On Politics

Sometime not to long ago, I posted a prediction that the Presidential election would be won by the candidate with the best haircut. Would that there was a decent set of locks on one of these guys but alas, they are both noticeably lacking in that department. So, instead of harping on that old dog, I'd like to talk a little about something else instead, the disintegration of the stuff that lies under John McCain's hair, his brain.

To be honest, I'm no rampant politico. I neither live, nor breathe for the daily dose of polls and pundits' comments. But neither am I one of the countless majority of Americans who pay politics a mere passing glance if anything at all. Consequently I'm well aware of the grizzled old vet's record and reputation as one unafraid to fly on his own wing (and prayer...). Quite honestly I sort admired the guy at one time. But now, well, now he has clearly unraveled.

During the debate last night it was scary watching his eyes, blinking away at a rate pretty close to 60 bpm (blinks per minute). Don't believe me? Grab a video and count for yourself. Several random samples of my own consistently derived the same results, though I must admit it was pretty hard to keep up the count at that breakneck pace. For some odd reason, it reminded me of the replicants in Blade Runner. Talk about frightening. But wait, there's more...

Strangely enough I think I could almost deal with the possibility that McCain is actually some technological marvel (what really happened while he was in captivity anyway?) What I can't handle is how totally whacked he's been since he decided on Sarah (even funnier than Michael) Palin as his running mate.

Even if they look a bit similar, she's not as pretty, or as funny, or as smart as Tina Fey. And I don't buy the "I'm just a good old gal with a gun and a fucked up family like the rest of you" shtick. But she did offer the old goat an opportunity to show some balls and distinguish himself from the current administration (and even the Republican party as a whole). Sadly, he missed the boat. Instead of touting the All-American as apple pie aspects of his partner, he set her up as the vicious attack dog he didn't have the sack to be on his own. So now her political career at the national level is pretty much hosed (thank goodness!) and he's heading for an ignominious fall in his own candidacy.

Does this make me happy? Of course! Sure there's plenty of time for the tide to turn, but for now I'm reveling in the thought that I'll wake up the Wednesday after Election Day without wondering who won. In these times of uncertainty, can you blame me for wanting at least one night's good sleep?

Improv Everywhere

A while back I added the Improv Everywhere website to my "Links I Like" sidebar. I don't remember why I wound up at the site in the first place, but I'm sure glad I landed there. The latest "prank", the Human Mirror, is so ingenious I just had to throw this post up to urge y'all to check it out. But be careful. I found myself addicted to the site and thus reading through one after another of the missions until I was bleary-eyed and my ribs hurt from laughing...

Thanks for the Advice

Not that it should matter to you, but something is bothering me. Actually there are many things that bother me, but this one has my attention at the moment so I'll spare you the full-blown rant.

It seems the marketeers of the world, not content to provide the simple convenience of browsing from the couch have found new ways to exploit the habits of internet shoppers. These shameless pirates have set about to collect information on our purchases so they can then make recommendations about other things they would like us to buy. If you've been to any of the big shops, like Amazon for example, then you know what I'm talking about. Under the guise of "customer service" they are offering a new version of the classic soft sell.

Don't get me wrong. I'm down with the general concept of linking buying habits of the masses. But they've got it all wrong. Here's a typical Amazon-like recommendation: Buyers of Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas also bought these fine titles; Hell's Angels, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest & The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. Oh, please! I don't want to know what the buyer's of Fear & Loathing bought, I want to know something about them. So if Amazon wants to sucker me into more purchases, they'd better tell me what I really want to know.

You see to my way of thinking, it would make more sense if when I browsed to a book, they told me something like this: Sixty four percent of Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas buyers are males in their late 40's with drinking problems and a history of mental illness. Or say I'm looking at Interview with a Vampire, I expect to find out that Other readers of well-known author Anne Rice's most popular novel are usually women with active imaginations and carnal desires that lean toward a bloodthirsty lust. That's the kind of thing that would lead me to buy a book.

To be fair, booksellers are not the only purveyors of this shill. Clothing stores will often present other color coordinated items to go with your new shorts, music stores tout other bands you'll love if you listen to Pearl Jam, and even sites that sell tools will provide supposedly deep discounts if you'll also purchase a matching screwdriver set with that hammer.

So will any of these vendors take my advice? I doubt it. I'm afraid the future of online shopping will be much different. I picture (reluctantly) a scene like this:

I am browsing, let's say LL Bean for example. A red polo shirt makes it into my basket, but not without this admonition from the website: Red? That's not really a good color for you. Why don't you try the teal. It's a much better match for your complexion and will really complement your eyes.

