Just for the record - and this tip is for all you married fellows out there - it's almost never good policy to say a woman's name (besides your wife's) in your sleep. It inevitably leads to a conversation you probably don't want to have.
This happened to me. Friday night, I was cozily asleep beneath two thick blankets, probably with a dog in front of my stomach and another behind my knees. Apparently, however, it wasn't visions of sugar plums that were dancing in my head.
Saturday morning, Joyce told me what I had said, quite lucidly, between my episodes of log-sawing.
Now, it's probably good policy, if you're going to say another woman's name in your sleep, to pick one that you dislike, one that no one in the world could ever accuse you of having secret feelings for.
At least I got that part right.
According to Joyce, in my sleep, I said, "Martha Stewart's dead! What are we going to do?"
I seemed quite aggrieved, not sarcastic at all, Joyce said. I remember nothing of it.
When she told me this as we were driving to work Saturday, I could only burst out laughing. Martha Stewart? It might as well have been Leona Helmsley.
That didn't keep me from breaking into a light sweat, however. No matter how innocent you are, when you are confronted with evidence implicating you, particularly when that evidence comes from your own subconscious mind, it's natural to get nervous, I think.
I really, really do hate Martha Stewart. Really. So why was I dreaming about her? Joyce must be wondering that, too.
"I hate Martha Stewart," I told Joyce, maybe a little too loudly, just to make sure she heard me.
It was a conversation we had had before. Neither of us can tolerate anyone who worries about matching curtains and napkins.
Joyce also laughed about it, so it looks like I'm OK. We agreed there was no telling what is going on inside a human head. I made sure I brought up the sleep-talking a couple more times on the way to work, just so Joyce wouldn't think I was avoiding the subject.
The name I uttered really couldn't have been better than that of Martha Stewart, from my perspective. Not only is she snooty about linens, but she's a crooked cheater on her stocks. Martha Stewart singlehandedly brought down K-Mart, if you ask me.
If Martha Stewart and I were shipwrecked on a desert island for 30 years, my marriage vows would be entirely safe. Martha wouldn't be, though, since I probably would bash her brains in with a rock and eat her on day two, maybe before even trying to catch any fish.
I need to say a little prayer of thanks that I didn't sleep-talk about Oprah or Judge Judy. Both of them are pretty cool (and I'm saying this with strictly platonic admiration), so I think I would be in a lot of trouble.
I figure if I write an entire column about how much I hate Martha Stewart, I pretty much should be in the clear with my understanding, forgiving wife. I might mention this again next week, just to nail it down and get all this behind us once and for all.
In the meantime, I'm going to have to keep it colder in the house so I can justify covering my head with the blankets so Joyce doesn't see the duct tape over my mouth.
I probably won't be able to sleep anyway, though. I'm not going to be able to stop asking myself, what if - deep, deep down - I really do like Martha Stewart?
Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record. Past columns and other writings may be viewed on his blog at http://ken-york.blogspot.com/.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Teach the 1-percenters to reproduce
All the Occupy folks have got it wrong.
I've decided that America's troubles derive from a lack of fertility at the top. Seriously, all us 99-percenters have no trouble reproducing, sometimes, probably, a little too much. Statisticians say we'll be 99.3-percenters before the end of 2014.
Back during the '60s, we might have been 75 or 78 percenters, but since then, our group has apparently grown wildly while the super-rich people, sadly, have been unable to maintain their numbers.
We ridicule the 1-percenters as elite, crazy-moneyed tyrants when actually they are just kind of bad at getting the opposite sex to give them the time of day, if you know what I mean. You would think the billions of dollars they have would help, but no.
Maybe they should ask their maids and butlers about how all that stuff is supposed to work. I think ivy-league prep schools ought to offer some kind of education on the matter, but I reckon them boys are too busy teaching Latin and Machiavelli and all that.
That's why I have set up a non-profit foundation to provide instructional videos to the elite wealthy guys and gals who need them the most. We couldn't afford to hire moonlighting health class teachers or commission animated birds and bees for the videos, so we just compiled stuff we found on the Internet that more or less pertains to the subject.
So far, the foundation has managed to anonymously mail more than three educational VCR tapes to the richest people in America.
I'm hoping that the video effort will stimulate an increase in the number of babies born with silver spoons in their mouths during the next few years. When those kids grow up, there will be a huge increase in demand for maids, butlers, gardeners, waiters with exotic accents and sychophants, and that means jobs, jobs, jobs!
We'll be 98-percenters within three generations, if my math is right.
***
It really makes me paranoid that not one of my bosses has ever uttered a word about whether I am allowed to attempt to write a column for the newspaper. It's an eerie, 16-month silence, now.
As many angry phone calls and irate letters and as much general derision on the local Internet forum as I have generated, I would have expected someone to say something, either in support or admonition.
Instead, I go to work every day and everyone pretends everything is fine. Just fine.
***
Not to brag, but Joyce and I now have an outhouse with electricity. Over the summer, we built a cute little shed with an actual wood floor and put a light in there.
I know, I know -- It's only going to make my property taxes skyrocket, but I managed to hide the structure partially behind some pieces of a satellite dish I salvaged from a dumpster last year, so I don't think the county assessor has been able to see it from the road so far.
Thanks to my pals, the Mayans, it's not going to matter if he sees it next year. We're all going to swallowed by moon-sized intergalactic fish before the next tax bill comes due.
Fun things to do with caution tape
There's a roll of caution tape in the back of my car, calling to me.
Joyce found it at a yard sale a few weeks ago. She didn't buy it for any particular reason except that she knew I would want it. I think it cost a dollar.
I was thinking about using it last week on the bottom step of the house, which finally had broken all the way. Instead of fixing the step, it would be funny just to string up the tape.
The only one besides us who would have seen it would have been Dad, who visits us most Sundays. Truthfully, the busted step was kind of his fault, in a way. I would have fixed it two months ago, but every week he has provided a progress report on its demise.
September: "That bottom step's getting a little loose."
October: "I almost fell coming up them steps. That bottom one's awful loose."
November: "I see he ain't got around to getting that step fixed. Somebody's going to break a leg."
December: "That bottom step's gone. Did you see that step's gone? Is he gonna fix it?"
Dad tends to ask Joyce about my intentions while I'm sitting right there at the table across from him. Sometimes I feel like answering, "I don't know what he's planning to do about it."
I don't know about you and your dad, but when mine says "north" I head south. It's been that way since I was 10 or so. That doesn't mean I haven't had cause to admit he was right at least half the time.
The caution tape on the step would have given him apoplexy.
But the little dogs prevailed upon my better nature Saturday morning. Gizzy and Gadget couldn't make the initial leap to get onto the second step, so we were having to go outside and get them every time we let them in.
(The little dogs believe an hour has been wasted if they haven't been out and back in at least three times.)
So now that the step is fixed (and I can't wait until Dad sees it Sunday), I don't know what to do with the caution tape, but I have ideas.
My first thought was to caution-tape the cubicle of my colleague, Fines. I could have done it Saturday afternoon so his week could start off on the right foot Monday morning. I'm off Mondays, so I would have missed his reaction, though.
I guess it would be fun to just string caution tape across any door in town and wait to see how the people who want to go in and out react to it. Would a family not cross its own threshold if caution tape were blocking the way? How long would they wait?
It's probably illegal to use caution tape for a practical joke. If we were allowed to do that, then people would no longer respect caution tape, and they'd be falling down open manholes and into wet concrete all over the place.
***
I zoomed in as far as possible on the new legislative district map on the state's website and discovered my house is cut in half. Indeed, the line runs right down the middle of the bed. Joyce, Eureka Stripe and Gizmo are in the 129th District, and Ben, Gadget, Sally and I are in the 123rd.
You can't tell me it's a coincidence that the only two bleeding heart liberals in Falcon are now in different districts. This is proof of the kind of gerrymandering that the judicial panel was supposed to protect us against. It's obvious to me that Joyce and I must have intimidated the powers that be as a cohesive voting bloc.
The good news is that if somebody we don't like gets elected in 2012 in one of the districts, we can just move the bed.
***
I guess I'll just use that caution tape as a garland for the Christmas tree when we get around to putting it up.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
I’m counting on the Mayans
Let's just assume the Mayans are right, and the Earth is going to explode or get hit by a comet or get drawn into a black hole on Dec. 21, 2012.
As a person who puts off Christmas shopping until absolutely the last possible instant, I'm going out with money in my pocket while all you nauseatingly conscientious people who believe in prior planning and scheduling are going to be really fumed.
I'm getting in my "I told you so" in advance, here.
I can think of few things worse than going through all the blood, sweat and tears of preparing for Christmas and then having the Earth's atmosphere sucked away by bug-shaped aliens or whatever four days beforehand.
There is an upside to knowing when Doomsday is scheduled to occur. You think I'm not going to be taking out loans and living large during the next year? I'll have a fishing boat, indoor plumbing and maybe even a car with air conditioning during the summer. I'll eat everything fried, since there's no sense worrying about your cholesterol when there's a giant bullseye on your planet.
