Valentine’s Day 2010
Posted by Mark in Current Events on February 12th, 2010
Hello again. I am not even going to look up how long it’s been since I last blogged. I know it’s been long enough that I feared possibly forgetting how to blog. Then I remembered it’s really just typing.
(I signed up for typing class in high school sort of on a whim. I must say it was a solid choice and has probably saved me entire days of my life over the course of my career. When I was in high school we used actual typewriters, some of which didn’t even have to plug into a wall. I guess they were wireless communication devices in their own charming way).
So I haven’t been blogging much lately, which worried me a little for a while, but then I remembered that only about five people check my blog regularly and they’re smart enough to learn that they only need to check it every couple of weeks.
Today I have a thought to share about Valentine’s Day, or as it’s known around these parts, the holiday preceded by a week of awkward sideways glances cast by the dozens of male engineers in my building who try to pretend they don’t see each other during their lunch hour while they shuffle around like cattle in the holiday aisle at the Wal-Mart adjacent to our campus. Their facial expressions reveal a sense of shame at being seen shopping for their dearest ones’ gifts at a humble Wal-Mart, but they soldier on because the Wal-Mart is so conveniently located and so doggone cost-effective that the pros of the efficiency outweigh the cons of the awkwardness. It’s really just not a pretty sight.
Or so I’ve heard.
As part of today’s Valentine theme I will avoid the blogger tradition of singing the praises of my own personal Valentine. (How much do I love her? I love her so much that I will spare her the indignity of being written about by me).
So right now I’m thinking of how I can get rich off of Valentine’s Day without leaving my office or quitting my day job. What with our sluggish economy I figure it’s the least I can do for America. My idea is to provide a vital service that benefits all my co-workers and potentially allows them to escape the horrifying awkwardness of standing in a Wal-Mart checkout line with their boss while holding a $3.95 aluminum foil-wrapped heart-shaped box of institutional-grade chocolate.
My idea is to have about 500 bulk-discounted roses delivered to my small office every year on about February 7th. According to my field observation in the Wal-Mart, a good 90% of my co-workers make their Valentine purchases sometime after the 7th. I could apply a huge mark-up because engineers (trust me) would place a very high value on not having to face each other at the Wal-Mart every year. Within five years, I bet I could build up a loyal clientele of 30 or so guys who would come to depend on me for all their Valentine’s Day fare. I could stock Valentine’s cards for them also, because I’d only need to pick out one sentimental but not overly mushy card each year and buy 30 of that same card because I’m pretty sure Kentucky law ensures that each of these husbands would be taking the card home to a different wife. Besides, when was the last time you saw two women compare the cards their husbands gave them (especially when they can tell they came from Wal-Mart)?
I think this is pretty much a foolproof idea.
(Oh, and of course I’d need to offer some sort of chocolate supply, but I’ve already got that figured out. I’m going to form a strategic alliance with all the Girl Scout Cookie people in my office).
Look for the Union Email
Posted by Mark in Current Events on January 15th, 2010
So lately we’ve been seeing lots of maneuvering in congress related to this whole health care reform thing. Fear not! I am not about to offer any attempt at political commentary. I generally avoid such conflict because most of it is just not worth the trouble.
But there’s been a new development of late that gave me a great idea. I am purposefully going to be vague about the policy details behind this, because I don’t want to look them up, and you probably don’t care about them anyway.
One of the ideas floated recently is that so-called “Cadillac” health care plans should incur new taxes to help defray other costs of health care. This concept presumably led to a hearty round of backslapping among the assembled reform supporters. And then another reform supporter in the form of a big labor union pointed out that, um, many big labor unions that are supporting health care reform have union members with Cadillac health care plans, and they’re not so keen on the whole new tax thing.
So what do congresspersons generally do in a situation like this when one of their bright ideas runs afoul of one of their loyal constituent groups? (I’m being bipartisan here. Truly).
1. Slap themselves humbly on their collective forehead and say, “Gee, we didn’t think that idea through fully. Maybe we should come up with a better way.”
2. Slap the bearer of bad news a five and say, “Oh, we didn’t mean we were going to tax YOUR expensive health care plan. We’re going to tax everybody ELSE’s expensive health care plan.”
