What I Did On My Summer Vacation

It’s been a busy few weeks.


So I was driving home and I got caught in the rain, one of those waterfall-down-the-windscreen downpours. Couldn’t see a thing, including the road flooded at the bend up ahead. 

That’s right, at the bend. 

Of course, I hydroplaned right off the road. Missed the telephone pole, but plowed right through the pole’s grounding wire. Did a number on the radiator and kicked the left wheels up in the air. My wing mirror popped as it hit the asphalt and I slid to a stop at the edge of the road resting on my door.


Relax, I’m okay. The air bag never popped. I never even felt a tug on my seatbelt. I was fine, perpendicular but fine.


It took me a minute before I thought to switch off the engine, to turn off the radio, to figure out my next move. I shoved open the passenger door, popping up like a tank commander, and waved to the cars behind me, letting everyone know I was okay.


The rain was still bucketing down, and I was pretty shaken up. I stood at the roadside, a bit lost and a lot confused. Some of the other drivers got out to lend a hand, to check on me and help me tip the car back off the road and onto its wheels. One gentleman gave me a lift back into town and got me home safely. 

I have no idea who any of you are or how to reach you, but thanks.


Once the emergency was over, once we got past the “thank God you’re alright,” then we had to deal with the aftermath: towing, scrapping, replacement. 

Pain in the hole all round.


When I came back later, the car started just fine, but it was never going to move again. What had once been a fuel-efficient little runaround had become a very large paperweight with a built-in radio. I was suddenly the proud owner of a car shaped box of car parts.


It took two weeks to get mobile again. Two weeks of calls to gardai (that’s cops for all you Americans), mechanics, insurers, and dealers. 

Two awkward weeks of walking everywhere, starting with the scrap yard – I had to collect all our bits and pieces left in the car: shopping bags, spare change, sunglasses, the road atlas, the booster seat and a blanket left behind after our last picnic. 

Two weeks of walking for errands, of dodging raindrops and shopping with a backpack, of walking slowly for younger feet when we went out as a family. 

Finally, we have wheels again, and we’re settling back into our routine.


It could have been a lot worse. I kept the speed down because of the weather and I had my belt on, but even so, if I’d hit the telephone pole instead of the wire, I’m pretty sure I’d have felt that. Even the fence behind would have done more damage. I came away addled, but without a single bruise or scratch. The soaking I got climbing out of the car probably did me more harm.


Still . . .


Discounting the odd parking lot fender bender, this was my first crash. I’m not sure what I expected, but the experience was underwhelming. One second I was driving, the next I was in the very same position, only on my side.


I think my exact words were “Hmm. Okay.”


I’m not wishing for more trauma or grief, but I was expecting . . . I don’t know. Something. There should be some pay off for all that noise and adrenaline. It’s a bit like coming away from a 3-second rollercoaster with no hills. Or a Matrix sequel.

The Latest Buzz

I’ve got a housefly.

In this house, we most often see giant zeppelin bluebottle flies, the kind that get wedged in between the slats of the blinds and spend the next 72 hours bouncing off the window.  These brutes are noisy, but I’ve gotten pretty good at herding them to an open window, so they aren’t usually a problem.

But I don’t have a bluebottle.  I’ve got a housefly, a nimble, persistent little housefly who seems to have something of an ear fetish.  He keeps hovering about two inches from my earlobe until I take a blind swing and he switches sides.  So either Jeff Goldblum is in my living room desperately trying to enlist my aid, or I’ve got a fly who just won’t stay out of my ear canal.

He doesn’t bother landing either, and unless I can pull a Mr. Miyagi, I’m not about to take him down.  I suppose I could use Raid for cologne. . .  I’m pretty sure that’d do the trick, but I’ve got this thing about spraying my neck and face with poison.  Just this odd little quirk I have.

I tried luring him away, either outside or at the very least to another room, but he’s not interested in following me around the house.  Maybe he wants a comfy chair or maybe he’s hooked on reality TV.  I don’t know, but he ain't moving.  I can go make a sandwich in peace or have a few minutes to myself in the “reading room,” but when I get back to the sofa, he’s there, waiting for me.  No, not for me.  Waiting for my friggin’ ear!

I’ve got a housefly, which means the living room is No Man’s Land.  I’m not going to be on the console tonight or catching up on Cool & Trendy Cop Show X.  If you need me, I’ll be in the “reading room.”