For our Mayan readers, I know I have been critical of your people in this column in the past. Now, however, I am fully behind you and your prediction of global devastation.
Of course, all the "experts" are saying the Mayans never really predicted Doomsday. They just ran out of days on the 5,126-year calendar. It's just going to be the beginning of the next cycle.
Yeah, right. What else would the "experts" say? They're all secretly backed by the government, which doesn't want everyone to panic.
I never understood that characteristic of the government in the movies. Why would the government care if people panicked or not? It's not like keeping a cool head is going to protect anybody from the end of the world.
I guess staying calm is a little more dignified than running around in circles, waving your arms and screaming, however. And much less tiring.
Just once in an end-of-the-world movie, I want to see the president get on TV and say, "Well, if any of y'all haven't panicked yet, it's probably about that time."
When the time comes for worldwide panic, it's going to be handy for people to have experience with bloodthirsty, violent, screaming mobs of crazy people, so obviously you Black Friday shoppers and Cleveland Browns fans are going to have an advantage over the rest of us.
Probably humanity should concentrate on leaving something behind for alien archaeologists to discover a few billion years from now. DVDs of the complete series of Gilligan's Island, all the J.R.R. Tolkien books and the frozen, sleeping body of Albert Pujols should be launched in a space capsule for storage on the moon. Preferably before the start of the baseball season.
Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record. Past columns and other writings may be viewed on his blog at http://ken-york.blogspot.com/.
As a person who puts off Christmas shopping until absolutely the last possible instant, I'm going out with money in my pocket while all you nauseatingly conscientious people who believe in prior planning and scheduling are going to be really fumed.
I'm getting in my "I told you so" in advance, here.
I can think of few things worse than going through all the blood, sweat and tears of preparing for Christmas and then having the Earth's atmosphere sucked away by bug-shaped aliens or whatever four days beforehand.
There is an upside to knowing when Doomsday is scheduled to occur. You think I'm not going to be taking out loans and living large during the next year? I'll have a fishing boat, indoor plumbing and maybe even a car with air conditioning during the summer. I'll eat everything fried, since there's no sense worrying about your cholesterol when there's a giant bullseye on your planet.
For our Mayan readers, I know I have been critical of your people in this column in the past. Now, however, I am fully behind you and your prediction of global devastation.
Of course, all the "experts" are saying the Mayans never really predicted Doomsday. They just ran out of days on the 5,126-year calendar. It's just going to be the beginning of the next cycle.
Yeah, right. What else would the "experts" say? They're all secretly backed by the government, which doesn't want everyone to panic.
I never understood that characteristic of the government in the movies. Why would the government care if people panicked or not? It's not like keeping a cool head is going to protect anybody from the end of the world.
I guess staying calm is a little more dignified than running around in circles, waving your arms and screaming, however. And much less tiring.
Just once in an end-of-the-world movie, I want to see the president get on TV and say, "Well, if any of y'all haven't panicked yet, it's probably about that time."
When the time comes for worldwide panic, it's going to be handy for people to have experience with bloodthirsty, violent, screaming mobs of crazy people, so obviously you Black Friday shoppers and Cleveland Browns fans are going to have an advantage over the rest of us.
Probably humanity should concentrate on leaving something behind for alien archaeologists to discover a few billion years from now. DVDs of the complete series of Gilligan's Island, all the J.R.R. Tolkien books and the frozen, sleeping body of Albert Pujols should be launched in a space capsule for storage on the moon. Preferably before the start of the baseball season.
Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record. Past columns and other writings may be viewed on his blog at http://ken-york.blogspot.com/.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Six doubloons, three farthings and a tuppence
I was thinking this week about all the traditions begun by The First Thanksgiving.
I reckon what happened was the Native Americans came out of the woods and brought maize and deer and pumpkin pies, and they had a big feast with the Puritan Pilgrims.
You kind of wonder what those long-ago Native Americans were thinking.
"Hey Chief, the braves are kind of hankering for a party."
"Well, why not? Where should we have it?"
"We were thinking we'd all head over to that settlement of the white demons. You know, take some food and kind of welcome them to the neighborhood."
"Sounds good!"
That leaves me scratching my head, frankly. Surely there were more fun creatures to party with, even in pre-colonial America, than Puritans. At least you can teach otters and wolves to do funny tricks.
Relations were pretty good between the newcomers and the natives that day. There was one tense moment just before dinner when a pan of corn was set too close to the fire and started to pop. The braves grabbed for their tomahawks and bows, looking around wildly, figuring it was a musket attack. When they figured it out, everybody had a good laugh except the Puritans, who considered mirth to be a sin.
(And that, children, is how the first popcorn was invented, as far as you know.)
Everybody ate their fill Thursday night and then collapsed, tight as ticks, into their blankets around the fires. Once in a while, the braves would sneak off into the woods for a hit off the peace pipe, upon which the Puritans frowned. The Puritans frowned at a lot of things, such as noisy belches, and it had been a pretty big dinner, so there was some frowning going on, but things stayed peaceful.
What the history books seldom mention, however, is that the onset of trouble between the two races all can be traced back to that first Black Friday.
It was around five o'clock in the morning when the commotion started. During the night, the Pilgrims had stealthily snuck out to their ship, the Mayflower, and brought back carts and carts full of stuff. Now, two hours before dawn, cute little Puritan kids in bonnets and short pants paraded through the camp site, waking up the Native Americans by beating spoons on pot lids and hollering.
"What in the name of the Great Spirit ..?" the chief muttered, coming awake in his blankets. He sat up, realizing he still had a half-eaten roast turkey leg in his hand. He took a reflexive bite and looked around, chewing in amazement.
(Editor's note: Portions of this column may not be historically accurate.)
Those enterprising Pilgrims had been busy. They'd cut up the sails from the Mayflower to make banners and streamers. Little groups of carts were scattered all over the place, each under a sign that advertised goods. "Miles Standish's Colored Bead Emporium" was right next to "Gov. Wm. Bradford's Real Indian Arrowheads." There were deep discounts on everything, especially the latest designer loincloths.
Prices had really been slashed. I would tell you how low they were, but you wouldn't believe me.
The Pilgrims had even whittled some big shopping carts out of hickory limbs, using sawn trees for wheels. Those primitive carts didn't have a little seat on them where you could put a kid, but it didn't matter, because in those days the Native Americans carried their younguns around in little sacks on their backs or just let them run around barefoot.
Well, despite the early hour, the Native Americans just couldn't pass up those deals. And the Pilgrims kept reminding them there were only 32 shopping days until Christmas.
It wasn't long before all the Native Americans had shopping carts and were dashing among the vendors, trying to be first in line to get the greatest bargains. A few folks got trampled and there were some broken bones, so it was lucky there was a cart offering splints at "60 PERCENT OFF RETAIL!"
The crazy-mad shopping frenzy lasted for hours until finally the Native Americans were ready to check out. They got in long lines and stood there, wondering what came next.
Prudence, the lady who was checking people out, looked at her first customer. "That'll be six doubloons, three farthings and a tuppence," she said. "Would you like to donate a farthing to the Humane Society today?"
The problem was the Native Americans didn't have any money. The Pilgrims hemmed and hawed, and finally Gov. Bradford told them that it was really against policy, but he reckoned they could put their stuff in layaway and pay a little at a time. Or they were welcome to fill out credit applications.
The chief, however, was a proud fellow, and somewhat wiley. For all the purchases, he offered the Pilgrims the area now known as Massachusetts, which is a name derived from the Native American phrase, "Can you believe these idiots think you can actually own land?"
As they pushed their laden, rickety shopping carts through the forest on the way back to their village, the Native Americans were laughing their heads off, although some were a little miffed that the Pilgrims hadn't offered to send any leftovers home with them.
I reckon what happened was the Native Americans came out of the woods and brought maize and deer and pumpkin pies, and they had a big feast with the Puritan Pilgrims.
You kind of wonder what those long-ago Native Americans were thinking.
"Hey Chief, the braves are kind of hankering for a party."
"Well, why not? Where should we have it?"
"We were thinking we'd all head over to that settlement of the white demons. You know, take some food and kind of welcome them to the neighborhood."
"Sounds good!"
That leaves me scratching my head, frankly. Surely there were more fun creatures to party with, even in pre-colonial America, than Puritans. At least you can teach otters and wolves to do funny tricks.
Relations were pretty good between the newcomers and the natives that day. There was one tense moment just before dinner when a pan of corn was set too close to the fire and started to pop. The braves grabbed for their tomahawks and bows, looking around wildly, figuring it was a musket attack. When they figured it out, everybody had a good laugh except the Puritans, who considered mirth to be a sin.
(And that, children, is how the first popcorn was invented, as far as you know.)
Everybody ate their fill Thursday night and then collapsed, tight as ticks, into their blankets around the fires. Once in a while, the braves would sneak off into the woods for a hit off the peace pipe, upon which the Puritans frowned. The Puritans frowned at a lot of things, such as noisy belches, and it had been a pretty big dinner, so there was some frowning going on, but things stayed peaceful.
What the history books seldom mention, however, is that the onset of trouble between the two races all can be traced back to that first Black Friday.