Now that would be progress, or would it?

Everyone else is doing it, so why not me?

It is ten o'clock on Tuesday night. All over the news is the same story, young Obama is in, old Hills is out. At mere first glance there are thousands of commentaries flooding the internet. So here's my little drop in the pool.

Everyone knows Barack Obama is suave if not debonair, and bright if not experienced. They also know John McCain is a veteran of just about everything but he carries a chip on his shoulder about some of the Republican Party platform. These two will duke it out in what will in all likelihood become the most expensive campaign in human history. It will be a tumultuous maelstrom unlike any that politics has ever seen before. No one could write a better novel pitting two polar opposites against each other. And this is real. As real as it gets. Except it is also totally unreal. The sh#$ is about to fly as some people might say. Not me mind you, just other people. I'm merely throwing that line in for their benefit. Really. My mouth is clean as a whistle. Swearing is bad. And so is John McCain. Here's why.

I was willing to give McCain the benefit of the doubt. That's because I didn't know anything about him. Now I know something, and I don't like it. No, I'm not going to tell you what it is. You're just going to have to trust me on this one. It's bad. Believe me. And while you're at it, believe all the sh#$ the media is going to throw at you for the next five months. Because it's ALL true. Every word of it. Oh dear, did I say sh#$ again? Da%&, er, darn it. See what this election is doing to me already. I'm losing it I tell you. The very thought of the vile froth that is about pour forth across our nation depresses me, and oddly enough, makes me feel like a sailor. But not some Popeye-assed sailor, no, I'm thinking more like a guy drifting endlessly through the Pacific on an 18th century frigate, heading for the tempestuous waters around Cape Horn.

Speaking of Cape Horn, have you ever noticed the massive oceanic trench that cuts away from the tip of South America? It kind of reminds me of the hole Obama is going to have to get out of to win in November; big, wet, slippery, and much deeper than he ever thought possible. To begin with, he's got to deal with the VP issue right off the bat. Now the great thing about people who fight like Hillary is when they do finally throw in the towel, they capitulate completely. She's already made it known that she's willing to put all the vitriol in the past to stand proudly beside him in the Oval Office. And it's only 10:35 PM at this point.

Now I don't want to paint a ghastly scenario, but the paranoid in me speculates on the worst possible human behavior. So, what if, and I really mean just if, somebody takes OB out during the campaign. As abhorrent is the thought, we can't escape it. So if it happens, there's Hills, ready to take the reigns, prove her mettle under fire, (she'll take one that grazes her shoulder so she can zip off to the hospital away from immediate media scrutiny) and then with the courage of her convictions (not that she ever was actually convicted) and the sympathy of the American public, she will ride a wave to victory with that bold smile on her face.

But that's not going to happen.

So what is going to happen? Well before I settle down with a book for the night, I'm going to direct your attention to the real heart of the matter in this election. Are you sitting down for this? You should you know, because you're not going to see it anywhere else. Okay, you're sitting, right? I know I kind of had you on the edge of your seat there. I'm sure you're dying to know but just let the tension loose a bit. Stopping gripping the chair so tight. And let me tell you, right here on Tuesday, June 3, 2008, the key to the 2008 United States of America Presidential Election, the one thing you have to know in order to predict who will win 22 weeks away from this very day and find themselves sitting at the best seat in the White House, is nothing more than this: Who has the best haircut?

Remember in November, you heard it here first.

Two Stolen Jokes

An old country preacher had a teenage son, and it was getting time the boy should give some thought to choosing a profession. Like many young men his age, the boy didn't really know what he wanted to do, and he didn't seem too concerned about it. One day, while the boy was away at school, his father decided to try an experiment. He went into the boy's room and placed on his study table four objects.

1. A bible.
2. A silver dollar.
3. A bottle of whisky.
4. And a Playboy magazine.

"I'll just hide behind the door," the old preacher said to himself. "When he comes home from school today, I'll see which object he picks up. If it's the bible, he's going to be a preacher like me, and what a blessing that would be! If he picks up the dollar, he's going to be a business man, and that would be okay, too. But if he picks up the bottle, he's going to be a no-good drunken bum, and Lord, what a shame that would be. And worst of all if he picks up that magazine he's going to be a skirt-chasing womanizer."

The old man waited anxiously, and soon heard his son's foot- steps as he entered the house whistling and headed for his room. The boy tossed his books on the bed, and as he turned to leave the room he spotted the objects on the table. With curiosity in his eye, he walked over to inspect them.

Finally, he picked up the Bible and placed it under his arm. He picked up the silver dollar and dropped into his pocket. He uncorked the bottle and took a big drink, while he admired this month's centerfold.