Of course, I'm pretty sure I left my book in the living room…

And Now For Something Completely Different

I've decided to go trawling through the archives for an older piece.  By now fairly dated, but I think it holds up well.  If nothing else, consider it a mental snapshot, a picture of the Stuff Inside My Head seven years and one day ago.




I Have a Flag
04/07/2003

I committed a cardinal sin last Christmas; I disappointed my wife. Oh, don't get me wrong. She loved everything she got. It was the gift she gave that disappointed her.

You see, my wife gave me a flag, a star spangled beauty in all its Old Glory, given with love and an understanding of just how long all those miles between Home and Back Home have grown. She moved heaven and earth to find it and shelled out a fair amount of cash to make it mine. And how did I react? I'm not quite sure, but I think my exact words were "Oh. Thanks."

Now, not all that long ago, I was flag hunting myself. Symbols can comfort in times of crisis, and in the wake of That September, I remember feeling so completely isolated, so far from home and helpless. I sat here just like everyone else, but while my neighbours watched an international tragedy unfold, I witnessed a very personal attack on Who We Are.

I remember the intense pride I felt for my countrymen, for their strength and perseverance in the face of disaster. I remember being moved to tears by the international show of support, an especially poignant rendition of You'll Never Walk Alone from the bleachers in Liverpool, and I remember, for reasons I still can't articulate, a need to publicly display the depth of that feeling, the pride and the pain. So I set off to find a flag.

It turns out I wasn't so alone after all.  Back home, flags flew off the shelves and they were a good deal rarer here. So I went without in the short term, and as the days turned to weeks and history unfolded, my sense of patriotic exhibitionism began to wane. In fact, it wasn't long before I was happy enough for the distance.

Which leads us to today. On this side of the Atlantic, it's just another Friday, but over there...

Over there it's Independence Day, a day set aside to celebrate baseball, Coke in green bottles, V8 engines, John Wayne, Motown, hot dogs, and a mythical army of rebels in powdered wigs who made their mark by telling King George to piss off. 

This is the 4^th of July. . . and I have a flag.

I pulled it out today, a tightly folded triangle of stars on a field of blue. I stared at it, thinking of my fellow Americans who made me so proud not so long ago. 

I wish I still felt that way.

Politics and foreign policy are topics for another day, but like so many viewing the U.S.from the outside, I find the current trends disturbing.  More disturbing still is the broad support these policies have found.

I have a flag, a gift from my wife, and I love her for her thoughtfulness.  I love my country too, love it dearly, and as much as I would love to shout that love from the rooftops today, I won't.  I know that what is intended as a show of love and affection will be seen as support and approval.

I put the flag away, for now at least, and wait for the day I can celebrate not just Who We Are, but What We Do.


Back to the here and now: I still have the flag, and it's found a permanent home in my son's bedroom alongside the tricolours.  It seems like a fitting display.

Football Ain't Round!

 I've got a bit of a problem.

I don't like soccer.  Football.  Whatever.

It's not that I'm just not a big sports fan, although I'm not. 

I actively dislike the game. 

There is nothing about soccer that I like.  The finesse is lost on me.  It's not a Beautiful Game.  It's slow and dull and I'd rather stare at a wall painted two years ago and think back to the day I watched it dry.  To me, it's just kicking the ball around and not scoring. 

And I'm sorry, a draw is not a result.  A draw is the lack of a result.   

Normally, this leaves me out of a fair few conversations at the pub or the barber shop, but I get by.  That was before the World Cup. These days, I can't seem to find any sort of human contact with less than 50% soccer content. 

I thought I'd managed to dodge a bullet when Ireland didn't qualify.  There was a bit of grumbling, and railing at the unfairness of the universe in general and the French in particular, but it blew over fairly quickly, and I could be sure there would be no local favorite to support.  There might be fairly universal support for whoever might be playing England or France at any given moment, but it looked like I was to be spared the full force of the World Cup experience.  To further discourage diehard fans, I decided to respond to any soccer comments with the phrase “Aw! Cute!”

Then the US started playing well.

Now, as I understand it, "well" is a relative term.  They didn't suck badly enough to fall at the first hurdle.   And “not all that bad” turned out to be good enough.

As a result, I'm expected to care.  I'm expected to cheer with the national pride denied my neighbors, to somehow take credit for the American team's success, referring to them as "we" and "us."  I’m supposed to run through the streets draped in the stars and stripes chanting “USA! USA!” and generally feeling quite good about myself because a bunch of guys with passports that look like mine weren’t as bad as expected.