It was around five o'clock in the morning when the commotion started. During the night, the Pilgrims had stealthily snuck out to their ship, the Mayflower, and brought back carts and carts full of stuff. Now, two hours before dawn, cute little Puritan kids in bonnets and short pants paraded through the camp site, waking up the Native Americans by beating spoons on pot lids and hollering.
"What in the name of the Great Spirit ..?" the chief muttered, coming awake in his blankets. He sat up, realizing he still had a half-eaten roast turkey leg in his hand. He took a reflexive bite and looked around, chewing in amazement.
(Editor's note: Portions of this column may not be historically accurate.)
Those enterprising Pilgrims had been busy. They'd cut up the sails from the Mayflower to make banners and streamers. Little groups of carts were scattered all over the place, each under a sign that advertised goods. "Miles Standish's Colored Bead Emporium" was right next to "Gov. Wm. Bradford's Real Indian Arrowheads." There were deep discounts on everything, especially the latest designer loincloths.
Prices had really been slashed. I would tell you how low they were, but you wouldn't believe me.
The Pilgrims had even whittled some big shopping carts out of hickory limbs, using sawn trees for wheels. Those primitive carts didn't have a little seat on them where you could put a kid, but it didn't matter, because in those days the Native Americans carried their younguns around in little sacks on their backs or just let them run around barefoot.
Well, despite the early hour, the Native Americans just couldn't pass up those deals. And the Pilgrims kept reminding them there were only 32 shopping days until Christmas.
It wasn't long before all the Native Americans had shopping carts and were dashing among the vendors, trying to be first in line to get the greatest bargains. A few folks got trampled and there were some broken bones, so it was lucky there was a cart offering splints at "60 PERCENT OFF RETAIL!"
The crazy-mad shopping frenzy lasted for hours until finally the Native Americans were ready to check out. They got in long lines and stood there, wondering what came next.
Prudence, the lady who was checking people out, looked at her first customer. "That'll be six doubloons, three farthings and a tuppence," she said. "Would you like to donate a farthing to the Humane Society today?"
The problem was the Native Americans didn't have any money. The Pilgrims hemmed and hawed, and finally Gov. Bradford told them that it was really against policy, but he reckoned they could put their stuff in layaway and pay a little at a time. Or they were welcome to fill out credit applications.
The chief, however, was a proud fellow, and somewhat wiley. For all the purchases, he offered the Pilgrims the area now known as Massachusetts, which is a name derived from the Native American phrase, "Can you believe these idiots think you can actually own land?"
As they pushed their laden, rickety shopping carts through the forest on the way back to their village, the Native Americans were laughing their heads off, although some were a little miffed that the Pilgrims hadn't offered to send any leftovers home with them.
What do the aliens think of electric sinks?
Things that seem unnecessary include busy signals with a voice-over telling you the number you dialed is busy.
Historically, a busy signal has meant just that. Call me brash, but when I hear a busy signal, I go ahead and go out on a limb and make the assumption that the line is busy.
It might be worth the voice-over if the busy-signal message offered some sort of consolation. "We're sorry, but the number you dialed seems to be busy. Please don't take it personally. If the person you are trying to call knew you were trying to call them, we are sure they would get off the phone."
That would make me feel a lot better.
I still get the regular, good-old-fashioned busy signal when I try to dial my own extension from my phone in the office. There's no voice-over, no matter how many times I try it.
(My boss, Julie, probably thinks I'm slacking instead of performing research.)
***
Busy signal messages are not the only unnecessary things we have nowadays. Don't get me started on all the stuff that used to operate just fine that now, for some reason, requires electricity.
Sinks and toilets are the dumbest. Have we become too stupid to operate plumbing by ourselves in the 21st Century?
Our forefathers used to turn on the faucet, wash their hands, then turn off the faucet. They used a little handle on the sink to control the flow, even to mix hot and cold water to produce warm water of the desired temperature.
No company has yet designed an automatic electric sink in which the water will stay on long enough for you to wash your hands thoroughly. You end up waving your soapy mitts back and forth in front of the little sensor, trying to get the water to come back on. Then you do the same dance again in front of the electric sensor on the hand-dryer.
I wonder what the aliens who are watching us think of us sometimes. I'm a little embarrassed for Earth.
I'm thinking about painting "NONE OF THIS WAS MY IDEA" on the steel roof of our little house in the woods.
Toilets also used to be manual devices. A little chrome handle could be flipped downward when a flush was required. Now a sensor can tell when you sit down and then again when you get up.
Do you honestly think Homeland Security doesn't have access to that information?
Can openers used to be manual devices. Now most are electric. The electric ones don't work any better, oddly. But the manual ones they sell now don't work as well as the ones they sold 50 years ago. I don't know why.
I think we should be going in the other direction, truthfully. I want a hand-cranked microwave oven. And windup-car technology has been around for generations, but it's never been applied to any vehicles much bigger than a matchbox.
I think it's because of the oil company lobby.
It might be worth the voice-over if the busy-signal message offered some sort of consolation. "We're sorry, but the number you dialed seems to be busy. Please don't take it personally. If the person you are trying to call knew you were trying to call them, we are sure they would get off the phone."
That would make me feel a lot better.
I still get the regular, good-old-fashioned busy signal when I try to dial my own extension from my phone in the office. There's no voice-over, no matter how many times I try it.
(My boss, Julie, probably thinks I'm slacking instead of performing research.)
***
Busy signal messages are not the only unnecessary things we have nowadays. Don't get me started on all the stuff that used to operate just fine that now, for some reason, requires electricity.
Sinks and toilets are the dumbest. Have we become too stupid to operate plumbing by ourselves in the 21st Century?
Our forefathers used to turn on the faucet, wash their hands, then turn off the faucet. They used a little handle on the sink to control the flow, even to mix hot and cold water to produce warm water of the desired temperature.
No company has yet designed an automatic electric sink in which the water will stay on long enough for you to wash your hands thoroughly. You end up waving your soapy mitts back and forth in front of the little sensor, trying to get the water to come back on. Then you do the same dance again in front of the electric sensor on the hand-dryer.
I wonder what the aliens who are watching us think of us sometimes. I'm a little embarrassed for Earth.
I'm thinking about painting "NONE OF THIS WAS MY IDEA" on the steel roof of our little house in the woods.
Toilets also used to be manual devices. A little chrome handle could be flipped downward when a flush was required. Now a sensor can tell when you sit down and then again when you get up.
Do you honestly think Homeland Security doesn't have access to that information?
Can openers used to be manual devices. Now most are electric. The electric ones don't work any better, oddly. But the manual ones they sell now don't work as well as the ones they sold 50 years ago. I don't know why.
I think we should be going in the other direction, truthfully. I want a hand-cranked microwave oven. And windup-car technology has been around for generations, but it's never been applied to any vehicles much bigger than a matchbox.
I think it's because of the oil company lobby.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
I don't think I really have 89 'friends'
In case you're not an initiate, I'll explain. When you sign up for this thing on the Internet called "Facebook," you'll get a bunch of "friends." I don't know why this is so, but it is. I can't remember how it happened to me, but as of now I have 89 "friends," and I'm a Facebook lightweight. Some of my "friends" have hundreds of friends.
I can't remember the names of 20 people in real life, much less 89.
Looking through the list, however, I can't find anyone I don't know to some degree. The funny thing is, if we met on the street, many of us might not recognize each other.
But I know what many of them had for breakfast every day last week. I know what their plans are for the weekend and whether they're feeling down in the dumps.
It's crazy.
Facebook gives me faith that America still is the land of the indolent, jam-packed with people who have way too much time on their hands. For all the talk of our fast-paced, modern society, people still get on the computer and "LOL" at each other all day and all night.
Some of my "friends" are very busy people, but they still have time for Facebook. What do they do there? They relate every casual little detail of their lives ad nauseum.
For example, some guy got on Facebook last week and was ecstatic about the great hot dog he had for lunch.
Then the next day, the guy reported he had gone and got the same hot dog again for lunch. Did anyone care? Not likely.
(Well, all right, I'll admit it: That was me. But it was really a great hot dog. I walked down the street from the office and ordered a Mexican Dog. It has guacamole, cilantro, onions, tomatoes, cheese sauce and jalapenos.)
Facebook gets on my nerves because people who will hide their troubles beneath a veneer of cheeriness in real life will expose every little ache, pain and whine on Facebook.
I'm still in favor of putting up a strong front, suffering in silence, that sort of thing. I rarely offer sympathy, and I don't offer to pray for people who have a sprained finger. I'm a terrible Facebooker.
There are perks to Facebook, however. One of my "friends" is a state representative, for example. I didn't ask this state rep to be my "friend" because I need to get some legislation passed. I know him, but we've never watched baseball together or even had lunch, so it wasn't because of a close personal relationship.
I asked him to be my "friend" because I wanted to have the ability to "poke" him.
Poking is not real. There is neither a finger nor a stick involved.
Facebook just tells you that you have been "poked" and gives you the option to "poke back."