"Lord have mercy," the old preacher disgustedly whispered to himself. "He's gonna run for Congress."

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The Pope and George W. Bush are on the same stage, in front of a huge crowd. ‘W’ and ‘His Holiness’, however, have seen it all before so to make it a little more interesting the President says to the Pope, “Did you know that with just one little wave of my hand I can make every Republican in this crowd go wild?”

The Pope doubts this, so W shows him. Sure enough, the wave elicits rapture and cheering from every Republican in the crowd. Gradually, the cheering subsides.

The Pope, not wanting to be outdone by such arrogance, considers what he should do.

“That was impressive. But did you know that with just one little wave of MY hand I can make EVERY person in the crowd go crazy with joy? This joy will not be a momentary display like that of your subjects, but will go deep into their hearts, and they will forever speak of this day and rejoice.”

The President seriously doubts this, and tells the Pope this. So the Pope slaps W upside the head.

Smackdown With an Otter

It is an irregular habit of mine to wander across the railroad tracks that divide my yard from the Connecticut river, scramble down the steep banking and sit for a while beside the gently flowing water. The serenity of this scene in the early evening of a late spring day is perfectly delightful and so the other day I did just that. My buddy Sukey and I perched ourselves on a flat spot, breathed in the fresh air and relaxed while watching a variety of birds flitter across the water's surface in pursuit of an evening meal.


After just a few minutes there, I was surprised to see a river otter poke its head up. Now those of you who have seen a river otter before, you should skip right over to the next paragraph. But those of you who have not, let me describe it for you. Regardless of what you might find at Wikipedia, the river otter, an amphibian (not that there's anything wrong with that), is a fearsome creature with long, sharp fangs and razor-like claws. They can grow to ten feet in length and are reputed to have stolen cats, small dogs and even unattended babies from backyards. With fur as tough as steel and lightning fast reflexes they are in short, viciously ruthless killers.

As I was saying, this bloodthirsty creature popped out of the water and began to swim towards the center of the river, moving slightly upstream. He (I say he, but that's really just a literary convenience, it could just as easily have been a little lady otter) appeared at first to give me nary a glance, but as I watched him, a curious thing happened. With obvious annoyance he raised his head slightly, looked towards the bank in my direction, then dove beneath the water with a loud slap of his tail against its surface.


Now on the face of it, this action might be considered as just some cute little animal fun. But I had seen the look in his eye and I knew the truth. Without the benefit of vocal cords, this otter was talking trash at me. Any doubt I might have had about this supposition (not that there was any), was entirely erased moments later (or would have been had there been any). Having taken a deep dive, he resurfaced slightly downstream, turned and headed back towards me, this time coming closer to the bank.


Somewhat taken aback by his behavior, I hesitated, and for doing so received another audible assault. It was nearly a repetition of the early incident, but this time he whacked the water even harder. It was clear, that tail slapping was meant for me, and it wasn't a friendly "Hello." At this point I knew I couldn't just sit back on my heels. So I watched carefully to see when and where he would come up next. It didn't take long. He had taken advantage of his secret submarine skills and drawn himself even closer to the shoreline. But I was ready for him. You see my highly evolved human mind also took advantage of his secret submarine skills and so by the time he had resurfaced, I was at the water's edge. Before he had a chance to lash out at me again, I slapped my hand down on the surface of the river and relished the smacking sound it produced. If he wanted to talk trash, well I was down with that.


So I got his attention (along with wet pants). He tread water for a moment, raised his arrogant head slightly, and then plunged down again with totally tame tail slap. Clearly I had him rattled. When he popped up next he was well upstream and he continued swimming that way, the ripples of his motion rolling gently away from his body towards both shores. I had called his bluff and he backed down, the wimp.



River otters aren't particularly social critters but they can cover a fairly large territory and are bound to run into each other now and again. So by now I'd guess most of his buddies have heard about the guy who won't take any lip from trash talking river otters and I don't expect my peaceful evening reverie will be spoiled again for a while. You know who owns this river now Mistuh Ottuh, and you'd best be glidin' by nice and quiet next time your on my turf or we'll see who really knows how to slap some tail...

Today's Lessons

Today I learned a few things the hard way. The real hard way. I learned that cars, even small ones, are actually fairly hard and can be somewhat immovable objects. And I learned that something I always suspected is actually true. The people who drive cars aren't necessarily paying attention to what's going on around them. I also learned that you should never underestimate the kindness of strangers, or the dependability of friends.