And thus was born the idea of taxing Cadillac health care plans, unless said plans are affiliated with a labor union. In case this does happen, I’m already thinking ahead. I doubt my plan would qualify for the new tax, but I am feeling empathy for those who would have to pay more taxes than others just because they don’t have a union card. I am also feeling entrepreneurial and ready to ride to the rescue of the disenfranchised.
Thus, I am proud to publicly announce my intention to organize a new labor-union called the National Brotherhood and/or Sisterhood of the Independent Occasional Blog-Reading Nincompoops.
Anybody can join by sending in their $25 annual dues to an account to be named later. What do NBAOSOTIOBRN union members get in return?
1. An annual email confirming their membership is in good standing. (Handsome laminated card available for an additional modest fee).
2. Aggressive public advocacy, in the form of a carefully worded press release posted on the union’s website once a quarter, proclaiming the intelligence, diligent work ethic, and general physical attractiveness of union members.
3. A legal way to save thousands in taxes by following the rules currently under consideration in congress.
Oh, sure, congress will probably come up with some wacky rule that in order to receive the union tax break, the union will actually have to administer the actual health care plan. We all know such a rule will have more loopholes than a Berber carpet. We can work something out. I bet NBAOSOTIOBRN members can qualify for the tax break if the union simply serves as a consultant regarding health care decisions. I envision some form of automatic online consultation that would take place when a member pays his or her annual dues:
Q: Should I participate in my employer’s healthcare plan?
A: Probably!
Q: Now that I’ve paid my $25 union membership and consulted you about my health care choices, can I claim the thousands of dollars congress is offering as a special benefit to union members?
A: Our lawyer assures us we cannot be held legally liable if you do!
Q: Thanks!
A: No problem. See you during enrollment next year.
What’s not to like?
(This is where I would like to point out to any member of congress, the IRS, or pretty much anybody who might have a real legal objection to this idea, that satire is a legally protected form of speech. This is satire. As far as you can tell).
The Humble Servant 2 – Ping Pong Wizard
Posted by Mark in The Humble Servant on January 9th, 2010
Happy New Year. Today let’s review yet another time in my life I experienced an enhanced level of involuntary humility.
The summer before my senior year of high school I was fortunate enough to be chosen for a program for Kentucky high school students. I was invited to spend a few weeks living on the UK campus and taking a small number of classes (not for college credit). It’s a pretty neat program that’s been going on for roughly thirty years now. Some enterprising legislator had the bright idea (or borrowed it from another state) that perhaps something like this would encourage students to attend in-state schools, or give them a head start on college that would benefit our commonwealth somewhere down the road.
This program was a really good experience for me. It was sort of a practice run for college without the pressure of the whole grade point average thing. One important lesson I learned is that if you get insufficient sleep for enough consecutive nights, it is in fact possible to fall asleep upright on a science lab chair in the middle of a lecture. Another important lesson I learned is that if you’re a seventeen year-old boy and are preparing to spend a chunk of your summer intentionally keeping a respectful distance from ubiquitous smart, cute, high-achieving high school girls, you might want to double-check and make sure your girlfriend back home isn’t going to break up with you upon your return. Not that I’m bitter.
All the boys in this program lived together in a single dormitory where we discussed deep issues such as life goals, theology, and whether boys or girls had a more closed-minded definition of physical attractiveness. This last topic eventually led to an experiment wherein every boy or girl in the program was asked who they thought was the best-looking attendee of the opposite sex. Whichever gender chose the largest number of different individuals as best-looking must therefore have a more open-minded view of physical beauty.
(You might be interested in knowing the results of this non-scientific survey. I would be delighted to tell you, but I don’t remember. I think the numbers came out roughly even. Sadly, all I remember for sure is that the survey did not remain anonymous and my name did not appear on the comprehensive list of boys receiving votes as best-looking. One of my friends received one vote and found himself unsettled by the knowledge that out of all those girls, there was ONE who thought he was tops. He could not figure out who she was. His quest to find her may have led him to some diagnosable disorder by the end of the summer. Somehow I was not sympathetic to his plight despite the luxury of peaceful assurance that NONE of these girls voted for me).