When he accepted my "friend" request, I LOL'd, because now I have the ability to "poke" a person who is important and get the somber Facebook message: "You have poked Darrell Pollock. He will be informed of this on his home page."
I would never poke Darrell Pollock in real life. I haven't poked him on Facebook either, but it's fun to know I could if I wanted.
Speaking of pokers, there is a guy who used to be a city political figure who didn't run for re-election in April.
He said he wanted to spend more time with his wife and family and concentrate on his career - but that was just a smokescreen.
Now instead of helping to run Lebanon, he has more time to poke people on Facebook.
Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record. Past columns and other writings may be viewed at www.ken-york.blogspot.com. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.
The road to becoming Terrorist Cupid
I'm one of the stupid people in the world who never are able to resist a dare. I think that's what contributed to the current condition of my head.
A month or so ago, I accidentally got a very short haircut. Well, the barber did exactly what I asked, and if I was a little shocked by the results, there really is no one else to blame. I admit to having fun during the course of the next few days, going up to the folks who work in my building and asking them if they wanted to see something really scary, then removing my hat.
It's amazing I get any work done at all, truthfully.
Now, it should be understood that the reason for that short haircut was the economy. I can't stand the idea of forking over ten bucks a month for personal grooming.
Sometimes I grab the orange-handled scissors and go hack at it myself out in the yard. Once it's sufficiently trashed, I ask Joyce if she'll "even up the back." Probably it would make more sense if she just did the whole job, but unless she's confronted with a disaster and must take action, she's not overly eager to cut my hair.
When I do get a pro to do it, I want to get my money's worth and not have to come back for three months.
Dire predictions from my boss and coworkers followed me home the day of the ultra-haircut. Joyce was going to make me sleep outside with the chickens until it grew back some, they said. I tried not to let that hurt my feelings.
Of course Joyce was fine with it. I suspect it's not the outside of my head that retains its ability to frighten her. "You might as well go ahead and shave it," she said.
So we're back to the dare. Did I have the guts?
The amount of courage involved would be considerable, despite the fact that I constantly wear a baseball cap in public. Occasions exist in which I must remove my cap, however, like during the Pledge of Allegiance, the National Anthem and prayers.
If you are a reporter who covers local government meetings in the Ozarks, you get to remove your hat a lot. You Easterners and Yankees may be offended, but that's how we roll.
Saturday I shaved my head totally bald. Joyce talked me into keeping the eyebrows.
It's not as easy as it sounds. It took about 30 minutes and 10 disposable razors. Halfway through, I thought we had run out of razors. Wild stubs of soapy hair stuck in odd patches all over my head. Joyce, in horror, offered to go to the store and get more razors. Then we found some old ones in a drawer.
"I like it," Joyce said after the job was done. I took one look in a mirror and saw Terrorist Cupid. I haven't looked again.
It's a long weekend, and as I type this Sunday, there are about 44 hours remaining for it to grow back before I go to work Tuesday. Already there is prickly stubble to be felt when I run my hand over it, which I can't stop doing. My head is developing a five-o'clock shadow.
Tuesday morning, there is a county commission meeting. If I go in a little late, I'll miss the Pledge and the prayer, so I can keep the cap on.
Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record in Lebanon, Mo. He and his wife, Joyce, live in the Ozark woods as far away from other people as they can get.
A month or so ago, I accidentally got a very short haircut. Well, the barber did exactly what I asked, and if I was a little shocked by the results, there really is no one else to blame. I admit to having fun during the course of the next few days, going up to the folks who work in my building and asking them if they wanted to see something really scary, then removing my hat.
It's amazing I get any work done at all, truthfully.
Now, it should be understood that the reason for that short haircut was the economy. I can't stand the idea of forking over ten bucks a month for personal grooming.
Sometimes I grab the orange-handled scissors and go hack at it myself out in the yard. Once it's sufficiently trashed, I ask Joyce if she'll "even up the back." Probably it would make more sense if she just did the whole job, but unless she's confronted with a disaster and must take action, she's not overly eager to cut my hair.
When I do get a pro to do it, I want to get my money's worth and not have to come back for three months.
Dire predictions from my boss and coworkers followed me home the day of the ultra-haircut. Joyce was going to make me sleep outside with the chickens until it grew back some, they said. I tried not to let that hurt my feelings.
Of course Joyce was fine with it. I suspect it's not the outside of my head that retains its ability to frighten her. "You might as well go ahead and shave it," she said.
So we're back to the dare. Did I have the guts?
The amount of courage involved would be considerable, despite the fact that I constantly wear a baseball cap in public. Occasions exist in which I must remove my cap, however, like during the Pledge of Allegiance, the National Anthem and prayers.
If you are a reporter who covers local government meetings in the Ozarks, you get to remove your hat a lot. You Easterners and Yankees may be offended, but that's how we roll.
 |
| Artist's representation only. No one really knows what Cupid looks like. |
Saturday I shaved my head totally bald. Joyce talked me into keeping the eyebrows.
It's not as easy as it sounds. It took about 30 minutes and 10 disposable razors. Halfway through, I thought we had run out of razors. Wild stubs of soapy hair stuck in odd patches all over my head. Joyce, in horror, offered to go to the store and get more razors. Then we found some old ones in a drawer.
"I like it," Joyce said after the job was done. I took one look in a mirror and saw Terrorist Cupid. I haven't looked again.
It's a long weekend, and as I type this Sunday, there are about 44 hours remaining for it to grow back before I go to work Tuesday. Already there is prickly stubble to be felt when I run my hand over it, which I can't stop doing. My head is developing a five-o'clock shadow.
Tuesday morning, there is a county commission meeting. If I go in a little late, I'll miss the Pledge and the prayer, so I can keep the cap on.
Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record in Lebanon, Mo. He and his wife, Joyce, live in the Ozark woods as far away from other people as they can get.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Chicken pushers and the racism of Thelma and Louise
Originally published May 22, 2011, in The Daily Record of Lebanon, Mo.
Well, if you would have told me this a week ago, I would have argued with you, but now I’ve got to face the truth. My chickens are racists.
I always thought they swung a little toward the liberal, which by tradition would have made them accepting and loving of everyone and everything, even axe-murderers and the like. (Whoops, that was a serious faux pas. You try not to mention axes to chickens. They get agitated.)
Joyce and I thought Thelma and Louise must be kind of liberal because they seem to be, shall we say, differently oriented. Well, what would you think if you saw two lady chickens living together in a house with no fellas ever around?
Hey, I’m not judging. I bang on the chicken house before I go in to feed every morning, not necessarily because I am afraid to see something that might be better left private. It just makes sense to avoid things you really don’t want to know.
It’s the same reason you don’t look under rocks if you don’t like bugs and you don’t give the serial number of your rototiller to the manufacturer if you’re not really sure where it came from.
All right, all right, I know I am stereotyping horribly when I suggest that differently oriented chickens are probably liberal. I’m sure there are some Lesbians for Limbaugh out there who probably will take issue with this column. If I’m not here next week, you’ll know they rode into town on Harleys in their Dittohead leather jackets and got me.
We got Thelma and Louise, our two Rhode Island Reds, last year from our friends who are chicken pushers. The police won’t let them within 300 feet of a playground if they are wearing raincoats that seem to be leaking feathers.
They got us hooked with a “taste.”
They had more hens than they needed, so they offered us a couple, free of charge. The first ones are always free, you know.
Neither Joyce nor I had managed a poultry operation for several decades, but I proceeded with my usual planning and preparation. Before going to get our chickens, I constructed a state-of-the-art henhouse with passive solar heat, exemplary cross-ventilation and luxurious nests with an automated egg-gathering robot. We purchased feed and installed an automatic watering system. Security would be provided by a private contractor that specializes in defense against hawk and neighbor dog attacks.
Well, all right, we really didn’t do any of that stuff. We just went and got the chickens. Our friends lent us a pet carrier to take them home in because we hadn’t even thought that far ahead.
On the way home, we agreed several times that the chickens were cute and funny, but we avoided the subject of where they would live and what they might eat.
For a couple days they lived in the pet carrier on the freezer in the house. The dogs, who are used to us packing in odd creatures, just rolled their eyes in resignation and went back to chewing up dead things on my side of the bed.
We got a box built onto the side of the shed, stapled a tarp roof onto the plywood and fenced in a little area for them to peck around in. Turned ‘em loose. They seemed happy.
Unfortunately, they keep laying eggs. As I write this, there are four dozen sitting in the fridge. We don’t eat that many eggs, and Thelma and Louise were depressingly productive even during the winter.
That said, it may come as a surprise that we couldn’t wait to get more chickens. We’ve become addicted.
Our chicken source approached me one day when nobody else was around and whispered that she and her husband had gotten their hands on six Barred Rock chicks. “Primo stock,” she said in a low voice, looking around nervously to make sure no one else could hear. “This is good stuff.”
If I had been wearing a wire for the Chicken Enforcement Agency, she would have been busted right there.
Joyce went and picked up the new hens last Saturday. Sunday morning, we released them into the pen to watch Thelma and Louise welcome their new friends, Lucy and Ethel.