When I first started riding a motorcycle almost everyone I spoke with said it is inevitable that someday I'd "lay it down". "It happens to everyone," they all said. This was very similar to something I had been told when I first started running sled dogs, "everyone loses their team sometime." When I first heard that I thought, "how could you lose your team?" Of course I figured it would never happen to me. Then one day I was training in the Groton, Vermont state forest. It was fairly early in the day, about 10 degrees below zero, but a lovely, sunny January morning. The air was cold, but crisp in that invigorating winter sort of way. I reached a turnaround point about 5 miles from where we started, swung my team 180 degrees to head back to the truck and then stood back to admire the special beauty of a happy sled dog team. Then I watched in horror as they jerked forward, pulled the snowhook (kind of like a boat anchor for dogsleds), and bolted down the trail without me.

It is difficult enough to get one dog to respond to the command "come", but convincing a team of huskies to turn around for their driver is a special talent that very few mushers possess. Sure, I had read about people who could, but apparently I wasn't one of them. So, I ran down the trail after them, shouting (pleading, really) for them to come back, but to no avail. By the time they slipped out of sight around a corner I'm afraid my yelling was colored by words that might make even a sailor blush. With nothing else to do, I just kept running, and running, and running, until I finally reached the truck to see them all sitting in a bunch, tails wagging and eyes concurrently laughing at me while clearly saying, "where have you been? We're hungry!" It was around that point that I remembered something else I had been told by the sages of the sport. Never let go of the sled. Never. Ever.

But I digress...because that was a long time ago and what happened today had nothing to do with dogs. No, today I had the misfortune of discovering just how exposed one can be when riding on an open, 2-wheeled vehicle instead of being wrapped more safely within the confines of what bikers call "cages". Cars, you see, despite all their fallibilities, are still a heck of a lot safer than motorcycles. I suppose I knew that intuitively before, but now I have the experience to prove it. Kind of like an experiment that validates a theory. The final proof of my theorem is best shown by the photograph here. This is what can happen when a relatively small object with many plastic parts hits a much larger one at a certain velocity. If this photo by itself doesn't help much in giving you the perspective, compare it to the one in my earlier post below.

Now the good news to all this is that I miraculously avoided serious injury. It could have been so much worse and so in seeking a silver lining to this black cloud I can happily say I am so glad to be writing this post from my home and not a hospital bed. I was fortunate enough to be attended to on the spot of the accident by both a nurse and an EMT who just happened to be driving by. A very kind fellow whose name but not generosity I've forgotten, was kind enough to bring a pair of ramps that were an invaluable aid in loading the bike into a truck. And I was lucky enough to have a very good friend, Jack, who without a second thought, dropped everything he was doing to come pick up me and the shattered remains of my motorcycle and bring it and me back to my apartment. I am indebted to all of these people for their assistance and though it is unlikely that I will ever be able to repay all of them directly, you can be sure I will do the same for someone else if, God forbid, the opportunity comes my way someday in the future.

Oh, and I learned something else, too. There is no price tag to high for a good helmet and jacket. Both were worth every single penny...

A Friend

As I was driving home one night a little while ago, a nearly full orange moon was sneaking through the treetops as I wove my way East. I considered my riding companion and decided a tribute might be in order.

Who is a friend,
Who asks no questions,
Tells no lies,
Gives no suggestions,
Carries a smile,
When one's really needed,
Dwells never long,
If ever defeated,
Offers sympathy,
When it's required,
Knows how to sleep,
Yet, never gets tired,
It surely must be,
When day's finally done,
For a man's best friend,
A dog is the one.

Tougher than Tiger

In early April of this year Sports Illustrated posted an article called The Toughest 25 Athletes. Like so many lists, this one was bound to be controversial. To begin with, exactly how could one define tough in the context of so many different sports? At SI, in order to defend their lame choices, they gave a very wide ranging set of criteria which makes it rather difficult to argue with their decisions. Except, and this is something I find particularly astonishing, their number one choice, Tiger Woods. What? Tiger? Tough? And not just any plain old street guy tough, but the toughest athlete in the world??? At first I said to myself, "Dude, check the date. It's April 1. Must be an April Fool's joke. Yeah, that's it. Good one. Almost got me there SI guys."

But no, it's not a joke, at least not intentionally as far as I can tell. They chose Tiger, really. Now I will not question for a second that Woods is an incredibly gifted athlete. And I'll even admit that he has, at times, shown some great nerve under serious stress on the links. But the toughest athlete in the world??? Nope. Sorry but I ain't buyin' it.

