewalks, working stoplights, drivable mini cars, etc.  Sounds pretty neat.  (Jacob was quick to give her some inside scoop and told her that five years ago when his class went, the red car was the fastest).  Uniformed police officers taught the kids about general safety and situational awareness.  At some point during the trip Shelby was running around and fell and scraped her knee.  She managed to come home with an injury and bandages from a field trip to a place called “Safety City.”

It reminded me of the time I almost rear-ended a car because I was distracted trying to read a road sign that was alternately flashing “Warning!” and then “Slow Traffic Ahead!”

In somewhat of a coincidence, like Shelby I also spent part of my Monday in a heightened state of situational awareness.  Some co-workers and I attended a retirement lunch for a colleague at a Japanese restaurant.  Perhaps I should clarify that he wasn’t a colleague AT a Japanese restaurant.  He was a colleague at OUR workplace and we went to the Japanese restaurant to celebrate.  Anyway, we all sat around one of those open Hibachi grills manned by a chef with a flair for the dramatic.  (Presumably the less flamboyant chefs are relegated to steaming rice back in the kitchen).

We were enjoying the cooking performance as he brandished and twirled his knife and spatula (contrary to popular opinion, it is indeed possible to brandish a spatula).  Have you ever wondered what might add an unanticipated degree of excitement to watching a Japanese chef cook right in front of you?  I can tell you.  Try noticing that the chef’s index finger is covered in a heavy bandage.

Well, then.

I thought about his finger injury while watching him cut and chop about thirty inches from my eyeballs, which I happen to hold in high regard.  Just what circumstances led him to cut his finger, and wouldn’t a similar loss of utensil control be even more likely to recur now that he had a heavy bandage getting in the way?

I tried not to flinch while contemplating.  This is the bane of the introspective person.  Fortunately one of my co-workers is much less socially inept than I, and simply asked, “Hey, what did you do to your finger, there?”

The chef smiled knowingly and assured us that it was not an on-the-job injury.  We all shared a good laugh, relieved to learn that he hadn’t cut his finger extracting a wayward Ginsu from the abdomen of a patron.  He went on to explain that what happened to his finger was that he watched an NFL game with some buddies on Sunday.  One of them said something like, “Hey, you’re a chef!  Why don’t you make something for us to eat during the game?”  He smiled sheepishly and explained that he did prepare some food for the group but it “didn’t turn out too well.”

So we customers didn’t have anything to worry about because he didn’t hurt himself cooking at work, he only hurt himself cooking at home.  I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume there is a nuance in his argument that I have simply yet to grasp.  Everybody knows a nuanced argument can be harder to grasp than a spatula.

Which means you definitely won’t catch me at a square dance this winter.  Not that you would any other winter, but it’s particularly unlikely this year.

Today I have composed an open letter to the aggressive teenage driver.  You can read it even if you’re not aggressive, a teenager, a driver, or any combination thereof.

**********

Dear aggressive teenage driver,

How’s it going?  Are you enjoying the freedom afforded by your still-warm-from-the-laminating-process driver’s license?  I sincerely hope so.  I fondly recall the heady days of excitedly driving my Mercury Lynx on even the most mundane of errands.  The anticipation of pulling into a parking space all by myself and strutting into school was palpable.  (Of course nobody else noticed because they were too busy strutting themselves.  Collectively we resembled lemmings, except we were more concerned with Cliff’s notes than his edge.  But I digress).

You may not yet realize that, generally speaking, one’s sense of adventure and physical reflexes are inversely proportional to one’s maturity level.  This explains why so often you find yourself swerving in and out of slower traffic as you hasten to your destination to presumably discuss with friends whatever topics you have already discussed via text message.  Have you ever spent much time wondering about us boring, clueless, nameless drivers that serve as moving obstacles along your single-minded journey?

My guess is not.

You see, most of us were also teenagers before we got older.  Most (but certainly not all) of us figured out that aggressive driving just isn’t worth the trouble.  The risks aren’t limited to getting a ticket that daddy might not pay for.  Driving fast sometimes kills people.  It requires more gasoline.  Speeding on most local trips probably don’t save more than a minute if any time at all.  You probably even complained to somebody about having to go to wherever it is you are now barreling toward.  So why the rush to get there?