The welcome wasn’t warm.
The little black and white hens stick together. The big red hens stick together. The big red hens terrorize the little black and white hens, driving them away from the feed and water. Several times a day, Joyce or I quote Rodney King at them: “Why can’t we all just get along?”
At night, Thelma and Louise crouch, clucking furiously, together on the south side of the roost in the chicken house. Lucy and Ethel, quivering in terror, huddle on the nests or wedged between the water container and the wall.
It bothers us to see them all so unhappy. I’ve tried playing my old Al Franken Air America tapes for them to teach them some good old-fashioned liberal tolerance. They just squawk and squabble more. The only difference I’ve seen is that they seem more in favor of taxing and spending.
The poultry experts we’ve consulted assure us they’ll settle down after a while and get along better. Until then, I reckon we’ll just have a henhouse divided by racial hatred and oppression.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record in Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission.
Well, if you would have told me this a week ago, I would have argued with you, but now I’ve got to face the truth. My chickens are racists.
I always thought they swung a little toward the liberal, which by tradition would have made them accepting and loving of everyone and everything, even axe-murderers and the like. (Whoops, that was a serious faux pas. You try not to mention axes to chickens. They get agitated.)
Joyce and I thought Thelma and Louise must be kind of liberal because they seem to be, shall we say, differently oriented. Well, what would you think if you saw two lady chickens living together in a house with no fellas ever around?
Hey, I’m not judging. I bang on the chicken house before I go in to feed every morning, not necessarily because I am afraid to see something that might be better left private. It just makes sense to avoid things you really don’t want to know.
It’s the same reason you don’t look under rocks if you don’t like bugs and you don’t give the serial number of your rototiller to the manufacturer if you’re not really sure where it came from.
We got Thelma and Louise, our two Rhode Island Reds, last year from our friends who are chicken pushers. The police won’t let them within 300 feet of a playground if they are wearing raincoats that seem to be leaking feathers.
They got us hooked with a “taste.”
They had more hens than they needed, so they offered us a couple, free of charge. The first ones are always free, you know.
Neither Joyce nor I had managed a poultry operation for several decades, but I proceeded with my usual planning and preparation. Before going to get our chickens, I constructed a state-of-the-art henhouse with passive solar heat, exemplary cross-ventilation and luxurious nests with an automated egg-gathering robot. We purchased feed and installed an automatic watering system. Security would be provided by a private contractor that specializes in defense against hawk and neighbor dog attacks.
Well, all right, we really didn’t do any of that stuff. We just went and got the chickens. Our friends lent us a pet carrier to take them home in because we hadn’t even thought that far ahead.
On the way home, we agreed several times that the chickens were cute and funny, but we avoided the subject of where they would live and what they might eat.
For a couple days they lived in the pet carrier on the freezer in the house. The dogs, who are used to us packing in odd creatures, just rolled their eyes in resignation and went back to chewing up dead things on my side of the bed.
We got a box built onto the side of the shed, stapled a tarp roof onto the plywood and fenced in a little area for them to peck around in. Turned ‘em loose. They seemed happy.
Unfortunately, they keep laying eggs. As I write this, there are four dozen sitting in the fridge. We don’t eat that many eggs, and Thelma and Louise were depressingly productive even during the winter.
That said, it may come as a surprise that we couldn’t wait to get more chickens. We’ve become addicted.
Our chicken source approached me one day when nobody else was around and whispered that she and her husband had gotten their hands on six Barred Rock chicks. “Primo stock,” she said in a low voice, looking around nervously to make sure no one else could hear. “This is good stuff.”
If I had been wearing a wire for the Chicken Enforcement Agency, she would have been busted right there.
Joyce went and picked up the new hens last Saturday. Sunday morning, we released them into the pen to watch Thelma and Louise welcome their new friends, Lucy and Ethel.
The welcome wasn’t warm.
The little black and white hens stick together. The big red hens stick together. The big red hens terrorize the little black and white hens, driving them away from the feed and water. Several times a day, Joyce or I quote Rodney King at them: “Why can’t we all just get along?”
At night, Thelma and Louise crouch, clucking furiously, together on the south side of the roost in the chicken house. Lucy and Ethel, quivering in terror, huddle on the nests or wedged between the water container and the wall.
It bothers us to see them all so unhappy. I’ve tried playing my old Al Franken Air America tapes for them to teach them some good old-fashioned liberal tolerance. They just squawk and squabble more. The only difference I’ve seen is that they seem more in favor of taxing and spending.
The poultry experts we’ve consulted assure us they’ll settle down after a while and get along better. Until then, I reckon we’ll just have a henhouse divided by racial hatred and oppression.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record in Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
'Can you hear me now?'
Originally published May 15, 2011, in The Daily Record of Lebanon, Mo.
I don’t have a cell phone. Joyce has three.
One we use for an alarm clock and flashlight. One we haven’t used in three years. One we can talk on. It takes pictures and sends text messages too, if you’re into that sort of thing.
I don’t like phones that don't plug into anything. For one thing, it makes less credible the threat, “I'm going to come through this phone line and ...”
There's no obvious conduit for the fulillment, cartoon-style, of such an intention.
Another thing about plug-less phones is you can take them anywhere. Whose brilliant idea was that?
All the great excuses we used to have to avoid talking to people are gone. “I couldn’t get to the phone in time” was the best, and it was always true, even if the reason you couldn’t get to the phone in time was that you were running in the other direction, screaming.
My mom hated talking on the phone as bad as I do, but if we were just getting home from somewhere and heard the phone ringing from the driveway, shed launch a fleet-footed kid to dive through a window, preferably an open one, and go answer it before it stopped ringing. It was good exercise.
If we were sitting at home watching TV and the phone rang, we mostly ignored it, however. Logic didn’t enter into it.
We had “The Signal.” Two rings, hang up, call back. It was designed to avoid prank calls, sales people, bill collectors, people from the church, and my aunts and grandparents.
Years after the institution of The Signal as a screening device, somebody must have let it slip to Grandma.
The phone rang twice one afternoon, paused, then rang again.
“Hello?”
“Hi!”
“Grandma! Holy ..!”
A quiet chuckle. “Put your mom on the phone.” At that point, I don't think they had spoken in years.
Woe to the child who couldn't think fast enough and got Mom stuck on the phone. There was always the backup plan: “She’s in the bathroom.”
Anybody who consistently was able to get someone to answer our phone probably thought Mom spent most of her time in there. Since our house had only the one lavatory for the seven of us, I assume we children were the objects of pity.
Grandma always rang twice after that, which was how we knew it was her. The Signal became three rings, hang up, call back. We were threatened with death if the secret were ever released again.
Why did we even have a phone? Beats me. We weren’t allowed to call anybody because almost everything was long-distance.
Back then long-distance calling was right up there on the morality chart with drinking whiskey and looking at dirty pictures.
Probably we had a phone just for emergencies. To me, that only makes sense if you’re a fireman or a paramedic.
If somebody calls at 3 a.m. and tells me someone has been in an accident, it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it. Why not get a good night’s sleep — or several — before hearing the bad news? It’s not going to be more painful if the bad news comes in the form of a letter a few days later.
In the new century, the days of blissful, peaceful detachment from the people who want to talk to you are long gone. The only halfway credible excuse these days is to say you forgot to charge your phone — again. Even the ever-reliable “couldn’t get a signal” has gone by the wayside since the coming of the “Can you hear me now?” guy.
The best thing about cell phones is that owning one is a good excuse not to have a house phone. If you can get your wife to carry the cell phone, it’s almost like the good old days.
Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record of Lebanon, Mo. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.
I don’t have a cell phone. Joyce has three.
One we use for an alarm clock and flashlight. One we haven’t used in three years. One we can talk on. It takes pictures and sends text messages too, if you’re into that sort of thing.
I don’t like phones that don't plug into anything. For one thing, it makes less credible the threat, “I'm going to come through this phone line and ...”
There's no obvious conduit for the fulillment, cartoon-style, of such an intention.
Another thing about plug-less phones is you can take them anywhere. Whose brilliant idea was that?
All the great excuses we used to have to avoid talking to people are gone. “I couldn’t get to the phone in time” was the best, and it was always true, even if the reason you couldn’t get to the phone in time was that you were running in the other direction, screaming.
My mom hated talking on the phone as bad as I do, but if we were just getting home from somewhere and heard the phone ringing from the driveway, shed launch a fleet-footed kid to dive through a window, preferably an open one, and go answer it before it stopped ringing. It was good exercise.
If we were sitting at home watching TV and the phone rang, we mostly ignored it, however. Logic didn’t enter into it.
We had “The Signal.” Two rings, hang up, call back. It was designed to avoid prank calls, sales people, bill collectors, people from the church, and my aunts and grandparents.
Years after the institution of The Signal as a screening device, somebody must have let it slip to Grandma.
The phone rang twice one afternoon, paused, then rang again.
“Hello?”
“Hi!”
“Grandma! Holy ..!”
A quiet chuckle. “Put your mom on the phone.” At that point, I don't think they had spoken in years.