My argument is ridiculously easy. By way of comparison, look at their # 2, sled dog musher Lance Mackey. This guy just happens to be the other amazing athlete named Lance who beat cancer and then one-upped himself by totally beating the pants off his competition, too. But unlike Tiger, instead of waking from a comfortable night in a hotel room to press his slacks and shirt each day before stepping out under the sunswept greens and fairways to ply his leisurely trade prior to cocktails in the clubhouse, Mackey merely braves winter's worst weather while suffering severe sleep deprivation to drive the team of extraordinary huskies he's been training all year through some seriously nasty wilderness. Over 1000 miles. In 10 days. Twice. In one winter. To win. Two years in a row.

For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about, let me explain. Up there in Alaska they get a little bored in the winter. So to pass the time, some of them (masochists more likely than not) conjured up a couple of sled dog races to pass the time. The Iditarod, which runs from Anchorage to Nome, is the more famous of the two, but equally (and some say more) challenging, is the Yukon Quest which traverses the extremely rugged terrain between Fairbanks and Dawson in the Yukon. Both are somewhere around 1000 miles long. Both test the limit of human patience, endurance and intestinal fortitude (as well as the ability to train and then care for 16 remarkable canine athletes under extreme conditions). Now to merely finish one of these races is an accomplishment for most people. But winning? Well that requires a significantly expanded set of skills, not the least of which includes extraordinary physical and mental toughness. And not only did Lance win the Yukon Quest last year (2007) but he followed it up mere weeks later by winning the Iditarod, too. Then, not content to rest on the laurels of this first ever accomplishment, he did the same thing this year. Think about it for a second, maybe even a moment. The guy won back to back 1000+ mile sled dog races, two years in a row. I would go on and on about just how amazing this is but the more I think about it the more I realize there just aren't words to capture that kind of human achievement. But I will add that last year Mackey was a runner-up for the ESPN "ESPY" award for Best Outdoors Athlete and if he doesn't win this year it will be, without question, a travesty.

Okay, so enough about Lance and Tiger, what about the other picks? Who cares? If you screw up the top slot that badly, how much value can we put in the rest? None. And I can say this confidently because it's the easiest way for me to get out of ripping the entire article to shreds, which, quite frankly I don't have time to do. But I would like to make a couple of other observations.

First of all, in regards to the current top 50 I'm a bit surprised (stunned actually) they left off mountain climber extraordinaire Ed Viesturs. Why, you might ask, should Viesturs be on the list? Oh, I don't know, maybe because he's climbed all the tallest peaks on the planet. Without bottled oxygen. In flip-flops. Okay, I made that last one up. But seriously, doesn't that kind of climbing take a little more toughness than dropping a 6 foot putt to add a few more million to your already healthy bank account?

Finally, I simply can't help but drop the bomb on the accompanying gallery of 50 Old School Tough Guys. I won't, though I certainly could, quibble over any of their selections in this category. But for them to leave out Eddie Shore, quite possibly one of the most talented and demented athletes to ever don a uniform, is simply unfathomable. It's the demented part that puts Shore in the elite of tough. Examples abound but because I like irony, I'll just point you to this article from SI's very own archives. Read it, then come back here and tell me that isn't one of the toughest SOBs that ever, er, graced, the sporting world. 'nuff said.

What Happens When a Web Search Goes Awry...

" Did you ever notice when you blow in a dog's face he gets mad at you? But when you take him in a car he sticks his head out the window." ~Steve Bluestone

Last summer I decided to buy a motorcycle. After considerable research on the web, visiting countless pages and review sites (and thinking waaaaaay to much), I finally settled on the 2001 Triumph Sprint ST you see at the right. The letters stand for Sport Tour which means it is designed for both performance and comfort. Like almost all things that try to be good at everything instead of excelling at something specific, this bike is not great at anything. But despite that, it is still a wonderful if somewhat expensive toy and, unquestionably, more fun than almost anything I've ever owned, except my dog, Sukey (let's not debate the "who really owns who here?" question, please). Nearly 12 years old now (him, not me), when I move about he is nearly always at my side and a veritable permanent fixture in my car, which, from his perspective, is a rather plush if perplexingly mobile doghouse. And one, I should add, that he simply loves to stick his head out of when we are driving. Which brings me to my current dilemma. How can I truly have fun on the road with the bike when I have to leave my furry friend behind?