Perhaps the saddest part of the somewhat humiliating prelude above is that it’s not even the humiliating story I set out to tell you.
The boys’ dormitory had a ping pong table in the basement. Every night a small crowd would gather to play. I was pretty good because we had a ping pong table at home. I even had my parents bring me my favorite paddle when they came for a visit. Every so often I’d go downstairs and play four or five matches and then just retire undefeated. I was unbeaten all summer.
(I almost wrote that I was the King Kong of ping pong but then decided it would be a really awkward thing to say. My feeling is that anything worthy of an eye-roll that is said inside parentheses cannot really be held against the author. I imagine parentheses as a sort of warm, happy place for the amateur writer. Like a non-threatening mental Snuggie. While I’m getting this out of my system let me also say that I have always thought Parentheses would be a great name for the Greek god of the digression).
And then somebody decided to hold a ping pong tournament. Of course I signed up for this. What seventeen-year old boy declines an invitation to demonstrate he’s the best at something? When the tournament pairings came out I checked the list to see when I would eventually meet any of the better players I had encountered. My first round opponent was a guy who hadn’t even played with us all summer.
When the tournament began I sauntered in with my intimidating, smooth-surfaced, personal ping pong paddle. It really was much nicer than the cheesy ones lying around the dorm basement. And then my opponent walked in and I immediately made four key observations:
- He was also brandishing his own ping pong paddle.
- He was carrying his own ping-pong paddle in his own ping pong paddle carrying case.
- I did not know there was such a thing as a case specifically made to carry a ping-pong paddle. (They already have a handle, after all).
- A dorm basement full of vanquished foes just may have set me up.
One could easily sense the eagerness of the other boys to witness the epic clash of teenage ping pong titans that was about to transpire. I feigned nonchalance as my foe unzipped his carrying case.
The kid was good. He immediately jumped out to a lead. I was used to playing against kids using what were closer to boat oars than good paddles, and was unprepared to react to his ability to put a lot of spin on the ball. I had been the only one who could do that. My dad could apply fairly healthy spin but I hadn’t played against him all summer. I rallied and crawled back into the match, but continued making too many unforced errors reacting to his spin. It was a very competitive and fun match the whole way.
In the end, much like the Mighty Casey struck out, the Mighty Mark spun the heavily back-spun gas-filled celluloid ball into the net one too many times. I hadn’t played my best match, but this kid hadn’t played any all summer. He was simply a better player.
While only a vague and distant memory now (his name was John, by the way), one lesson stands clear. No matter how good I think I might be at something, there’s somebody better. And I probably don’t have to look very far to find him.
(But I am pretty sure I was better-looking than he was).
Father of the Year 2009
I always get a kick out of those moments in life when I pause and say to myself, “Now this is something I never imagined myself doing.” I get a kick out of the quirkier ones, anyway. Not so much ones like, say, passing a kidney stone.
A good example of an unexpected quirky event would be back in October when I had my photo taken with Count Chocula. Another example would be the time I visited a prison as part of my former job. I should stress that my presence at the prison was requested and not court-ordered. I visited to discuss electric utility sorts of issues, and ended up eating lunch in the prison kitchen where my hamburger and fries were prepared by a friendly prison cook. Let’s just say when he finished his shift in the kitchen he did not have a long commute home.
Last night our family was preparing to sit down and enjoy the Pixar movie Ratatouille. I love Pixar movies and was eager to get started. Shelby wandered into the room carrying a pencil and a napkin. Apparently during dinner she had started doing a little math in her head. For lack of a better description, she was going through doubles (two plus two is four, four plus four is eight, etc). She had gotten all the way up to 64 plus 64 is 128 in her head.
(This is where I hope you remember she’s in second grade because I’m not going to mention it so it won’t sound like I’m bragging).