Sometimes, I try to take the path of least resistance and just play along, nodding and smiling noncommittally as friends and acquaintances attempt to bask in the glow of my excitement.  That only works if they're willing to leave well enough alone.  Once they start asking questions, start looking for details and juicy morsels, I have to confess my apathy.  Everything I know of the World Cup, I learned in 10 word headlines before tuning out. 

To be honest, I sort of hope the American team doesn’t win.  I’m not being unfaithful or unpatriotic, and I don’t actually wish them ill.  I just think victory would mean more to another team. 

You see, I'm not alone.  The generation behind me grew up playing soccer, and it's far more popular than it was in years past, but as far as I can tell, the US still doesn't care about soccer.  I don’t see that changing any time soon, so I'd rather the winning team returns home to a heroes' welcome, not some half-hearted national pat on the head. 

An Ill Wind

Over the past few years in this house, we’ve made a concerted effort to improve our eating habits. Cola, crisps, tortilla chips, chewy gooey jelly animals, chocolate covered peanuts named after rap stars, and assorted Enemies of Longevity have been stricken from the shopping list. Gone too are the ready made sauces, the instant meals, the just add water mixes and packets of flavoured powders, along with frozen meat covered in breadcrumbs and pressed into oddly familiar and reassuring shapes.


We’ve gone over to the other side.


Until recently, some of these steps had to be made covertly for the sake of our son. Thanks to a good tomato sauce recipe and a well used blender, his intake of vegetables was actually pretty good. Curry hides things well too, but he was still an unwitting and unwilling participant.


Then came the Food Dudes.


This was the name of a nutrition program implemented by schools all over the country. Kids got rewards for trying fruits and vegetables. Yes, they were bribed into submission.   And don't forget the propaganda! The Food Dudes (hmm, anyone else sense an American influence here?) promote food from the garden and trash sweet and salty snacks. Clearly, there is a concerted effort to brainwash our children with these radical antijunkist indoctrination techniques.


Worked like a charm too.


Since this program took off, our boy’s gotten a lot more adventurous, not just with fruit and vegetables, but with food in general. He’s more curious about foods, more open minded and willing to try new things.


He’s also a lot more nutrition conscious, and is proud of himself for making healthy choices. Being good parents, we do what we can to support this interest. We make sure he has plenty of good options, and we lead by example. Thanks to the Food Dudes, we’re all getting more fruit and veg in our diet.


Pop quiz for all the vegetarians out there: remember what happened when you first changed your diet? Remember when your intake of fiber suddenly went through the roof? Do you recall any consequences from this sudden shift?


Or here’s one for everyone: ever drive through the countryside with the family on a hot summer’s day with all the windows wide open? Ever scramble to roll those windows up when you strayed a little too close to a farm? Do you recall anyone making some reference to “fresh country air?”


We stink, people. Our home is awash in a haze of “fresh country air.” Thanks to the Food Dudes, we don’t dare light a match and our windows rattle with alarming regularity.


And speaking of alarming regularity… 

You'll have to excuse me.  I may be a minute.

Stunning New Evidence!

Dear Readers, I know that many of you were more than a little shocked and frightened at yesterday's post: SIMH: The Real Threat where I revealed that superintelligent giant dung beetles from Latin America (or SGDBFLA, for short), possibly from the late Cretaceous period, might be executing an elaborate attack on American interests, values, and fertilizer.




I'm afraid I have more bad news.


Brave loggers in the Amazon have been fending off wild animals, exotic diseases, and assorted treehuggers to uncover startling new evidence of the giant dung beetle invasion.


Scientists Find Ancient Geoglyphs Carved In The Amazon Jungle


Thankfully, these daring explorers have finally leveled enough of this mosquito infested jungle to reveal these so-called geoglyphs, huge tracks laid out on the jungle floor.


So what can we determine from these facts?
1) Whoever is responsible has a command of geometry and an understanding of advanced math.
2) They were able to create trails 40' wide and 12' deep, drawing straight lines hundreds of miles long, creating these huge geometric figures through dense jungle.
3) Until the area was cleared by loggers, these figures were hidden, meaning that we were never meant to see them.


Now if that's not going to convince you that the SGDBFLA are on the march, I don't know what will.