The answer, of course, is a sidecar. One of those odd looking contraptions which attaches to the bike allowing a comfortable and somewhat safer ride for the passenger. Knowing I certainly wouldn't be the first person to put their canine companion in one of these contraptions, I decided to browse the web a bit for some advice and instruction. After all, there is certainly some risk involved and I had to contemplate the catastrophe that might ensue should Sukey feel the same way about my driving as everyone else who dares to ride with me (or at least who used to ride with me. Lately I can't help but notice how often my friends decline my offers to drive). In any case I assumed at the very least this search would serve to bolster my confidence and further my motivation. What could possibly be more inspiring than to see a plethora of photos - goggle wearing pups with fur streaming in the wind, riding along splendidly scenic vistas with their masters, ears alert and the inimitable doggy smile upon their faces as they soaked up the rays of the sun on a fine summer's day? I even closed my eyes to picture how awesome Sukey and I would appear to other motorists and passers by as we zipped around our little village. We would be just the coolest thing in town, I was sure of it. However, when I stumbled upon the picture below, I gave up the idea. I mean, really, there's cool, there's ridiculously cool, and then there's, well, whatever you'd call this:


PS: Can you just imagine how many accidents there must have been when this guy was out there on the road???

Dressed for Destiny

As I was browsing through Hulu in search of something to distract me from thinking, I noticed a series I had heard of previously but was reluctant to watch just because the name kind of gives me the willies. "What show is that?" you may inquire. My answer: look at the picture!.


Now I'll admit this isn't the funniest thing I've ever seen. But somehow or another it kind of caught my attention. To begin with, how could one not like a show about super heroes that includes a South-of-the-Border well-doer named "Batmanuel"? If only there was a Polish counterpart called "Hulski" or a web-swinging Italian hero known as "Spidermanelli" it might be perfect.

In the spirit of full disclosure I feel obligated to mention I don't actually own a television but use my computer and a digital projector to watch DVDs and web-based video on a gloriously large 7 ft image projected on my wall. So instead of spending my time flipping a remote control through a million bad channels on cable or satellite, I engage in the online equivalent, namely searching streaming video sites for things that might tickle my fancy. I've discovered that either way the result can turn out the same, I watch more "television" than I probably should. On the plus side, I can watch Netflix series and movies sans ads, and despite the smattering of promotional material on Hulu, generally speaking I am exposed to considerably less mind-numbing Madison Avenue dribble than I would be with a regular TV.

Anyway, back to the Tick. At the moment I have watched only the pilot. I suspect I'll watch more if it grabs my admittedly hard to capture and even more difficult to sustain interest, but at this point I really don't have a heck of a lot to offer in the way of examples for my recommendation. The line which led me to make this post and provided the source of the title should be sufficient for you to determine if this show might be worth your taking a peek. As one of the characters falters in his belief that he is a legitimate defender of the common man, the Tick offers these words of wisdom, "Destiny dressed you, now fear is trying to take off your pants." Tell me that's not funny and I'll tell you to watch something else. But if you found a chuckle when you read that line, give the Tick a try.

The other thing certain besides death...

I have a confession to make. In all likelihood I actually have many confessions to make, but for the sake of brevity, I'll just stick to this one for now. I don't mind paying taxes.

Now what, you may ask (go ahead, do it, I dare you) would prompt me to say such a patently un-American thing? My friend Tom. Inspired by this little venue of my rants, he has created his own blog and in his first post he lashed out at the onerous task of completing the numerous federal and state returns to which he is subject. This led me to consider my own feelings on the topic which I've decided to share with you here.

So your next question, the one that lies at the real heart of the matter, is why? Well I suppose deep down there must be some element of socialism embedded in my spirit. The whole concept of paying my share along with my fellow citizens simply strikes me as a good way for society to pull together to end the ills of the world. I have no reservations about giving the government my money because I am, if only in some small way through my democratic representation in Congress, the government, too. You know, government for the people, by the people, etc.

Now I suppose I should clarify a bit. I don't believe I'm alone in my willingness to pay. I'm sure plenty of people feel as I do about the basic idea. But the catch to taxes is the complexity that has become intrinsically woven into the process, at least in this country. To begin with, which form, or to be more accurate, which forms do I need to fill out? There's a dizzying array of them which has led to a rather large industry to aid us in forking over our fair share. And then there's the whole guessing game piece which comes along each year. How much should I have deducted from my regular paycheck? If I pay to little then I'll be saddled with a hefty check due the IRS. If I pay to much I'm giving the government an interest free loan which might serve me better invested in some vehicle which offers a better return. (I said I was willing to pay taxes, not that I was in a rush to do so...)