Woe to the child who couldn't think fast enough and got Mom stuck on the phone. There was always the backup plan: “She’s in the bathroom.”
Anybody who consistently was able to get someone to answer our phone probably thought Mom spent most of her time in there. Since our house had only the one lavatory for the seven of us, I assume we children were the objects of pity.
Grandma always rang twice after that, which was how we knew it was her. The Signal became three rings, hang up, call back. We were threatened with death if the secret were ever released again.
Why did we even have a phone? Beats me. We weren’t allowed to call anybody because almost everything was long-distance.
Back then long-distance calling was right up there on the morality chart with drinking whiskey and looking at dirty pictures.
Probably we had a phone just for emergencies. To me, that only makes sense if you’re a fireman or a paramedic.
If somebody calls at 3 a.m. and tells me someone has been in an accident, it’s not like there’s anything I can do about it. Why not get a good night’s sleep — or several — before hearing the bad news? It’s not going to be more painful if the bad news comes in the form of a letter a few days later.
In the new century, the days of blissful, peaceful detachment from the people who want to talk to you are long gone. The only halfway credible excuse these days is to say you forgot to charge your phone — again. Even the ever-reliable “couldn’t get a signal” has gone by the wayside since the coming of the “Can you hear me now?” guy.
The best thing about cell phones is that owning one is a good excuse not to have a house phone. If you can get your wife to carry the cell phone, it’s almost like the good old days.
Ken York is the assistant editor of The Daily Record of Lebanon, Mo. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Glory days and the insult to Todd's nose
Not to brag or anything, but I was the second best right fielder on my Little League team back in 1974. We were the Giants. We came very close to not losing a game too badly once, and I played in that game and got a hit, which caused my fans (Mom and my sisters) to erupt into stunned, wild applause, thinking my previous season-long slump was finally over.
My talents as a right fielder were still developing as the season ended, but Vegas odds were down to 3-1 that I would catch a ball in the air at some point.
(Hint to kids: If you're afraid the ball is going to hit you in the head, back way, way up in the outfield. Then, when the ball is hit, you're sure to be able to field it on the bounce or -- better -- as it rolls to a stop, which is much less potentially disfiguring.)
What I contributed most to my team in my one-year Little League career was attitude. The incredulous stare at the umpire after a called third strike -- I patented that. I could stare for long minutes at a time, eyes glittering with hostility from beneath the scarred batting helmet, until the next batter had to shove me out of the way so the torturous struggle with futility could proceed.
Of course, I had one near-sighted eye and one far-sighted eye, so I never really saw the third strike, but the odds were that all three of them couldn't have been in the strike zone. It was Little League.
After the inevitable loss, I could hurl a bat in frustration and pound my glove furiously with the best of them. I'd sit in morose silence in the back of the truck on the way home, pretending to replay the game in my head (what I could remember, anyway -- I never paid a whole lot of attention).
I still think we would have won a couple of those games if the coach had let me pitch. While it's true that I couldn't throw a baseball very fast or far, 90 percent of a pitcher's game is mental. I still can imagine the batter shuddering at my steely-eyed gaze as I shake off the sign again and again.
The coach's son, Todd, was our star pitcher. Todd and I didn't get along. He was kind of a loudmouth who made fun of the kids who didn't play to his level. He didn't bother to hide his contempt for me, but I think he must have sensed that I had incredible baseball talent just waiting to spring forth and steal his limelight. How he jeered when I was shuffled off with the 7-year-olds for soft batting practice with a bored assistant coach. I could hit pretty good when the ball was thrown from 15 feet away, underhand.
Midway through the season, just as our lousiness was beginning to become legend around the league, Todd was playing pepper at practice one day and didn't get his glove up in time. There goes the nose. I managed to hide my glee.
As a grownup, I have compassion and sympathy that I didn't have when I was 8. I don't think I inherited that from Mom, however, because on the way home from practice, she was heard to mutter, "Couldn't have happened to a nicer kid."
Late in the season when I finally got a hit, it didn't propel me to respectability with my teammates, because by that point, we were all striking out on purpose (except the jerk, Todd) just to get the thing over with.
Back then, losing teams didn't get pizza or ice cream. We got to go home and pull weeds in the garden.
The night after the last, futile game, I lay in bed, thinking about all the missed opportunities, the things I might have done differently. Finally, I got up and went into the living room where Mom and Dad were watching TV. Bravely, I announced I wanted to play next year.
They nodded soberly.
None of us ever mentioned it again.
Ken York writes a weekly column for The Daily Record of Lebanon, Mo. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.
My talents as a right fielder were still developing as the season ended, but Vegas odds were down to 3-1 that I would catch a ball in the air at some point.
(Hint to kids: If you're afraid the ball is going to hit you in the head, back way, way up in the outfield. Then, when the ball is hit, you're sure to be able to field it on the bounce or -- better -- as it rolls to a stop, which is much less potentially disfiguring.)
What I contributed most to my team in my one-year Little League career was attitude. The incredulous stare at the umpire after a called third strike -- I patented that. I could stare for long minutes at a time, eyes glittering with hostility from beneath the scarred batting helmet, until the next batter had to shove me out of the way so the torturous struggle with futility could proceed.
Of course, I had one near-sighted eye and one far-sighted eye, so I never really saw the third strike, but the odds were that all three of them couldn't have been in the strike zone. It was Little League.
After the inevitable loss, I could hurl a bat in frustration and pound my glove furiously with the best of them. I'd sit in morose silence in the back of the truck on the way home, pretending to replay the game in my head (what I could remember, anyway -- I never paid a whole lot of attention).
I still think we would have won a couple of those games if the coach had let me pitch. While it's true that I couldn't throw a baseball very fast or far, 90 percent of a pitcher's game is mental. I still can imagine the batter shuddering at my steely-eyed gaze as I shake off the sign again and again.
The coach's son, Todd, was our star pitcher. Todd and I didn't get along. He was kind of a loudmouth who made fun of the kids who didn't play to his level. He didn't bother to hide his contempt for me, but I think he must have sensed that I had incredible baseball talent just waiting to spring forth and steal his limelight. How he jeered when I was shuffled off with the 7-year-olds for soft batting practice with a bored assistant coach. I could hit pretty good when the ball was thrown from 15 feet away, underhand.
Midway through the season, just as our lousiness was beginning to become legend around the league, Todd was playing pepper at practice one day and didn't get his glove up in time. There goes the nose. I managed to hide my glee.
As a grownup, I have compassion and sympathy that I didn't have when I was 8. I don't think I inherited that from Mom, however, because on the way home from practice, she was heard to mutter, "Couldn't have happened to a nicer kid."
Late in the season when I finally got a hit, it didn't propel me to respectability with my teammates, because by that point, we were all striking out on purpose (except the jerk, Todd) just to get the thing over with.
Back then, losing teams didn't get pizza or ice cream. We got to go home and pull weeds in the garden.
The night after the last, futile game, I lay in bed, thinking about all the missed opportunities, the things I might have done differently. Finally, I got up and went into the living room where Mom and Dad were watching TV. Bravely, I announced I wanted to play next year.
They nodded soberly.
None of us ever mentioned it again.
Ken York writes a weekly column for The Daily Record of Lebanon, Mo. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Athletes weigh in, figuratively speaking, on Bin Laden's demise
Originally published on May 8, 2011
Pittsburgh Steelers running back Rashard Mendenhall raised the ire of some last week as he posted controversial comments on Twitter, which I gather is some Internet thing, after the death of Osama Bin Laden.
Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Michael Vick quickly refuted Mendenhall’s comments on the issue. Former Chiefs quarterback Joe Montana could not be reached for comment before press time today.
Now, I have all the respect in the world for my brothers and sisters in the Major Media, of course. It seems like almost daily I learn more about how journalism is supposed to be done by paying attention to the experts in my field.
Their lesson for me this week: Pay no attention to the experts in the field. Ask athletes instead.
All these years I have kind of figured that you ought to ask questions of, seek comments from and report the opinions of people who have some kind of clue about the issues involved.
Nobody ever told me to do it that way. It was just a bad habit I fell into, I reckon.
As it turns out, instead you're supposed to go find the most deviant opinions out there and report those, no matter who they belong to.
It could be Mendenhall and Vick know a heckuva lot more about our Middle East situation than the average person. Maybe there is some international studies course requirement that college athletes must take before they are eligible for the draft.
I’m certainly not criticizing athletes who dip their big toes into the icy waters of political discourse. Why, just last year our own St. Louis Cardinals manager, Tony LaRussa, spoke out in favor of Proposition B, a ballot measure either to protect cute little puppies or to pave the way for government interference in every farm in Missouri that raises animals.
At the time, some questioned whether a fellow who might call a squeeze play on a 1-2 count with nobody out really knew enough about the issue to comment intelligently.
I knew better, of course. I imagined a team of analysts studying the issue at length, diligently researching both sides before presenting their findings to Tony. After poring over the thousands of pages of data, LaRussa arrived at his position, which he then made public.
I’d rather believe that than believe somebody shoved a microphone in his face and asked him if he were in favor of or opposed to puppies.