Of course, the academics in their ivory tower have once again leapt to the conclusion that these markings must be man-made.  Blinkered by this misconception, they are unable to see why anyone would go to all this trouble to make such elaborate figures with no clear function.


Will they ever learn?


Clearly, these ancient geoglyphs are only a piece of a much greater puzzle, revealing nothing less than  the SGDBFLA's master plan to take over the world, and in so doing, take over America.  These lines and shapes are the blueprint to the SGDBFLA's invasion strategy.


If we're going to stop this menace, we need to see this blueprint in its entirety, which of course is impossible with all the trees in the way.  We need to chop down every last tree and scrub the Amazon clean.  With the trees gone, and the help of Google Earth, we can finally see what those beetles are up to.


I urge every patriot to take to the streets and demand that we invade Brazil and defoliate like we used to in the good old days.  We have to burn, baby, burn to keep America, and to a lesser extent, the rest of the world, free from these giant insect overlords.  This may be our last, best chance to turn the tide and keep America safe from the SGDBFLA menace.


I urge you, Mr. President.  And you, Rogue Generals and Blaze-of-Glory patriots.  Burn the Amazon.  Turn it to a vast plain of death and ash from which the world may never recover.


Do it for America.  Do it for the flag.  Do it for the children.

The Real Threat

I know, Dear Readers, that yours are busy lives and you often are so bogged down in the little calamities of day to day living that you don't have the luxury of stopping to consider the big picture. 


Fear not, I've got it covered.  Since I'm not constrained by having any sort of a real life, I'm able to search the globe, watch the skies, and keep watch over all of you.


A waste of time?  Maybe.


Until I found this:
Giant Balls of Costa Rica


It seems the place is lousy with perfectly round balls of rock.  Archaeologists seem to think they're pretty old, and can't figure out how people made these things with tools available at the time, or how they moved them for that matter.  They've been working on this since the '30s and they're still no further along.


Until now.


The big mistake made up until now was the assumption that people were responsible.  Sure, there was some noise that aliens might have made them.  Bipedal, humanoid aliens.  In other words, space people.


The truth is far simpler, Dear Reader, and far stranger.


Giant dung beetles.


That's right.  These balls are even older than we thought.  They're fossilized dinosaur dung, rolled into perfect spheres by ancient dung beetles, measuring an estimated 40' tall, which would weigh in at somewhere around 6,000 tons.  I know what you're thinking: dung beetles are renowned for their great strength and can move objects several times their own weight.  Surely, a beetle of 40 or 50 pounds could roll these balls which weigh no more than 32,000 pounds.




And you'd be right.  A 50 pound dung beetle would be well able to handle any of these stone balls.  Only, they weren't stone then.  They were poop.  They hadn't yet dehydrated and compressed, never mind the mass loss due to decomposition and... erm, ingestion.  Believe me, I've done the math.  We're talking about 6,000 ton beetles hauling balls 100 times heavier.


Only now, no one can find them.  No remains.  Nothing in the fossil record.  Not a single scrap of evidence.


They're that smart.


Scientists are right in assuming that the creation of these orbs requires advanced mathematical systems.  That's right, superintelligent giant dung beetles with advanced geometry and possibly calculus.  We can't be sure.


It's only 1,600 miles from Costa Rica to Texas.  They've had plenty of time, and we can assume that they're smart enough to evade immigration.  


For all we know, they're already here.


Now, some people will tell you that there's no such thing as giant dung beetles.  Some people, these so-called smart people, claim that there's no need to leap to such outlandish conclusions based on such flimsy evidence.


But can we really afford to take that chance?




That's why I want all of you, each and every one of you, whether you're a proud American or just wish you were, to write to Washington, write to your senator, your representative.  Demand to know what is being done to protect your nation and your excrement from Latin American, superintelligent giant beetles.


What if they're already here and ready to strike?  Can we really afford to be "reasonable" and "sensible"?  Act now, Dear Reader!  Our nation, our world, and yes, our poo may depend on it!


(Top that, Glenn!)

Any Given Sunny Day

We’ve had a few unseasonably warm days lately.  Hey, who am I kidding?  Around here, all warm days are unseasonable.  So naturally. . .

“Hey, Mammy?  Daddy?  You know what I think would be really cool?”

We brace ourselves. 

“No, what?”

“I think we should go to the lake.” 

Phew.  That could have been a lot worse.  Not a bad idea actually.