Shelby had taken her napkin to figure out what came next by writing it down. She’d added 128 and 128 to get 256. She’d added 256 and 256 to get 512. By the time she ran out of napkin she’d made it all the way to 131072 plus 131072 equals 262144. (Don’t bother checking the progression yourself; I just did using a spreadsheet). Here’s the napkin:
I didn’t even know she could do that kind of math yet. Her teacher had recently taught the all-important skill of “carrying the one.” Shelby asked me to make up a few more addition problems for her to try, and I did. And then big brother Jacob got in the act. Modesty prevents me from saying that Jacob is himself an excellent math student. Jacob threw a couple of tricks at her and even introduced the subtraction concept of borrowing from your neighbor only to learn that your neighbor is a loser zero and can’t offer much help on his own, but might be willing to discuss the situation with his neighbor.
They were having a grand time. And then it happened. So fast I didn’t even realize what I was doing until the words were out of my mouth.
“OK,” I said. “Just one more problem and then you’ve got to stop so we can start the movie.”
Yes. I am the dad who stopped his children from voluntarily doing math problems during Christmas vacation so they would watch TV with him. By next year I’ll be putting cigarettes under the tree.
Now don’t misunderstand me to be saying I think I’ve been an overall negative influence on my children. But this incident did make me think. George Bailey’s Christmas lesson was that Bedford Falls would have been a mess without him. My Christmas lesson this year is that the days of leading my kids are numbered, because all too soon I’ll only be getting in their way if I try.
Bah humbling.
The Humble Servant
Posted by Mark in The Humble Servant, Uncategorized on December 19th, 2009
When a blogger posts real time commentary regarding a live event it is usually called “live blogging.” I have never blogged live. For one thing, I am not comfortable using “blog” as a verb. The main reason that I do not blog live is that I usually don’t write about things anytime near when they actually happen.
But that changes right now. You could cut the tension with that little cut-and-paste scissor icon hiding somewhere up there in the menu.
The intrepid souls who have been reading The Ark of Mark since it was an email and not a blog will remember a feature called “The Humble Servant.” I would lay out, from personal experience, a series of steps one could take to become more humble. I haven’t done this in the blog until today, as I write about something that just happened a few minutes ago.
(I need something to do for a few minutes while my paintbrush dries out. What I just did right there is known as foreshadowing).
So let’s give a warm welcome to the return of The Humble Servant. As always, follow these steps in order to experience true humility:
- Take advantage of a snowy Saturday afternoon with no place to go by deciding to finish up some painting you’ve been avoiding.
- Turn on some good music and get to work.
- Move to a tricky side of a door jamb that requires cutting in. For those of you non painters out there, I should explain that “cutting in” refers to painting along some kind of interface. For example, one “cuts in” the blue paint on the wall where it butts up against a white door jamb. Cutting in requires patience, practice, a steady hand, and the steely nerves of an amateur blogger.
- Consider proudly that very few people can cut in quite as well as you are doing it. (In today’s example I had even moved to my non-dominant painting hand to get a better angle. I was in the zone).
- Decrease grip on brush handle in order to reduce possibility of a minor hand tremor that could lead to a wayward bristle.
- Lose complete control of brush handle such that brush totally slips out of your hand.
- (This step is an aside to explain that throughout my life I have noticed that I am better than the average person at catching dropped items. So good, in fact, that I once saved a dropped drinking glass by flicking my toe out at the last moment so that the glass glanced safely off my shoe rather than shatter on the floor. Those of you paying attention will detect some more foreshadowing right there).
- Instinctively begin to position hand to catch brush before it hits the floor.
- Inadvertently hit handle of brush such that brush begins cartwheeling in the air and flinging paint droplets in a whimsical pattern.
- Snag brush out of the air by seizing the painted end by the palm of your hand.
- Hurry off to find a wet washcloth to limit the damage, once again a humble servant ready for God to mold.
Let me say Merry Christmas to you all now just in case I don’t get back here before then. I may be too busy cleaning as-yet-unseen paint droplets.
Let me Consult my Dictionary
Thought I would pass along a conversation I overheard the other day.
Shelby: Mom! My leg bruise is changing to a different color!
Laura: What color is it changing to?
Shelby (pauses to inspect bruise closely): Vermillion.
Pinball Wizard (sort of)
Recently I was reminded of an old story that entertained me so much I just had to share. I will be careful about how I tell this because there is an outside, highly remote chance that the parties involved could hear about this, and there is also an outside, highly remote chance that the secret involved is still a secret (which would only make this funnier).