Well, now that I know how real journalism is supposed to be done, I’ll get right on it.
I have a call in to Cards slugger Albert Pujols to see if he’s willing to make any predictions about how the Missouri Attorney General’s lawsuit against Lebanon is going to turn out. I’ll let you know what he says.
But I’m taking this new technique beyond seeking only the expertise of athletes.
I finally got hold of Jennifer Lopez Friday, and she said the mayoral recall effort in Lebanon sounded "mean," contradicting the position of Charlie Sheen, who believes the people of Lebanon ought to smear themselves in tiger blood or something like that.
It was kind of hard to understand what he was saying.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record of Lebanon, Mo.. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.
Pittsburgh Steelers running back Rashard Mendenhall raised the ire of some last week as he posted controversial comments on Twitter, which I gather is some Internet thing, after the death of Osama Bin Laden.
Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Michael Vick quickly refuted Mendenhall’s comments on the issue. Former Chiefs quarterback Joe Montana could not be reached for comment before press time today.
Now, I have all the respect in the world for my brothers and sisters in the Major Media, of course. It seems like almost daily I learn more about how journalism is supposed to be done by paying attention to the experts in my field.
Their lesson for me this week: Pay no attention to the experts in the field. Ask athletes instead.
All these years I have kind of figured that you ought to ask questions of, seek comments from and report the opinions of people who have some kind of clue about the issues involved.
Nobody ever told me to do it that way. It was just a bad habit I fell into, I reckon.
As it turns out, instead you're supposed to go find the most deviant opinions out there and report those, no matter who they belong to.
It could be Mendenhall and Vick know a heckuva lot more about our Middle East situation than the average person. Maybe there is some international studies course requirement that college athletes must take before they are eligible for the draft.
I’m certainly not criticizing athletes who dip their big toes into the icy waters of political discourse. Why, just last year our own St. Louis Cardinals manager, Tony LaRussa, spoke out in favor of Proposition B, a ballot measure either to protect cute little puppies or to pave the way for government interference in every farm in Missouri that raises animals.
At the time, some questioned whether a fellow who might call a squeeze play on a 1-2 count with nobody out really knew enough about the issue to comment intelligently.
I knew better, of course. I imagined a team of analysts studying the issue at length, diligently researching both sides before presenting their findings to Tony. After poring over the thousands of pages of data, LaRussa arrived at his position, which he then made public.
I’d rather believe that than believe somebody shoved a microphone in his face and asked him if he were in favor of or opposed to puppies.
Well, now that I know how real journalism is supposed to be done, I’ll get right on it.
I have a call in to Cards slugger Albert Pujols to see if he’s willing to make any predictions about how the Missouri Attorney General’s lawsuit against Lebanon is going to turn out. I’ll let you know what he says.
But I’m taking this new technique beyond seeking only the expertise of athletes.
I finally got hold of Jennifer Lopez Friday, and she said the mayoral recall effort in Lebanon sounded "mean," contradicting the position of Charlie Sheen, who believes the people of Lebanon ought to smear themselves in tiger blood or something like that.
It was kind of hard to understand what he was saying.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record of Lebanon, Mo.. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
We will waste no part of the potato
They sat around the board room table in expensive suits, sipping lattes, waiting for the CEO's presentation. Their fake hair was made from the pelts of deceased animals, as were their shoes. It bothered few of them that their teeth-whitening procedures cost more than average families spend on food in a year.
Finally, the CEO arrived and touched the panel at the end of the long, mahogany table. A section of the wall containing comfortable, dark-bound books slid aside to reveal a screen, and the powerpoint presentation began.
"You all probably recognize this," he said without preamble. "It's a potato."
True to his words, a potato had appeared on the screen, revolving slowly, seemingly suspended in mid-air against a brilliant white background. A few irregular recessed areas were on its surface.
For a moment, the potato revolved and no one spoke. The only sound was the quiet "tch tch" of a guy at the end who was typing on his Blackberry.
"To this point, our efforts to maximize the efficiency of the potato have been hampered by its outer covering, commonly called the 'skin,'" said the CEO. "Every potato ever processed in our facilities has gone through a de-skinning operation, which some call 'peeling.'"
A hand shot up at the back of the room. The CEO nodded irritably at the questioner.
"What do we use the potatoes for?" asked the board member. "Are they a meat substitute of some sort?"
"No," the CEO said shortly. "We peel them, cut them up into pieces and fry them. This simple potato --" He stabbed at the image on the screen with a laser pointer. "This vegetable is the source of our french fries -- which actually are not French at all, or so our production executives tell me."
The board member nodded, comprehension dawning. A few grunts around the polished table indicated satisfaction that the source of the fries was not European.
"Watch," the CEO ordered and tapped a key. Suddenly, on the screen, the outer covering of the potato fell away, revealing its white, naked, inner core. "We lose 8.4 percent, on average, of every potato we process. Why? Because we peel them."
Shocked gasps sounded around the table. A new graphic, a chart, appeared on the screen. A figure at the bottom was flashing in red. Cries of despair rang out.
"That's right," the CEO said grimly. "Over the years, our company has lost $27.6 billion in potato peels."
A man at the far end fainted dead away. The CEO nodded to attendants who lined the walls, well away from the table, and two of them sprang forward and gently carried the unconscious board member out through the expansive, carved double doors. Other servants took advantage of the break to refresh the lattes of those who remained.
"What can we do?" a woman with an alligator-skin purse cried. "Can't we use something besides these potatoes?"
The CEO shook his head. "We've field-tested products using other sources that do not have to have their outer coverings removed. The french-fried celery sticks were the worst, even though we provided small packets of artificial peanut butter to make them edible," he said. "I'm afraid we are stuck with the potato."
Another board member, the vice-chairman, spoke up. "I'm sure these potatoes can be genetically modified not to produce these skins," she said. "Glenn, get Monsanto for me." An assistant pulled out a cell phone and tapped on its face.
"We already called them," said the CEO grimly. "They were already working on it. But not for us. For McDonalds."
The cell phone snapped shut. Dead silence reigned at the name of the most hated competitor.
"We have another solution," the CEO said. "Production says it can easily modify its processing facilities to cut the potatoes with the peels intact. There will be a small capital outlay, several hundred million, for reprogramming, but it can be done."
The vice chairman nodded. "That makes sense," she said. "Why did we ever start peeling them in the first place?"
The CEO shook his head. "That, I can't tell you," he said. "It was the 60s. It was a crazy time in the industry. McDonalds was peeling, Burger Chef was peeling, so we peeled. We did have the sense to save slicing costs by making our french fries bigger than those of the competition. Not to toot my own horn too much, but that was my idea, back when I was a regional vice president."
Sighs and murmurs of appreciation came from one and all.
The CEO continued. "Our problem is that the outer covering has a bitter taste. No one likes it except health nuts who believe the peel has more nutritional value than the core."
Even this short comment about nutritional value proved to be intensely boring. Four board member immediately fell asleep and were carried out, two of them snoring loudly. The rest drank furiously from their mugs, fighting drowsiness with caffeine.
"Marketing believes there may be a way to create demand for these unpeeled fried potatoes," the CEO said, hurrying on to recapture the interest of the board members. "They want to call it 'natural' or 'organic.' The genius of it is that the peel actually is part of the vegetable, not something we added chemically. We have our legal department talking to the FDA about whether we can use 'organic,' but 'natural' is a lock."
"Won't it still taste bad?" asked a man halfway down the table. Those around him frowned at him. He blushed.
"We've thought of that, too," said the CEO, smiling indulgently. "Research and Development has found that if you add enough salt, the bitterness is virtually undetectable. We're going to make that part of the marketing campaign by explaining the saltiness away, saying we're using sea salt."
Confused looks greeted this. "How is that better?" asked a board member tentatively.
The chief executive's smile grew. "It's not. It doesn't really matter, but it sounds exotic."
One woman started it, but the clapping was contagious, and soon all the board members were standing, pushing away the leather covered boardroom chairs. Some shook their fists in the air, whooping, while others pulled out their portable devices and issued orders to buy more of their stock.
The meeting ended in a unanimous, enthusiastic vote to proceed with the "natural" french fries salted from the sea. A few of the board members, as they were leaving, followed the tradition of leaping to touch the portrait of Dave that hung above the boardroom doors.
Ken York's column appears weekly in The Daily Record of Lebanon, Mo.
Friday, May 13, 2011
A sneak peek at the Bin Laden journals
Last week, authorities revealed that the personal journals of Osama Bin Laden were part of the haul when U.S. forces stormed the compound in Pakistan and killed him.
I quickly obtained copies of some of these journals from secret sources in the CIA.
***
July 17, 2005
Dear Diary,
Good news! My second wife, Alimah, has said she is pregnant again. She is truly blessed of Allah and will bear me my 72nd child. This is Alimah's seventh.
Imam Abdul-Hakim has allayed my worries about how this could have come to pass. As I have told you before, dear diary, it has been many years since I have been able to partake of some aspects of my marriages, so I have questioned how my wives seem constantly to be with child.