“Okay.  Let’s go!”

“Hey, Mammy Daddy?” 

Uh, oh, might have spoken too soon.  He fused our names.  He’s revving up. 

“Can I bring my Frisbee and my new hat?”

Wow, dodged another bullet!  So before we get hit with another “Mammy-Daddy,” we slather on the SPF 5 x 10^10,000 (he is a redhead, after all) and hop in the car. 

Now, at this point, I should mention that here in the midlands we are blessed with an abundance of lakes, each dotted with several commuter-friendly spots.  We’re in the car and on our way. . .

“Hey, MammyDaddy?  Are we not going to the first lake?” 

We just share a glance in the front seats.  We don’t need to say a word.  Rookie mistake.

“Why don’t we try a new lake today?”

“Have I never been at this new lake before?”

“That’s right.  I haven’t been there in a while myself.  We can park on a hill and the lake’s at the bottom.”  My wife shoots me a look, and for a moment, I wonder why.

“Is it this hill?”

Ah.

“No, we’ve got to drive for a bit first.  It’s not too far, though.”

“Mammy, Daddy says it’s on a hill close to here.  I think it’s that next one.”

Who’d have thought we’d actually be wishing for a simple “Are we there yet?”  Instead we get, “Mammy, Daddy, I’m going to need you to please alter the shape of the world so that we’re there right now, ‘kay?”

“Sorry, pal.  I’ve got to drive this way for a bit, then I’ll be turning to the right.”

“Hey, Daddy!  There’s a road to the right!  Mammy, I think that’s the lake road!”

It’s only about twenty minutes to the lake.  According to the clock, anyway.

Had a great time at the lake, but to be honest, compared to the drive over, it was a bit tame.  A little splashing, a quick play in the sand, some three-way Frisbee (the kid’s got an arm!) and it was time to go.

“Hey Mammy-Daddy?  Can we bring a ball next time?”

“Maybe we should pick up a lighter ball for trips like this.  That football is awfully heavy and hard.  Next time we’re shopping in town, we’ll have a look.”

Oops.

“Mammy-Daddy?  I’m not ready to go home right now.  Can we go into town first and we can stop for something to drink?” 

And so it goes.

And The Hits Just Keep On Coming!

Last week, I wrote about the music that's been haunting me lately.  To be honest, I was hoping that writing would purge my demons.  No such luck.


Like last week, the common link with all these songs was a lack of any personal meaning.  These are not songs I loved or hated.  I didn't think they were even songs I noticed.  I can't say that I've had any song stuck in my head for very long this week, but I've had a constant stream of where-did-that-come-from music lately, a tangent inspired jukebox with the strangest playlist you've ever come across. 


For instance, last night, for no particular reason the Beastie Boys crept into my brain.  No, not Fight For Your Right.  I got this little gem:


Beastie Boys - No Sleep Till Brooklyn


So, again for no reason, I start putting together a play list of pale rap acts, which get cheesier with each song.  Yep, Vanilla Ice visited, but I focused on Queen's baseline, so that wasn't so bad.  Then I somehow came up with this:


3rd Bass - Pop Goes The Weasel


Now, I didn't know that I knew 3rd Bass at all, but since YouTube needs more than "um... that pop goes song with the guys... it's kinda old, oh you know what I mean," I must have paid attention at some point.  Still, pulling that Trivia McNugget from my nether regions may require medical attention, or at least some sort of ointment.


It looks like my head is enjoying the exercise, with each lost hit inspiring three more.  As last night's playlist got cheesier, my head shifted gears:




NKOTB - Hangin Tough


This one at least makes some sense to me.  I know why I know this song, and I know who to blame. (You know who you are.  Don't worry. I won't out you here, but this one is all your fault.)


That was one night.  I've had a week of this, and I'm discounting every song that floated through due to a direct reminder.  These are just the out of the blue songs.  I've relived the Tom Tom Club, England Dan & John Ford Coley (yoink!), and a Ricky Nelson song that I heard on Ozzie and Harriet!  That's right, Sherman.  Set the Wayback Machine for old!


Somehow, I've tripped a switch and my subconscious decided to use every song I ever heard for a workout, digging up all the forgotten gold - and some fool's gold as well. 


I'll keep you posted on future developments.  Right now, I'm coping with an ELO attack:


 ELO - Strange Magic


What?  You were expecting Can't Get It Out of My Head maybe?