When I was in college I spent my summers working at a couple different places as an engineering intern. It was a glorious time of slow computers, bad golf shirts, and scads of homemade ham sandwiches for lunch which I stored all morning in an unrefrigerated desk drawer. Things are so much different today. Now I prefer turkey sandwiches.
I worked for one engineer who at one point had one of the only two computers in a very large building. For this computer to have been more primitive might have required a pull-starter. Surprisingly, this computer did include some sort of video game. The engineer had a technician buddy who would come in occasionally during lunch or on breaks to play the game for a few minutes.
Eventually the technician started talking primitive video game trash.
The game had one of those leader board features from the old arcade days where players could type in their initials (or, more likely, their favorite crude three-letter word) if their score made the top ten. The technician’s scores dominated the leader board and he made sure the engineer knew it.
So the engineer stayed after work one night (after the technician had gone) and posted a score in the top ten. A few nights later he played again and achieved the top score. The technician was a little bummed by this but undeterred. He increased his efforts and over the course of the next couple weeks finally got the high score back.
The engineer stayed after work again and reported the next morning that he had once again taken the top spot. The technician was good-natured but visibly frustrated at this news as he left the engineer’s office. It was clear he did not at all like how easily the engineer overtook him. I witnessed this exchange and the engineer must have felt guilty enough that it was time to come clean.
Or maybe he was just so proud he couldn’t keep it to himself.
It seems the engineer barely even knew how to play the game. You’re guessing he was having his kid play it for him, but no. After hearing the technician bragging one day, on a hunch the engineer poked around in the file directory where the game was stored. He located a simple text file with a name that was something like HIGHSCORES.TXT. Every so often he would simply go into that file and type himself up a new high score and move his buddy’s efforts down the list. To this day it remains one of the best examples I’ve ever seen of a guy pulling a fast one on a friend. Brilliant.
I guess the lesson here is the guy who is good at the game will always be topped by the guy who can game the system.
Driving Miss Shelby
So I drive seven-year old Shelby to work every day. This will probably not be the last post about this arrangement. Sometimes I think I should abandon my blog and just interview Shelby every few days and write down what she says.
So this week we’re driving to school and have the following conversation:
Shelby: Dad, do you know what would be a waste of hair gel?
Me (pause): Um, no. What would be a waste of hair gel?
Shelby: Sculpting your hair so that it looks like a chicken is sitting on top of your head.
Sittin’ Pretty
I have one quick follow-up to my recent post about my NASCAR extravaganza-rama-palooza-fest. Well, besides the fact that a friend of mine took my last NASCAR post and photo-shopped my head onto the body of the random guy standing next to Miss Sprint Cup.
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.
- It’s a re-purposed school bus.
- It was painted red and lovingly given a sporty white stripe.
- Window A/C units near driver and in back door.
- Electrical generator mounted on rear extension.
- Propane tank at-the-ready (sitting in the foreground).
- Viewing platform on top with “safety” railing.
- Ladder for handy viewing platform access.
- Obligatory Dale Earnhardt “3” and Dale Earnhardt Jr (throwback) “8” on rear (kind of obscured by the ladder).
- Painted windows for privacy in living quarters.
- Curtains in mid-section windows, presumably to give an airy feel to the breakfast nook.
- “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.
Treats or Tricks
Posted by Mark in Current Events on November 2nd, 2009
Saturday night here was beautiful, moonlit, and perfectly crisp. But this particular October 31st was unsettling. Most Halloween nights our family attends a fall festival at our church. (It’s sort of the opposite as when people hold a “holiday parade” because they don’t want to admit it’s Christmas). This year our fall festival was the night before Halloween, so for the first time in years I was home on Halloween night. I think the long absence caused me to lose touch with societal traditions.
There I was sitting at home, minding my own business. Suddenly I was accosted by a parade of colorful characters. They just showed up uninvited. They hid behind masks to obscure their true personalities. Some were funny and some were scary. While entertaining for a few minutes, they quickly wore out their welcome when they demanded more and more of my possessions. They seemed to think they were so special I should just be delighted to hand over everything I have. It was all really rather distasteful.
So I quickly switched from C-Span back to football.