And there's more to the complexity issue than just the paperwork. The tax code itself is so ridiculously complicated and non-sensical that it makes me wonder how it ever could have gotten this twisted. There are so many loopholes and tricks that it is difficult to choose one to use as an example, but I have a favorite which exemplifies how different my perspective may be from the vast majority. Someone, please, explain to me how this makes sense: If you have a child, the government gives you an additional deduction (how's that for a clever turn of phrase?) Chide me if you must parents all over the country, but why on earth should you pay less in taxes for introducing a near certain revenue drain to our public coffers? Given the probability that your little darling will attend a tax funded public school, why oh, tell me why, should you pay less? It brings to mind a comment from that wise old sage, Grouch Marx, who once said, "A child of five would understand this. Send someone to fetch a child of five. "

Now please don't get the idea that I don't like children. Generally speaking I do, (although I have met a few that have led me to reconsider that sentiment from time to time.) Of course I should, I suppose, mention that I believe that some licensing should be involved in the whole thing. I mean, after all, we need a license to do just about anything in this country so why not one for having children? Heresy, you say? I think not. Consider this. You need a license to drive, a license to conduct business, a license to cut hair for cripe's sake, why on earth do you not need a license to do the one thing that is more complicated, more difficult and more likely to effect everyone else around you?

But to return to the topic (lest I find swarms of angry parents storming my front door), my point is that our tax code is simply filled with far to many exemptions, exceptions, and, to put it plainly, ways to avoid paying our fair share if we are willing to delve deeply enough into the rules to find them. Being human as we are, it is simply in our nature to take advantage of any opportunity we are given. So we all play the game and in the long run, we all lose.

As I suggested earlier, I think most people don't actually hate paying taxes. What I think people actually hate is how the money is spent when they do. But that, my friends, is a topic I think I'll leave to someone else to address.

Help! No Hops!!!

It has only recently come to my attention that there is a worldwide shortage of that flowering plant so precious to me and my fellow beer lovers all over the world, the honorable hop. To say I am distressed may be an overstatement, but I suspect as prices on my favorite brews, typically India Pale Ales (IPAs) begin to rise, my wallet will feel the pain even if my tastebuds do not. Of course I don't wish to pay any more for my beer than necessary, but what concerns me much more is I have read far too many comments from brewmasters suggesting their reaction to this crisis may include modifying recipes. My advice to them, don't go there.

I realize recipes are always open for a little tinkering, but from my perspective the notion of brewers altering formulas as a response to the shortage and concurrent price increase of the time tested bittering agent and flattering flavor enhancer is unnecessary. There are two reasons why I believe this is true.

First, beer drinkers are, generally speaking, loyal. Some, maybe even most, fanatically so. Whether the consumer is an average person drinking an average beer or a craft beer connoisseur, they will usually buy the same beer regularly. The former may never stray while the latter likely brings home a wide variety of brews to sample, yet almost always keeps a cache of a particular favorite in the 'fridge. Let's take me as an example (and why not? I know myself better than I know anyone else!) Even my closest friends could not usually guess which malt beverages might be sitting on my shelves at any single point in time, with one exception. Anyone desperately desiring to watch the head of a Guinness Draft rise toward the rim of a sparkling clean pint glass in all it's frothy glory can find one in my refrigerator nearly any day of the week. But lest I digress in the revelry of that perfect picture, let me ask, why are people so loyal to beers? The answer is simple, consistency. Whether you like Budweiser or not, you know for sure it will always taste the same (assuming it hasn't been stored in the trunk of the car for a week, in which case there may be some, albeit slight and maybe even better, difference.) So to keep at least some order in our otherwise seemingly random lives, beer enthusiasts all across the world cling to the sanctity of finding the same cloying bitterness, the same malty sweetness, even the same bubbly carbonation in our particular favorites. If brewers begin to tamper with those tried and true formulas as a means of adapting to the current shortage then they put at risk our confidence as consumers that their products will meet our expectations. In short, they're gonna mess with our heads. Doesn't strike me as smart business. Which leads to reason number 2.

As can be clearly seen by a quick stroll through most grocery (and even convenience) stores these days, there is an almost dizzying array of malt beverages on the market these days. Mixed among the standard American lagers ( a term I use loosely in this context) by Bud, Miller, Coors, etc, you will likely find a bunch of craft or micro-brews from local brewers and even some from all the way across the country. And unlike the virtually indistinguishable varieties sold by the majors (quick, answer this if you can, what's the point of Bud Light?), the craft breweries combine to produce an assortment of styles which may range from a nice thick stout or porter to some sort of crisp, clean, real lager, and you might even be tempted by a barleywine or the Belgian style framboise that sits beside it. Now the unfortunate consequence of all these choices is that it takes me an extra 15 minutes when grocery shopping as I stand before the beer cooler endlessly debating exactly which flavor(s) will tickle my tastebuds this week. But despite this conundrum I am convinced that brewers and drinkers alike will be better served by the temporary introduction of new products which reflect the availability of hop varieties rather than modifications of our trusted faves.