The good imam tells me, however, that this is the way with the most faithful of Mohammad's followers. Allah just blesses them and blesses them.
That is why the imams all spend so much time in the compound close to the wives, I suspect. They must enjoy being so near to the holy miracles.
This truly is a day for good news. The Freedom Fighters beat the Infidels, 18-4, in the championship game of the Al Qaeda Intramural Softball League today. I myself hit two home runs and made some good plays in the field at shortstop. Allah be praised!
— OBL
Sept. 26, 2008
Dear Diary,
It hurts so much to write in this position! I am kneeling on my mat in the mosque, facing Mecca. When I went to pray yesterday morning, I threw out my back and cannot get up.
As the leader of a major terrorist network, it would be embarrassing to admit my weakness to the men. I have told them that I am continuing to pray to Allah for the destruction of the infidels. They take my occasional cries of pain as signs that I am communing with holy forces.
What makes it worse is that this is our week with the grandchildren. Khaliq and Rafi have been playing leapfrog over me for about 30 hours now. I would like to have them whipped, but then I would have to put up with Najat's whining for weeks.
Because of all this, I am falling behind on my production schedule for my video to be released on the eve of the American election. It may have to end up being a Christmas special, Allah willing.
— OBL
Aug. 6, 2010
Dear Diary,
Farid hogged the qawwrama at lunch again today. The doctor keeps telling me I should eat and keep my strength up, but how can I when that beardless dog dips his filthy fat fingers into the bowl and grabs everything before I have a chance?
If he weren't my fourth wife's third brother, Farid would be cleaning cesspits in Iraq for a living. Instead he sits around the firing range all day, drinking tea and making fun of the heroic freedom fighters who are training to destroy the infidels.
I try not to be overly suspicious, dear diary, but sometimes I suspect that Farid is not as loyal as he should be. It seems odd to me that he has been sent on six suicide missions and he always comes back. I admit his excuses have seemed valid, but no one else has ever returned from more than two.
Allah forgive me, but I could have killed Farid last week when he made that giant arrow out of rocks, pointing to the compound. It probably seemed pretty funny at the time, I suppose, but even the ignorant blasphemous infidel Americans probably can follow such an arrow in their hated helicopters, and it would have been easy for them to see it with their cursed predator drones!
I had no pity for Farid as I ordered him out into the scorching sun to move the stones so the arrow pointed in the opposite direction. Let the hated infidels make of that what they will!
— OBL
***
All right, I admit it. Those aren't really Bin Laden's journals. I made the whole thing up.
Ken York writes a weekly column for The Daily Record in Lebanon, Mo. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.
I quickly obtained copies of some of these journals from secret sources in the CIA.
***
July 17, 2005
Dear Diary,
Good news! My second wife, Alimah, has said she is pregnant again. She is truly blessed of Allah and will bear me my 72nd child. This is Alimah's seventh.
Imam Abdul-Hakim has allayed my worries about how this could have come to pass. As I have told you before, dear diary, it has been many years since I have been able to partake of some aspects of my marriages, so I have questioned how my wives seem constantly to be with child.
The good imam tells me, however, that this is the way with the most faithful of Mohammad's followers. Allah just blesses them and blesses them.
That is why the imams all spend so much time in the compound close to the wives, I suspect. They must enjoy being so near to the holy miracles.
This truly is a day for good news. The Freedom Fighters beat the Infidels, 18-4, in the championship game of the Al Qaeda Intramural Softball League today. I myself hit two home runs and made some good plays in the field at shortstop. Allah be praised!
— OBL
Sept. 26, 2008
Dear Diary,
It hurts so much to write in this position! I am kneeling on my mat in the mosque, facing Mecca. When I went to pray yesterday morning, I threw out my back and cannot get up.
As the leader of a major terrorist network, it would be embarrassing to admit my weakness to the men. I have told them that I am continuing to pray to Allah for the destruction of the infidels. They take my occasional cries of pain as signs that I am communing with holy forces.
What makes it worse is that this is our week with the grandchildren. Khaliq and Rafi have been playing leapfrog over me for about 30 hours now. I would like to have them whipped, but then I would have to put up with Najat's whining for weeks.
Because of all this, I am falling behind on my production schedule for my video to be released on the eve of the American election. It may have to end up being a Christmas special, Allah willing.
— OBL
Aug. 6, 2010
Dear Diary,
Farid hogged the qawwrama at lunch again today. The doctor keeps telling me I should eat and keep my strength up, but how can I when that beardless dog dips his filthy fat fingers into the bowl and grabs everything before I have a chance?
If he weren't my fourth wife's third brother, Farid would be cleaning cesspits in Iraq for a living. Instead he sits around the firing range all day, drinking tea and making fun of the heroic freedom fighters who are training to destroy the infidels.
I try not to be overly suspicious, dear diary, but sometimes I suspect that Farid is not as loyal as he should be. It seems odd to me that he has been sent on six suicide missions and he always comes back. I admit his excuses have seemed valid, but no one else has ever returned from more than two.
Allah forgive me, but I could have killed Farid last week when he made that giant arrow out of rocks, pointing to the compound. It probably seemed pretty funny at the time, I suppose, but even the ignorant blasphemous infidel Americans probably can follow such an arrow in their hated helicopters, and it would have been easy for them to see it with their cursed predator drones!
I had no pity for Farid as I ordered him out into the scorching sun to move the stones so the arrow pointed in the opposite direction. Let the hated infidels make of that what they will!
— OBL
***
All right, I admit it. Those aren't really Bin Laden's journals. I made the whole thing up.
Ken York writes a weekly column for The Daily Record in Lebanon, Mo. He can be reached at kyork@lebanondailyrecord.com.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Tiller trouble, nice people and the Falcon chain saw massacre
Try dealing with a certain retail store which I'll call S - after they've messed up your order for a rototiller part.
There's a little rubber seat that fits down inside a tube in the carburetor of my rototiller. A needle valve gets pushed into it when there's enough gasoline in the carburetor. The valve closes off the gas supply, then opens again when more is needed.
Simple, right?
I got my tiller manual, realized I couldn't order the rubber seat without the needle valve, ordered the kit, waited three days, got the package, opened the box, got my valve.
No little rubber seat was in the box.
Because I had days ahead of me with plenty of time to beat my bloody, battered head against an unyielding brick wall, I e-mailed customer service.
Days went by as the S - think tank worked diligently to figure out how in the world I could have ordered the wrong part. I picture them in my mind at S - World Headquarters, dozens of lab-coat-wearing people with clipboards feeding data into a monstrous mainframe deep in the basement.
I'm sure every once in a while, one of 'em hollers, "Eureka! I've got it!" Then he consults his readouts again and says, "Oh, wait - Never mind. I didn't consider the abrogation of the square root of x minus y-cubed."
In our lengthy correspondence, I just keep repeating the part number, swearing it's the right part, even using ALL CAPITAL LETTERS at times to try to get my point across.
Just send me the part I ordered, I beg. It's not complicated. (It's probably only fair to admit that my recent letters have gotten a little sarcastic.)
A demand for my money back was met with a reproachful, earnest response that made me feel guilty.
After all, they are trying so hard to help me, you would think I could be a little grateful.
Somehow, we'll get to the bottom of this, they vow, if it's the last thing we ever do. "Click-beep-click-hum-chugga-beep-chugga" goes the mainframe as it contemplates my crisis, analyzing the myriad possibilities.
In the meantime, I found an old, discarded lawn mower of the same brand as my tiller down in the ravine on our place. Took apart the carburetor, got the rubber seat, put it in the tiller carb.
It still doesn't run right, but it's better.
S - still wants me to send them the serial number off my tiller, the model number, the engine model number and my grandmother's Social Security number.
I can't send them the serial number off my tiller. I bought it secondhand from a guy on a motorcycle in the dead of night. It didn't come with a vehicle history report, if you know what I mean.
I ain't saying there's anything in its past I don't want people to know about. All I'm saying is you don't go looking under rocks if you don't like bugs, you don't bite into a persimmon to find out if it's ripe, and you don't poke your nose onto the stove burner to find out if it's hot yet.
***
The Nice Person of the Week Award goes to the lady who let two guys in front of her at the checkout at Smitty's at lunchtime on Wednesday. She had a bunch of coupons, she said, and each of us behind her was buying only one item.
It's little things that can make or break a day. In Ohio, you don't let people in front of you in line. That's why on average Missourians have 100 extra good days per year, according to statistics I just made up.
***
Joyce cut down her first tree, a blackjack oak, with the chain saw last week. It fell right where she wanted it.
I'm just afraid she might have enjoyed it too much. One of these nights I'm going to go home and find out that - like Laura Ingalls - I've moved from The Big Woods to a Little House on the Prairie.
That's kind of funny, because for five years I've had justify the homicide of every tree we've cut down on our place. Now Joyce realizes how much fun the wanton carnage can be.
***
My condolences to the family of Larry Mahan of Lebanon, who died last week.
Philosopher, inventor, author, husband, father, grandfather and friend, you'll be missed.
Ken York's column appears in The Daily Record, Lebanon, Mo. It is reprinted here with permission.
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