Besides, have you noticed that in stop-and-go traffic how the other lane always seems to be moving faster than yours?  As soon as you cut somebody off and swerve into it, it slows down and the original lane starts moving faster.  What’s up with that?  It must just be bad luck or Murphy’s Law, right?  Or maybe people not as good at driving as you don’t know how to maintain their speed.  I mean, it couldn’t possibly be that some middle-aged guy ahead of you actually noticed you swerve violently into his lane, and then purposefully (but subtly) slowed the faster-moving lane down, only to speed back away after you abandoned it?

Nah.  Couldn’t be.  Surely a mature grown-up wouldn’t get a kick out of innocently frustrating you just because you’re behaving dangerously and acting like a jerk.

Have a nice trip!  Sincerely,

Mark (and an army of smirking middle-aged former teenagers)

This week I went to a dermatologist for the first of annual screenings for skin cancer and such.  During the visit I felt empathy toward a county fair squash having its every bump and blemish examined.  I am pretty sure it was the closest I had ever identified with any kind of gourd.

This week I saw a news headline that read “Austrian Lab Eyed in Doping Investigation.”  My initial reaction was, “For heaven’s sake, people are giving performance enhancing drugs to show dogs now?!”  Upon closer examination I realized the article was about a “lab” as in “laboratory” and not as in “Labrador Retriever.”  Ah.

Speaking of canines (that’s dogs to the layperson), if you live in the Charlotte, NC area and have a crazy dog or a new puppy with behavior issues (e.g. barking, jumping, or a general lack of being housebroken), I have got a deal for you.  My sister, Cheri, is a certified dog trainer and now offers in-home dog training.  You can find her here.

And now for a gratuitous cute photo of a couple of her satisfied clients.  I love this picture:

Sorry for the long time between posts.  We were on a family vacation last week and I didn’t want to mention it ahead of time in case one of you unscrupulous readers would abuse that information and ransack our house.  I’ve heard that has happened to people who use Facebook to tell the world that they are leaving town.  So that’s why I’m not on Facebook.

Well, that and my antisocial tendencies.  Or maybe it’s just arrogance, considering that I have a blog to tell you what I think but don’t want to do Facebook and see what everybody else is up to.

Because I could not get online at our vacation spot, I have some pent up things I need to share over the course of the next week or so.  We’ll start today with a contemplative time I had during a long drive.  At one point during the drive a somewhat clunky car passed us.  (Please note that when I use the term “clunky” for a car I am speaking as a connoisseur and not in derisive terms.  I am the person who once wrote about fixing my drooping SUV door with a chunk of wood and proposed creating a TV show called Scrimp My Ride).  Anyway, in the rear window of the car was a bumper sticker that said simply:

FEAR THIS

Now I know the “Fear This” bumper sticker has been around for years.  It’s just that last week was my first opportunity to think about it for the amount of quality time afforded by driving mindlessly down an interstate for hours while the rest of the family reads, naps, or watches a portable DVD player.  Not that I am bitter.

FEAR THIS

Is that a command, sir?  Am I to understand that you are not simply suggesting that I fear this, but intend this as a mandate?

FEAR THIS

And if you are indeed the sort of “take charge” individual who flippantly makes demands from your rear view window, don’t you think the sparkly lettering on the bumper sticker somewhat diminishes the menacing tone you are laboring to establish?

FEAR THIS

And just what specifically am I to fear?  The sticker itself?  You?  The car?  Or am I supposed to fear a fate in which I become the sort of person who issues mildly threatening, nebulous warnings using a bumper sticker with a jaunty font?

FEAR THIS

I am a generally accommodating person, and I certainly had the time, so I gave it a shot.  I really tried to fear this (any or all of it).  I’m sorry to report that strongest emotion I could muster was a mild loathing.

My first thought (after learning that nobody was injured) was whether the following appeared on the official police incident report:

Vehicle Type:  Wiener
Model:  Oscar Mayer

If I were the officer writing up such a report, I’m thinking a copy would be going in a frame.