For example, even if the shortage lasts 2 or 3 years while growers ramp up production, I would rather drink a Dogfish Head "75" which I know won't be the same as their magnificent "90" or see them simply stick to the splendid "60" until supplies return to something reasonable. Or, if necessary, yes, I'll pay $12 for a 4-pack of the "90" because, simply put, I'm a hophead and thus prone to catatonic states if I go too long without the inimitable joy of say, a Cascades or Saaz bouquet wafting up into my nostrils from my freshly filled glass.

Let's hope the brewers hear my message and heed it's call, because if you believe what the experts say, homebrewers may be the ones who feel the pain of this shortage the most. And if that's true, then the last refuge for the concerned consumer may also be in jeopardy. Of course there is one other option. Grow your own. Despite the issues with crops worldwide, the hop is generally a sturdy and indefatigable little bugger, a plant you can grow on the side of your house in a wide variety of climates, or even consider as a cash crop if you're already a farmer. I sure wish I had seen this coming because I would certainly have been happy to contribute my share to ensuring this most vital vegetation was readily available at reasonable cost.

Turn Right? or Turn Wrong?

"Turn right," said the softly synthesized voice of the GPS unit sitting on the truck dashboard. We are traveling on Provincial Route 20 towards the city of Quebec en route for a sled dog trip to the town of Chicoutimi, 2 hours farther the north. My friend and driver Greg has outfitted his vehicle with one of the most popular technological toys available these days and tells me with confidence it will get us anywhere we want to go. I want to believe him, or perhaps because I am an IT guy, feel like I should believe in the wondrous capabilities of this device. But at this particular moment I am not so sure.

Despite my intuition that it is a mistake, we dutifully turn off the highway and follow the ramp to an intersecting roadway. "Turn right," says the machine again. I have driven to Quebec before and am reasonably certain that something has gone awry with his little high-tech marvel, but Greg has faith and is too stubborn to rely on logic (or reason, anyway). To make matters more complicated, he has neglected to bring along any sort of paper map and so once we crossed the border out of Vermont, we are essentially at the mercy of the satellite network spiraling in the skies above us. That neither of us speaks any reasonable semblance of French in this provincial island of foreign language is merely icing on our foolish cake.

At the first intersection we reach, a red-light, the GPS pipes up with the same phrase, "Turn right". Once again we follow directions, taking a smaller side street in what appears to be a suburban neighborhood. In mere moments we are approaching a stop sign and it is simply formulaic to hear the now familiar words, "Turn right." This time we navigate down a narrow street lined with one after another of nearly identical looking houses until the voice issues forth its instructions once more, "Turn right."

By now I am certain I will spend the night lying restlessly in bed with this simple phrase echoing persistently in my mind, my subconscious twisting in endless circles until I am dizzy and quite possibly delusional. So though I know it makes logical sense, when we approach the same street to which we had exited from the highway in the first place, I am almost stunned when the GPS utters a new command, "Turn left.”

After this momentary change in instruction, it is no surprise at all to hear "Turn right," as we near the entrance ramp to the highway. By relying on the directions of this small piece off electrical wizardry we have, it seems, gone in a complete circle. Though our progress north has been delayed by a mere 5 minutes and we are back on the proper route again, my confidence in technology has been shattered. "Turn right", I say to Greg in my best imitation of a synthetic voice, "and maybe turn wrong, too".

A perfect sports picture

I am sitting at the desk of my friend, Jack. On the wall above his monitor is a framed and famous picture. Bobby Orr, hero of Boston in the early 70's and undeniably one of the greatest hockey players to ever lace up skates, floats horizontal about 3 feet above the ice. His stick is raised in triumph and a broad smile floods his face.

There have been many amazing moments in sports throughout human history, but few have ever been so perfectly captured on film as this one. It was overtime in the 1970 Stanley Cup Finals. Orr, ever the offensive minded defenseman, glides in front of the cage and deftly takes a pass from Derek Sanderson. He stuffs it passed stunned goalie Glenn Hall while simultaneously being upended by the St. Louis defender.

Everything that makes a perfect sports picture is in this one. The joy of victory is perfectly captured in Orr as he sails across the frame. Behind him, a dour look of loss is pinned on the face of the defenseman as Hall falls backwards into the net he so desperately tried to protect. These characters stand out in contrast to the mottled white surface of the ice and boards that make up two thirds of the background while the upper third is filled with fans leaping to their feet with arms raised up in triumph. It was an wonderfully dramatic moment captured in equally dramatic perspective. And the best part? I saw it on TV.